cture.
You remember we have business. Mr. Early, your friend, and my friend,
will lend you money. But how are you to repay him? You have nothing of
your own. It must be your husband who secures you. In the front of the
book which you are reading it is written 'Richard Percival'. You will
copy this with your utmost care, here on this paper. Ah, for you it is
not hard to do this thing. For some it would be hard to persuade them.
You make but a poor copy. That is of indifference. I will return this to
Mr. Early. You will await me here."

The August afternoon was closing, and the shadows grew strong here where
vines knit the trees into close brotherhood. Lena lay back in her chair
and clutched her treasure in a kind of stupor, until, in an incredibly
short time Ram Juna again appeared, tucking a scrap of yellow paper into
some inner pouch as he came. The Buddha smile still played about his
lips. He seated himself on the ground and stared unblinkingly at the
girl, and she gazed almost as fixedly back, except that once in a while
her eyes wandered to the big red stone which still hung in the turban on
the table. Ten minutes--fifteen minutes--they sat in silence, as though
the Swami enjoyed the experience, then the bronze man rose and moved
slowly toward her.

"Awake!" he whispered. "You must never forget that you wrote your
husband's name when you had not the right. Ah, in India, our knaves are
not also fools."

There was a sudden sharp noise and a cry in the garden behind the hedge;
and the Swami leaped into attention with the swift motionlessness of a
wild animal. Lena roused herself heavily and blinked about. There was no
Swami to be seen. His turban lay on the table, but he himself had
disappeared in a twinkling. She heard a rush of feet and voices raised
in excitement and then a sharp command. Even while she listened,
confused, a blue-coated starred man appeared at the opening in the hedge
and over his shoulder she saw Mr. Early's face, startled out of its
decorum into bewildered anxiety.

"Beg pardon, miss," said the officer. "Have you seen anything of that
nigger preacher?"

"The Swami?" asked Lena.

The man nodded.

"He was here a moment ago--at least I think he was. I--I'm not sure. And
he seems to have gone away. I don't know where he is." She looked
vaguely around.

"Left this in his hurry, I guess," said the man, taking possession of
the turban. "He must be hiding somewhere near. With your permission, I