“You must go. She would not have sent that unless the matter was of truly great importance. You can be back in an hour; Borodin will not be here till nine.”
He yielded to her judgment, and half an hour later he rang the bell of the countess’s apartment. A maid ushered him into the drawing-room and told him the countess would be in immediately. But one minute passed—three—five—ten—and no countess. His patience would wait no longer. He opened the entrance door and rang the apartment bell. The maid reappeared.
“Tell the countess that I will return later,” he said.
But on the instant a voice called out, “Wait, Mr. Drexel,” and the countess came toward him through the hall. She was strikingly dressed, as always; but she was even more pale, more worn, than when he had last seen her, and there was a new agitation in her manner.
“I’m so glad you came!” she said, in a voice that trembled with relief.
“I could not have come had I thought there would have been so much delay,” he returned rather stiffly.
“I have purposely delayed. I confess it.”
“Why?—after you desired to get me here in haste?”
“To make certain of keeping you here as long as possible. I have just discovered you are in great danger.”
“Danger from what?”