Keyork Arabian was standing in the middle of the parlour waiting for Beatrice. When she entered at last he made two steps forward, bowing profoundly, and then smiled in a deferential manner.
“My dear lady,” he said, “I am here. I have lost no time. It so happened that I received your note just as I was leaving my carriage after a morning drive. I had no idea that you were in Bohemia.”
“Thanks. It was good of you to come so soon.”
She sat down upon one of the stiff chairs and motioned to him to follow her example.
“And your dear father—how is he?” inquired Keyork with suave politeness, as he took his seat.
“My father died a week ago,” said Beatrice gravely.
Keyork’s face assumed all the expression of which it was capable. “I am deeply grieved,” he said, moderating his huge voice to a soft and purring sub-bass. “He was an old and valued friend.”
There was a moment’s silence. Keyork, who knew many things, was well aware that a silent feud, of which he also knew the cause, had existed between father and daughter when he had last been with them, and he rightly judged from his knowledge of their obstinate characters that it had lasted to the end. He thought therefore that his expression of sympathy had been sufficient and could pass muster.
“I asked you to come,” said Beatrice at last, “because I wanted your help in a matter of importance to myself. I understand that you know a person who calls herself Unorna, and who lives here.”
Keyork’s bright blue eyes scrutinized her face. He wondered how much she knew.