Ranjab, his Indian servant, slept in an adjoining room, and it was whispered about the house that not even James Brood had viewed its interior. This silent, unapproachable man from the mysterious heart of India locked his door when he entered the room and locked it when he came out. No one, not even the master, thought of entering. Mr Dawes in his cups, or out of them, was responsible for the impression that the man kept deadly serpents there. As a matter of fact, Ranjab was a peaceable fellow and desperately afraid of snakes.
Lydia loved the feel of the cold, oily lumps of jade. There were a few pieces of porcelain of extreme rarity and beauty as well, and several priceless bits of cloisonné, but it was the jade she loved. There were two or three hundred objects of various sizes and colours, and all were what might be called museum pieces. To each was attached a tag disclosing certain facts concerning its origin, its history, and the date of its admission to the Brood collection. It appeared to be Lydia's task to set down these dates and facts in chronological order. Her imagination built quaint little stories about each of the ancient figures. She believed in fairies.
She had been at work for half an hour or longer when a noise in the outer room attracted her attention. She had the odd feeling that someone was looking at her through the open door, and swiftly turned.
Except when occupied by Brood, the room was darkened by means of heavy window-hangings; the effect was that produced by the gloaming just before the stars appeared. Objects were shadowy, indistinct, mysterious. The light from the jade room door threw a diverging ray across the full length of the room. In the very centre of this bright strip sat a placid effigy of Buddha that Brood had found in a remote corner of Siam, serenely stolid on top of its thick base of bronze and lacquer, with a shining shrine for a background.
In the dim edge of the shadow, near the door at the far end of the room, Lydia made out the motionless, indistinct figure of a woman. The faint outlines of the face were discernible, but not so the features. For a moment the girl stared at the watcher and then advanced to the door.
“Who is it?” she inquired, peering.
A low, husky voice replied, with a suggestion of laughter in the tones.
“I am exploring the house.”
Lydia came forward at once.
“Oh, it is Mrs Brood. I beg your pardon. Shall I switch on the lights?”