To Maggie at that moment came a great throbbing in her ears, a sense of remoteness from this terrible happening, followed by an intense and vital consciousness of danger.  The man who had brought new things into her life, the polished gentleman of the world, with his fascinating brain and gentle courtesy, had gone.  It was Prince Shan of China who stood there.  She felt the chill of his contempt and disapproval in her heart.  She had forfeited her high estate.  She was a convicted thief,—­an adventuress!

She gripped at the side of the cabinet.  Her poise had gone.  She had the air of a trapped animal.

“You!” she exclaimed.  “How did you get here?”

He answered her without change of expression.  A sense of crisis seemed to have made his tone more level, his face stony.

“It is my house,” he said.  “I do not often leave it.  I sat in my sleeping chamber behind”—­he pointed to the silken curtains through which he had passed—­“I heard your entrance and guessed with pain and regret at your mission.”

“But a quarter of an hour ago you were at the ball!”

“You are mistaken,” he replied.  “I do not attend such gatherings.  I had given you my word that I should not be there.”

“But I saw you,” she persisted, “in that same costume!”

“Surely not,” he dissented.  “The person whom you saw was a gentleman from my suite, who wore the dress of an inferior mandarin.  He is sometimes supposed to resemble me.  I should have believed that your apprehension of such things would have informed you that no Prince of my line would wear the garments of his order for a public show.”

Her fingers had left the drawer now.  She stood upright, pale and desperate.

“That woman of your country, then—­La Belle Nita—­did she lie to me?”

“How can I tell?” he answered coldly, “because I do not know what she said.”

Maggie made an effort to test her position.

“I came here as a thief,” she confessed.  “I am detected.  What are your intentions?”

He moved very slowly a little closer to her.  Maggie felt her sense of excitement grow.

“You came here as a thief,” he repeated, “as a spy.  Why did you not ask me for the information you desired?”

“Because you would not have told me,” she replied, “at least you would not have told me the truth.”

“For a price,” he said, “the truth would have been yours for the asking.  For a different price it is yours now.”

Again without noticeable movement he seemed to have drawn nearer.  The edge of that cool ebony cabinet seemed to be burning her fingers.  Try however hard, she could not frame the question which had risen to her lips.

“The price,” he continued, “is you—­yourself.  A few hours ago it was your love I craved for.  Now it is yourself.”

He was so near to her now that she faced the steady radiance of his wonderful eyes, so near that she could trace the faint lines about his mouth, the strong, stern immobility of his perfectly shaped, olive-tinted features.