or any explanation so long as it brings you
here, Miss Vanrenen," he said.

Cynthia wanted to laugh. It was sufficiently ridiculous to be
compelled, as it were, to treat a paid servant as an equal, but it
savored of madness to find him verging on the perilous borderland of a
flirtation.

"Do you wish, then, to consult me on any matter?" she asked, with
American directness.

"I was standing here and thinking of you," he said. "Perhaps that
accounts for your appearance. Since you have visited India you may
have heard that the higher Buddhists, when they are anxious that
another person shall act according to their desire, remain motionless
in front of that person's residence and concentrate ardent thought on
their fixed intent.... Sitting in _dhurma_ on a man, they call it. I
suppose the same principle applies to a woman."

"It follows that you are a higher Buddhist, and that you willed I
should come out. Your theory of sitting on the door-mat, is it?
wobbles a bit in practice, because I really ran downstairs to tell
Mrs. Devar something I had forgotten previously. Not finding her, I
decided on a stroll. Instead of crossing the road I walked up to the
left a couple of blocks. Then I noticed the pier, and meant to have a
look at it before returning to the hotel. Anyhow, you wanted me, Mr.
Fitzroy, and here I am. What can I do for you?"

Her tone of light raillery, supplemented by that truly daring
adaptation of the method of gaining a cause favored by the esoteric
philosophy of the East, went far to restore Medenham's wandering
faculties.

"I wanted to ask you a few questions, Miss Vanrenen," he explained.

"Pray do, as they say in Boston."

But he was not quite himself yet. He noticed that the lights were
extinguished in the corner of the second floor.

"Is that your room?" he asked, pointing to it.

"Yes."

Her air of blank amazement supplied a further tonic.

"Queer thing!" he said. "I thought so. More of the occult, I suppose.
But I really wished to speak to you about Mrs. Devar."

Cynthia was obviously relieved.

"Dear me!" she cried. "You two have taken a violent dislike to each
other. You see, Mr. Fitzroy, we Americans are rather pleased than
otherwise if a man acts and speaks like a gentleman even though he has
to earn a living by hustling an automobile, but your sure-enough
British dames exact a kind of servility from a chauffeur that doesn't
seem to fit in with your make-up. Servility is a hard