THE MAN WITH THE EYES
“HERE we are,” declared Larkin, with a slight smile.
Margaret Glendenning breathed a sigh of relief. She had been totally perplexed by the strange trip that she had taken with her uncle’s secretary.
The ride up in the elevator had been an unusual experience. They had traveled slowly, for many feet, up through a shaft that seemed cut in a solid pillar. Stepping out, they had passed through another dimly lighted corridor, with a black entrance at the side. Then through a small room, completely dark.
At last, down steps, which wound in a narrow spiral, where Larkin had preceded her, to show the way. Then a sliding door had opened, and they had entered a small room, papered with a grotesque design. The door had closed behind them.
They stood there, in a room that seemed to have no outlet — save that through which they had come. Then the room itself moved upward at a snail’s pace until it came to a stop.
So here they were waiting in what seemed to be a doorless box.
Larkin’s words told that the trying journey was over; but as the seconds went by, Margaret began to feel worried again.
She was sorry that she had come on this amazing visit. At first the experience had been interesting, but now it was too much so.
She had no idea where she might be. Not only had she become lost in New York; she was also totally confused in regard to the building they had entered.
She did not know whether they were below the level of the street, or above. She decided that they might be above — but how far?
She began to think of her uncle, back in the old house. Had it been right for her to leave him there, alone?
Then she half smiled at her own thoughts. At least her uncle knew where he was, while she had no idea of her location. Margaret looked at Larkin; the secretary caught her smile and returned it. That was better!
After all, Larkin knew what he was about, and she felt that she could trust him.
“Look!” said the secretary.
The side of the room was opening — half going downward, half upward. Margaret had not noticed the break in the center of the wall. The spreading portions disclosed an oak-paneled anteroom, with a door at the other end. That, the girl felt, was helpful.
She stepped forward with Larkin, and turned to watch the wall of the moving room close behind them. Larkin stood looking at the door ahead. The girl was sure now, that he had been here before. Her gaze joined with his.
The particular spot at which Larkin was staring was adorned with a peculiar carving slightly above the center of the door. It represented the solemn head of a lion, nearly half a foot in width. The mouth was opened, and the projecting tongue of oak gave the carving a realistic touch.
Margaret was fascinated. She looked at the creature’s eyes — black, hollow spots; then at the tongue; then back at the eyes again.
At that final glance she gasped in horror. The lion’s eyes were black no longer — they were human eyes, greenish eyes of a living being, staring furtively forth!
LARKIN caught the girl as she stepped back. His clutch brought her a sense of safety. Still, she could not speak. She could only point, terror-stricken at what she had seen.
Before Larkin could explain, the door moved sidewise, and Margaret saw the cause of her alarm. Ordinarily, it might have startled her, but now, in contrast to the living carving, it was a welcome relief.
A brown-skinned man was bowing obsequiously from behind the spot where the door had been. It was his eyes that Margaret had seen. They had been peering through peep-holes formed by the lion’s eyes. Margaret saw the greenish glint again, as the man stood upright.
He was a strange figure, clad in some Oriental attire, wearing a turban with a tall, straight plume. It gave the man an appearance of being much taller than he actually was. Margaret recognized that fact when he stood aside and she entered with Larkin.
They were in the most luxurious surroundings that the girl had ever seen. The room began as a narrow hall, then opened to thrice its original width. On both sides were carvings and tapestries of grotesque design.
A small fountain tinkled at the end of the wide hall. Beyond it was a shield adorned with jewels that sparkled through the falling water. The girl felt as though she had been transported to a rajah’s palace.
It was restful, there. Time passed easily. Many minutes slipped by, but the girl did not sense the fact.
The servant approached silently and bowed. First to Margaret, then to Larkin. He spoke, in a soft voice that seemed modulated to suit the surroundings.
“The master will be glad that you are here,” he said. “I go to tell him.”
He moved halfway along the hall and turned between two hanging draperies. Margaret, looking from an angle, saw a polished black slab rise as the man approached. He passed beneath it. The barrier closed. The girl turned to Larkin.
“You have been here before?” she asked.
