Castellani made the descent, feeling like Lucifer when he fell from heaven.
“Too soon!” he muttered to himself. “She took the cards out of my hands—she forced my play, and spoiled my game. But I have given her something to think about. She will not forget to-day’s interview in a hurry.”
Albrecht, the handiest of men, was standing beside him, working the lift.
“Where is your next move to be, Albrecht?” he asked in German.
The noble-born lady had not yet decided, Albrecht told him; but he thought the move would be either to Venice or to Posilippo.
“If I pretended to be a prophet, Albrecht, I should tell thee that the honourable lady will go to neither Venice nor Posilippo; but that thy next move will be to the Riviera, perhaps to Nice.”
Albrecht shrugged his shoulders in polite indifference.
“Look here, my friend, come thou to me when madame gives the order for Nice, and I will give thee a louis for assuring me that I prophesied right,” said Castellani, as he stepped out of the lift.
Mildred walked up and down the room, trying to control the confusion of her thoughts, trying to reason calmly upon that hideous accusation which she had affected to despise, but which yet had struck terror to her soul. Would he dare to bring such a charge—villain and traitor as he was—if there were not some ground for the accusation, some glimmer of truth amidst a cloud of falsehood?