Striding up to the porch, he was searching for bell or knocker when the door opened silently, and an Arab in spotless white robes saluted him with dignified courtesy. "Take my card to your master," snapped Haredale, striving to exhibit no surprise, and stepped inside rapidly. The Arab waved him to a small reception room, furnished with a wealth of curios for which the visitor had no eyes, and retired. As the man withdrew Haredale moved to the door and listened. He admitted to himself that this was the part of a common spy; but his consuming jealousy would brook no restraint. From somewhere farther along the hall he heard, though indistinctly, a familiar voice. Without stopping to reflect he made for a draped door, knocked peremptorily, and entered. He found himself in a small apartment, whose form and appointments, even to his perturbed mind, conveyed a vague surprise. It was, to all intents and purposes, a cell, with stone-paved floor and plaster walls. An antique lamp, wherein rested what appeared to be a small ball of light, unlike any illuminant he had seen, stood upon a massive table, which was littered with papers. Excepting a chair of peculiar design and a magnificently worked Oriental curtain which veiled either a second door or a recess in the wall, the place otherwise was unfurnished. Before this curtain, and facing him, pale but composed, stood Lady Mary Evershed, a sweet picture in a bizarre setting. "Has your friend run away, then?" said Haredale roughly. The girl did not reply, but looked fully at him with something of scorn and much of reproach in her eyes. "I know whose house this is," continued Haredale violently, "and why you have come. What is he to you? Why do you know him--visit him--shield him? Oh! my God! it only wanted this to complete my misery. I have, now, not one single happy memory to take away with me." His voice shook upon those last words. "Mary," he said sadly, and all his rage was turned to pleading--"what does it mean? Tell me. I _know_ there is some simple explanation----" "You shall hear it, Sir Richard," interrupted a softly musical voice. He turned as though an adder had bitten him; the blase composure which is the pride of every British officer had melted in the rays of those blue eyes that for years had been the stars of his worship. It was a very human young man, badly shaken and badly conscious of his display of weakness, who faced the tall figure in the tightly buttoned frock-coat that now stood in the open doorway. The man who had interrupted him was one to arrest attention anywhere and in any company. With figure and face cast in a severely classic mould, his intense, concentrated gaze conveyed to Haredale a throbbing sense of _force_, in an uncanny degree. "Severac Bablon!" flashed through his mind. "Himself, Sir Richard."