He replied to my question with another.
‘You, Mr Atherton,—are you also a magician?’
He was staring at my mask with an evident lack of comprehension.
‘I wear this because, in this place, death lurks in so many subtle forms, that, without it, I dare not breathe.’ He inclined his head,—though I doubt if he understood. ‘Be so good as to tell me, briefly, what it is you wish with me.’
He slipped his hand into the folds of his burnoose, and, taking out a slip of paper, laid it on the shelf by which we were standing. I glanced at it, expecting to find on it a petition, or a testimonial, or a true statement of his sad case; instead it contained two words only,—‘Marjorie Lindon.’ The unlooked-for sight of that well-loved name brought the blood into my cheeks.
‘You come from Miss Lindon?’
He narrowed his shoulders, brought his finger-tips together, inclined his head, in a fashion which was peculiarly Oriental, but not particularly explanatory,—so I repeated my question.
‘Do you wish me to understand that you do come from Miss Lindon?’
Again he slipped his hand into his burnoose, again he produced a slip of paper, again he laid it on the shelf, again I glanced at it, again nothing was written on it but a name,—‘Paul Lessingham.’
‘Well?—I see,—Paul Lessingham.—What then?’