And because he had answered her thoughts rather than her words, the fear within Zahara grew greater than the joy of the contest.

Awhile longer she stayed, seeking for a chink in the armour.  But she failed to kindle the light in his eyes which—­unless she had deluded herself—­she had seen there in the past; and because she failed and could detect no note of tenderness in his impersonal curiosity: 

“You are lonely because you are so English, so cold,” she exclaimed, drawing her robe about her and glancing sideways toward the door by which Agapoulos might be expected to enter.  “You are bored, yes.  Of course.  You look on at life.  It is not exciting, that game—­except for the players.”

Never once had she looked at him in the Right Way; for to have done so and to have evoked only that amused yet compassionate smile would have meant hatred, and Zahara had been taught that such hatred was fatal because it was a confession of defeat.

“I shall see you again to-night, shall I not?” he said as she turned away.

“Oh, yes, I shall be—­on show.  I hope you will approve.”

She tossed her head like a petulant child, turned, and with never another glance in his direction, walked from the room.  She was very graceful, he thought.

Yet it was not entirely of this strange half-caste, whose beauty was provoking, although he resolutely repelled her tentative advances, that Grantham was thinking.  In that last gesture when she had scornfully tossed her head in turning aside, had lain a bitter memory.  Grantham stood for a moment watching the swaying draperies.  Then, dropping the end of his cigarette into a little brass ash-tray, he took up his hat, gloves, and cane from the floor, and walked toward the doorway through which he had entered.

A bell rang somewhere, and Grantham paused.  A close observer might have been puzzled by his expression.  Evidently changing his mind, he crossed the room, opened the door and went out, leaving the house of Agapoulos by a side entrance.  Crossing the little courtyard below he hurried in the direction of the main street, seeming to doubt the shadows which dusk was painting in the narrow ways.

Many men who know Chinatown distrust its shadows, but the furtive fear of which Grantham had become aware was due not to anticipation but to memory—­to a memory conjured up by that gesture of Zahara’s.

There were few people in London or elsewhere who knew the history of this scallywag Englishman.  That he had held the King’s commission at some time was generally assumed to be the fact, but that his real name was not Grantham equally was taken for granted.  His continuing, nevertheless, to style himself “Major” was sufficient evidence to those interested that Grantham lived by his wits; and from the fact that he lived well and dressed well one might have deduced that his wits were bright if his morals were turbid.