“I speak of things which I know. From that hour when you entered upon your first Kama, back in the dawn of time, until now, those within the ever-moving cycle which bears you on through the ages have been beside you, at times unseen by the world, at times unseen by you, veiled by the mist which men call death, but which is no more than a curtain behind which we sometimes step for a while. In the East we have learned to raise that curtain; in the West are triflers who make like claims, but whose knowledge of the secret of the veil is--” And he snapped his fingers contemptuously. The strange personality of the man was having its effect. Phil Abingdon’s eyes were widely open, and she was hanging upon his words. Underneath the soft effeminate exterior lay a masterful spirit--a spirit which had known few obstacles. The world of womanhood could have produced no more difficult subject than Phil Abingdon. Yet she realized, and became conscious of a sense of helplessness, that under certain conditions she would be as a child in the hands of this Persian mystic, whose weird eyes appeared to be watching not her body, nor even her mind, but her soul, whose voice touched unfamiliar chords within her--chords which had never responded to any other human voice. It was thrilling, vaguely pleasurable, but deep terror underlay it. “Your Excellency almost frightens me,” she whispered. “Yet I do not doubt that you speak of what you know.” “It is so,” he returned, gravely. “At any hour, day or night, if you care to make the request, I shall be happy to prove my words. But,” he lowered his dark lashes and then raised them again, “the real object of my visit is concerned with more material things.” “Indeed,” said Phil Abingdon, and whether because of the words of Ormuz Khan, or because of some bond of telepathy which he had established between them, she immediately found herself to be thinking of Paul Harley. “I bring you a message,” he continued, “from a friend.” With eyes widely open, Phil Abingdon watched him. “From,” she began--but her lips would not frame the name. “From Mr. Paul Harley,” he said, inclining his head gravely. “Oh! tell me, tell me!” “I am here to tell you, Miss Abingdon. Mr. Harley feels that his absence may have distressed you.” “Yes, yes,” she said, eagerly. “But in pursuit of a certain matter which is known to you, he has found it necessary in the interests of his safety to remain out of London for a while.” “Oh,” Phil Abingdon heaved a great sigh. “Oh, Your Excellency, how glad I am to hear that he is safe!” The long, dark eyes regarded her intently, unemotionally, noting that the flush had faded from her face, leaving it very pale, and noting also the expression of gladness in her eyes, the quivering of her sweet lips. “He is my guest,” continued Ormuz Khan, “my honoured guest.” “He is with you?” exclaimed Phil, almost incredulously.