“No, not to-night, Ninette,” she replied, glancing up from her novel.
“Bon soir, madame,” exclaimed the girl, and withdrew.
When she had gone, Adine took a cigarette from her silver case, and, lighting it, lay back in her chair in a lazy, contemplative attitude, watching the blue smoke curl upward. For nearly half an hour she sat engrossed in her own thoughts, when suddenly the door was thrown open. Turning, she saw a middle-aged, well-dressed man, wearing the conventional silk hat and overcoat.
“Colonel Solovieff!” she gasped, jumping to her feet.
“Yes,” said the intruder coolly, as he closed the door and turned the key. “I have the honour to bear that name. And you? I need not ask, Madame Adine Orlovski, subject of my Imperial master, the Tzar.”
Pale, trembling, and with teeth clenched, she felt in the pocket of her dress, and drew forth something bright and shining. It was a small revolver.
“No, no,” exclaimed the colonel, laying his hand upon her arm. “Put away that toy. Remember that I am chief of the English Section of Secret Police, and to shoot me will not be a profitable pastime. I shall not harm you.”
“Why do you intrude here, at this hour?” she asked indignantly.
“I come—as your friend.”
“My friend! Dieu! Can you believe that I have forgotten the insult you offered me when we last met? My friend!—you, the chief of the Tzar’s spies!” she cried angrily.