He retired in confusion, abashed by the baleful stare of the Duchess, and the rest of the guests drew closer. The jazz band was having supper; the last of the perspiring tenants had departed, and now the bonne bouche of the evening was about to begin.
It had been the Marquis of Laidley himself who had suggested getting hold of this most celebrated performer, who had apparently never been in England before. And since the Marquis of Laidley’s coming-of-age was the cause of the whole evening’s entertainment, his suggestion had been hailed with acclamation. How he had heard about the Indian, and from whom, were points about which he was very vague; but since he was a very vague young man, the fact elicited no comment. The main thing was that here, in the flesh, was a dark, mysterious performer of the occult, and what more could a house party require? And in the general excitement Hugh Drummond crept closer to the open window. It was the Duchess he was concerned with and her pearls, and the arrival of the Indian was not going to put him off his guard.... Then suddenly his jaw tightened: Irma Peterson had entered the room with young Laidley.
“Do you want anything done, Mr. Ram Dar?” asked the Duchess—“the lights down or the window shut?”
“No, I thank you,” returned the Indian. “The night is still; there is no wind. And the night is dark—dark with strange thoughts, that thronged upon me as I drew nigh to the house—whispering through the trees.” Again he fixed his eyes on the Duke. “What is your pleasure, Protector of the Poor?”
“Mine?” cried that pillar of the House of Lords, hurriedly stifling a yawn. “Any old thing, my dear fellow.... You’d much better ask one of the ladies.”
“As you will,” returned the other gravely, “but if the gods speak the truth, and the sand does not lie. I can but say what is written.”
From a pocket in his robe he took a bag and two small bronze dishes, and placing them on a table stood waiting.
“I am ready,” he announced. “Who first will learn of the things that are written on the scroll of Fate?”
“I say, hadn’t you better do it in private, Mr. Rum?” murmured the Duke apprehensively. “I mean, don’t you know, it might be a little embarrassing if the jolly old gods really do give tongue; and I don’t see anybody getting killed in the rush.”
“Is there so much to conceal?” demanded the Indian, glancing round the group, contempt in his brooding eyes. “In the lands that lie beyond the snows we have nothing to conceal. There is nothing that can be concealed, because all is known.”