At that, since there was neither bell nor knocker, he raised his fist
and banged loudly.

No one responded to the summons.

"Hi, there!" he shouted. "Open the door! Pyne! Rita!"

Again he banged--and yet again. Then he paused, listening, his ear
pressed to the panel.

He could detect no sound of movement within. Fists clenched, he stood
staring at the closed door, and his fresh color slowly deserted him
and left him pale.

"Damn him!" he muttered savagely. "Damn him! he has fooled me!"

Passionate and self-willed, he was shaken by a storm of murderous
anger. That Pyne had planned this trick, with Rita Irvin's consent, he
did not doubt, and his passive dislike of the man became active hatred
of the woman he dared not think. He had for long looked upon Sir
Lucien in the light of a rival, and the irregularity of his own
infatuation for another's wife in no degree lessened his resentment.

Again he pressed his ear to the door, and listened intently. Perhaps
they were hiding within. Perhaps this charlatan, Kazmah, was an
accomplice in the pay of Sir Lucien. Perhaps this was a secret place
of rendezvous.

To the manifest absurdity of such a conjecture he was blind in his
anger. But that he was helpless, befooled, he recognized; and with a