It was an artistic little structure—­a pavilion formed of silky fabric that showed bronze in the light of an Oriental lamp that hung above its entrance.  As they drew closer, a man emerged from it.  He stood for a moment in uncertainty, looking about him; then, catching sight of them, he came forward laughing.

“By George!” he exclaimed, “it’s as dark as limbo in there!  I didn’t see you at first.  But I say, Blessirigton, it’s a beastly shame to have that thunder-cloud barrier shutting off the sorceress.  If she gazes at the crystal, mayn’t we have something to gaze at, too?”

Blessington laughed.  “You want too much, Galltry,” he said.  “Lady Astrupp understands the value of the unattainable.  Come along, sir!” he added to Loder, drawing him forward with an energetic pressure of the arm.

Loder responded, and as he did so a flicker of curiosity touched his mind for the first time.  He wondered for an instant who this woman was who aroused so much comment.  And with the speculation came the remembrance of how she had assured Chilcote that on one point. at least he was invulnerable.  He had spoken then from the height of a past experience—­an experience so fully passed that he wondered now if it had been as staple a guarantee as he had then believed.  Man’s capacity for outliving is astonishingly complete.  The long-ago incident in the Italian mountains had faded, like a crayon study in which the tones have merged and gradually lost character.  The past had paled before the present—­as golden hair might pale before black.  The simile came with apparent irrelevance.  Then again Blessington pressed his arm.

“Now, sir!” he said, drawing away and lifting the curtain that hung before the entrance of the tent.

Loder looked at the amused, boyish face lighted by the hanging lamp, and smiled pleasantly; then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he entered the pavilion and the curtain fell behind him.

XV

On entering the pavilion, Loder’s first feeling was one of annoyed awkwardness at finding himself in almost total darkness.  But as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, the feeling vanished and the absurdity of the position came to his mind.

The tent was small, heavily draped with silk and smelling of musk.  It was divided into two sections by an immovable curtain that hung from the roof to within a few feet of the floor.  The only furniture on Loder’s side was one low chair, and the only light a faint radiance that, coming from the invisible half of the pavilion; spread across the floor in a pale band.  For a short space he stood uncertain, then his hesitation was brought to an end.

“Please sit down,” said a low, soft voice.

For a further moment he stood undecided.  The voice sounded so unexpectedly near.  In the quiet and darkness of the place it seemed to possess a disproportionate weight—­almost the weight of a familiar thing.  Then, with a sudden, unanalyzed touch of relief, he located the impression.  It was the similarity to Lady Bramfell’s sweet, slow tones that had stirred his mind.  With a sense of satisfaction he drew the chair forward and sat down.