Going behind the
carven screen he rapped upon the door of Zahara's room, and she
directed him to come in. To Zahara, Hassan was no more than a
piece of furniture, and she thought as little of his intruding
while she was in the midst of her toilet as another woman would
have thought of the entrance of a maid.
"Two men," reported Hassan, "who won't go away until they see
somebody."
"Whom do they want to see?" she inquired indifferently, adjusting
the line of her eyebrow with an artistically pointed pencil.
"They say whoever belongs here."
Zahara invariably spoke either French or English to natives, and
if Hassan had addressed her in Arabic she would not have replied,
although she spoke that language better than she spoke any other.
"What are they like? Not--police?"
"Foreign," replied Hassan vaguely.
"English--American?"
"No, not American or English. Very black hair, dark skin."
Zahara, a student of men, became aware of a mild interest. These
swarthy visitors should prove an agreeable antidote to the
poisonous calm of Harry Grantham. She was trying with all the
strength of her strange, stifled soul not to think of Grantham,
and she was incapable of recognizing the fact that she could
think of nothing else and had thought of little else for a long
time past.
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