Presently they alighted, and he opened the door of the flat with his latchkey. "Welcome to my quarters, piccina," he exclaimed as she entered the tiny, dimly lit hall, and glanced round admiringly. "How pretty!" she exclaimed. "Why, it is all Moorish!" looking up at the silk-embroidered texts from the Koran with which the walls were draped. "I'm glad you like it," he said happily; and together they passed on into his sitting-room, a spacious apartment, the windows of which were filled with wooden lattices, the walls draped with embroidered fabrics, the carpet the thickest and richest from an Eastern loom, the stools, lounges, and cosy-corners low and comfortable, and the ceiling hidden by a kind of dome-shaped canopy of yellow silk. Slowly she gazed around in rapt admiration. "I delight in a Moorish room, and this is the prettiest and most complete I have ever seen," she declared. "My Nino has excellent taste in everything." "Even in the choice of a wife--eh?" he exclaimed, laughing, as he bent swiftly and kissed her ere she could draw away. She raised her laughing eyes to his, and shrugged her shoulders. "Don't you find the place gloomy?" he asked. "My friends generally go in for old oak furniture, or imitation Chippendale. I hate both." "So do I," she assured him. "When we are married, Nino, I should like to have a room just like this for myself--only I'd want a piano," she added, with a smile. "A piano in a Moorish room!" he exclaimed. "Wouldn't that be somewhat out of place? Long pipes and a darbouka or two, like these, would be more in keeping with Moorish ideas;" and he indicated a couple of drums of earthenware covered with skin, to the monotonous music of which the Arab and Moorish women are in the habit of dancing. "But you have an English table here," she exclaimed, crossing to it, "and there are photographs on it. Arab never tolerate portraits. It's entirely against their creed." "Yes," he admitted; "that's true. I've never thought of it before." At that instant she bent quickly over one of the half-dozen photographs in fancy frames. Then, taking it in her hand, she advanced swiftly to the window, and examined it more closely in the light. "Who is this?" she demanded in a fierce, harsh voice. "A friend of mine," he replied, stepping up to her and glancing over her shoulder at the portrait. "He's an army officer-- Major Gordon Maitland." "Maitland!" she cried, her face in an instant pale to the lips. "And he is a friend of yours, Nino--you know him?" "Yes, he is a friend of mine," Armytage replied, sorely puzzled at her sudden change of manner. "But why? Do you also know him?" She held her breath; her face had in that instant become drawn and haggard, her pointed chin sank upon her breast in an attitude of hopeless despair, her clear blue eyes were downcast; but no answer passed her trembling lips.