“The man who calls himself Mr. Sabin?” he answered roughly. “What has that to do with it? You are living apart. Saxe Leinitzer and the Duchess have both told me the history of your married life. Or is the whole thing a monstrous lie?” he cried, with a sudden dawning sense of the truth. “Nonsense! I won’t believe it. Lucille! You’re not afraid! I shall be good to you. You don’t doubt that. Sabin will divorce you of course. You won’t lose your friends. I—”
There was a sudden loud tapping at the door. Brott dropped her wrist and turned round with an exclamation of anger. To Lucille it was a Heaven-sent interposition. The Prince entered, pale, and with signs of hurry and disorder about his usually immaculate person.
“You are both here,” he exclaimed. “Good! Lucille, I must speak with you urgently in five minutes. Brott, come this way with me.”
Lucille sank into a chair with a little murmur of relief. The Prince led Brott into another room, and closed the door carefully behind him.
“Mr. Brott,” he said, “can I speak to you as a friend of Lucille’s?”
Brott, who distrusted the Prince, looked him steadily in the face. Saxe Leinitzer’s agitation was too apparent to be wholly assumed. He had all the appearance of being a man desperately in earnest.
“I have always considered myself one,” Brott answered. “I am beginning to doubt, however, whether the Countess holds me in the same estimation.”
“You found her hysterical, unreasonable, overwrought!” the Prince exclaimed. “That is so, eh?”
The Prince drew a long breath.
“Brott,” he said, “I am forced to confide in you. Lucille is in terrible danger. I am not sure that there is anybody who can effectually help her but you. Are you prepared to make a great sacrifice for her sake—to leave England at once, to take her to the uttermost part of the world?”