“Certainly. Your poor servant’s head lay at the foot of a curtain-pole which had been placed upright between two chairs. On the pole were tied three tufts of hair from the dead man’s head. The pole had been rubbed with blood.”
“That’s Mongol custom,” muttered Cleves. “They made a toug and ‘greased’ it!—the murderous devils!”
“They did more. They left at the foot of your bed and at the foot of your wife’s bed two white sheets. And a knife lay in the centre of each sheet. That, of course, is the symbol of the Sect of Assassins.”
Cleves nodded. His body, as he leaned there on the window sill in the moonlight, trembled. But his face had grown dark with rage.
“If I could—could only get my hands on one of them,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Be careful. Don’t wear a face like that. Your wife is looking at us,” murmured Recklow.
With an effort Cleves raised his head and smiled across the room at his wife.
“Our luggage will be sent over shortly,” he said. “If you’re tired, we’ll say good-night.”
So she rose and the three men came to make their adieux and pay their compliments and devoirs. Then, with a smile that seemed almost happy, she went into her own apartment on her husband’s arm.
Cleves and his wife had connecting bedrooms and a sitting-room between. Here they paused for a moment before the always formal ceremony of leave-taking at night. There were roses on the centre table. Tressa dropped one hand on the table and bent over the flowers.