“Prince,” she said, “have I not kept my vows faithfully? Think! I came from America at a moment’s notice; I left my husband without even a word of farewell; I entered upon a hateful task, and though to think of it now makes me loathe myself—I succeeded. I have kept my vows, I have done my duty. Be generous now, and let me go.”
The sound of her voice maddened him. A passionate, arbitrary man, to whom nothing in life had been denied, to be baulked in this great desire of his latter days was intolerable. He made no answer to either of them. He wrote a few lines with the yellow crayon and passed them silently across to Lucille.
Her face blanched. She stretched out an unwilling hand. But Mr. Sabin intervened. He took the paper from the Prince’s hand, and calmly tore it into fragments. There was a moment’s breathless silence.
“Victor!” Lucille cried. “Oh, what have you done!”
The Prince’s face lightened with an evil joy.
“We now, I think,” he said, “understand one another. You will permit me to wish you a very pleasant evening, and a speedy leave-taking.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“Many thanks, my dear Prince,” he said lightly. “Make haste and complete your charming little arrangements. Let me beg of you to avoid bungling this time. Remember that there is not in the whole of Europe to-day a man more dangerous to you than I.”
The Prince had departed. Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette and stood on the hearthrug. His eyes were bright with the joy of fighting.
“Lucille,” he said, “I see that you have not touched your liqueur. Oblige me by drinking it. You will find it excellent.”