The effect was uncanny, as if the figure had materialized before her very eyes, out of clear air, as if one of those many shadows had taken on shape and substance while she looked.

The man himself was nothing unusual in general aspect, of no remarkable stature, neither tall nor small, neither robust nor slender.  His evening clothes were without fault, but as much might be said of ten thousand men who might be seen any night in the public rendezvous of leisured London.  His carriage had special distinction only in that he moved with a sort of feline grace.  Still, something elusive made him unlike any other man Sofia had ever met, something arresting and not altogether prepossessing.

As he drew nearer and his features became more clearly defined by the light, she was sensible of gazing into a face of unique cast.  Of an odd grayish pallor accentuated by hair so black that it might have been painted on his skull with india-ink, the skin seemed to be as soft and smooth as a child’s, beardless and wholly without lustre.  The mouth was sensuous yet firm, with hard, full lips.  Leaden pouches hung beneath heavy-lidded eyes set at a noticeable angle.  The eyes themselves were as black as night and as lightless; the rays of the lamp struck no gleam from them; in spite of this they were compelling, masterful, and disconcerting.

Karslake at once fell back, with a bow so low it was little less than an obeisance.

“Prince Victor!”

The man nodded acknowledgment of this greeting without detaching attention from the girl.  His voice, slightly tremulous with emotion, uttered her name:  “Sofia?”

She collected herself with an effort.  “I am Sofia,” she replied almost mechanically.

“And I, your father ...”

Prince Victor lifted hands of singular delicacy, slender and tapering, whose long fingers were dressed with many curious rings.

A reluctance she could not understand hindered Sofia from going gladly into those arms.  She had to make herself yield.  They tightened hungrily about her.  She closed her eyes and experienced a slight, invincible shudder.

“My child!”

The lips that touched her forehead astonished her with their warmth.  Instinctively she had expected them to be cool, as frigid as the effect of that strange mask of which they formed a part.

Then, held at arm’s-length, she submitted to an inspection whose sum was enunciated with a strange smile of gratification: 

“You are beautiful.”

In embarrassment she murmured:  “I am glad you think so—­father.”

“As beautiful as your mother—­in her time the most beautiful creature in the world—­her image, a flawless reproduction, even to her colouring, the shade of the hair, the eyes—­so like the sea!”

“I am glad,” the girl repeated, nervously.

“And until to-night I did not know you lived!”

She mustered up courage enough to ask:  “How—?”