With that he opened the little writing-desk and took out the morocco-bound pocketbook which he seemed to know so well where to find. A single glance at its contents satisfied him that the papers he desired were still there. He quickly pocketed his prize and then paused to look around for the last time at the dainty appointments of the luxurious apartment.
"Adieu, beautiful Cyrene, adieu, for ever!" he murmured, a smile of irony on his lips.
Stealthily he had come, stealthily he withdrew. He did not take the trouble to close the writing-desk, but he was careful to leave the little key sticking in the clock door, where its rightful owner would be sure to see it.
He found the police officer still awake and waiting for him. A cab was quickly summoned, and the two started on their journey to Transylvania.
When the Marchioness Caldariva entered her boudoir a little later, her eyes fell at once on her open writing-desk, and she perceived that the morocco pocketbook was gone. She laughed, but it was not a pleasant laugh to hear.
"Very good," said she, half aloud; "you would have it so, and I am not to blame."
Anna Adorjan hovered on the brink of the grave. She had heard that Benjamin Vajdar was charged with a penal offence, and she felt only too well convinced that if such a charge had been brought against him he must be guilty. If guilty, he would be sentenced to a term of imprisonment, and she would never see him return to his old home as she had once so confidently expected. She had nothing now to live for. Her dear brother Manasseh was restored to his family, and she was ready to die.
"Brother," she gently entreated, as she lay on her bed of pain, "if he should by any chance ever come back to us, promise me to treat him as you would if I were still here. You will promise me that, won't you?"
A silent nod of Manasseh's bowed head was her sufficient assurance that her slightest wish would be respected.