THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
hall with her unnerved him for a moment. She led him into the library and, as his glance turned to the Japanese silk tapestries, he felt a shameful warmth in his cheeks.
"Just a moment," she said. "I'll go and bring the coffee myself"; and she flew from the room.
He did not sit down, but wandered about. The old home! There was his beloved copy of Tom Sawyer. He pulled it from the shelf and thumbed it reverently. Was ever man born of woman thrust into such a situation before? And he could not tell her! He sensed the kindly shades of his father and mother beside him.
The old Bokhara—how many times had he lain sprawled upon it, a book between his elbows! His eyes blurred. He would drink the coffee and excuse himself. He wasn't sure of that lump in his throat. The wrath against Bordman returned headily. The cringing old scoundrel, to have dug this labyrinth!
A line from Bordman's letter came back, a line he had underscored: "You were to me a cipher drawn on a blackboard; some-
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