“Why do you look at me so?” she said, almost in a whisper.  “By what right do you reproach me?—­Have you ever offered me friendship, that I should repay you with friendship?  When first you came to the house where I was, by the river—­came to save some one from” (there was the familiar hesitation which always preceded the name of Fu-Manchu) “from—­him, you treated me as your enemy, although—­I would have been your friend . . .”

There was appeal in the soft voice, but I laughed mockingly, and threw myself back upon the divan.

Karamaneh stretched out her hands toward me, and I shall never forget the expression which flashed into those glorious eyes; but, seeing me intolerant of her appeal, she drew back and quickly turned her head aside.  Even in this hour of extremity, of impotent wrath, I could find no contempt in my heart for her feeble hypocrisy; with all the old wonder I watched that exquisite profile, and Karamaneh’s very deceitfulness was a salve—­for had she not cared she would not have attempted it!

Suddenly she stood up, taking the keys in her hands, and approached me.

“Not by word, nor by look,” she said, quietly, “have you asked for my friendship, but because I cannot bear you to think of me as you do, I will prove that I am not the hypocrite and the liar you think me.  You will not trust me, but I will trust you.”

I looked up into her eyes, and knew a pagan joy when they faltered before my searching gaze.  She threw herself upon her knees beside me, and the faint exquisite perfume inseparable from my memories of her, became perceptible, and seemed as of old to intoxicate me.  The lock clicked . . . and I was free.

Karamaneh rose swiftly to her feet as I stood upright and outstretched my cramped arms.  For one delirious moment her bewitching face was close to mine, and the dictates of madness almost ruled; but I clenched my teeth and turned sharply aside.  I could not trust myself to speak.

With Fu-Manchu’s marmoset again gamboling before us, she walked through the curtained doorway into the room beyond.  It was in darkness, but I could see the slave-girl in front of me, a slim silhouette, as she walked to a screened window, and, opening the screen in the manner of a folding door, also threw up the window.

“Look!” she whispered.

I crept forward and stood beside her.  I found myself looking down into Museum Street from a first-floor window!  Belated traffic still passed along New Oxford Street on the left, but not a solitary figure was visible to the right, as far as I could see, and that was nearly to the railings of the Museum.  Immediately opposite, in one of the flats which I had noticed earlier in the evening, another window was opened.  I turned, and in the reflected light saw that Karamaneh held a cord in her hand.  Our eyes met in the semi-darkness.