stuart returned to his house in a troubled frame of mind. he had refrained so long from betraying the circumstances of his last meeting with mlle. dorian to the police authorities that this meeting now constituted a sort of guilty secret, a link binding him to the beautiful accomplice of "the scorpion"—to the dark-eyed servant of the uncanny cowled thing which had sought his life by strange means. he hugged this secret to his breast, and the pain of it afforded him a kind of savage joy.

in his study he found a post office workman engaged in fitting a new telephone. as stuart entered the man turned.

"good-afternoon, sir," he said, taking up the destroyed instrument from the litter of flux, pincers and screw drivers lying upon the table. "if it's not a rude question, how on earth did this happen?"

stuart laughed uneasily.

"it got mixed up with an experiment which i was conducting," he replied evasively.

the man inspected the headless trunk of the instrument.

"it seems to be fused, as though the top of it had been in a blast furnace," he continued. "experiments of that sort are a bit dangerous outside a proper laboratory, i should think."

"they are," agreed stuart. "but i have no facilities here, you see, and i was—er—compelled to attempt the experiment. i don't intend to repeat it."

"that's lucky," murmured the man, dropping the instrument into a carpet-bag. "if you do, it will cost you a tidy penny for telephones!"

walking out towards the dispensary, stuart met mrs. m'gregor.

"a post office messenger brought this letter for you, mr. keppel, just the now," she said, handing stuart a sealed envelope.

he took the envelope from her hand, and turned quickly away. he felt that he had changed colour. for it was addressed in the handwriting of … mlle. dorian!

"thank you, mrs. m'gregor," he said and turned into the dining-room.

mrs. m'gregor proceeded about her household duties, and as her footsteps receded, stuart feverishly tore open the envelope. that elusive scent of jasmine crept to his nostrils. in the envelope was a sheet of thick note-paper (having the top cut off evidently in order to remove the printed address), upon which the following singular message was written:

"before i go away there is something i want to say to you. you do not trust me. it is not wonderful that you do not. but i swear that i only want to save you from a great danger. if you will promise not to tell the police anything of it, i will meet you at six o'clock by the book stall at victoria station—on the brighton side. if you agree you will wear something white in your button-hole. if not you cannot find me there. nobody ever sees me again."

there was no signature, but no signature was necessary.

stuart laid the letter on the table, and began to pace up and down the room. his heart was beating ridiculously. his self-contempt was profound. but he could not mistake his sentiments.

his duty was plain enough. but he had failed in it once, and even as he strode up and down the room, already he knew that he must fail again. he knew that, rightly or wrongly, he was incapable of placing this note in the hands of the police … and he knew that he should be at victoria station at six o'clock.

he would never have believed himself capable of becoming accessory to a series of crimes—for this was what his conduct amounted to; he had thought that sentiment no longer held any meaning for him. yet the only excuse which he could find wherewith to solace himself was that this girl had endeavoured to save him from assassination. weighed against the undoubted fact that she was a member of a dangerous criminal group what was it worth? if the supposition of gaston max was correct, "the scorpion" had at least six successful murders to his credit, in addition to the attempt upon his (stuart's) life and that of "le balafre", upon the life of gaston max.

it was an accomplice of this nameless horror called "the scorpion" with whom at six o'clock he had a tryst, whom he was protecting from justice, by the suppression of whose messages to himself he was adding difficulties to the already difficult task of the authorities!

up and down he paced, restlessly, every now and again glancing at a clock upon the mantelpiece. his behavior he told himself was contemptible.

yet, at a quarter to six, he went out—and seeing a little cluster of daisies growing amongst the grass bordering the path, he plucked one and set it in his button-hole!

a few minutes before the hour he entered the station and glanced sharply around at the many groups scattered about in the neighbourhood of the bookstall. there was no sign of mlle. dorian. he walked around the booking office without seeing her and glanced into the waiting-room. then, looking up at the station clock, he saw that the hour had come, and as he stood there staring upward he felt a timid touch upon his shoulder.

he turned—and she was standing by his side!

she was parisian from head to foot, simply but perfectly gowned. a veil hung from her hat and half concealed her face, but could not hide her wonderful eyes nor disguise the delightful curves of her red lips. stuart automatically raised his hat, and even as he did so wondered what she should have said and done had she suddenly found gaston max standing at his elbow! he laughed shortly.

"you are angry with me," said mlle. dorian, and stuart thought that her quaint accent was adorable. "or are you angry with yourself for seeing me?"

"i am angry with myself," he replied, "for being so weak."

"is it so weak," she said, rather tremulously, "not to judge a woman by what she seems to be and not to condemn her before you hear what she has to say? if that is weak, i am glad; i think it is how a man should be."

her voice and her eyes completed the spell, and stuart resigned himself without another struggle to this insane infatuation.

"we cannot very well talk here," he said. "suppose we go into the hotel and have late tea, mlle. dorian."

"yes. very well. but please do not call me that. it is not my name."

stuart was on the point of saying, "zara el-khala then," but checked himself in the nick of time. he might hold communication with the enemy, but at least he would give away no information.

"i am called miska," she added. "will you please call me miska?"

"of course, if you wish," said stuart, looking down at her as she walked by his side and wondering what he would do when he had to stand up in court, look at miska in the felon's dock and speak words which would help to condemn her—perhaps to death, at least to penal servitude! he shuddered.

"have i said something that displeases you?" she asked, resting a white-gloved hand on his arm. "i am sorry."

