“It’s a little flyer, and there may be something in it,” he said. “I don’t see that I get into trouble any way. But see here, Swami, you deserve something for your work. I’m not going to see you lose that five thousand. When you bring me this I O U with Dick Percival’s signature, I’ll give you my check for the amount. Understand?”
“Be that as you will,” said the Hindu, and he caught the piece of paper and fled toward the thicket where Lena still played with her toy.
“Have I not told you?” he began suavely. “The necklace, less fair than its owner, is yours. But one moment. Will you first do me a favor?”
He lifted the great white turban from his hot forehead and set it on the table before her.
“A simple bit of the skill of my country,” he said. “Will you look fixedly into the great ruby that remains mine? And, as you look, will you yield your mind to me, and let me show you a vision? So—even deeper let your eyes penetrate to the heart of the jewel. Deeper and yet deeper.”
He made a swift motion or two before her, and her eyes grew fixed.
“What do you see?”
“Myself,” she answered.
“Naturally. What else could you ever see? But you are different. You are a thousand times more beautiful. The world lies at your feet. It is a world of adulation. Do you see this?”
“Yes.”