But Corsini would pay no attention. He was resolved on walking home to seek inspiration from the clear skies and the silent streets.
At the top of the great staircase the Prince was standing, to all appearances cordiality itself. But, from a far corner of the music-salon, he had been watching with angry eyes the conversation between his sister and Corsini.
But he could afford to be indifferent; he could afford to greet the young Italian with a smile. He had laid his plans cunningly.
Zouroff accompanied him to the door, guarded by a big hall-porter. In a corner of the hall lounged a small dapper man, Peter, his valet, the lover of Katerina.
“Good-night, Signor. Have you no carriage waiting? Ah, no, I understand it is a habit of yours to walk. Good! Exercise is a fine tonic. My secretary will send you a cheque to-morrow for your services. Again, good-night!”
The door closed on the retreating Corsini. Zouroff turned swiftly to the small, dapper man, and whispered in his ear.
“After him, Peter. Come back and tell me that they have done their work.”
The hall-porter opened the door at a sign from his imperious master, and the valet went out with a slow, stealthy tread.
He followed in the wake of Corsini, who marched along gaily, his violin-case swinging from his hand, his thoughts full of the Princess Nada, who had been so sweet to him, so gracious.