For a few moments Nick stood still, uncertain what to do. He had no idea of allowing this young girl to be taken into a secret part of this big, strange house by a man like this Indian, whom no one knew except as a famous man in his own country. “I’ve got to see what is back of those portières,” muttered the detective. “I don’t see Matthew about, or I’d tell him. By George! This is New York--even if it is Brooklyn--and we don’t do things of this kind. He must think he is still in the Punjab.” He saw that Keshub was busy with the people who were admiring the really wonderful display of weapons in the glass cases, and that the other guard was staring at the people over there. No one was taking any notice of himself. “All the better,” he thought. He edged around the wall till he stood in front of the red velvet curtains. Then he gently pulled them apart and looked behind. What he saw was the gilt railings of a door that evidently belonged to an elevator. The elevator car was above, on another floor. “One of those automatic affairs,” he thought. “Well, all the better. I’m going up. If one of the guests is entitled to ride in the elevator, it ought to be all right for another. Anyhow, I can easily explain that I supposed we were all to go up here, if there is any question.” He pressed an electric button, and the car slid noiselessly down. The coming down of the car released a latch on the railed door, and Nick pulled it open. Taking his place in the car, he pressed a button inside, and was wafted upward. The elevator was so delicately adjusted that it made not the slightest noise, and it stopped at the next floor above without a jar. There were thick curtains outside, like those below. Also a railed door. Gently, Nick opened the door and stood inside the curtains, listening. He caught a low murmur of voices, which told him that the speakers were at some distance. He opened the curtains a little way, and then stepped between them. He was in a dimly lighted room, with a red lantern giving the only illumination. At one end were heavy portières draped back, so that he could look beyond, into another room. In the farther room he saw that there were idols of all sizes and kinds. He remembered that Ched Ramar’s collection of idols was said to be the finest possessed by any private person in New York. Moreover, each idol had a history. Standing, with their backs to him, were Clarice Bentham and Ched Ramar himself. The latter was pointing to one immense image of Buddha which faced the opening in the curtains. He was talking in a low earnest tone, and it seemed to Nick as if the girl were completely entranced by the great, golden figure and the words that poured from the grave lips of the Indian. “I can’t hear what he is saying,” muttered the detective. “I suppose the way to find out is to step forward and show myself. And yet----”