The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. But oh, how weary I am! I know. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. He whispered in her ear. "Better than your company, Saint Giles," replied Sheppard; "so, shut the door, and make yourself scarce. It's a sorry world," he went on.
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