“She’s right,” said Andria. “It will be worse if those beasts smell you out. You should have gone.” But, though she hated him for his unkindness, she was glad of his company. Even an extra dog would have been welcome in that house. “Let us hope they won’t scent me.” He was only half in earnest, thinking they exaggerated, as women do. “I can manage them,” said Beryl softly. “They’re tame, really,” and, without reason, Heriot’s heart thrilled with pride at the fearless, almost careless, voice. It was torture to Andria to sit in the room with the man who knew her history and despised her for it. It brought back those London nights with the supper-room windows open on a moonlit garden, when Andria Erle, in satin and diamonds, had fleeted time carelessly, reckless of what men thought of her. She cared now. She would have given all her beauty to have seen respect in Heriot’s eyes, casual acquaintance though he was. And the very way he turned his sentences brought back Raimond, haggard, brown-eyed, gentlemanly, with that way he had of smiling. In spite of herself her heart cried out for the man who had been her all. To shake off her thoughts she rose as soon as she dared, and carried Beryl off to bed. Heriot, left alone, remembered something. Salome, at a word from Andria, had produced cigars. He rummaged about and found them on a side table. They were Egerton’s, but Heriot was in no mood to be particular. He had had nothing to smoke in the three weeks he had been in this queer place. He lit a perfecto and leaned back in sweet content as the blue smoke curled upward. For a little while he forgot everything but the joy of his smoke, and then the close heat of the room annoyed him. He limped over to a window and unbarred it, but hardly a breath came in. Without a thought of the tales of jaguars or their strange master, Heriot opened the veranda jalousies and sniffed the air of the gorgeous night. A honey-colored moon swam in the sky, even the colors of the flowers in the garden were visible, and the scent of oleander-blossoms rose like incense in his nostrils. With a sigh of content, he turned back into the room and picked up the only book it contained. The yellow pages opened of their own accord at a worn passage, and as he read it he wondered. “As sure as the turquoise attracts love and the amethyst repels it, so does the beryl bring bad dreams.” He turned to the title-page. “Jewels--Their Verye Majicke Vertue,” he saw in thick, old lettering, and went back to the passage he was reading. “This is a queer Beryl; I wonder if she will bring bad dreams,” he thought sleepily, as his cigar burned out. Too lazy to move, he dozed in his chair, while the lamps burned low and flickered in the rising breeze. A pleasant sound, hurrying, pattering, like heavy rain on a roof, soothed him dreamily. His head rested more heavily on the silk cushions of his deep chair; he still saw the dimly lighted room, but mistily, as in a dream.