He searched his room in a rage, went on and searched the dining-room, smoking-room, and kitchen, and every clothes-press and closet, always aware of Tressa’s presence close behind him. And when there remained no tiniest nook or cranny in the place unsearched, he stood in the centre of the carpet glaring at the locked and bolted door. He heard her say under her breath: “This is going to be a sleepless night. And a dangerous one.” And, turning to stare at her, saw no fear in her face, only excitement. He still held clutched in his left hand the sheet and the knife. Now he thrust these toward her. “What’s this damned foolery, anyway?” he demanded harshly. She took the knife with a slight shudder. “There is something engraved on the silver hilt,” she said. He bent over her shoulder. “Eighur,” she added calmly, “not Arabic. The Mongols had no written characters of their own.” She bent closer, studying the inscription. After a moment, still studying the Eighur characters, she rested her left hand on his shoulder—an impulsive, unstudied movement that might have meant either confidence or protection. “Look,” she said, “it is not addressed to you after all, but to a symbol—a series of numbers, 53-6-26.” “That is my designation in the Federal Service,” he said, sharply. “Oh!” she nodded slowly. “Then this is what is written in the Mongol-Yezidee dialect, traced out in Eighur characters: ‘To 53-6-26! By one of the Eight Assassins the Slayer of Souls sends this shroud and this knife from Mount Alamout. Such a blade shall divide your heart. This sheet is for your corpse.’” After a grim silence he flung the soft white cloth on the floor. “There’s no use my pretending I’m not surprised and worried,” he said; “I don’t know how that cloth got here. Do you?” “It was sent.” “How?” She shook her head and gave him a grave, confused look. “There are ways. You could not understand.... This is going to be a sleepless night for us.” “You can go to bed, Tressa. I’ll sit up and read and keep an eye on that door.” “I can’t let you remain alone here. I’m afraid to do that.” He gave a laugh, not quite pleasant, as he suddenly comprehended that the girl now considered their _rôles_ to be reversed. “Are _you_ planning to sit up in order to protect _me_?” he asked, grimly amused. “Do you mind?” “Why, you blessed little thing, I can take care of myself. How funny of you, when I am trying to plan how best to look out for _you_!” But her face remained pale and concerned, and she rested her left hand more firmly on his shoulder. “I wish to remain awake with you,” she said. “Because I myself don’t fully understand this”—she looked at the knife in her palm, then down at the shroud. “It is going to be a strange night for us,” she sighed. “Let us sit together here on the lounge where I can face _that bolted door_. And if you are willing, I am going to turn out the lights——” She suddenly bent forward and switched them off—“because I must keep my mind on guard.”