# The Cheat (Holman)/Chapter 19

Prince Rao-Singh was looking forward with tense expectancy to Carmelita's coming. When it came to be after seven o'clock and he had heard no word of her, he had telephoned. Her answer to his question, while a little puzzling, was reassuring. Probably there had been a servant near at the time, and her seemingly irrelevant answer about Lucy's illness was thus explained. It did not occur to him that Carmelita's husband might be in Hedgewood. Her answer had certainly meant that she was coming to him. He had feared for a time that she would go back on her bargain but now he was sure his fears had been groundless. Perhaps she even cared for him a little.
He had believed, long ago, it seemed, in Paris that he could make her love him. His wealth and social position must appeal to her, he reasoned at the time. She was used to every luxury, was the daughter of a millionaire, and was going back to South America to marry a man whom she did not love and who was not as rich, from all reports, as he. Why should she not accept him, Prince Rao-Singh, ​as a substitute? He had money, he was rather handsome and distinguished, at least other women had been eager to tell him so, and he had an authentic title, something most foreign ladies in Paris rated quite highly.
But then she had married this Drake, a pauper, a nobody. A mere girlish whim, he had always believed. Drake had happened to be with her at a time her spirits were at a low ebb at the thought of going back to marry an ancient husband. She had been carried away by a sweep of emotions to do a foolish thing. Dudley had just been fortunate in being present to bring off the prize, that was all. He himself could have achieved the same result had he been there at the Garde du Nord alone with her, Rao-Singh was sure. Moreover, he was certain she had repented of her bargain long since. She had rebuked Dudley for the scene he made at the Fête when he, Rao-Singh, had kissed her and she had not seemed to mind his impetuous and hardly impersonal action very much. She had been leading a life out here on Long Island that her husband obviously didn't approve, flaunting Dudley at every turn. And she did not dare tell her husband of her present disastrous financial situation, and Dudley could not help her if she did.
Rao-Singh had consciously, and Lucy Hodge ​had because it was her nature and philosophy, carried on a campaign all summer to make Carmelita dissatisfied with her marriage. Now it appeared that the campaign was about to bear fruit. He had not the slightest compunction in driving the bargain with Carmelita that was bringing her to this clandestine dinner with him. Ever since he had met her he had wanted her, and he meant to have her, fair means or foul. He had simply taken advantage of a situation that played right into his hands. She needed five thousand dollars desperately, but no more desperately than he desired her. She had made the bargain with open eyes, if tearful ones, and she knew what to expect.
The vain man of Rao-Singh's type likes to believe that a woman's sole motive in obeying his wishes is love. It is soothing to the vanity. And so Rao-Singh, though he was ayvare of the dire necessity that had impelled Carmelita to make a rash promise she did not understand fully, was seeking to persuade himself that she was really coming to him because she loved him.
Rao-Singh had spared no pains to make the dinner an attractive one. He stood in the doorway leading from his study, which was located in a little wing of the house apart from the rest, into the dining-room and surveyed the ​scene with the satisfaction of an epicure. His major-domo, Dhinn, was putting the finishing touches upon the small table with its glistening white linen and shining silver. Fresh flowers gave off their fragrance from the center of the table and a candle in an odd Oriental holder and shade gave a soft, mellow light at each end. The rest of the room was dark. Rao-Singh had brought several trunkfuls of his native household decorations with him to America, and he had sought to reproduce as nearly as possible in his Long Island home the atmosphere of India. He succeeded very well. Soft Oriental rugs covered the floors. From the shadowy walls gleamed dully a bronze Buddha, the ivory tusks of an elephant, rare tapestries. It was a room to delight the eye of a collector but hardly a room to reassure the heart of a married woman who has come to dine secretly with its owner.
Rao-Singh was attired in evening clothes and save for the white turban which he wore around his head and his beady black eyes, he might have been taken for an unusually large American society man of thirty-five whose's kin has been burned swarthy by the summer sun. He had made a trip to New York a few days previous for the express purpose of purchasing a gorgeous diamond pendant for an outrageous price from one of the exclusive ​Fifth Avenue shops, having heard through his agents that the jewel had just arrived in this country. He was a collector of rarities like that. The pendant lay in its case on the study table. There was a feminine rarity upon whom he planned to bestow it as a pres ent. For Rao-Singh was a collector of beautiful women also.
