The Shadow 012 The Crime Cult by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant [Grant, Maxwell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1932-06-30T22:00:00+00:00

Zayata nodded solemnly; then smiled. “My arms and hands”—he outstretched them as he spoke—”are well. But I am virtually helpless, otherwise.”

“It is too bad,” commented the girl sadly.

“Too bad?” questioned Zayata. “Not at all—when I can forget. Forget—as I am forgetting now. How could one think of troubles with you in view?”

The girl smiled. There was a sincerity in Zayata’s tone that enabled her to accept his comments without objection.

The exotic atmosphere of this amazing room seemed to have enveloped her. All was new and wonderful even to the odd fragrance of the incense.

Time passed. Margaret found herself talking of many things—of her worries during the past months; of the hopes that she had lost.

The dreary appointments of her uncle’s home seemed miserable. This place was heaven in comparison.

She said so, and Henri Zayata smiled.

The girl had no idea how long she had remained. At times she was conscious of Larkin’s presence. The secretary had seated himself at the foot of the couch. But on other occasions, he was gone—she did not know where, and she did not care.

Coming here had seemed an ordeal. Leaving seemed impossible. At length, she noticed Larkin returning.

The fact that brought it to her attention was Henri Zayata’s gaze. The man on the divan was looking toward Larkin. Margaret saw the secretary nod slowly.

“Margaret”—it was Zayata speaking—”I am glad that you have talked to me tonight. You have been unhappy. So have I. In that, we understand one another.”

“Your trials must have been greater than mine,” Margaret sympathized.

“No. For mine have passed; while yours are yet to come. I have always had a home—and wealth.”

“I have had a home and comfort,” the girl said slowly.

“You have had a home,” corrected Zayata. “But there are reasons why you should not return to it.”

He clapped his hands, and the servant came forward.

“This is Chandra,” declared Zayata. “He is a Burmese. He will obey your commands as he obeys mine.

Chandra—open the door of the guest suite!”

Bowing, Chandra advanced to the wall. He pressed an unseen lever. A space opened, and Margaret found herself viewing a miniature apartment every bit as wonderful as the room in which she was sitting.

She arose and went to the entrance. She looked in admiration at the luxurious, comfortable furnishings the beautiful divan, the ornate decorations.

HENRI ZAYATA was speaking. The girl returned to the cushioned seat. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the door of the suite was still open.

“Do you like it?” questioned Zayata.

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