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!"

But Kazmah preserved his uncanny repose.

"You are distracted," he said. "I am sorry for you. But why do you
come to me with your stories of desperation? You have insisted upon
seeing me. I am here."