Prince Victor dismissed the subject curtly.  “I am waiting to hear about Sofia.”

“Not much to tell, sir.  There seemed to be a storm of sorts brewing when I got there.  The young woman was at her desk with a face like a thundercloud.  While I was trying to make up my mind what would be my best approach, she jumped down, flew upstairs and, I gathered, kicked up a holy row.  You see, she’d seen that advertisement of Secretan & Sypher’s, and smelt a rat.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing definite, sir:  seemed to understand she was the daughter of Princess Sofia Vassilyevski, only she objected to her father being anybody but Michael Lanyard.”

“Go on.”

“After a bit she stampeded downstairs again, with the old girl and that swine of a Dupont at her heels.  I blocked him and gave Sofia a chance to get outside.  The whole establishment boiled out into the street after us, yelling like fun, but I got the girl into the car ... and here we are.”

But Prince Victor seemed to have lost interest.  The glow ebbing from his face, his lips tightening, the thick lids drooping low over his eyes, he sat in apparent abstraction, aping the impassivity of the graven idols that graced his study.

“I don’t mind owning, sir,” the younger man resumed, nervously, “she had me sparring for wind when she put it to me point-blank her father’s name was Michael Lanyard.”

Without moving Victor enquired in a dull voice:  “What did you tell her?”

“That it was a name you had once used, sir, but....  Well, what you told her, all except the Lone Wolf business.  Don’t mind telling you I was in a rare funk till you capped my story so neatly.”

He laughed and ventured with a hesitation quite boyish:  “I say, Prince Victor—­if it’s not an impertinent question—­was there any truth in that?  I mean about your having been the Lone Wolf twenty years ago.”

“Not a syllable,” said Victor, dryly.

“Then your name never was Michael Lanyard?”

“Never, but ...”

During a long pause the secretary fidgeted inwardly but had the wisdom to refrain from showing further inquisitiveness.  He could see that strong passions were working in Victor:  a hand, extended upon the table, unclosed and closed with a peculiar clutching action; the muscles contracted round mouth and eyes, moulding the face into a cast of disquieting malevolence.  The voice, when at length it resumed, was bitter.

“But Michael Lanyard was my enemy ... and is to-day....  He became a lover of Sofia’s mother, he had a hand in overturning plans I had made, he humiliated, mocked me....  And to-day he is interfering again....  But ...”

Victor sank back in his chair.  Suddenly that unholy grin of his flashed and faded.

“But now his impertinence fails, his insolence over-reaches itself.  Now I have the whip-hand and ...  I shall use it!”

Vindictiveness that could find relief only in action mastered the man.