his moustache and rattled keys in his pocket. In his dress
clothes he looked like the manager of a prosperous picture palace.
"Safryeh!" he called.

When presently the music commenced, the players concealed behind the
tall screen, an expectant hush fell upon the wine-flushed company.
Hassan, who played the darabukkeh, could modulate its throbbing so
wonderfully.

Zahara entered the room, enveloped from shoulders to ankles in a
flame-coloured cloak. Between her lips she held a red rose.

"By God, what a beauty!" said a husky voice.

Zahara did not know which of the party had spoken, but she was conscious
of the fact that by virtue of the strange witchcraft which became hers
on such nights she held them all spell-bound. They were her slaves.

Slowly she walked across the apartment while the throbbing of the Arab
drum grew softer and softer, producing a weird effect of space and
distance. All eyes were fixed upon her, and meeting Grantham's gaze she
saw at last the Light there which she knew. This sudden knowledge of
triumph almost unnerved her, and the rose which she had taken from
between her lips trembled in her white fingers. Two of the petals fell
upon the carpet, which was cream-coloured from the looms of Ispahan.
Like blood spots the petals lay upon the cream surface.

Zahara swung sharply about. Agapoulos, seated alone in the chair over
which he had draped the leopard skin, was busily brushing his moustache
and glancing sideways toward the screen which concealed Safryeh. Zahara
tilted her head on to her shoulder and cast a languorous glance into the
shadows masking the watchful Spaniard.

She could see his eyes gleaming like those of a wild beast. An icy
finger seemed to touch her heart. He had lied to her! She knew it,
suddenly, intuitively. Well, she would see. She also had guile.

With a little scornful laugh Zahara tossed the rose on to the knees--of
Agapoulos.

The sound of three revolver shots fired in quick succession rang out
above the throbbing music. Agapoulos clutched at his shirt front with
both hands, uttered a stifled scream and tried to stand up. He coughed,
and glaring straight in front of him fell forward across a little coffee
table laden with champagne bottles and glasses.

Coincident with the crash made by his falling body came the loud bang of
a door. The Spaniard had gone.

"By God, sir! It's murder, it's murder!" cried the same husky voice
which had commented upon the beauty of