'But―'
Narani waved a hand at the interruption and went on. 'And the greater his passion and trust— the more calamitous his ruin if the woman played her part to the end. Is it not so, Mr. Claverdon? Samson with his blind eyes points mildly the moral of what may be written in flame.'
She laughed suddenly— hard laughter which rang between the rocky walls like the ring of steel on stone— then she added: 'You are right. To Ivan Melnikoff, Rahman Ali is a tool whom he would use to his own ends; but what if another hand take the tool and turn it against him— a hand that can sway Rahman Ali as the wind does the mountain grass?'
Claverdon remembered how he had seen Rahman Ali standing by her divan in the room at Delhi, and he answered as he felt.
'If the hand were yours, I should be sorry for