Larkin nodded in response to the direct question.
“You did not tell me so,” the girl said reprovingly.
“I could not, Miss Margaret,” pleaded the secretary. “It would have meant too long an explanation. You will understand when you meet the man who lives here.”
“Henri Zayata?”
“Yes. I think, Miss Margaret,” the secretary said smilingly, “that you would prefer to know that I have been here — now that you have seen the place.”
“It’s uncanny,” said Margaret, in a low whisper. “It’s so frightfully uncanny — and very wonderful. I like it, Larkin. Yet it fills me with awe.”
“It has that effect,” replied Larkin, “but I think you will understand—”
He did not complete the sentence. The servant had returned. He was bowing low, indicating that the visitors should enter the gateway to the right — the barrier being wide open. Larkin turned to Margaret.
The girl walked to the doorway. She passed through it and stopped, her eyes wide with wonder.
The marvelous hallway was trivial, compared to the room which she had entered. The apartment was a marvel of Oriental splendor.
Gorgeous golden cloth adorned the walls. Priceless bits of statuary stood in abundance. Wonderful cushions lay everywhere upon the floor.
The rug beneath the girl’s feet seemed inches thick. From a brazen burner, a curling thread of incense wound upward toward the ceiling. The glory of the place was overwhelming. Margaret stood entranced.
Her gaze traveled everywhere. But at last it centered on the principal spot of the room — a divan in the farther corner. There, reclining in state, was a man of dark complexion. The divan was a sort of bed.
The man was sitting up, beneath a pile of robes. He wore an Oriental jacket that sparkled with emeralds, set upon red velvet. His head was covered with a mass of thick, black hair. His sallow cheeks were clean shaven.
THE man possessed a handsomeness of countenance that attracted the girl instantly. As his head inclined in a slight bow, Margaret lost all sense of her surroundings. She could see only the divan and its occupant.
The man held out a jeweled hand and indicated a pile of gold-covered cushions that made a chair beside him. Understanding the motion, Margaret advanced and sat beside the couch. She extended her own hand. The man received it with a friendly clasp.
“You are Henri Zayata?” questioned the girl.
“Yes.” The reply came in a smooth tone. “You are Miss Glendenning.”
“Margaret Glendenning.”
“Margaret,” replied the man with a smile.
“You are Robert Buchanan’s friend?” asked the girl, staring toward the man.
“Yes.”
Margaret’s eyes met those of Henri Zayata. The result was immediate fascination. The girl had never seen such eyes.
They were dark, yet it was impossible to determine their hue. Beneath the soft light of the room — light that came from invisible lamps — Zayata’s eyes were puzzling. Only their expression was constant, and they seemed to invite confidence. Before that gaze, Margaret Glendenning felt a sympathy and understanding that she had never before known.
“I am glad that you have come here, Margaret,” said the man in his soft tone. “I have long wished to see you. In fact, I have anticipated your visit. I want you to remember it.”
He looked across the room. Margaret, released from his fascinating stare, followed his gaze. Henri Zayata clapped his hands, and the turbaned servant advanced, bowing as he came. In his hands he held a small golden box.
He tendered it to Zayata, who, in turn, placed it in Margaret’s hands. The girl gasped as she looked at the beautiful design of the box. She realized that it was Zayata’s gift to her, and she raised her head to express her gratitude for his kindness.
“Open it!” said Zayata.
Margaret lifted the lid of the box. Her lips opened as she saw what was within. The box contained a ring, upon which was mounted an exquisite emerald — a stone of wonderful brilliance and of great value.
“Place it on your finger,” suggested Zayata.
He did not wait for the girl to act. Reaching forward, he gently removed the box from her hands and set it in her lap. He then slid the ring on the little finger of the girl’s left hand.
Margaret sighed as she saw how pitifully her diamond engagement ring contrasted with this gorgeous gift. For she was wearing the token which Robert Buchanan had given her months before — she always wore it when her uncle did not know.
“But — but” — Margaret was stammering — “I can’t accept — such a wonderful gift—”
“It is a trifle,” declared Zayata. “You have gone to a great deal of trouble paying me this visit. I want you to feel that you have been rewarded.”
