out, blurred and indistinct; all that
had succeeded it lived eternally, passing, an endless pageant, before
her tortured mind.

The horror of the moment when she had touched the hands of the man
seated in the big ebony chair was of such kind that no subsequent
terrors had supplanted it. For those long, slim hands of the color of
old ivory were cold, rigid, lifeless--the hands of a corpse! Thus the
pageant began, and it continued as hereafter, memory and delusion taking
the stage in turn.

* * * * *

Complete darkness came.

Rita uttered a wild cry of horror and loathing, shrinking back from
the thing which sat in the ebony chair. She felt that consciousness was
slipping from her; felt herself falling, and shrieked to know herself
helpless and alone with Kazmah. She groped for support, but found none;
and, moaning, she sank down, and was unconscious of her fall.

A voice awakened her. Someone knelt beside her in the darkness,
supporting her; someone who spoke wildly, despairingly, but with a
strange, emotional reverence curbing the passion in his voice.

"Rita--my Rita! What have they done to you? Speak to me.... Oh God!
Spare her to me.... Let her hate me for ever, but spare her--spare her.
Rita, speak to me! I tried, heaven hear me, to save you little girl. I
only want you to be happy!"

She felt herself being lifted gently, tenderly. And as though the man's
passionate entreaty had called her back from the dead, she reentered
into life and strove to realize what had happened.

Sir Lucien was supporting her, and she found it hard to credit the fact
that it was he, the hard, nonchalant man of the world she knew, who had
spoken. She clutched his arm with both hands.

"Oh, Lucy!" she whispered. "I am so frightened--and so ill."

"Thank God," he said huskily, "she is alive. Lean against me and try to
stand up. We must get away from here."

Rita managed to stand upright, clinging wildly to Sir Lucien. A square,
vaguely luminous opening became visible to her. Against it, silhouetted,
she could discern part of the outline of Kazmah's chair. She drew back,
uttering a low, sobbing cry. Sir Lucien supported her, and:

"Don't be afraid, dear," he said reassuringly. "Nothing shall hurt you."

He pushed open a door, and through it shone the same vague light which
she had seen in the opening behind the chair. Sir Lucien spoke rapidly
in a language which sounded like Spanish. He was answered by a perfect
torrent of wo