"What madness has brought you here? My friend, believe me, you should never have followed me. This one day you may stay—because I'm weak—and then, I beg of you, go while there is yet time."
The strange iteration of his earlier warning made Paul wonder.
"Tell me," he cried, as he looked searchingly into her face, "what hidden meaning lies beneath your words? And those of the red-haired woman at the home of Boris Ivanovitch?" And he repeated to her the other's warning—almost identical with hers.
"Oh!" she gasped, and grew quite white, "you did not stay at that house? And yet you are here? Thank God for that." Then, though Paul pressed her, she would say no more.
"Come," she said after a brief pause, "my brother is in the library. You must know him." And she led the way through a short passage to a room beyond.
A handsome man of about thirty-five, who resembled Mademoiselle strikingly, rose as they entered.
"Peter," she said, "this gentleman is Sir Paul Verdayne. He is an old friend of the Countess Oreshefski. I met him at her house in Paris. Sir Paul will be our guest—until to-morrow," she added.
The young man grasped Paul's hand warmly.
"A friend of the good Countess is most welcome," he exclaimed. "I am only sorry that your stay is to be so short."
Clearly, Mademoiselle was determined that Paul should not remain with them long.