"You understand my instructions perfectly," he said in a sharp, low voice in Indian dialect to the servant at the table. "When the lady arrives, we are not to be disturbed under any circumstances. You will serve the dinner yourself, and the other servants will remain out of the room entirely."
Dhinn bowed and, satisfied, Rao-Singh went back to his study. In a box with an intricately carved cover the diamond pendant rested upon the big flat-topped desk in the middle of the room. This room was Rao-Singh's private sanctum. It fairly breathed of India. There was only one door, leading to the dining-room, and the only other possible exit was through the long, narrow curtained French windows from which it would be a slight drop to the lawn outside. Rao-Singh kept these closed at all times, and the curtains, despite the fact that it was summer, were of heavy fabric.
Rao-Singh sat down in front of the desk and drew toward him a circular metal container ​which he always kept there. From the drawer of the desk he procured a wooden box containing agreen powder. Carefully tapping one of the powders into the bowl, he next picked up the tiger's head seal, which both Carmelita and Dudley had noticed and wondered about at different times. Applying a match to the powder in the bowl, he waited until it had flared up and then settled to a steady flame before he thrust the seal into it. He waited until the seal was red hot and then pressed it down tightly upon the jewel box. There was the pungent smell of burning wood. When Rao-Singh lifted the seal, the box bore, like his other possessions, the mark of the snarling Bengal tiger, his personal crest.
Hardly had he completed this task when Dhinn appeared noiselessly on the threshold of the study, for it was a region he had been forbidden ever to invade, and announced that the lady had arrived.
Rao-Singh rose and walked from the study, closing the door carefully after him, through the dining-room and into the living-room where Carmelita stood nervously very near the outer door as if anxious to get her business over and be gone, as indeed she was. He wondered why she had worn no wrap or hat, just the light evening gown that exposed her shoulders and neck and a segment of her white ​bosom without protection to the cool night air.
"Ah, you have arrived," he observed, taking her hand and kissing it ceremoniously. "I had begun to fear that you had forgotten our engagement."
"No, I have not forgotten," she said hurriedly. "But—" She was fumbling in the bosom of her dress and drew out the crumpled check. "I find unexpectedly that I am able to pay you what I owe you at once. I have brought a check." She tried to hand it to him but he pretended not to understand. "I appreciate your kindness in lending the money to me very much, Rao. I shall always be grateful to you and I am glad I am able to pay you back so quickly. Won't you take it and let me say good-night? I am sorry I cannot have dinner with you. But—my husband has come—and I must go back to him at once. Please understand." She was becoming rather frightened at the cold, uncomprehending manner he was looking at her.
Still making no move to accept the money, he said calmly, "I think I might understand better if you would come into my study and explain to me there. There is danger of interruption here."
She tried at once to protest. But he insisted, and she thought it was better and quicker to let him have his own way. Besides, ​he was right; since he would not take her check and let her go at once, it was better to discuss the matter in greater privacy. It did not occur to her that she was in any danger.
He stood aside at the study door and allowed her to enter. Then he followed and, pausing at the door, shut it, turned the key in the lock, and deliberately dropped the key into his pocket. Standing near the desk she suffered a shock of surprise at this action and stared at him wide-eyed. It looked like a trap, and she had walked into it as innocently as a baby.
He faced her, a cruel look in his narrow, beady eyes, and his voice was scornful. "I don't want your money. I made a bargain with you, you remember. You were to come here and dine with me alone. 'I will do anything if you will lend me five thousand dollars,' you said. I lent it to you. I kept my part of the bargain. Now I expect you to keep yours."
She retreated quickly until the length of the desk was between them. She was thoroughly frightened now, looking around a little wildly for a means of exit. The French windows seemed to be locked also. "I—don't—understand," she said breathlessly.
"There is a certain type of woman, usually very beautiful, seductive, and young, who believes in picking the choicest treasures out of ​life's shop window and never paying. She drinks the froth of the cup and always leaves the dregs. She plays with fire but she believes, like the salamander, that she will not be burned. Men are her natural prey. She takes everything from them—their hearts, their money—but she gives nothing in return.
"You are a woman of the world, Carmelita, and I think you o understand why I invited you here. I am not in the habit of lending five thousand dollar sums without security and getting nothing whatever in return." All the time he was approaching more closely to her. It would do no good to cry out, Carmelita decided. No one would hear but his servants and he ruled them like a czar. What a wretched turn things had taken.
