dusty expanse of the skylight, and chairs with the somber hats and
coats of men and women's wraps like the glistening shed skins of
brilliant snakes.

They turned through the hall to an interior more remarkable than
anything Linda could have imagined; it seemed to her very high,
without windows and peaked like a tent. Draperies of intricate
Eastern color hung in long folds. There were no chairs, but low
broad divans about the walls, a thick carpet with inlaid stands in
the center laden with boxes of cigarettes, sugared exotic sweets and
smoking incense. It was so dim and full of thick scent, the shut
effect was so complete, that for a moment Linda felt painfully
oppressed; it seemed impossible to breathe in the wavering bluish
atmosphere.

Markue, who had appeared sufficiently familiar outside, now had a
strange portentous air; the gleams of his quick black eyes, the dusky
tone of his cheeks, his impassive grace, startled her. New York was
utterly removed: the taxi that had brought Judith and her, the
swirling traffic of Columbus Circle and smooth undulations of Fifth
Avenue, were lost with a different life. She saw, however, the open
door to another room full of clear light, and her self-possession
rapidly returned. Judith--as she had threatened--at once deserted
her; and Linda found an inconspicuous corner of a divan.

There were, perhaps, twenty people in the two rooms, and each one
engaged her attention. A coffee-colored woman was sitting beyond
her, clad in loose red draperies to which were sewed shining
patterns of what she thought was gold. Markue was introducing
Judith, and the seated figure smiled pleasantly with a flash of