Olga passed her hands wearily over her eyes, and struggled to clear her mind of the strange, intricate network of intrigue, insinuation and suggestion which Millar had woven there. She thought she was rid of his sinister influence until her fingers wrote, in obedience to his will, the letter which she would have given anything to have left unwritten.
When she looked up, Millar was putting the letter in his pocket, and his face wore the evil, cynical smile.
"I wrote it, yet I am ashamed of what I have written," she faltered, speaking with difficulty. "I tried to resist—yes, I did—but my hands, my pen, followed your words. You are a very strange man."
"I will deliver the letter to Karl," Millar repeated slowly.
"You know I did not mean it; you know I did not want to write it," Olga said.
"A woman does not always write what she wants," Millar said lightly, "but she always wants what she writes."
"The letter was not for him; it was for me," Olga insisted.
She arose and her hand was extended imploringly, begging Millar to return the missive to her, when Herman entered. The house had grown still. The music was hushed, the guests were gone. Only Millar, spirit of evil, incarnation of the devil, remained.
"This is good of you, to stay behind and entertain the hostess," Herman said cordially.
"Madam Hofmann's conversation has been so entertaining that I quite forgot the time," Millar said, looking at his watch. "By Jove! it is late; I must go immediately."