By nature, Luke Soames had hair
of a sandy color; now it was of so dark a brown as to seem black in the
lamplight. His thin eyebrows and scanty lashes were naturally almost
colorless; but they were become those of a pronounced brunette. He was
of pale complexion, but to-night had the face of a mulatto, or of one
long in tropical regions. In short, he was another man--a man whom he
detested at first sight!
This was the price, or perhaps only part of the price, of his
indiscretion. Mr. Soames was become Mr. Lucas. Clutching the top of
the chest-of-drawers with both hands, he glared at his own reflection,
dazedly.
In that pose, he was interrupted. Said, silently opening the door behind
him, muttered:
"Ta'ala wayyaya!"
Soames whirled around in a sudden panic, his heart leaping madly. The
immobile brown face peered in at the door.
"Ta'ala wayyaya!" repeated Said, his face expressionless as a mask. He
pointed along the corridor. "Ho-Pin Effendi!" he explained.
Soames, raising his hands to his collarless neck, made a swallowing
noise, and would have spoken; but:
"Ta'ala wayyaya!" reiterated the Oriental.
Soames hesitated no more. Reentering the corridor, with its
straw-matting walls, he made a curious discovery. Away to the left it
terminated in a blank, matting-covered wall.
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