"See that they are all out at once," he said. "Half an hour ago I found two women--ladies, I suppose they call themselves--in the picture gallery with guide books in the hands. Really, there is no sense of decency nowadays." The curious crowd were forced back and once more Ravenspur resumed its normal aspect. "I will see to the burial," Ravenspur said. "The poor man seems to have no friends. And I feel to a certain extent guilty. Geoffrey, you will see that all proper arrangements are made for the funeral?" Geoffrey bowed his head gravely. "Yes, sir," he said. "I will see to that." CHAPTER XXXVI MRS. MAY LEARNS SOMETHING Mrs. May sat among her flowers after dinner. She had dined well and was on the very best of terms with herself. It had been a source of satisfaction to see the body of her worst enemy laid to rest in the village churchyard that afternoon. For years she had planned for the death of that man and for years he had eluded her. To strike him down foully had been too dangerous, for had he not told her that he was prepared for that kind of death? Had he not arranged it so that a score of savants in Europe should learn the truth within a month of his decease? "And kindly fate has removed him for me," she said as she puffed with infinite content at one of her scented cigarettes. "There is no longer any danger. What have I to fear now from those wise men of the East? Nothing. They will see that Tchigorsky has died a natural death and will destroy those packets. I can act freely now." A strange look came over the lovely face, a look that boded ill for somebody. Then the whole expression changed as Geoffrey entered. She had seen him that afternoon; she had asked him to come and he had half promised to do so. That Mrs. May hated the young man and all his race with a fanatical hatred was no reason why, for the present, she should not enjoy his society. She was a strange woman, this Eastern, with a full knowledge of Western ways and civilization. She could be two distinct beings in as many minutes. A moment ago she was a priestess thirsting for the blood of those who had defiled her creed, for the blood of those to the third or fourth generation, and almost instantly she was the charming hostess she would have been in a country mansion or a West End drawing room. She waved Geoffrey to a seat. "I hardly dared hope you would come," she said. "But now you are here, make yourself at home. There are some of the cigarettes you liked so well and the claret purchased for me by a connoisseur. I never touch wine myself, but I know you men appreciate it after dinner." Geoffrey took a cigarette and poured himself out a glass of the superb claret. The bouquet of it seemed to mingle with the flowers and scent the room. Geoffrey mentally likened himself to an Italian gallant upon whom Lucretia Borgia smiled before doing him to death.