"Madam," he said, in a voice so low that it was hardly more than a whisper, but every syllable of which was perfectly distinct and clear, "a lady has been stolen from her friends, and brought to this hell. Where is she?"
The woman knew in a moment why they had come. She gave a sudden swift glance towards the door in the arras at the other side of the room, which told Commendone all he wanted to know.
"It is true, then?" he said. "Thou cat of hell, bound mistress of the fiend, she is here?"
The huge body of the woman began to tremble like a jelly, slowly at first in little shivers, and then more rapidly until face and shapeless form shook and swayed from side to side in a convulsion of fear, while all the jewels upon her winked and flashed.
As the young man bent forward and looked into her face, she found a voice, a horrid, strangled voice. "I know nothing," she coughed.
There was a low snarl, like a wakened panther, as Commendone, shuddering as he did so, gripped one bare, powdered shoulder.
"Silence!" he said.
With one convulsive effort, the woman shot out a fat hand, and rang the little silver bell upon the table.
Almost immediately the door swung open; there was a swish of curtains, and the tall, fantastic figure of the creature who had let them into the house stood there.
"Allez—la maison en face—viens toi vite,—Jules, Louis."