“Alone?” Saton asked.
“Quite alone, sir.”
Saton ascended the stairs and entered the drawing-room, which was on the first floor, unannounced. At the further end of the apartment a woman was sitting, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes fixed upon the wall. Saton advanced with outstretched hands.
“At last!” he exclaimed.
The woman made no reply. Her silence while he crossed a considerable space of carpet, would have been embarrassing to a less accomplished poseur. She was tall, dressed in a gown of plain black silk, and her brown, withered face seemed one of those which defy alike time and its reckoning. Her white hair was drawn back from her forehead, and tied in a loose knot at the back of her head. Her mouth was cruel. Her eyes were hard and brilliant. There was not an atom of softness, or of human weakness of any sort, to be traced in any one of her features. Around her neck she wore a scarf of brilliant red, the ends of which were fastened with a great topaz.
Saton bent over her affectionately. He kissed her upon the forehead, and remained with his arm resting upon her shoulder. She did not return his embrace in any way.
“So you’ve come back,” she said, speaking with a sharpness which would have been unpleasant but for the slight foreign accent.
“As you see,” he answered. “I left this afternoon, and came straight here.”
“That woman Helga has been down there. What did she want?” she demanded.
Saton shrugged his shoulders slightly, and turning away, fetched a chair, which he brought close to her side.