Menko, with his twisted moustache, his pretty smile and his delicate profile, was there, behind that door. A red streak of light from the salon where Marsa was showed beneath the door, which the Prince longed to burst open with his foot. With anger and bitterness filling his heart, he felt capable of entering there, and striking savagely, madly, at his rival.
How these two beings had played with him; the woman who had lied to him, and the coward who had sent him those letters.
Suddenly Marsa’s voice fell upon his ear, that rich, contralto voice he knew so well, speaking in accents of love or joy.
What was he waiting for? His hot, feverish hand sought the handle of his pistol, and, striding forward, he threw open the door of the room.
The light from an opal-tinted lamp fell full upon his face. He stood erect upon the threshold, while two other faces were turned toward him, two pale faces, Marsa’s and another’s.
Andras paused in amazement.
He had sought Menko; he found—Varhely!