Then she sank into a reverie, her gaze fixed on the dying embers of the fire.
“All my life has been a struggle,” she went on, after a moment, “first with hunger, then with men, then the police. I am used to a hard life. No, it is not the police!”
“Who is it, then” asked Desmond, completely nonplused.
Nur-el-Din let her eyes rest on his face for a moment.
“You have honest eyes,” she said, “your eyes are not German... pardon me, I would not insult your race... I mean they are different from the rest of you. One day, perhaps, those eyes of yours may persuade me to answer your question. But I don’t know you well enough yet!”
She broke off abruptly, shaking her head.
“I am tired,” she sighed and all her haughty manner returned, “let the old woman show me to my room. I will take déjeuner with you at one o’clock.”
Desmond bowed and stepping out into the hall, called the housekeeper. Old Martha shuffled off with the girl, leaving Desmond staring with vacant eyes into the fire. He was conscious of a feeling of exultation, despite his utter weariness and craving for sleep. This girl, with her queenly ways, her swiftly changing moods, her broad gusts of passion, interested him enormously. If she were the quarry, why, then, the chase were worth while! But the end? For a brief moment, he had a vision of that frail, clinging figure swaying up against some blank wall before a file of levelled rifles.
Then again he seemed to see old Mackwayte lying dead on the landing of the house at Seven Kings. Had this frail girl done this unspeakable deed? To send her to the gallows or before a firing-squad—was this to be the end of his mission? And the still, small voice of conscience answered: “Yes! that is what you have come here to do!”
Old Martha came shuffling down the staircase. Desmond called to her, remembering that he did not yet know where his bedroom was.