He forced a smile. "Nor I. It's rather a crazy thing to do. But I know of no saner alternative.... So we had better get our license to-morrow.... And that settles it."

He turned to go; and, on her threshold, his feet caught in something on the floor and he stumbled, trying to free his feet from a roll of soft white cloth lying there on the carpet. And when he picked it up, it unrolled, and a knife fell out of the folds of cloth and struck his foot.

Still perplexed, not comprehending, he stooped to recover the knife.

Then, straightening up, he found himself looking into the colourless face of Tressa Norne.

"What's all this?" he asked--"this sheet and knife here on the floor outside your door?"

She answered with difficulty: "They have sent you your shroud, I think."

"Are not those things yours? Were they not already here in your baggage?" he demanded incredulously. Then, realising that they had not been there on the door-sill when he entered her room a few moments since, a rough chill passed over him--the icy caress of fear.

"Where did that thing come from?" he said hoarsely. "How could it get here when my door is locked and bolted? Unless there's somebody hidden here!"

Hot anger suddenly flooded him; he drew his pistol and sprang into the passageway.

"What the devil is all this!" he repeated furiously, flinging open his bedroom door and switching on the light.

He searched his room in a rage, went on and searched the dining-room, smoking-room, and kitchen, and every clothes-press and closet, always aware of Tressa's presence close behind him. And when there remained no tiniest nook or cranny in the place unsearched, he stood in the centre of the carpet glaring at the locked and bolted door.

He heard her say under her breath: "This is going to be a sleepless night. And a dangerous one." And, turning to stare at her, saw no fear in her face, only excitement.

He still held clutched in his left hand the sheet and the knife. Now he thrust these toward her.

"What's this damned foolery, anyway?" he demanded harshly. She took the knife with a slight shudder. "There is something engraved on the silver hilt," she said.

He bent over her shoulder.

"Eighur," she added calmly, "not Arabic. The Mongols had no written characters of their own."

She bent closer, studying the inscription. After a moment, still studying the Eighur characters, she rested her left hand on his shoulder--an impulsive, unstudied movement that might have meant either confidence or protection.

"Look," she said, "it is not addressed to you after all, but to a symbol--a series of numbers, 53-6-26."

"That is my designation in the Federal Service," he said, sharply.

"Oh!" she nodded slowly. "Then this is what is written in the Mongol-Yezidee dialect, traced out in Eighur characters: 'To 53-6-26! By one of the Eight Assassins the Slayer of Souls sends this shroud and this knife from Mount Alamout. Such a blade shall divide your heart.

This sheet is for your corpse.'"

After a grim silence he flung the soft white cloth on the floor.

"There's no use my pretending I'm not surprised and worried," he said; "I don't know how that cloth got here. Do you?"

"It was sent."

"How?"

She shook her head and gave him a grave, confused look.

"There are ways. You could not understand.... This is going to be a sleepless night for us."

"You can go to bed, Tressa. I'll sit up and read and keep an eye on that door."

"I can't let you remain alone here. I'm afraid to do that."

He gave a laugh, not quite pleasant, as he suddenly comprehended that the girl now considered their _roles_ to be reversed.

"Are _you_ planning to sit up in order to protect _me_?" he asked, grimly amused.

"Do you mind?"

"Why, you blessed little thing, I can take care of myself. How funny of you, when I am trying to plan how best to look out for _you_!"

But her face remained pale and concerned, and she rested her left hand more firmly on his shoulder.

"I wish to remain awake with you," she said. "Because I myself don't fully understand this"--she looked at the knife in her palm, then down at the shroud. "It is going to be a strange night for us," she sighed.

"Let us sit together here on the lounge where I can face _that bolted door_. And if you are willing, I am going to turn out the lights----"

She suddenly bent forward and switched them off--"because I must keep my mind on guard."

"Why do you do that?" he asked, "you can't see the door, now."

"Let me help you in my own way," she whispered. "I--I am very deeply disturbed, and very, very angry. I do not understand this new menace.

Yezidee that I am, I do not understand what kind of danger threatens you through your loyalty to me."

She drew him forward, and he opened his mouth to remonstrate, to laugh; but as he turned, his foot touched the shroud, and an uncontrollable shiver passed over him.

They went close together, across the dim room to the lounge, and seated themselves. Enough light from Madison Avenue made objects in the room barely discernible.

Sounds from the street below became rarer as the hours wore away. The iron jar of trams, the rattle of vehicles, the harsh warning of taxicabs broke the stillness at longer and longer intervals, until, save only for that immense and ceaseless vibration of the monstrous iron city under the foggy stars, scarcely a sound stirred the silence.

The half-hour had struck long ago on the bell of the little clock. Now the clear bell sounded three times.

Cleves stirred on the lounge beside Tressa. Again and again he had thought that she was asleep for her head had fallen back against the cushions, and she lay very still. But always, when he leaned nearer to peer down at her, he saw her eyes open, and fixed intently upon the bolted door.

His pistol, which still rested on his knee, was pointed across the room, toward the door. Once he reminded her in a whisper that she was unarmed and that it might be as well for her to go and get her pistol. But she murmured that she was sufficiently equipped; and, in spite of himself, he shivered as he glanced down at her frail and empty hands.

It was some time between three and half-past, he judged, when a sudden movement of the girl brought him upright on his seat, quivering with excitement.

"Mr. Cleves!"

"Yes?"

"The Sorcerers!"

"Where? Outside the door?"

"Oh, my God," she murmured, "_they are after my mind again_! Their fingers are groping to seize my brain and get possession of it!"