"A lady, sir."
"A real lady?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"That's odd. What does she want?"
"She wants to see my master, sir, Mr. Karl."
Heinrich hurried out and ushered in Elsa. The poor little girl had lost her bravado of the night before. She was ready to humble herself. She was stricken with the terrible malady. She was in love; she acknowledged it to herself, and she knew that the man she loved had his heart elsewhere. But she had resolved to make a fight—to win him if she could, and she had taken this desperate move.
She was startled, though, when she was ushered into the reception-room and saw Millar there, his hands on his breast, bowing profoundly.
"You seem to be everywhere," she exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Are you Karl's secretary?"
Millar was transformed back into his frock coat, his immaculate trousers, his wine-colored waistcoat. He was again the polished, suave, affable gentleman of the afternoon, with ingratiating manner, cynical smile and insinuating words.
"No, I am not Karl's servant; only his friend," he said. "How are you feeling to-day?"