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.

Vaguely the truth was stealing in upon the mind of the dancing-
girl that she had been made party to a plot to murder Grantham.
She had saved his life. He belonged to her now. She could hear
him speaking, although for some reason she could not see him. A
haze had come, blotting out everything but the still, ungainly
figure which lay so near her upon the carpet, one clutching, fat
hand, upon which a diamond glittered, outstretched so that it
nearly touched her bare white feet.