The door opened, and Domiloff entered. He bowed low before the Countess, but there was an evil smile upon his lips when his eyes met Brand’s.
“This is a very fortunate meeting, Mr. Brand,” he declared. “It saves us the trouble of searching for you. Only an hour ago, my dear sir, the Countess and I were speaking of you.”
“So far as the Countess was concerned,” Brand answered, dryly, “I am honoured.”
Domiloff shrugged his shoulders. He turned to Nicholas with a smile which was meant to be good-humoured.
“Mr. Brand imagines perhaps that I bear him some ill-will for that previous little rencontre between us, in which, by the bye, I must admit that I had very much the worst of it. I can assure him most sincerely that it is not so.”
Brand shrugged his shoulders.
“We have met since then, Baron Domiloff, I think,” he said, “and even you must admit that a revolver bullet through one’s hat is scarcely a message of good will.”
Domiloff was bewildered. Was this a joke, or was his friend—his very good friend, Mr. Walter Brand—under some hallucination? Brand turned from him impatiently.
“The matter is not one which will repay discussion,” he said. “Countess, I regret that I must offer you my adieux.”
Domiloff held up his hand.