“Is this New York or am I bewitched?” “Mr Brood transformed the old carriage yard into a--I think Mr Dawes calls it a Persian garden. It is rather bleak in winter-time, Mrs Brood, but in the summer it is really enchanting. See, across the court on the second floor, where the windows are lighted, those are your rooms. It is an enormous house, you'll find. Do you see the little balcony outside your windows, and the vines creeping up to it? You can't imagine how sweet it is of a summer night with the moon and stars----” “But how desolate it looks to-day, with the dead vines and the colourless stones! Ugh!” She dropped the curtains. The soft, warm glow of the room came back, and she sighed with relief. “I hate things that are dead,” she said. At the sound of a soft tread and the gentle rustle of draperies, they turned. Ranjab, the Hindu, was crossing the room toward the small door which gave entrance to his closet. He paused for an instant before the image of Buddha, but did not drop to his knees, as all devout Buddhists do. Mrs Brood's hand fell lightly upon Lydia's arm. The man turned toward them a second or two later. His dark, handsome face was hard set and emotionless as he bowed low to the new mistress of the house. The fingers closed tightly on Lydia's arm. Then he smiled upon the girl, a glad smile of devotion. His swarthy face was transfigured. A moment later he unlocked his door and passed into the other room. The key turned in the lock with a slight rasp. “I do not like that man,” said Mrs Brood. Her voice was low and her eyes were fixed steadily on the closed door. CHAPTER V The ensuing fortnight brought the expected changes in the household. James Brood, to the surprise of not only himself, but others, lapsed into a curious state of adolescence. His infatuation was complete. The once dominant influence of the man seemed to slink away from him as the passing days brought up the new problems of life. Where he had lived to command he now was content to serve. His friends, his son, his servants viewed the transformation with wonder, not to say apprehension. It was not difficult to understand his infatuation for the--shall we say enchantress? He was not the only one there to fall under the spell. But it was almost unbelievable that he should submit to thraldom with the complacency of a weakling. Love, which had been lying bruised and unconscious within him for twenty years and more, arose from its stupor and became a thing to play with, as one would play with a child. The old, ugly vistas melted into dreamy, adolescent contemplations of a paradise in which he could walk hand-in-hand with the future and find that the ghosts of the past no longer attended him along the once weary way. It would not be true to say that the remarkable personality of the man had suffered. He was still the man of steel, but re-tempered. The rigid broadsword was made over into the fine, flexible blade of Toledo. He could be bent but not broken.