eard a rumor concerning Ruiz Rios, long ago, half
forgotten. Certain wild deeds laid to the Mexican's door had brought
forth the insinuation that he was a little mad. Zoraida had claimed
kinship with him.

At any rate, to Kendric's matter-of-fact way of thinking, here was
further clap-trap that might well have been the result of a mad mind
working extravagantly. The room was empty. All four walls, from
ceiling to floor, were draped in gorgeously rich hangings, oriental
silks, he imagined, deep purples and yellows and greens and reds
cunningly arranged so that their glowing colors and the ornamental
designs worked upon them made no discordant clash of color. The
chamber in which he had met Zoraida at the hotel was mild hued,
colorless compared to this one. There were no chairs but a couch
against each wall, each a bright spot with its high heaped cushions.
In the middle of the room was a small square ebony stand; upon it,
glowing like red fire upon its frail crystal stem, the familiar stone.

He had stepped a couple of paces into the room, his boots sinking
without sound into the deep carpet. In no mood for a girl's whims, mad
or sane, he waited, impatient and irritated. He regretted having come;
he should have sat tight in the _patio_ and let her come to him. No
doubt she was spying on him now from behind the hangings somewhere.
There was no comfort in the thought, no joy in imagining that while he
stood forth in the clear light of the hanging lamps she and her maidens
and attendants might all be watching him. He vastly preferred solid
walls and thick doors to silken drapes.

While he waited, two distinct impressions slowly forced themselves upon
him. One was that of a faint perfume, coming from whence he had no way
of knowing, the unforgettable, almost sickeningly sweet fragrance he
remembered. One instant he was hardly conscious of it, it was but a
suspicion of a fragrance. And then it filled the room, strongly sweet,
strangely pleasant, a near opiate in its soothing effect.

The other impression was no true sensation in that it was registered by
none of the five senses; a true sensation only if in truth there is in
man a subtle sixth sense, uncatalogued but vital. It was the old
uncanny certainty that at last eyes, the eyes of none other than
Zoraida Castelmar, were bent searchingly on him. So strong was the
feeling on him that he turned about and fixed his own eyes on a
particular corner where the