Mareno, a lean, swarthy fellow, his foreign cast of countenance accentuated by close-cut side-whiskers, deposited Miss Gretna’s case in the cubicle which she had selected and, Rita pointing to that adjoining it, he disposed the second case beside the divan and departed silently. As the sound of a closing door reached them:
“You notice how quiet it is?” asked Mrs. Sin.
“Yes,” replied Rita. “It is extraordinarily quiet.”
“This an empty house—‘To let,’” explained Mrs. Sin. “We watch it stay so. Sin the landlord, see? Windows all boarded up and everything padded. No sound outside, no sound inside. Sin call it the ‘House of a Hundred Raptures,’ after the one he have in Buenos Ayres.”
The voice of Cyrus Kilfane came, querulous, from a neighboring room.
“Lola, my dear, I am almost ready.”
“Ho!” Mrs. Sin uttered a deep-toned laugh. “He is a glutton for chandu! I am coming, Cy.”
She turned and went out. Sir Lucien paused for a moment, permitting her to pass, and:
“Good night, Rita,” he said in a low voice. “Happy dreams!”
He moved away.