"And what of poor Elma—and of her secret? When, I wonder, shall I see her?" I cried in despair.
"You will see her now, signore," answered Olinto. "A servant of the Princess Zurloff brought her to London this afternoon, and I have just conveyed her from the station. She is in the next room, in ignorance, however, that you are here."
And without another word I fled forward joyfully, and threw open the folding-doors which separated me from my silent love.
Silent, yes! But she could, nevertheless, tell her story—surely the strangest that any woman has ever lived to tell.
CHAPTER XVIII
CONTAINS ELMA'S STORY
Before me stood my love, a slim, tragic, rather wan figure in a heavy dark traveling-coat and felt toque, her sweet lips parted and a look of bewildered amazement upon her countenance as I burst in so suddenly upon her.
In silence I grasped her tiny black-gloved hand, and then, also in silence, raised it passionately to my eager lips. Her soft, dark eyes—those eyes that spoke although she was mute—met mine, and in them was a look that I had never seen there before—a look which as plainly as any words told me that my wild fevered passion was reciprocated.