A few blocks up Fifth Avenue, a barrel-organ was groaning out a popular melody, interrupted at intervals by a Strauss valse from the German band performing in Washington Square.
On the centre table stood a tray with a bottle of claret and Apollinaris water, and a glass bowl filled with cracked ice.
Despite the intensity of the temperature, Count Mellikoff was scrupulously dressed in evening costume, the gardenia in his button-hole showing white against his coat; beneath the flower the tiny red button of honour, that had so fascinated Miss James, stood out like a drop of blood.
With rapid, accustomed fingers, Count Vladimir opened one by one the letters and papers, scanning their contents with quick comprehension, and laying each document aside with accurate decision. As he came to the last, he put it down before him, and bending forward, touched a little gong that stood near his despatch-box; then he leant back in his chair and waited. A door leading to an inner room was partially open.
In the few seconds that intervened before his summons was answered, his face, seen now in the full light of the lamp, seemed to grow more pallid and anxious, the mouth beneath the straight moustache and beard grew hard, the eyes from out their shadowy caverns burned with a restless light, the cheeks appeared thinner, the forehead more pronounced, the hand as it rested on the table more nervous and attenuated, while the ruby in his ring glowed with an evil fire.
The sharp metallic echo had scarcely died away before the door leading to the other room was pulled noiselessly open, and a short dark figure emerged from the interior shadows, and came forward with a cringing, uncertain gait.
"Did the Excellenza ring?" the man asked in Italian, standing before the Count, and speaking in a voice that was both unctuous and false.
Mellikoff looked at him for an instant before replying, while a smile of infinite scorn and disgust curled his lips.
"Yes," he answered shortly, and in the same language, "I did ring; I require your most valuable services, Mattalini."
The Italian bowed, and rubbed his hands together.