Left alone, Millar sank comfortably back in the big, Gothic arm-chair before the fire. The red glow of the flames seemed to absorb him. He was merged in the shadows—light and shadow, as they played around the big chair, from whence there came his devilish chuckle.
Olga's maid, alarmed at the prolonged absence of her mistress, found her moaning on the floor, where she had fallen in a swoon after Millar's departure. The maid helped her mistress to her room and to bed.
"As soon as it is daylight go to Monsieur Karl's studio and find out at what time he will arise. Let no one else know that you go there. And awaken me as soon as it is possible for me to see him."
"Yes, madam."
Olga meant to get to Karl to intercept the letter which Millar had tricked her into writing. She meant to tell him to go away; to end everything between them. But, although she did not know it, she was blindly obeying the evil will of Millar.
Broad, glaring daylight had come when Heinrich entered the reception-room of the studio. He divined no presence. There were no conflicting passions in his old heart. He pottered about, humming an old song to himself, dusting the vases and paintings, stirring the slumbering fire, until the door bell rang.
He admitted to the anteroom a beautiful young woman whom he had never seen before. When he returned to the reception-room to ruminate on the situation he was confronted by the figure of Millar—the figure of the devil.
"I—I beg your pardon; I did not know you were here," he said.
"I am here," Millar responded cheerfully. "Who rang?"