“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.

She gazed beyond into the room where the others had assembled, and then looked at me inquiringly, whereupon I led her forward to where they were, and Muriel fell upon her and kissed her with tears streaming from her eyes.

“I prepared this surprise for you, Mr. Gregg,” Muriel said, laughing through her tears of joy.  “Olinto learnt that she was on her way to London, and I sent him to meet her.  The Princess has managed magnificently, has she not?”

“Yes.  Thank God she is free!” I exclaimed.  “But we must induce her to tell us everything.”

Muriel was already helping my love out of her heavy Russian coat, a costly garment lined with sable, and when, after greeting Jack and Olinto, she was comfortably seated, I took some notepaper from the little writing-table by the window and scribbled in pencil the words: 

“I need not write how delighted I am that you are safe—­that the Almighty has heard my prayers for you.  Jack and Muriel have told me all about Leithcourt and his scoundrelly associates.  I know, too, dear—­for I may call you that, may I not?—­how terribly you must have suffered in silence through it all.  Leithcourt is dead.  He sank the yacht with all the stolen property on board, but by accident was himself engulfed.”

Bending and watching intently as I wrote, she drew back in horror and surprise at the words.  Then I added:  “We are all four determined that the guilty shall not go unpunished, and that the affliction placed upon you shall be adequately avenged.  You are my own love—­I am bold enough to call you so.  Some strong but mysterious bond of affinity between us caused me to seek you out, and your pictured face seemed to call me to your side although I was unaware of your peril.  I was sent to you by the unseen power to extricate you from the hands of your enemies.  Therefore tell us everything—­all that you know—­without fear, for now that we are united no harm can assail us.”