“Good God,” breathed Aldous, so low that his voice did not rise above a whisper.  “Joanne—­Ladygray—­you are not speaking of Daniel Gray—­Sir Daniel Gray, the Egyptologist, the antiquarian who uncovered the secrets of an ancient and wonderful civilization in the heart of darkest Africa?”

“Yes.”

“And you—­are his daughter?”

She bowed her head.

Like one in a dream John Aldous rose from his chair and went to her.  He seized her hands and drew her up so that they stood face to face.  Again that strange and beautiful calmness filled her eyes.

“Our trails have strangely crossed, Lady Joanne,” he said.  “They have been crossing—­for years.  While Sir Daniel was at Murja, on the eve of his great discovery, I was at St. Louis on the Senegal coast.  I slept in that little Cape Verde hotel, in the low whitewashed room overlooking the sea.  The proprietor told me that Sir Daniel had occupied it before me, and I found a broken fountain pen in the drawer of that sickly black teakwood desk, with the carved serpent’s head.  And I was at Gampola at another time, headed for the interior of Ceylon, when I learned that I was travelling again one of Sir Daniel’s trails.  And you were with him!”

“Always,” said Joanne.

For a few tense moments they had looked steadily into each other’s eyes.  Swiftly, strangely, the world was bridging itself for them.  Their minds swept back swiftly as the fire in a thunder-sky.  They were no longer strangers.  They were no longer friends of a day.  The grip of Aldous’ hands tightened.  A hundred things sprang to his lips.  Before he could speak, he saw a sudden, startled change leap into Joanne’s face.  She had turned her face a little, so that she was looking toward the window.  A frightened cry broke from her lips.  Aldous whirled about.  There was nothing there.  He looked at Joanne again.  She was white and trembling.  Her hands were clutched at her breast.  Her eyes, big and dark and staring, were still fixed on the window.

“That man!” she panted.  “His face was there—­against the glass—­like a devil’s!”

“Quade?”

“Yes.”

She caught at his arm as he sprang toward the door.

“Stop!” she cried.  “You mustn’t go out——­”

For a moment he turned at the door.  He was as she had seen him in Quade’s place, terribly cool, a strange, quiet smile on his lips.  His eyes were gray, smiling steel.

“Close the door after me and lock it until I return,” he said.  “You are the first woman guest I ever had, Ladygray.  I cannot allow you to be insulted!”

As he went out she saw him slip something from his pocket.  She caught the glitter of it in the lamp-glow.

CHAPTER VII