At the same time he wondered why she had come. He had not anticipated this meeting so soon. Was there something back of it? As he asked himself the question his fingers drummed idly on the desk.
While he was meditating he became suddenly aware of another presence in the room. Turning, he found himself looking into the eyes of a woman—the woman of his thoughts. She stood beside him, silent, possessed. There was a dagger in the snakeskin girdle she wore about her waist—a single thrust and she could have killed him. He looked at her steadily. Her glance was equally steady. He rose slowly.
"You are the Juffrouw Koyala," he announced simply. "Good morning, juffrouw." He bowed.
There was an instant's hesitation—or was it only his imagination, Peter Gross asked himself—then her form relaxed a trifle. So slight was the movement that he would not have been sure had not every muscle of her perfect body yielded to it with a supple, rhythmic grace.
"Won't you be seated?" he remarked conventionally, and placed a chair for her. Not until then did she speak.
"It is not necessary, mynheer. I have only a few words to say."
The cold austerity of her voice chilled Peter Gross. Yet her tones were marvelously sweet—like silver bells, he thought. He bowed and waited expectantly. In a moment's interlude he took stock of her.
She was dressed in the native fashion, sarong and kabaya, both of purest white. The kabaya reached to midway between the knees and ankles. Her limbs were bare, except for doe-skin sandals. The girdle about her waist was made from the skins of spotted pit vipers. The handle of the dagger it held was studded with gems, rubies, turquoises, and emeralds. A huge ruby, mounted on a pin, caught the kabaya above her breasts; outside of this she wore no jewelry. Her lustrous black hair hung loosely over her shoulders. Altogether a creature of the jungle, she looked at him with a glance in which defiance was but thinly concealed.
"What did you wish to see me about?" Peter Gross asked when he saw that she was awaiting his permission to speak.
Something like a spark shot from the glowing coals of her eyes. The tragic intensity of those eyes stirred anew the feeling of pity in the resident's heart.