his path. "Come in," invited a woman's voice in Spanish, the
inflection distinctly that of old Mexico. In he went.

Before him stood an old woman, her face a tangle of deep wrinkles, her
hair spotted with white, her eyes small and black and keen. He looked
at her in surprise. Somehow he had counted on finding Zoraida
Castelmar young; just why he was not certain. But the surprise was an
emotion of no duration, since a hotter emotion overrode it and crowded
it out.

"Look here," he began angrily, his hand lifted, the bills tight
clenched.

But she interrupted.

"You are Senor Kendric, _no_? She awaits you. There."

She indicated still another door and would have gone to open it for
him. But he brushed by her and threw it back himself and crossed the
threshold impatiently. And again his emotion surging uppermost briefly
was one of surprise. The room was empty; it was the unexpected and
incongruous trappings which astonished him. On all hands the walls,
from ceiling to floor, were hidden by rich silken curtains, hanging in
deep purple folds, displaying a profusion of bright hued woven
patterns, both splendid and barbaric. The floor was carpeted by a soft
thick rug, as brilliant as the wall drapes. The two chairs were hidden
under similar drapes, the small square table covered by a mantle of
deep blue and gold which fell to the floor. Beyond all of this the
solitary bit of furnishing was the object on the table whose oddity
caught and held his eye; a thin column of crystal like a ten-inch
needle, based in a red disc and supporting a hollow cap, the size of an
acorn cup, in which was a single stone or bead of glass, he knew not
which. He only knew that the thing was alive with the fire in it and
blazed red, and he fancied it was a ruby.

He glanced hurriedly about the room, making sure that it was empty.
Again his eyes came back to the glowing jewel supported by the thin
crystal stem. Now he was conscious of a sweet heavy perfume filling
the room, a fragrance new to him and subtly exotic. Everything about
him was fantastic, extravagant, absurd, he told himself bluntly, as was
everything connected with an absurd woman who did mad things. He
looked at the bank notes in his hand. What more insane act than to
send an amount of money of this size to a stranger?

The familiarly disturbing feeling that eyes, her eyes, were upon him,
came again. He turned short about. She stood just across the room,
her