Muhafiz Ali set aside the book, rose and crossed the room. He unlocked the door. A spray was blown into his face. No one was there. Rain poured over the street-lamps in gauzy, iridescent ribbons; it wove spumy lace upon the black roadway and trailed, fuming, into the gutters.
He shut the door and locked it. He had taken no more than two steps before a pounding brought him to a halt. He stood there for a moment, tense; then turned and pressed his lips to the crack of the door.
"Leroux Sahib?"
Faintly, from out the chaos of sounds, came—"Yes."
He turned the key. The door opened violently and slammed behind the drenched figure of the yellow-bearded sahib. Water dripped from his helmet; streams of moisture trickled down his rain-cape and gathered in pools upon the floor.
"Allah be praised!" Muhafiz Ali murmured fervently.
Leroux Sahib flung aside his cape, and the native saw that he carried a flat package under one arm. The white man shook the water from his helmet and mopped his face with a khaki handkerchief.
"Mother of God! What a night!" he exclaimed, smiling grimly. Then: "Is it ready?"
Muhafiz Ali hastily opened one of his chests and removed several trays. The sahib joined him. His eyes shone feverishly as the Mussulman drew forth a thing that tinkled musically. Strands of nacreous spheres reflected a soft radiance from the lamp; luster of cream-colored satin. The imitation diamonds that inset the clasp burned like star-splinters.
Leroux Sahib swore under his breath and chuckled; swore in a tongue Muhafiz Ali did not understand.