"But you are a gentleman, Rao, and—"
"Don't talk like a fool, my innocent one. Is this the way a married woman makes excuses to the man to whom she has stolen away from home for a secret rendezvous, not even taking time to put on her hat or cloak? What is the use of pretending? You made your bargain voluntarily and you have come here of your own free will. You could have stayed away. Should you have done so, I would have made you pay—some time, but you could have ascaped coming to-night if you wished to. But ​you didn't. You came. You must know why I asked you, Carmelita, why—"
"No. No. I came because I wished to repay the loan with this check. Please, please take it—and let me go."
He deliberately folded his hands behind his back and looked at her with steely eyes that chilled her heart.
Then he dropped entirely the mask that had concealed his true feelings toward her for so many months. She was the one woman in the world he desired—a quivering creature of intoxicating loveliness helpless here before him. His cheeks were flushed, his dark eyes shining. Suddenly he had come to her with two strides and had taken her fiercely in his cruel arms and was crushing her to him. With all her strength she could not force him away.
"Carmelita, I have always loved you—you must know it," he breathed, his mouth very close to hers. "From those first days in Paris I have desired you more than anything else in the world. It has been torture to be near you. I have suffered long enough."
He showered his kisses upon her face and neck as she struggled with the frenzy of a tigress. Her eyes were wide with terror. Her senses whirled, a dizzy, fainting sensation assailed her. Desperation lent her strength. She clutched wildly for support and one hand
​grasped the drawer of his desk and yanked it half open before he could pinion her wrist. The effort brought him crashing against the heavy chair in front of the desk. He tripped and lost his balance for an instant, loosing his grip upon her to seize the edge of the desk to prevent himself from falling.
Carmelita bounded to the other side of the desk, gasping for breath. Her wide eyes swept the room for any means of defense against him. Suddenly in the half-open drawer of the desk she caught sight of his revolver.
With a quick movement the revolver was in her hand. It was a long, heavy European style of weapon and she had to hold it in both hands.
The left sleeve of her gown had been torn entirely away in the struggle. Her shoulder and a portion of her back were bare.
"Let me go, Rao," she cried hysterically. "Don't come near me again—open the door." She was beside herself with fear and anger. At the moment she was capable of anything that would rescue her from him.
He was not afraid. He laughed at her. "You are insane. Put the gun down before you hurt yourself."
He was coming upon her again. She saw him coming as if through a haze and she was ​powerless. The gun lowered in her hand as his passion-torn face came closer to her, but she kept her grip upon it. Heedless of his danger, he took her, too exhausted longer to resist, in his mad embrace. He clutched between them for the gun. But he was an instant too late. A muffled shot sounded. He recoiled from her, staggering, his hand at his side.
For a second neither seemed to comprehend what had happened. Then blood began to stain his white vest under his hand. He looked at the stained hand and then at her, and the expression upon his paling face turned to fiendish hate. With a bound toward her he seized her wrist in a vice-like grip while he applied a match to the powder in the metal container on the desk. The flames shot up and with his free hand he held in the midst of them the seal of the Bengal tiger, hurling weird Indian maledictions upon her as he did so. When the seal was red-hot, she came out of her half swooning state to realize incredibly his awful purpose. The mask was gone. He was wholly the hate-maddened Oriental!
Carmelita was too late. With a last display of his failing strength, he twisted her wrist violently until the upper part of her body was flung across the flat-topped desk. In a flash he had ripped her torn gown nearly to ​her hip and, even as her piercing scream rang out, brought the red-hot seal down upon her back just under the shoulder blade.
"You cheat!"
It was a horrible, inhuman voice of triumph.
They were the last words his ebbing strength permitted him to speak. The sickening smell of scorched human flesh filled the close air of the room. Still gripping her, his face pale as death, he managed to reach the bell on his table that summoned his servant and pressed it. It was his last effort, for his knees suddenly crashed under and he fell to the floor, dragging Carmelita with him.
For an instant she lay there utterly crushed, unable to move. But slowly her numbed brain fought back and she took in the situation. She raised herself upon one knee and fumbled hurriedly in Rao-Singh's pockets looking for akey. She did not find the door key but she discovered a small one that she judged correctly opened the French windows. Whether he was dead or alive she could not bring herself to look at his face to see. She thought only of getting away, of shutting this horrible memory out of her life forever. Dragging herself to the window, she fumbled madly with the key until she had opened it and without a look behind her staggered through and out into the night.