The old life was over.  It had died for her when she passed through the dark doorway and met that arrogant, sardonic, fatuous man, the master of this palace....

Or more truly that old life had died for her when she had flung a black mantle about her chiffon frock and a street veil across her sparkling face and had stolen, daring and breathless, into the lights and revelry of that hotel masquerade.  There, when she had shrunk back from the Harlequin and had looked up to meet the kindling glance of that mask in tartans—­yes, there, the old life had died for her forever if only she had known it.

And now—­she would only like to die, too, she thought miserably, after she had been assured of Ryder’s safety.  She was tense with fear for him, distrusting in every fiber the assurance of that fanatic, outraged Turk.

She was not utterly resourceless.  When Ryder’s revolver had dropped to the floor she had maneuvered, unseen by Hamdi Bey, to get her train over it, and when she had stooped for her train her one free hand had closed over the revolver handle beneath the satin and lace.

Now the revolver lay on the divan, and very eagerly she drew it out, feeling it in the darkness, curling her finger about the trigger.  Never in her life had she fired a shot, for her most formidable weapon had been the bows and arrows of the Children’s Archery Contest of the English Club, but she felt in herself now that highstrung tensity which at all cost would carry her on.

Carefully she bestowed the small, steel thing in the bosom of her dress, then she stared questioningly at the dress itself, hastily unpinning the veil, and tying the long train up to her girdle.  Then, with a wary glance for the closed door behind which waited that Fatima she dreaded, she stole to the door the general had shut and pressed it softly ajar, peering out into the deserted throne room.

Like a great cave of darkness the room stretched before her, peopled with goblin shadows from the dying candles upon the disordered, abandoned table; she saw the chair pushed back where she had risen to struggle with the bey, the long folds of white cloth, sweeping the floor, behind which Hamdi had rolled so agilely; a stain was still spreading about an upset glass, and from the overturned cooler the ice water was dripping, dripping with a steady, sinister implication.

She thought of flight....  There was another black, the general had warned her, beyond the door, and there would be bars and bolts on any egress from the harem, but with the revolver in her possession some desperate escape might be achieved.

But Ryder....  No, the gun was for another purpose....  She would not squander it yet upon herself....

From the boudoir she moved slowly, carrying one of the gilt candelabra from the table to light the room.  She would need light for her plan....

For ages, long, unending ages, she sat there, waiting....  A hundred times it seemed to her that she could stand no more, that she must make her way out at all costs, must discover what fate they were dealing to Ryder, but still she forced herself to sit there, her pulses racing, her heart sick with suspense, but desperately waiting....