ror,
for she saw Grantham's expression change. Yet to her strange soul there
was a challenge in his coldness and the joy of contest in the task of
melting the ice of this English reserve.

"Lots of money," he said bitterly; "we shall all do well to-night."

Zahara did not reply for a moment. She wished to close this line of
conversation which inadvertently she had opened up. So that, presently:

"You look very lonely and bored," she said softly.

As a matter of fact, it was she who was bored of the life she led in
Limehouse--in chilly, misty Limehouse--and who had grown so very lonely
since Safiyeh had come. In the dark gray eyes looking up at her she read
recognition of her secret. Here was a man possessing that rare masculine
attribute, intuition. Zahara knew a fear that was half delightful. Fear
because she might fail in either of two ways and delight because the
contest was equal.

"Yes," he replied slowly, "my looks tell the truth. How did you know?"

Zahara observed that his curiosity had not yet become actual interest.
She toyed with the silken tassel on her robe, tying and untying it with
quick nervous fingers and resting the while against the side of the
carved chair.

"Perhaps because I am so lonely myself," she said. "I matter to no one.
What I do, where I go, if I live or die. It is all----"

She spread her small hands eloquently and shrugged so that another white
shoulder escaped from the Chinese wrapping. Thereupon Zahara demurely
drew her robe about her with a naive air of modesty which nine out of
ten beholding must have supposed to be affected.

In reality it was a perfectly natural, instinctive movement. To Zahara
her own beauty was a commonplace to be displayed or concealed as
circumstances might dictate. In a certain sense, which few could
appreciate, this half-caste dancing girl and daughter of El Wasr was
as innocent as a baby. It was one of the things which men did not
understand. She thought that if Harry Grantham asked her to go away
with him it would be nice to go. Suddenly she realized how deep was her
loathing of this Limehouse and of the people she met there, who were all
alike.

He sat looking at her for some time, and then: "Perhaps you are wrong,"
he said. "There may be some who could understand."

And because he had answered her thoughts rather than her words, the fear
within Zahara grew greater than the joy of the contest.

Awhile longer she stayed, seeking for a chink in