“I don’t know exactly. He is a Hindoo, half-caste I imagine, or he wouldn’t work as a servant, and I found him in London. It was just before I married Percy. George had been working in one of the music halls as a magician and he was ill. I took care of him. His colour didn’t matter—he was in The Profession, in a way, you know, and when he got well he offered to work for me and he’s been with me ever since, about eleven years. I really couldn’t do without George, you know. Percy didn’t like him either.” “Why doesn’t he go back into vaudeville? He could make more money.” “Gratitude, I suppose—anyway, that wouldn’t make very much difference, and so long as I have any money at all, I shall keep George.” “How do you know that he is really a Hindoo?” asked Ruth. “He told me that when I first found him. You’re more curious about George than Percy was. Percy always said he looked like something come to life from a pyramid, but George never liked Percy and he won’t like you if you ask him questions.” “I shan’t ask him questions.” “I do wish you hadn’t met Percy—he keeps coming into my mind. Did he look well?” “Very well indeed.” “Happy?” “That’s more difficult—you know I’d never seen him before, so it would be hard to tell. If you—why didn’t you let me tell him the truth; then probably you’d have seen for yourself.” “No, I wouldn’t. He might have thought that I deliberately tried to see him. Anyway I don’t want to see him. I was only curious. Don’t speak about him again, even if I ask. I want to forget him.” Ruth went out with thoughts more conflicting than before. One moment she thought she detected in Gloria a sentimental interest in her former husband; the next she appeared to hate him, and apparently there was no hope of persuading her to send George away. She went to the restaurant on Eighth Avenue for lunch, where she met Nels and Dorothy. “What do you think?” said Nels. “I just heard that Professor Pendragon is ill—paralysis or something like that, and he certainly looked well last night. I can’t understand it.” “The news doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite any,” said Dorothy. “Certainly not—must keep up steam. Shouldn’t wonder if that was why he’s ill. He never eats anything much. One can’t paint greatly unless one eats greatly.” “When did he get ill, and how?” asked Ruth. “When he went home from the show last night—It’s extraordinary because he’s never been troubled that way and he was quite well just a short time before.” Ruth was thinking of George and of all the old tales she had ever heard of the evil eye and black magic. She was thinking of these things with one part of her brain, while with another part she scoffed at herself for being a superstitious, silly fool. If only Amy hadn’t persuaded her to look through the keyhole. “I’m going to go and see him tomorrow afternoon,” said Nels. “I’d go today, but I have to work.”