When presently the music commenced, the players concealed behind the tall screen, an expectant hush fell upon the wine-flushed company.  Hassan, who played the darabukkeh, could modulate its throbbing so wonderfully.

Zahara entered the room, enveloped from shoulders to ankles in a flame-coloured cloak.  Between her lips she held a red rose.

“By God, what a beauty!” said a husky voice.

Zahara did not know which of the party had spoken, but she was conscious of the fact that by virtue of the strange witchcraft which became hers on such nights she held them all spell-bound.  They were her slaves.

Slowly she walked across the apartment while the throbbing of the Arab drum grew softer and softer, producing a weird effect of space and distance.  All eyes were fixed upon her, and meeting Grantham’s gaze she saw at last the Light there which she knew.  This sudden knowledge of triumph almost unnerved her, and the rose which she had taken from between her lips trembled in her white fingers.  Two of the petals fell upon the carpet, which was cream-coloured from the looms of Ispahan.  Like blood spots the petals lay upon the cream surface.

Zahara swung sharply about.  Agapoulos, seated alone in the chair over which he had draped the leopard skin, was busily brushing his moustache and glancing sideways toward the screen which concealed Safryeh.  Zahara tilted her head on to her shoulder and cast a languorous glance into the shadows masking the watchful Spaniard.

She could see his eyes gleaming like those of a wild beast.  An icy finger seemed to touch her heart.  He had lied to her!  She knew it, suddenly, intuitively.  Well, she would see.  She also had guile.

With a little scornful laugh Zahara tossed the rose on to the knees—­of Agapoulos.

The sound of three revolver shots fired in quick succession rang out above the throbbing music.  Agapoulos clutched at his shirt front with both hands, uttered a stifled scream and tried to stand up.  He coughed, and glaring straight in front of him fell forward across a little coffee table laden with champagne bottles and glasses.

Coincident with the crash made by his falling body came the loud bang of a door.  The Spaniard had gone.

“By God, sir!  It’s murder, it’s murder!” cried the same husky voice which had commented upon the beauty of Zahara.

There was a mingling, purposeless movement.  Someone ran to the door—­to find that it was locked from the outside.  Mr. Eddie, now recognizable by his accent, came toward the prone man, dazed, horrified, and grown very white.  Zahara, a beautiful, tragic figure, in her flaming cloak, stood looking down at the dead man.  Safiyeh was peeping round from behind the screen, her face a brown mask of terror.  Hassan, holding his drum, appeared behind her, staring stupidly.  To the smell of cigar smoke and perfume a new and acrid odour was added.