Safiyeh was peeping round from behind the screen, her face a
brown mask of terror. Hassan, holding his drum, appeared behind
her, staring stupidly. To the smell of cigar smoke and perfume a
new and acrid odour was added.
Vaguely the truth was stealing in upon the mind of the dancing-
girl that she had been made party to a plot to murder Grantham.
She had saved his life. He belonged to her now. She could hear
him speaking, although for some reason she could not see him. A
haze had come, blotting out everything but the still, ungainly
figure which lay so near her upon the carpet, one clutching, fat
hand, upon which a diamond glittered, outstretched so that it
nearly touched her bare white feet.
"We must get out this way! The side door to the courtyard! None
of us can afford to be mixed up in an affair of this sort."
There was more confused movement and a buzz of excited voices--
meaningless, chaotic. Zahara could feel the draught from the
newly opened door. A thin stream of blood was stealing across
the carpet. It had almost reached the fallen rose petals, which
it strangely resembled in colour under the light of the lanterns.
As though dispersed by the draught, the haze lifted, and Zahara
saw Grantham standing by the open doorway through which he had
ushered out the other visitors.
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