“Get the car around. I shall want only you with me, tell Daniels.”
As Ishigaki left the room he stood smoking, a half smile on his lips. In all probability to-night he would secure the Zarathustra ruby and its attendant collection. Jurka, the Bulgarian he had met at the club, had been after them, too, he remembered. He had been at the Nevins fête and had seen them. Palmieri had ascertained that the collection had been declared by Maria Roma as the personal property of Carlota Trelango, a minor non-resident alien. This much his own agent had found out. What Jurka knew, he had no idea, or his object in seeking the rubies. Was he, too, infatuated with the girl herself, and used the jewels merely as a blind to his own pursuit of her?
He drew three opals from his pocket and tossed them like dice before him on the polished surface of the table. They were perfectly matched and had come from the lacquered cabinet of the old empress whose life-span had bridged the gulf from the rice-fields along the Yang-tse to the peacock throne at Pekin. He gazed down at their changing luster musingly. Carlota had been in her most alluring mood when he had spoken with her on the telephone after Ishigaki had delivered her message. Spirited, combative, aloof, as he liked her best. The temple chimes in a corner recess sounded the half-hour. She had said she was alone. Always, in his experience, every woman had her price. As he swept the opals up in his hand at the Jap’s low voice, he knew there could be no compromise now. She had dallied along the highway of romance and had found the love of youth awaiting her. Remembering the look of perfect understanding and faith between her and Ames as she had passed by him on the arm of Jacobelli, Ward felt a conscienceless determination to compel her to take his terms that night. She could do without the Paoli gems. Possibly, it might be a rather suitable tribute, later at her début, for him to present her with the necklace. He glanced into the tall Florentine mirror as he folded his scarf beneath his cloak, and followed Ishigaki to the car at the curb. The boy had only youth and ambition as assets after all.
In her apartment Carlota had deliberately set the stage for his reception. Slipping off her dressing-robe, she clad herself in a straight-cut evening gown of chiffon velvet, ranging in color from palest mauve to deepest rose, with long swaying sleeves of silver metal cloth. Her face was paler than usual, her eyes brilliant as she switched off the lights in the apartment, leaving only the one in the hall and a spray of rose globes beneath a silken shade at the head of the couch.
Kneeling before the gas-logs, she opened the leather bag to look alone for the last time on the rubies. Behind her a window opened widely to the keen night air. Once she raised her head, startled at a sound that seemed to come from the balconied fire escape. The wind blew the curtains toward her. It was dark outside. The city was sinking into a few hours of sleep before the rattle of daybreak noises. As she rose to look out of the window, the outer bell rang lightly. Standing flat against the stone wall of the building, not half a yard from the room, Steccho checked his leap, listening. If he were discovered now, they would snare him, no matter what he told. Who would believe, unless perhaps the girl herself out of the grace that was in all women, that he had not come there to-night to rob her, but to warn her, to defraud Jurka—not of the jewels, but of the slender, young purity of this child woman who had eyes like Katinka. If he could save her, could keep her for the boy who loved her, Dmitri’s friend in the Square, then perhaps in some great, merciful way the knowledge of it would come to that unseen Power for good which Dmitri held still ruled the world of men and women in spite of the sea of crimson. Perhaps it might be they would save his mother and Maryna, these unseen forces, without his bargaining away his soul and life with a man like Jurka.
“You are still alone?” Ward’s eyes followed the lines of her figure as she moved away from him. The changing silver and rose of her gown reminded him of the opals.
“Maria has gone with the Marchese to Casanova’s reception. They telephoned they would be back about two. We have not very much time, you see.” She drew the jewels from the bag and laid them before him on the round inlaid table at the head of the couch. The rose light shone on their beauty almost hungrily, catching the varying gleams from the deep red hearts of the rubies. “They are all there, all that I wore to-night, the tiara, the necklace, and the girdle. They are worth enough quite to pay you back for all you have given me, are they not?”
He looked at them quickly, and turned back to her as she stood beside the table.
“I will give you my check for two hundred and fifty thousand. The Zarathustra alone is worth half of that. You would find it out if I cheated you, and hate me afterwards. I, too, hate a cheat.”
Something in his words and tone made her motionless, chilled and tense. She met his eyes challengingly.