soft effeminate exterior lay a masterful spirit—a spirit which had known few obstacles. The world of womanhood could have produced no more difficult subject than Phil Abingdon. Yet she realized, and became conscious of a sense of helplessness, that under certain conditions she would be as a child in the hands of this Persian mystic, whose weird eyes appeared to be watching not her body, nor even her mind, but her soul, whose voice touched unfamiliar chords within her—chords which had never responded to any other human voice.
It was thrilling, vaguely pleasurable, but deep terror underlay it.
"Your Excellency almost frightens me," she whispered. "Yet I do not doubt that you speak of what you know."
"It is so," he returned, gravely. "At any hour, day or night, if you care to make the request, I shall be happy to prove my words. But," he lowered his dark lashes and then raised them again, "the real object of my visit is concerned with more material things."
"Indeed," said Phil Abingdon, and whether because of the words of Ormûz Khân, or because of some bond of telepathy which he had established between them, she immediately found herself to be thinking of Paul Harley.
"I bring you a message," he continued, "from a friend."
