The words held themselves on his lips.
He was facing a small door across the room. His hand fell to his side in a gesture of silence.
The woman in the doorway stood looking at them with deep, intent gaze. Then she moved toward them—as one who comes in her own right.
She spoke a word to the interpreter. He gave quiet assent and waited while she spoke.
“She says the coat is of royal lineage,” he translated slowly—“a heritage in her family—since Time.... She is of a dynasty long since deposed. Only the coat remains. No one remembers whence it came—no one reads the dragon marks....” He translated the words as they came from her lips in quaint exact phrasing. “But there is a tradition—” his voice went on——-
He listened again—a half-curious flutter of his lids rested on Eleanor More’s face.
She had withdrawn to one side and stood looking down at the red-and-black lacquered surface of the coffin.... Her hands were folded quietly. Something within her seemed to hold itself remote.
His gaze ran from her to the woman who stood speaking the words that he translated, half under his breath———
“There is a tradition—” he repeated softly, “that the coat is immortal—”
They turned to it where it lay beside the coffin. It seemed to shimmer and gather light.