As Grantham went out by the side door, Hassan, soft of foot, appeared. Crossing to the main door he opened it and walked down the narrow corridor beyond. Presently came the tap, tap, tap of a stick and a sound of muttered conversation in some place below.  
Hassan reentered and went in through the curtained doorway to summon Agapoulos. Agapoulos was dressing and would not be disturbed. Hassan went back to those who waited, but ere long returned again chattering volubly to himself. Going behind the carven screen he rapped upon the door of Zahara's room, and she directed him to come in. To Zahara, Hassan was no more than a piece of furniture, and she thought as little of his intruding while she was in the midst of her toilet as another woman would have thought of the entrance of a maid.
 
“Two men,” reported Hassan, “who won't go away until they see somebody.”
 
“Whom do they want to see?” she inquired indifferently, adjusting the line of her eyebrow with an artistically pointed pencil.
 
“They say whoever belongs here.”
 
Zahara invariably spoke either French or English to natives, and if Hassan had addressed her in Arabic she would not have replied, although she spoke that language better than she spoke any other.
 
“What are they like? Not—police?”
 
“Foreign,” replied Hassan vaguely.
 
“English—American?”
 
“No, not American or English. Very black hair, dark skin.”
 
Zahara, a student of men, became aware of a mild interest. These swarthy visitors should prove an agreeable antidote to the poisonous calm of Harry Grantham. She was trying with all the strength of her strange, stifled soul not to think of Grantham, and she was incapable of recognizing the fact that she could think of nothing else and had thought of little else for a long time past. Even now it was because of him that she determined to interview the foreign visitors. The mystery of her emotions puzzled her more than ever.
 
She descended to a small, barely furnished room on the ground floor, close beside the door opening upon the street. It was lighted by one hanging lamp. On the divan which constituted the principal item of furniture a small man, slenderly built, was sitting. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, so broad of brim that it threw the whole of the upper part of his face into shadow. It was impossible to see his eyes. Beside him rested a heavy walking-stick.
 
As Zahara entered, a wonderful, gaily coloured figure, this man did not move in the slightest, but sat, chin on breast, his small, muscular, brown hands resting on his knees. His companion, however, a person of more massive build, elegantly dressed and handsome in a swarthy fashion, bowed gravely and removed his hat. Zahara liked his eyes, which were dark and very bold looking.
 
“M. Agapoulos is engaged,” she said, speaking in French. “What is it you wish to know?”
 
The man regarded her fixedly, and:
 
“Senorita,” he replied, “I will be frank with you.”
 
Save for his use of the word “senorita” he also spoke in French. Zahara drew her robe more closely about her and adopted her most stately manner.
 
“My name,” continued the other, “does not matter, but my business is to look into the affairs of other people, you understand?”
 
Zahara, who understood from this that the man was some kind of inquiry agent, opened her blue eyes very widely and at the same time shook her head.
 
“No,” she protested; “what do you mean?”
 
“A certain gentleman came here a short time ago, came into this house and must be here now. Don't be afraid. He has done nothing very dreadful,” he added reassuringly.
 
Zahara retreated a step, and a little wrinkle of disapproval appeared between her pencilled brows. She no longer liked the man's eyes, she decided. They were deceitful eyes. His companion had taken up the heavy stick and was restlessly tapping the floor.
 
“There is no one here,” said Zahara calmly, “except the people who live in the house.”
 
“He is here, he is here,” muttered the man seated on the divan.
 
The tapping of his stick had grown more rapid, but as he had spoken in Spanish, Zahara, who was ignorant of that language, had no idea what he had said.
 
“My friend,” continued the Spaniard, bowing slightly in the direction of the slender man who so persistently kept his broad-brimmed hat on his head, “chanced to hear the voice of this gentleman as he spoke to your porter on entering the door. And although the door was closed too soon for us actually to see him, we are convinced that he is the person we seek.”
 
“I think you are mistaken,” said Zahara coolly. “But what do you want him for?”
 
As she uttered the words she realized that even the memory of Grantham was sufficient to cause her to betray herself. She had betrayed her interest to the man himself, and now she had betrayed it to this dark-faced stranger whose manner was so mysterious. The Spaniard recognized the fact, and, unlike Grantham, acted upon it promptly.
 
“He has taken away the wife of another, Senorita,” he said simply, and watched her as he spoke the lie.
 
She listened in silence, wide-eyed. Her lower lip twitched, and she bit it fiercely.
 
“He went first to Port Said and then came to London with this woman,” continued the Spaniard remorselessly. “We come from her husband to ask her to return. Yes, he will forgive her—or he offers her freedom.”
 
Rapidly but comprehensively the speaker's bold glance travelled over Zahara, from her golden head to her tiny embroidered shoes.
 
“If you can help us in this matter it will be worth fifty English pounds to you,” he concluded.
 
Zahara was breathing rapidly. The fatal hatred which she had sought to stifle gained a new vitality. Another woman—another woman actually here in London! So there was someone upon whom he did not look in that half-amused and half-compassionate manner. How she hated him! How she hated the woman to whom he had but a moment ago returned!
 
“Then he will marry this other one?” she said suddenly.
 
“Oh, no. Already he neglects her. We think she will go back.”
 
Zahara experienced a swift change of sentiment. She seemed to be compounded of two separate persons, one of whom laughed cruelly at the folly of the other.
 
“What is the name of this man you think your friend has recognized?” she asked.
 
The big stick was rapping furiously during this colloquy.
 
“We are both sure, Senorita. His name is Major Spalding.”
 
That Spalding and Grantham were neighbouring towns in Lincolnshire Zahara did not know, but:
 
“No one of that name comes here,” she replied.
 
“The one you heard and—who has gone—is not called by that name.” She spoke with forced calm. It was Grantham they sought! “But what happens if I show you this one who is not called Spalding?”
 
“No matter! Point him out to me,” answered the Spaniard eagerly—and his dark eyes seemed to be on fire—“point him out to me and fifty pounds of English money is yours!”
 
“Let me see.”
 
He drew out a wallet and held up a number of notes.
 
“Fifty,” he said, in a subdued voice, “when you point him out.”
 
For a long moment Zahara hesitated, then:
 
“Sixty,” she corrected him—“now! Then I will do it to-night—if you tell what happens.”
 
Exhibiting a sort of eager impatience the man displayed a bunch of official-looking documents.
 
“I give him these,” he explained, “and my work is done.”
 
“H'm,” said Zahara. “He must not know that it is I who have shown him to you. To-night he will be here at nine o'clock, and I shall dance. You understand?”
 
“Then,” said the Spaniard eagerly, “this is what you will do.”
 
And speaking close to her ear he rapidly outlined a plan; but presently she interrupted him.
 
“Pooh! It is Spanish, the rose. I dance the dances of Egypt.”
 
“But to-night,” he persisted, “it will not matter.”
 
Awhile longer they talked, the rapping of the stick upon the tiled floor growing ............