The servant who admitted her in manner and appearance lent colour to these forebodings.  A creature hopelessly commonplace, resigned, and unemotional, to her enquiry for Monsieur Lanyard he returned the discounted response:  Mister Lanyard was hout, ’e might not be ’ome till quite lite, but ’ad left word that if a lidy called she was to be awsked to wite.  The princess indicating her desire to wite, the man turned to the nearest door (Lanyard’s rooms were on the street level), opened it with a pass-key, stepped inside to make a light, and when Sofia entered silently bowed himself out.

Now when the latch clicked behind him, the Princess Sofia forgot that the simplicity of her success thus far was almost discouraging.  Her heart began to beat more quickly, and a little tremor shook the hands that lifted and threw back her veil.  After all, she was committing an act of lawless trespass, she was on the errand of a thief; if caught the penalty might prove most painful and humiliating.

Of a sudden she lost appetite entirely for a piquant encounter with the prepossessing tenant of these rooms.  Now she desired nothing so dearly as to consummate her business and escape with all possible expedition.

A swift and searching survey of the living-room descried nothing that seemed apt to hinder or detain her.  A large room, unusually wide and deep, it had two windows overlooking the street, with a curtained doorway at the back that led (one surmised) to a bedchamber.  It was furnished in such excellent taste that one suspected Monsieur Lanyard must have brought in his own belongings on taking possession.  The handsome rug, the well-chosen draperies, the several excellent pictures and bronzes, were little in character with the furnished lodgings of the London average, even with those of the better sort.

She had no time, however, to squander on appreciation of artistic atmosphere, however pleasing, and needed to waste none searching for the object of her desires.  It faced her, distant not six paces from the door—­that shameless little “Corot"!—­resting on the arms of a straight-backed chair.

A low laugh of delight on her lips, she went swiftly to the chair and laid hold of the picture by its frame.  In that act she checked, startled, transfixed, the laugh freezing into a gasp of alarm.

Brass rings slithered on a pole supporting the portieres at the back of the room.  These parted.  Through them a man emerged.

Her grasp on the picture relaxed.  It struck a corner against the chair and clattered on the floor—­the canvas on its stretcher simultaneously flying out of the frame.

“Victor!”

“Sweet of you to remember me!”

He advanced slowly with that noiseless, cat-like tread of his which she had always hated, perceiving in it a true index to his character:  the prowl of a beast of prey, furtive, cowardly, cruel.  It was so:  Victor was as feline and as vicious as a jungle-cat.  Watching him with this thought in mind, one could almost credit old tales of beasts bewitched and walking in human guise.