Mr. Sabin glanced at her curiously. She was a little flushed as though with some inward excitement. Her eyes were bright and soft. Despite a certain angularity of figure and her hollow cheeks she was certainly one of the most distinguished-looking women in the room.
“You are so dense,” she whispered in his ear, “wilfully dense, perhaps. You will not understand that I wish to be your friend.”
He smiled with gentle deprecation.
“Do you blame me,” he murmured, “if I seem incredulous? For I am an old man, and you are spoken of always as the friend of my enemy, the friend of the Prince.”
“I wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “if this is really the secret of your mistrust? Do you indeed fear that I have no other interest in life save to serve Saxe Leinitzer?”
“As to that,” he answered, “I cannot say. Yet I know that only a few months ago you were acting under orders from him. It is you who brought Lucille from America. It was through you that the first blow was struck at my happiness.”
“Cannot I atone?” she murmured under her breath. “If I can I will. And as for the present, well, I am outside his schemes now. Let us be friends. You would find me a very valuable ally.”
“Let it be so,” he answered without emotion. “You shall help me, if you will, to regain Lucille. I promise you then that my gratitude shall not disappoint you.”
She bit her lip.
“And are you sure,” she whispered, “that Lucille is anxious to be won back? She loves intrigue, excitement, the sense of being concerned in important doings. Besides—you must have heard what they say about her—and Brott. Look at her now. She wears her grass widowhood lightly enough.”