A few minutes later the other man went to the elevator, ascended to the fourth floor, and entered an apartment next to the one occupied by Sanang. There was another man there, lying on the lounge and smoking a cigar. Without a word, they both went leisurely about the matter of disrobing for the night. When the shorter man who had been in the apartment when the other entered, and who was dark and curly-headed, had attired himself in pyjamas, he sat down on one of the twin beds to enjoy his cigar to the bitter end. “Has Sanang gone out?” he inquired in a low voice. “Yes. Benton went after him.” The other man nodded. “Cleves,” he said, “I guess it looks as though this Norne girl is in it, too.” “What happened?” “As soon as she arrived, Sanang made straight for her apartment. He remained inside for half an hour. Then he came out in a hurry and went to his own rooms, where that surly servant of his squats all day, shining up his arsenal, and drinking koumiss.” “Did you get their conversation?” “I’ve got a record of the gibberish. It requires an interpreter, of course.” “I suppose so. I’ll take the records east with me to-morrow, and by the same token I’d better notify New York that I’m leaving.” He went, half-undressed, to the telephone, got the telegraph office, and sent the following message: “Recklow, _New York_: “Leaving to-morrow for N. Y. with samples. Retain expert in Oriental fabrics. “Victor Cleves.” “Report for me, too,” said the dark young man, who was still enjoying his cigar on his pillows. So Cleves sent another telegram, directed also to “Recklow, _New York_: “Benton and I are watching the market. Chinese importations fluctuate. Recent consignment per _Nan-yang Maru_ will be carefully inspected and details forwarded. “Alek Selden.” In the next room Gutchlug could hear the voice of Cleves at the telephone, but he merely shrugged his heavy shoulders in contempt. For he had other things to do beside eavesdropping. Also, for the last hour—in fact, ever since Sanang’s departure—something had been happening to him—something that happens to a Hassani only once in a lifetime. And now this unique thing had happened to him—to him, Gutchlug Khan—to him before whose Khiounnou ancestors eighty-one thousand nations had bowed the knee. It had come to him at last, this dread thing, unheralded, totally unexpected, a few minutes after Sanang had departed. And he suddenly knew he was going to die. And, when, presently, he comprehended it, he bent his grizzled head and listened seriously. And, after a little silence, he heard his soul bidding him farewell. So the chatter of white men at a telephone in the next apartment had no longer any significance for him. Whether or not they had been spying on him; whether they were plotting, made no difference to him now. He tested his knife’s edge with his thumb and listened gravely to his soul bidding him farewell.