“I want Griffeth,” she said eagerly. “I went to his house and he has not been there. Oh, I must see him, Dmitri! Tell me he is here with you!”
The underlying note of intense repression in her voice struck him, and yet he hesitated, fearful of Steccho’s safety.
“He is not here. He left after midnight. Are you alone, my dear?”
“Surely I am alone; what do you suppose I came for? Would you rather I went first to the police? I came to you because you are his friend and I need him.”
She brushed past him into the narrow hallway. He almost smiled at this twist to Griffeth’s romance. With all the ardor and recklessness of her temperament and race, Carlota had flung discretion to the winds and had come to seek the man she loved at all hazards. Once inside his door, she let her cloak slip from her shoulders and stood in the center of the room, a slender, isolated figure.
“You are all afraid for yourselves,” she said slowly, scornfully. “Even you, Dmitri, with all the brotherliness you profess, think only of yourself. Griffeth will not be like that. He will understand that I never can go back there.”
“You are excited and nervous.” Dmitri took her cold hands in his with the whimsical, cheery way that never failed to soothe. “Why should you go to the police? Tell me what has happened. It is surely a night of witchcraft when foul fiends prowl. So, now sit down and be very calm. I can always make you smile, with my nonsense, you see?”
She tried to meet his eyes, but her own filled with tears and she bit her lip to keep control of herself.
“Oh, Dmitri, I am frightened, after all. Did Griffeth tell you about the fête at Mrs. Nevins’s and—and how I had deceived you both, when you were so good to me? I only sang for his sake, so his opera would surely be a success. I never dreamt that any one would be there who would recognize me; you believe me, don’t you?”
Dmitri lit a fresh cigarette with musing eyes, tossed away the match, and hummed Fiametta’s motif softly under his breath.