Lydia loved the feel of the cold, oily lumps of jade. There were a few pieces of porcelain of extreme rarity and beauty as well, and several priceless bits of cloisonné, but it was the jade she loved. There were two or three hundred objects of various sizes and colours, and all were what might be called museum pieces. To each was attached a tag disclosing certain facts concerning its origin, its history, and the date of its admission to the Brood collection. It appeared to be Lydia's task to set down these dates and facts in chronological order. Her imagination built quaint little stories about each of the ancient figures. She believed in fairies. She had been at work for half an hour or longer when a noise in the outer room attracted her attention. She had the odd feeling that someone was looking at her through the open door, and swiftly turned. Except when occupied by Brood, the room was darkened by means of heavy window-hangings; the effect was that produced by the gloaming just before the stars appeared. Objects were shadowy, indistinct, mysterious. The light from the jade room door threw a diverging ray across the full length of the room. In the very centre of this bright strip sat a placid effigy of Buddha that Brood had found in a remote corner of Siam, serenely stolid on top of its thick base of bronze and lacquer, with a shining shrine for a background. In the dim edge of the shadow, near the door at the far end of the room, Lydia made out the motionless, indistinct figure of a woman. The faint outlines of the face were discernible, but not so the features. For a moment the girl stared at the watcher and then advanced to the door. “Who is it?” she inquired, peering. A low, husky voice replied, with a suggestion of laughter in the tones. “I am exploring the house.” Lydia came forward at once. “Oh, it is Mrs Brood. I beg your pardon. Shall I switch on the lights?” “Are there such awful things as electric lights in this wonderful room?” cried the other, disappointed. “I can't believe it of my husband. He couldn't permit anything so bizarre as that.” “They are emergency lights,” laughed Lydia. “He never uses them, of course. They are for the servants.” “You are Lydia?” “Yes, Mrs Brood.” “I have been prowling everywhere. Your good mother deserted me when my maid arrived with Ranjab a short time ago. Isn't this the dread _Bluebeard room?_ Shall I lose my head if I am discovered by the ogre?” The girl felt the spell stealing over her. The low voice of the woman in the shadow was like a sensuous caress. She experienced a sudden longing to be closer to the speaker, to listen for the very intake of her breath. “You have already been discovered by the ogre, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia gaily, “and your head appears to be quite safe.” “Thank you,” rather curtly, as if repelling familiarity. It was like a dash of cold water to Lydia's spirits. “You may turn on the lights. I should like to see _you_, Miss Desmond.”