from all that was occidental, a feeling which the English appointments of the room did nothing to dispel. Then a gong sounded and the party went in to lunch.
A white-robed Hindu waited at table, and Phil discovered his movements to be unpleasantly silent. There was something very unreal about it all. She found herself constantly listening for the sound of an approaching car, of a footstep, of a voice, the voice of Paul Harley. This waiting presently grew unendurable, and:
"I hope Mr. Harley is safe," she said, in a rather unnatural tone. "Surely he should have returned by now?"
Ormûz Khân shrugged his slight shoulders and glanced at a diamond-studded wrist watch which he wore.
"There is nothing to fear," he declared, in his soft, musical voice. "He knows how to take care of himself. And"—with a significant glance of his long, magnetic eyes—"I am certain he will return as speedily as possible."
Nevertheless, luncheon terminated, and Harley had not appeared.
"You have sometimes expressed a desire," said Ormûz Khân, "to see the interior of a Persian house. Permit me to show you the only really characteristic room which I allow myself in my English home."
Endeavouring to conceal her great anxiety, Phil
