“Don't take it so seriously, Lyddy,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. Both of them realised that it was the nearest thing to a caress that had passed between them in a fortnight or longer. A wave of shame swept through him. “Dear old girl—my dear old girl,” he whispered brokenly.
Her eyes radiated joy, her lips parted in a wan, tremulous smile of surprise, and a soft sigh escaped them.
“My dear, dear boy,” she murmured, and was happier than she had been in weeks.
“See here, old chap,” said one of the middle-aged gentlemen, again consulting his watch as he loudly addressed his host, “can't you hurry this performance of yours along a bit? It is after ten, you know.”
“A quarter after,” said the other middle-aged gentleman.
“I will summon the magician,” said Brood. “Be prepared, ladies and gentlemen, to meet the devil. Ranjab is the prince of darkness.”
He lifted his hand to strike the gong that stood near the edge of the table.
Involuntarily four pairs of eyes fastened their gaze upon the door to the Hindu's closet. Three mellow, softly reverberating “booms” filled the room. Almost instantly the voice of the Hindu was heard.
“Aih, sahib!”
He came swiftly into the room from the hall, and not from his closet. The look of relief in Yvonne's eyes was short-lived. She saw amazement in the faces of the two old men—and knew!