The Colonel, who had approached, had overheard this last thing spoken.
"It is possible," the latter hinted, "that he might desire to spare you the pain of leave taking, as he goes with us from Paris—from your world."
"Oh, monsieur," she turned appealingly to Carter, her eyes wide in their efforts to restrain their tears, "is this true?"
Carter nodded his head gravely. Sutphen pressed a fat, black wallet upon her, which she declined gently.
"As a gift," he insisted.
"Oh, monsieur," she cried reproachfully, and with averted face fled from the room.
Sheepishly guilty in feeling as only men can be, the party in the studio awaited expected developments. In a few minutes they heard the approach of a man's footsteps upon the stairs. All eyes turned curiously toward the doorway. Nearer came the sounds, nearer, while with increasing volume their hearts beat responsively. The steps stopped. The waiting hearts seemed to stand still in sympathy. Then the door opened.
"It is he," whispered Josef. All heads uncovered and each man bowed low. Delmotte stood petrified with astonishment.
"Messieurs," he said at last, recovering his speech, "messieurs, I am honored." Then as his eyes lighted on Josef, they sparkled with unexpected recognition. "You are Petros," he said, puzzled by the brilliant throng surrounding him.
"Josef Petros Zolsky, Your Majesty. I am your childhood's retainer and hereditary servitor. Yes, I am he you call Petros," and the white head bowed low as a gratified light kindled in the crafty eyes.