Then, before their startled, horror-struck eyes, the Hindu coolly plunged the glittering blade into his breast, driving it in to the hilt! “Good Lord!” shouted the two old men. Ranjab serenely replaced the sword in its scabbard. “It is not always the knife that finds the heart,” said he, so slowly, so full of meaning, that even the old men grasped the significance of the cryptic remark. “A feller can be fooled, no matter how closely he watches,” said Mr Dawes, and he was not referring to the amazing sword trick. “No, sir,” said Mr Riggs, with gloomy irrelevance, “I don't like that woman.” The old spell of the Orient had fallen upon the ancients. They were hearing the vague whisperings of voices that came from nowhere, as they had heard them years ago in the mystic silences of the East. “_Sh--h!_ One comes,” said Ranjab softly. “It will be the master's son.” An instant later his closet door closed noiselessly behind him and the old men were alone, blinking at each other. There was no sound from the hall. They waited, watching the curtained door. At last they heard footsteps on the stairs, quick footsteps of the young. Frederic strode rapidly into the room. CHAPTER VIII His face was livid with rage. For a moment he glowered upon the two old men, his fingers working spasmodically, his chest heaving with the volcanic emotions he was trying so hard to subdue. Then he whirled about to glare into the hall. “In God's name, Freddy, what's happened?” cried Mr Riggs, all a-tremble. They had never seen him in a rage before. There had been occasions when they had secretly criticised James Brood's treatment of the unhappy boy, but from the youth himself there had come no complaint, only the hurt, puzzled look of one who endures because an alternative does not suggest itself. Intuitively the old men knew that his present condition was due to something his father had said or done, and that it must have been unusually severe to have provoked the wrath that he made no effort to conceal. It was not in their honest old hearts to hold grievance against the lad, notwithstanding his frequent periods of impatience where they were concerned, periods when they were admittedly as much at fault as he, by the way. Usually he made up for these lapses by a protracted season of sweetness and consideration that won back not only their sympathy, but the affection they had felt for him since his lonely boyhood days. Some minutes passed before he could trust himself to speak. Ugly veins stood out on his pale temples as he paced the floor in front of them. Eventually Mr Dawes ventured the vital question in a somewhat hushed voice: “Have you--quarrelled with your father, Freddy?” The young man threw up his arms in a gesture of despair. There was a wail of misery in his voice as he answered: “In the name of God, why should he hate me as he does? What have I done? Am I not a good son to him?” “Hush!” implored Mr Dawes nervously. “He'll hear you.”