"no, no," he assured her. "but i was thinking—i cannot help thinking …"

"how wicked i am?" she whispered.

"how lovely you are!" he said hotly, "and how maddening it is to remember that you are an accomplice of criminals!"

"oh," she said, and removed her hand, but not before he had felt how it trembled. they were about to enter the tea-room when she added: "please don't say that until i have told you why i do what i do."

obeying a sudden impulse, he took her hand and drew it close under his arm.

"no," he said; "i won't. i was a brute, miska. miska means 'musk', surely?"

"yes." she glanced up at him timidly. "do you think it a pretty name?"

"very," he said, laughing.

underlying the western veneer was the fascinating naivete of the eastern woman, and miska had all the suave grace, too, which belongs to the women of the orient, so that many admiring glances followed her charming figure as she crossed the room to a vacant table.

"now," said stuart, when he had given an order to the waiter, "what do you want to tell me? whatever it may be, i am all anxiety to hear it. i promise that i will only act upon anything you may tell me in the event of my life, or that of another, being palpably endangered by my silence."

"very well. i want to tell you," replied miska, "why i stay with

fo-hi."

"who is fo-hi?"

"i do not know!"

"what!" said stuart. "i am afraid i don't understand you."

"if i speak in french will you be able to follow what i say?"

"certainly. are you more at ease with french?"

"yes," replied miska, beginning to speak in the latter language. "my mother was french, you see, and although i can speak in english fairly well i cannot yet think in english. do you understand?

"perfectly. so perhaps you will now explain to whom you refer when you speak of fo-hi."

miska glanced apprehensively around her, bending further forward over the table.

"let me tell you from the beginning," she said in a low voice, "and then you will understand. it must not take me long. you see me as i am to-day because of a dreadful misfortune that befell me when i was fifteen years old."

"my father was wali of aleppo, and my mother, his third wife, was a frenchwoman, a member of a theatrical company which had come to cairo, where he had first seen her. she must have loved him, for she gave up the world, embraced islam and entered his harem in the great house on the outskirts of aleppo. perhaps it was because he, too, was half french, that they were mutually attracted. my father's mother was a frenchwoman also, you understand.

"until i was fifteen years of age, i never left the harem, but my mother taught me french and also a little english; and she prevailed upon my father not to give me in marriage so early as is usual in the east. she taught me to understand the ways of european women, and we used to have paris journals and many books come to us regularly. then an awful pestilence visited aleppo. people were dying in the mosques and in the streets, and my father decided to send my mother and myself and some others of the harem to his brother's house in damaskus.

"perhaps you will think that such things do not happen in these days, and particularly to members of the household of a chief magistrate, but i can only tell you what is true. on the second night of our journey a band of arabs swept down upon the caravan, overpowered the guards, killing them all, and carried of everything of value which we had. me, also, they carried off—me and one other, a little syrian girl, my cousin. oh!" she shuddered violently—"even now i can sometimes hear the shrieks of my mother … and i can hear, also, the way they suddenly ceased, those cries …"

stuart looked up with a start to find a swiss waiter placing tea upon the table. he felt like rubbing his eyes. he had been dragged rudely back from the syrian desert to the prosaic realities of a london hotel.

"perhaps," continued miska, "you will think that we were ill-treated, but it was not so. no one molested us. we were given every comfort which desert life can provide, servant to wait upon us and plenty of good food. after several weeks' journeying we came to a large city, having many minarets and domes glimmering in the moonlight; for we entered at night. indeed, we always travelled at night. at the time i had no idea of the name of this city but i learned afterwards that it was mecca.

"as we proceeded through the streets, the assyrian girl and i peeped out through the little windows of the shibriyeh—which is a kind of tent on the back of a camel—in which we travelled, hoping to see some familiar face or someone to whom we could appeal. but there seemed to be scarcely anyone visible in the streets, although lights shone out from many windows, and the few men we saw seemed to be anxious to avoid us. in fact, several ran down side turnings as the camels approached.

"we stopped before the gate of a large house which was presently opened, and the camels entered the courtyard. we descended, and i saw that a number of small apartments surrounded the courtyard in the manner of a caravanserai. then, suddenly, i saw something else, and i knew why we had been treated with such consideration on the journey; i knew into what hand i had fallen—i knew that i was in the house of a slave-dealer!"

"good heavens!" muttered stuart—"this is almost incredible."

"i knew you would doubt what i had to tell you," declared miska plaintively; "but i solemnly swear what i tell you is the truth. yes, i was in the house of a slave-dealer, and on the very next day, because i was proficient in languages, in music and in dancing, and also because—according to their eastern ideas—i was pretty, the dealer, mohammed abd-el-bali … offered me for sale."

she stopped, lowering her eyes and flushing hotly, then continued with hesitancy.

"in a small room which i can never forget i was offered the only indignity which i had been called upon to suffer since my abduction. i was exhibited to prospective purchasers."

"as she spoke the words, miska's eyes flashed passionately and her hand, which lay on the table, trembled. stuart silently reached across and rested his own upon it.

"there were all kinds of girls," miska continued, "black and brown and white, in the adjoining rooms, and some of them were singing and some dancing, whilst others wept. four different visitors inspected me critically, two of them being agents for royal harems and the other two—how shall i say it?—wealthy connoisseurs. but the price asked by mohammed abd-el-bali was beyond the purses of all except one of the agents. he had indeed settled the bargain, when the singing and dancing and shouting—every sound it seemed—ceased about me … and into the little room in which i crouched amongst perfumed cushions at the feet of the two men, walked fo-hi."