A child cried somewhere—out in the mountain-pass open it sounded—and the Raja paused suddenly in what he was saying, a look of fear in his face, and dark as his skin was, it seemed to whiten and stiffen. Both Lucilla Crespin and Dr. Traherne saw and wondered—but Traherne made a quick note in his mind: he thought he had learned the tiger-man’s raw, vulnerable point—and he would not forget: the clue might be useful to them in their need. It all passed in an instant. The Raja laughed lightly, and went on with his story. La-swak’s room lay far on the other side of the palace; no sound from it could reach here. And, if aught again had ailed La-swak, Ak-kok would have come or have sent, though a bevy of Western kings had been dining, or even an Eastern god!
“What a heavenly night!” Mrs. Crespin murmured. The words were trite; and because they were trite they were lame and inadequate. It was starlight on the Himalayas. Every star hung out from the deep, velvet sky as if chiseled and cut from precious stones, and the snow of a hundred peaks and slopes literally reflected their jewel-colors, and the crisp night air was warm too by the fragrance of the “evergreens” that soaked it. The night was still, but it pulsed with its own beauty, and here and there where some stray eddy of soft wind caught it a tree on a lower slope was bending as if in prayer.
“Yes,” Rukh assented carelessly—careless of what was ordinary, not of her, or her words—“our summer climate is far from bad.”
“The air is like champagne,” she said with a long, slow breath of enjoyment. “Was she enjoying it?” Traherne asked himself. “Could she enjoy it here?”
“A little over frappé for some tastes,” the Raja suggested. “What do you say, Madam? Shall we have coffee indoors? There is an edge to the air at these altitudes, as soon as the sun has gone down.”
“Yes, I do feel a little chilly now,” she owned, and she shivered slightly.
“Watkins, send for a shawl for Madam,” Rukh said in quick concern, rising quickly. The others rose with him, of course. They had to play the social game with this native princelet upon whose whim so much depended for them. Traherne was playing the game very valiantly; Lucilla Crespin was not sorry to go back to the warmer room; and the Major felt something of actual deference to the host, no matter the shade of his skin, who had given him such a rippin’ dinner—and such wines! At a word from his master the major-domo touched a second switch in one of the pillars of the loggia opening, and the chandelier and wall-lamps of the salon burst into brilliant light. Rukh offered his arm to Mrs. Crespin, and again the Englishwoman had to take it.
“Let me find you a comfortable seat, Madam,” he said as he led her in, and bowed when he had guided her to a great lounge chair. “When the fire is lighted, I think you will find this quite pleasant. Take the other chair, Major. I must really refurnish this room,” he observed critically. “My ancestors had no notion of comfort. To tell the truth, I use the room only on state occasions, like the present”—again he bent to Mrs. Crespin. “I have a much more modern snuggery upstairs, which I hope you will see to-morrow.” It was quite courteously said, but there was invitation in his soft black eyes, a hint of it and of caress in his voice. Lucilla caught it, and so did Basil Traherne. She gave no sign, but Traherne still standing at the loggia opening, looking out into the night, clenched his strong, brown fingers until his nails cut the flesh. But he did not dare turn. And Crespin—poor chap—heard nothing, saw nothing. He was feeling a little sleepy, and quite full of content, and he smiled a lazy approval at the servants bringing in coffee, liqueurs, cigars and cigarettes.
“Star-gazing, Dr. Traherne?” the Raja asked him.
Traherne turned at that, and came to the others. “I beg your pardon,” he said.