The House of the Falcon
listened intently, almost avidly, interrupting frequently. When she had finished, he lay back with closed eyes, thinking.
Edith waited, idly trying to draw the scarf about her shoulders so as to cover the rents in the worn waist. It was a torment to the girl that she had nothing to change to; because she had not wanted to ask for native garments—had not thought of it, in fact, during her care of Donovan.
"Oh, for a needle and thread," she sighed.
"There should be a sewing kit, in my box. Look and see."
Readily, the girl obeyed. Womanlike, she craved the means of sewing. Likewise, investigation of the box was not without its inducements in satisfying curiosity.
Various articles of corduroy clothing were on the top of the box. Then a rusted telescope appeared, the book of poems—Shelley. Edith was a trifle surprised at this. She had not connected such reading with the stern personality of the sick man of Yakka Arik.
Followed a worn notebook, a bag of native money, a complete shaving and toilet set in a handsome leather case, and then the housewife. This Edith appropriated gratefully. She would have liked, however, to go to the bottom of the box.
"Was Iskander followed from Srinagar, Miss Rand?"
The sudden question startled her. "Why—no. I don't think so. Certainly my father and the major could not have known of my—trip." Tactfully she refrained from the use of a harsher word.
"Yet you did not get off without a fight." Seeing
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