The minutes passed by in unbroken silence.  So still was the room that Mrs. Irvin could hear the faint crackling sound made by the burning charcoal in the brass vessel near her.  Wisps of blue-grey smoke arose through the perforated lid and she began to watch them fascinatedly, so lithe they seemed, like wraiths of serpents creeping up the green draperies.

So she was seated, her foot still restlessly tapping, but her gaze arrested by the hypnotic movements of the smoke, when at last a sound from the outer world, penetrated to the room.  A church clock struck the hour of seven, its clangor intruding upon the silence only as a muffled boom.  Almost coincident with the last stroke came the sweeter note of a silver gong from somewhere close at hand.

Mrs. Irvin started, and her eyes turned instantly in the direction of the greenly draped wall before her.  Her pupils had grown suddenly dilated, and she clenched her hands tightly.

The light above her head went out.

Now that the moment was come to which she had looked forward with mingled hope and terror, long pent-up emotion threatened to overcome her, and she trembled wildly.

Out of the darkness dawned a vague light and in it a shape seemed to take form.  As the light increased the effect was as though part of the wall had become transparent so as to reveal the interior of an inner room where a figure was seated in a massive ebony chair.  The figure was that of an oriental, richly robed and wearing a white turban.  His long slim hands, of the color of old ivory, rested upon the arms of the chair, and on the first finger of the right hand gleamed a big talismanic ring.  The face of the seated man was lowered, but from under heavy brows his abnormally large eyes regarded her fixedly.

So dim the light remained that it was impossible to discern the details with anything like clearness, but that the clean-shaven face of the man with those wonderful eyes was strikingly and intellectually handsome there could be no doubt.

This was Kazmah, “the dream reader,” and although Mrs. Irvin had seen him before, his statuesque repose and the weirdness of his unfaltering gaze thrilled her uncannily.

Kazmah slightly raised his hand in greeting:  the big ring glittered in the subdued light.

“Tell me your dream,” came a curious mocking voice; “and I will read its portent.”

Such was the set formula with which Kazmah opened all interviews.  He spoke with a slight and not unmusical accent.  He lowered his hand again.  The gaze of those brilliant eyes remained fixed upon the woman’s face.  Moistening her lips, Mrs. Irvin spoke.

“Dreams!  What I have to say does not belong to dreams, but to reality!” She laughed unmirthfully.  “You know well enough why I am here.”

She paused.

“Why are you here?”

“You know!  You know!” Suddenly into her voice had come the unmistakable note of hysteria.  “Your theatrical tricks do not impress me.  I know what you are!  A spy—­an eavesdropper who watches—­watches, and listens!  But you may go too far!  I am nearly desperate—­do you understand?—­nearly desperate.  Speak!  Move!  Answer me!”