“You are Henri Zayata?” questioned the girl.
“Yes.” The reply came in a smooth tone. “You are Miss Glendenning.”
“Margaret Glendenning.”
“Margaret,” replied the man with a smile.
“You are Robert Buchanan’s friend?” asked the girl, staring toward the man.
“Yes.”
Margaret’s eyes met those of Henri Zayata. The result was immediate fascination. The girl had never seen such eyes.
They were dark, yet it was impossible to determine their hue. Beneath the soft light of the room — light that came from invisible lamps — Zayata’s eyes were puzzling. Only their expression was constant, and they seemed to invite confidence. Before that gaze, Margaret Glendenning felt a sympathy and understanding that she had never before known.
“I am glad that you have come here, Margaret,” said the man in his soft tone. “I have long wished to see you. In fact, I have anticipated your visit. I want you to remember it.”
He looked across the room. Margaret, released from his fascinating stare, followed his gaze. Henri Zayata clapped his hands, and the turbaned servant advanced, bowing as he came. In his hands he held a small golden box.