THE girl made no further protest. Somehow, she seemed in a new world. It was like a dream from the “Arabian Nights” and she seemed incapable of making any effort of her own accord.
Before she knew it, she was speaking to Zayata, pouring out thoughts that she had intended not to say.
“Robert told me that you were an invalid,” was her sympathetic statement.
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.
“It is wonderful!” exclaimed the girl.
“It is yours,” said the man.
“I–I don’t understand.” Margaret was looking toward Larkin. “What does it mean—”
“You do not understand me,” said Zayata’s voice, beside her. “When I say it is yours, I mean that it belongs to you; that you are free to keep it — although, unlike the emerald ring, it cannot be carried with you. I mean that, should you need a home, you are welcome to that one!”
“But — but I have a home — ” Margaret objected.
“You intended to leave it.”
“When?”
“When Robert Buchanan was ready to provide another one.”
“Of course. But Robert is no longer here. I wonder where he has gone—”
“Robert will not return,” said Zayata sadly.
“But my uncle — ” The girl was puzzled.
“Suppose,” said Zayata softly, “that your uncle would no longer be in his home. Suppose that, if you lived in his house, you would be alone, friendless, worried, extremely unhappy—”
The girl was nodding, even though she did not understand.
“—where would you go?” came Zayata’s question.
“I do not know.”
“Would you come here, knowing that no one could harm you, knowing that you would be free from worry—”
“I–I suppose so,” the girl admitted.
“Margaret,” said Henri Zayata firmly, “when you leave here, you will go to the greatest unhappiness you have ever experienced. Sadness — difficulties — misery — all await you. You can avoid them all.”
“How?”
“By not leaving here,” Zayata answered.
“But my uncle — he would wonder about—”
“He will not wonder. You can write a note. Larkin will leave it in your room at your uncle’s house. Poor Larkin! He must go back, because he knows—”
“Larkin knows—”
“Yes!” Zayata pointed to the secretary, who was nodding solemnly. “Larkin knows the truth, and he must be there to tell. You know nothing. You can stay away.”
“I still don’t understand,” protested the girl.
“I must tell you, then, even though it will hurt you. Suppose you realized that it would be unsafe for you to live in your uncle’s home; that you would be called upon to speak against him. Suppose you knew that you could no longer trust your uncle; that you would be called upon to revile him—”
“I could not do that,” Margaret protested.
“But if you knew that all those things were threatening,” his voice persisted, “what then? Would it not be better to stay away? To disappear? To be free from scorn and misery? To be here, happy and secure?”
“Yes,” admitted Margaret.
“You would stay here, if you were convinced that all that was not only possible — but present?”
“I would,” said the girl, in a dazed voice.
“Bring the pen and ink, Larkin,” ordered Zayata.
“But I can’t write anything,” protested Margaret. “Not unless I know — know that all these awful things could really be. Tell me — tell me—”
“The truth?”
“Yes. The truth!”
HENRI ZAYATA reached forward and pressed the girl’s hands between his own. There was something in his touch that reassured Margaret, even though she dreaded what he might have to say. The end of her little world was in sight, although her understanding was vague. Here was sanctuary, while at her uncle’s home lurked what strange perils?
“The truth should never hurt,” Zayata was saying soothingly. “Never — when it is told by a real friend.”
Margaret nodded and bit her lips.
“My uncle—” she began, but went no further. Words failed her.
“Your uncle,” said Zayata softly. “Your uncle is a murderer!”
“A— a murderer?” Margaret’s voice was faltering and far away.
“Yes!” Zayata’s tone was still quiet. “A murderer. The murderer of— of Robert Buchanan!”
The girl could not even gasp. The words dazed her. She looked away and saw Larkin, standing with paper and pen. The pale-faced secretary was nodding solemnly, his face tinged with sadness.
Margaret Glendenning looked into the eyes of Henri Zayata. Even though this man had told the terrible truth, she felt that he had done it through regard for her. Those dark eyes were full of understanding. Margaret was sure that they were the eyes of a sincere friend.