"The tailor has sent some evening clothes, Monsieur Karl, but they are not yours."
"They are mine," interrupted the stranger.
"Yours?" Karl said in amazement.
"Yes; they were crushed in my trunk," the other said coolly. "I told the tailor to press them and send them here for the evening. I must dress, as I am invited to the ball of one of the most beautiful women in the city to-night at the residence of the Duke of Maranese."
"But the Duke is not living there any more," Olga interposed. "He is in Madrid."
"Yes, I know that; I met the Duke in Paris."
"He has sold his house to us. We are living there now, and the ball is given by me," she went on.
The man looked at her, his black eyes seeming to burn through her own. Shrinking, fearful, fascinated, Olga was held in the spell of those eyes.
"Was I mistaken? Am I not invited?" he asked.
"Yes, you are invited," she faltered.