Margaret arose and opened the door. She stepped into Henri Zayata’s own reception room. The place was empty. Margaret knew that Zayata must be in a wheel chair pushed by Chandra, the Burmese.
Zayata had spoken of an upper room — a study where he sometimes went, by means of the chair and a little elevator. But Margaret had never been there.
The problem on the girl’s mind was a great one. She liked Zayata, and trusted him. But she could not make herself believe she loved him. She knew so little of his history.
He had been a traveler. He had spent many years of his life in India. Chandra had been his servant there. Outside of those few facts, her knowledge of Zayata’s past was vague.
Margaret sat on the cushions beside the couch. She looked up suddenly. She fancied that she had seen a shadow flit across the floor.
She looked suspiciously at the curtains beside the door that led into the splendid hallway. But she saw no one.
Again, the girl was lost in thought. This place which had once delighted her was becoming too fantastic.
She glanced toward the door between the curtains, and fancied that she had seen it closed. She went over and tried to slide the barrier. It would not move.
Looking about her, Margaret spied Zayata’s table — the one with the hinged top. She went there. Curiosity impelled her to raise the lid.
After all, she thought, it was right for her to investigate these surroundings. She might find something to help her in her decision.