“And what attitude did he take?”
“At first, one of stupidity, complicated with sullen defiance. But towards the end of the interview, I could see that his heart was being softened. I told him to consider it carefully; full confession and a full pardon, or—the utmost rigour of the law.”
“And he will at once tell Zouroff,” suggested Corsini. “That is, if he is really loyal to the Prince.”
Beilski shrugged his shoulders. “He may and he may not. I expect he will be thinking chiefly of his own skin. On the other hand, ruffians like the Prince have a remarkable knack of attracting loyalty. At any rate, it does not matter. In a couple of days I should have laid my hands on him for this matter alone—I have no doubt they would have taken you to some lonely place and finished you off—but I shall wait, if necessary, a little longer for the report of your visit to the villa. If that is what we expect it to be, we will have done with this gentleman, once and for all.”
“Amen!” cried Corsini, fervently. In spite of his English upbringing, he had in him the true spirit of Italian revenge. He loved the Princess Nada, but for her brother, who would have taken his life, he had no mercy.
He walked home to his hotel, followed at an unobtrusive distance by his guards. His heart was singing happily within him, as a result of his interview with the bluff, but genial General.
He was grateful to La Belle Quéro for her unselfish interference on his behalf: she had braved detection, Zouroff’s vengeance, on his account. When his lips were unsealed he would express to the singer his thanks.
But it was the Princess who had more fully schemed and plotted, set to work her woman’s wit, and ultimately triumphed on his behalf. Was it due to a kind pure woman’s compassion only, or—delicious thought—was she attracted to him as he was to her? Was it love that had stimulated her brain, urged her to that desperate measure of the anonymous note to the Chief of Police?
A letter was handed to him by the hall-porter as he entered the hotel. He was told that it had been delivered by a shabbily-dressed man, who would not wait for his return.
It was from Ivan, no longer an outlaw, and ran as follows: