For more than a minute he stood like one transfixed, thinking, thinking.
"It means this," he said presently, and the words came from him in hoarse gasps, "it means that I am to have my way; it means that I shall conquer him—drag him to hell; but that underneath hell are the Everlasting Arms. Well, let it be so. I shall have had my revenge. The son shall suffer what the mother made me suffer, and she shall suffer hell, too, because she shall see her son in hell."
He turned and placed more wood on the fire, then throwing himself in an arm-chair he sat for hours, brooding, thinking.
"Yes, Olga will do it," he concluded after a long silence. "The story of the Garden of Eden is an eternal principle. 'The woman tempted me and I did eat,' is the story of the world's sin. He is a man, with all a man's passions, and she is a Venus, a Circe—a woman—and all men fall when a woman tempts."
All through the night he kept his dark vigils; there in the dark house, with only flickering lights from the fire, he worked out his plans, and schemed for the destruction of a man's soul.
In the grey dawn of the wintry morning he was back in London again; but although the servants looked at him questioningly when he entered his hotel, as if wondering where he had been, he told no man of his doings. All his experiences were secret to himself.
During the next few days the little man Polonius seemed exceptionally busy; three times he went to Wendover, where there seemed to be many matters that interested him. Several times he made his way to the War Office, where he appeared to have acquaintances, and where he asked many questions. He also found his way to the block of buildings where Dick Faversham's flat was situated, and although Dick never saw him, he appeared to be greatly interested in the young man's goings out and his comings in. He also went to the House of Commons, and made the acquaintance of many Labour Members. Altogether Polonius's time was much engaged. He went to Count Romanoff's hotel, too, but always late at night, and he had several interviews with that personage, whom he evidently held in great awe.
More than a week after Romanoff's experiences at Walton Heath, Olga Petrovic received a letter which made her very thoughtful. There was a look of fear in her eyes as she read, as though it contained disturbing news.
And yet it appeared commonplace and innocent enough, and it contained only a few lines. Perhaps it was the signature which caused her cheeks to blanch, and her lips to quiver.
This was how it ran: