"If it's anybody to see me, tell 'em I have an appointment and they'll have to wait," he instructed briefly, turning back.
The house-boy disappeared, and Sir Francis resumed his seat. After a moment the boy returned.
"She says you have an appointment with her, O Presence!"
The colonel stared. "What!" Pause. "By George! Perhaps you'd better show her in!"
He watched the doorway, and presently a white figure materialized. He rose. The woman wore a bhourka—the long cotton garment that Mohammedan ladies affect in public, and which leaves only the eyes visible.
"You wish to see me?" asked the Director of Central Intelligence.
The hood of the bhourka was thrown back ... and the colonel, who while on duty hibernated under the armor of official dignity, came out of his shell. No man would question her beauty, many her type. The features were long and narrow, and a warm gold, suggesting an Aryan strain, underlay her clear skin. The eyes, rather heavy-lidded, were baffling, and of a deep violet shade—like the peaks of the Khyber after the sunset gun at Jamrud Fort. Black hair clouded her face.
"You are surprised to see me—like this?" she enquired, indicating the bhourka.
Her voice was low and rich, and marked by a huskiness that was rare in that it was musical. Her English was flawless.
"Well, rather!" confessed the colonel.