"Be that as you will," said the Hindu, and he caught the piece of paper and fled toward the thicket where Lena still played with her toy. "Have I not told you?" he began suavely. "The necklace, less fair than its owner, is yours. But one moment. Will you first do me a favor?" He lifted the great white turban from his hot forehead and set it on the table before her. "A simple bit of the skill of my country," he said. "Will you look fixedly into the great ruby that remains mine? And, as you look, will you yield your mind to me, and let me show you a vision? So--even deeper let your eyes penetrate to the heart of the jewel. Deeper and yet deeper." He made a swift motion or two before her, and her eyes grew fixed. "What do you see?" "Myself," she answered. "Naturally. What else could you ever see? But you are different. You are a thousand times more beautiful. The world lies at your feet. It is a world of adulation. Do you see this?" "Yes." "Very well. Now look away. We must not longer see the beautiful picture. You remember we have business. Mr. Early, your friend, and my friend, will lend you money. But how are you to repay him? You have nothing of your own. It must be your husband who secures you. In the front of the book which you are reading it is written 'Richard Percival'. You will copy this with your utmost care, here on this paper. Ah, for you it is not hard to do this thing. For some it would be hard to persuade them. You make but a poor copy. That is of indifference. I will return this to Mr. Early. You will await me here." The August afternoon was closing, and the shadows grew strong here where vines knit the trees into close brotherhood. Lena lay back in her chair and clutched her treasure in a kind of stupor, until, in an incredibly short time Ram Juna again appeared, tucking a scrap of yellow paper into some inner pouch as he came. The Buddha smile still played about his lips. He seated himself on the ground and stared unblinkingly at the girl, and she gazed almost as fixedly back, except that once in a while her eyes wandered to the big red stone which still hung in the turban on the table. Ten minutes--fifteen minutes--they sat in silence, as though the Swami enjoyed the experience, then the bronze man rose and moved slowly toward her. "Awake!" he whispered. "You must never forget that you wrote your husband's name when you had not the right. Ah, in India, our knaves are not also fools."