Next instant she was in complete possession of her senses. “Why am I afraid?” she asked herself. “Why was I afraid then? It is but a stage setting, some Oriental magic.”
A thought struck her all of a heap. “Stage setting! That’s it!” she exclaimed in a low whisper. “Why not? What a wonderful setting for some exotic little touch of Oriental drama!
“I must return to that place. I must see that Magic Curtain once more.” She rearranged the door to her cave. “I must take someone with me. Why not Marjory Dean?”
The thought pleased her. She mused over it until the fire burned low.
But with the dimming of the coals her spirits ebbed. As she gazed into the fire she seemed to see a dark and evil face leering at her, the man who had called to her at the opera door.
Had she seen that same face staring at her on that other occasion when she slept in the sun on the Robinson estate, she might well have shuddered more violently. As it was, she asked but a single question: “Who is he?”
She threw on fuel. The fire flamed up. Once more she was gay as she heard Marjory Dean whisper those magic words:
“You did that divinely, Petite Jeanne. I could not have done it better. Some day, perhaps, I shall allow you to take my place.”
“Will you?” she cried, stretching her arms wide. “Oh! Will you, Marjory Dean?”
After this emotional outburst she sat for a long time quite motionless.