from it, for:

"Does Your Excellency really mean that?" she whispered.

A smile appeared upon his face, an alluring smile, but rather that of a
beautiful woman than of a man.

"As you of the West," he said, "have advanced step by step, ever upward
in the mechanical sciences, we of the East have advanced also step by
step in other and greater sciences."

"Certainly," she admitted, "you have spoken of such things before."

"I speak of things which I know. From that hour when you entered upon
your first Kama, back in the dawn of time, until now, those within the
ever-moving cycle which bears you on through the ages have been beside
you, at times unseen by the world, at times unseen by you, veiled by the
mist which men call death, but which is no more than a curtain behind
which we sometimes step for a while. In the East we have learned to
raise that curtain; in the West are triflers who make like claims,
but whose knowledge of the secret of the veil is--" And he snapped his
fingers contemptuously.

The strange personality of the man was having its effect. Phil
Abingdon's eyes were widely open, and she was hanging upon his words.
Underneath the soft effeminate exterior lay a masterful spirit--a
spirit which had known few obstacles. The world of womanhood could have
produced no more difficult subject than Phil Abingdon. Yet she realized,
and became conscious of a sense of helplessness, that under certain
conditions she would be as a child in the hands of this Persian mystic,
whose weird eyes appeared to be watching not her body, nor even her
mind, but her soul, whose voice touched unfamiliar chords within
her--chords which had never responded to any other human voice.

It was thrilling, vaguely pleasurable, but deep terror underlay it.

"Your Excellency almost frightens me," she whispered. "Yet I do not
doubt that you speak of what you know."

"It is so," he returned, gravely. "At any hour, day or night, if you
care to make the request, I shall be happy to prove my words. But," he
lowered his dark lashes and then raised them again, "the real object of
my visit is concerned with more material things."

"Indeed," said Phil Abingdon, and whether because of the words of Ormuz
Khan, or because of some bond of telepathy which he had established
between them, she immediately found herself to be thinking of Paul
Harley.

"I bring you a message," he continued, "from a friend."

With eyes widely open, Phil Abingdon watch