Within the table was a black book. Margaret stared at the gold title on the thick, leather cover:
THE BOOK OF DEATH
She opened the book. She turned a few blank pages. Then she stared in wonderment. The book was not printed. Its pages bore beautifully embossed inscriptions. On one page, Margaret saw the name “Robert Buchanan” was the title.
The girl gasped. She was about to read the words that appeared beneath, when she heard a low sound beside her. There, in his wheel chair, with Chandra in back, sat Henri Zayata.
“Let me have the book,” said Zayata.
Margaret held the volume close in her arms. Zayata’s eyes sparkled. They were no longer kindly. Frightened, the girl gave him the book, Zayata smiled.
“It is not mine,” he said, in a gentle tone. “Otherwise I could let you read it.”
“Why,” demanded Margaret suddenly, “is Robert’s name in that book?”
“It is a book of friendship,” said Zayata simply.
In response to a signal from his master, Chandra rolled the wheel chair to the far corner. It stopped by the divan, but Zayata did not leave it. The chair was turned so its occupant faced Margaret.