Maitrank glanced meaningly round the luxurious room. He took in the works of art, the carpets and skins, the flowers, and the soft shaded light.
"This place is more comfortable than a gaol," he said coolly.
He saw nothing of the murderous look in the eyes of his companion. Nobody had seen him enter the house, nobody even knew that he was in London. All the servants had gone to bed. Lalage had by her hand an accomplice ready for anything.
She checked the words that rose to her lips. She produced pen, ink, and paper. With a passionate gesture she tore the diamonds from her throat and breast and hair.
"Take them," she said hoarsely; "take them and write me a receipt at once before I repent. Better do anything than come between a woman and her jewels. There, a glass of wine. To your speedy ruin and destruction."
She poured out the amber liquid from a fresh bottle into a fresh glass and drank it down. With a shaking hand she filled another glass for Maitrank, who accepted it gallantly. The diamonds he slipped coolly into his pocket.
"Never lose your temper," he said. "It leads to apoplexy. Ah, my fine madam, you thought to pinch me, but I have pinched you instead."
The Countess rose with her eyes blazing. She pointed to the door.
"Begone!" she cried. "Go, before I do you mischief. See, I help you on with your coat. Now go, and don't let me see that ugly yellow face of yours for a fortnight."
Maitrank chuckled as he passed down the steps. A policeman bade him goodnight, a policeman chatting to a man in evening dress. The policeman passed along the empty road, the other followed Maitrank. A second later and Maitrank staggered, and fell headlong in the roadway.