“You are my husband's friend?” “Certainly, Mrs Brood. He is _my_ friend.” “What is _your_ position here?” Lydia's face was flaming. “I thought you knew. I am his secretary, if I may be allowed to dignify my----” “And you are Frederic's friend?” “Yes.” “Despite your position?” “I don't understand you, Mrs Brood.” Once more the warm, enchanting smile broke over the face of the other. “Isn't it perfectly obvious, Lydia?” The girl could no more withstand the electric charm of the woman than she could have fought off the sunshine. She was bewildered and completely fascinated. “It's--it is very good of you,” she murmured, her own eyes softening as they looked into the deep velvety ones that would not be denied. Even as she wondered whether she could ever really like this magnetic creature, she felt herself surrendering to the spell of her. “But perhaps you will not like me when you know me better.” “Perhaps,” said Mrs Brood calmly, almost indifferently, and dismissed the subject. “What an amazing room! One can almost feel the presence of the genii that created it at the wish of the man with the enchanted lamp. As a rule, Oriental rooms are abominations, but this--ah, this is not an Oriental room after all. It is a part of the East itself--of the real East. I have sat in emperors' houses out there, my dear, and I have slept in the palaces of kings. I have seen just such things as these, and I know that they could not have been transported to this room except by magic. My husband is a magician.” “These came from the palaces of kings, Mrs Brood,” said Lydia enthusiastically. “Kings in the days when kings were real. This rug----” “I know,” interrupted the other. “It was woven by five generations of royal weavers. Each of these borders represents the work of a lifetime. It is the carpet of rubies, and a war was prolonged for years because an emperor would not give it up to the foe who coveted it above all other riches. His heart's blood stains it to this day. His empire was wiped out by the relentless foe, his very name effaced, but the heart's blood still is there, Lydia. That can never be wiped out. My husband told me the story. It must have cost him a fortune.” “It is worth a fortune,” said Lydia. A calculating squint had come into Mrs Brood's eyes while she was speaking. To Lydia it appeared as if she were trying to fix upon the value of the wonderful carpet. “A collector has offered him--how much? A hundred thousand dollars, is not that it? Ah, how rich he must be!” “The collector you refer to----” “I was referring to my husband,” said Mrs Brood, unabashed. “He is very rich, isn't he?” Lydia managed to conceal her annoyance. “I think not, as American fortunes are rated.”