"Certainly, news of your friend, Mr. Gavin Ord."
The plot had been well contrived, and it did not fail. Curiosity, nay, fear almost, proved stronger than Evelyn's alarm or any thought of her own safety. Vainly she tried to suppress her emotion; while the man, for his part, followed every movement of her graceful figure with eyes that devoured its contour and a purpose which said, "she shall be my wife this night."
"Well?" she cried, her heart beating wildly, her hands clinched. What hours of anxiety, of dread, of passionate regret that one word recalled to her.
The Count drew a chair near the fire and motioned to her to sit. She obeyed him with a docility which did not surprise him. He held the master cards and would play them one by one.
"Well," he said lightly enough, "to begin with, your friend is still in Roumania."
"Am I unaware of that?" she exclaimed.
"Of course, you would not be. He is still in Roumania and a prisoner."
"A prisoner—why should he be a prisoner?"
"Because, dear lady, he is my father's enemy."
She realized what it meant and sat resting her bowed head upon her little hands.