“My name,” continued the other, “does not matter, but my business is to look into the affairs of other people, you understand?”

Zahara, who understood from this that the man was some kind of inquiry agent, opened her blue eyes very widely and at the same time shook her head.

“No,” she protested; “what do you mean?”

“A certain gentleman came here a short time ago, came into this house and must be here now.  Don’t be afraid.  He has done nothing very dreadful,” he added reassuringly.

Zahara retreated a step, and a little wrinkle of disapproval appeared between her pencilled brows.  She no longer liked the man’s eyes, she decided.  They were deceitful eyes.  His companion had taken up the heavy stick and was restlessly tapping the floor.

“There is no one here,” said Zahara calmly, “except the people who live in the house.”

“He is here, he is here,” muttered the man seated on the divan.

The tapping of his stick had grown more rapid, but as he had spoken in Spanish, Zahara, who was ignorant of that language, had no idea what he had said.

“My friend,” continued the Spaniard, bowing slightly in the direction of the slender man who so persistently kept his broad-brimmed hat on his head, “chanced to hear the voice of this gentleman as he spoke to your porter on entering the door.  And although the door was closed too soon for us actually to see him, we are convinced that he is the person we seek.”

“I think you are mistaken,” said Zahara coolly.  “But what do you want him for?”

As she uttered the words she realized that even the memory of Grantham was sufficient to cause her to betray herself.  She had betrayed her interest to the man himself, and now she had betrayed it to this dark-faced stranger whose manner was so mysterious.  The Spaniard recognized the fact, and, unlike Grantham, acted upon it promptly.

“He has taken away the wife of another, Senorita,” he said simply, and watched her as he spoke the lie.

She listened in silence, wide-eyed.  Her lower lip twitched, and she bit it fiercely.

“He went first to Port Said and then came to London with this woman,” continued the Spaniard remorselessly.  “We come from her husband to ask her to return.  Yes, he will forgive her—­or he offers her freedom.”

Rapidly but comprehensively the speaker’s bold glance travelled over Zahara, from her golden head to her tiny embroidered shoes.

“If you can help us in this matter it will be worth fifty English pounds to you,” he concluded.

Zahara was breathing rapidly.  The fatal hatred which she had sought to stifle gained a new vitality.  Another woman—­another woman actually here in London!  So there was someone upon whom he did not look in that half-amused and half-compassionate manner.  How she hated him!  How she hated the woman to whom he had but a moment ago returned!