uck a candelabrum, a giant relic of ancient
wood as tall as himself. It toppled and fell with its candled branches
in the fire. Where the log broke a flame shot forth, lapping the dark
wood with avid tongue. With a crackle the age-old wood began to burn.

Carl watched it with a slight smile. It pleased him to watch it burn.
That would hurt Diane, for everything in this beautiful old Spanish
room linked her subtly to her mother. Yes, it would hurt her cruelly.
Beyond, at the other end of the table, stood a mate to the burning
candlestick, doubtless a silent sentry at many a drinking bout of old
when roistering knights gathered about the scarred slab of table-wood
beneath his fingers. A pity though! Artistically the carven thing was
splendid.

Cursing himself for a notional fool, Carl jerked the candlestick from
the fire and beat out the flames. The heavy top snapped off in his
hands. The falling wood disclosed a hollow receptacle below the
branches . . . a charred paper. Well, there was always some insane
whim of Norman Westfall's coming to light somewhere and this doubtless
was one of them.

The paper was very old and yellow, the handwriting unmistakably
foreign. French, was it not? The firelight was too fitful to tell.
Carl switched on the light in the cluster of old iron lanterns above
the table and frowned heavily at the paper. No, it was the precise,
formal English of a foreigner, with here and there a ludicrous error
among the stilted phrases. And as Carl read, a gust of wild,
incredulous laughter echoed suddenly through the quiet room. Again he
read, cursing the dizzy fever of his head. Houdania! Houdania! Where
was Houdania? Surely the name was familiar. With a superhuman effort
of will he clenched his hands and jaws and sat motionless, seeking the
difficult boon of concentration. Out of the maelstrom of his mind
haltingly it came, and with it memory in panoramic flashes.

Once more he heard the clatter of cavalry galloping up a winding
mountain road to a gabled city whose roofs and turrets glinted ruddily
in the westering sun. There had been royalty abroad with a brilliant
escort, handsome, dark-skinned men with a lingering trace of Arab about
the eyes, who galloped rapidly by him up the winding road to the little
kingdom in the mountains. Houdania!--yes that was it--of course.
Houdania! A Lilliputian monarchy of ardent patriots. There had been a
flaming sunset behind the turrets of