So the letters for which she had risked and suffered so much must be back there, in Lanyard’s lodgings, in Victor’s possession—­lost irretrievably, since she would never find the courage to go back for them, even if she dared assume that Victor had not yet recovered and escaped or that Lanyard had not yet come home.

If only she had thought to rifle Victor’s pockets ...

“Too late,” she uttered in despair.

“Ah, madame, never say that!”

She swung round but, shocked as she was to the verge of stupefaction, made no outcry.

The intruder stood within arm’s-length, collected, amiable, debonair, nothing threatening in his attitude, merely an easy and at the same time quite respectful suggestion of interest.

“Monsieur Lanyard!”

His bow was humorous without mockery:  “Madame la princesse does me much honour.”

She was silent another instant, in a wide stare comprehending the incredible, the utterly impossible fact of his presence there.  The one conceivable explanation voiced itself without her volition: 

“The Lone Wolf!”

“Oh, come now!” he remonstrated, indulgently—­“that’s downright flattery.”

She moved aside, lifting a hand toward the bell-cord.

“Wait!”

Involuntarily she deferred, her arm dropped.  Then, appreciating that she had yielded where he had no right to command, she mutinied.

“Why?” she demanded, resentfully.

“Why ring?” he countered, smiling.

“To call my servants—­to have them call in the police.”

“But surely madame la princesse must appreciate the police might be at a loss to know which housebreaker to arrest.”

He cocked an eye of mocking significance toward the purloined “Corot,” and in sharp revulsion of feeling Sofia had need to bite her lip to keep from laughing.  She hesitated.  He was right and reasonable enough, this impudent and imperturbable young elegant.  Yet she could not afford to concede so much to him.  She was quick to accept his gage.

“Who knows,” she enquired, obliquely, “why Monsieur the Lone Wolf brought with him this counterfeit Corot when he broke in to steal—­”

“The counterfeit jewels of a titled adventuress!”

An interruption brusque enough to silence her; or else it was its innuendo that struck the princess dumb with indignation.  Lanyard’s laugh offered amends for the rudeness, as if he said:  “Sorry—­but you asked for it, you know.”  He stepped aside, caught up a handful of her jewels that had been left, a tempting heap, openly exposed on her dressing-table (as much her own carelessness as anybody’s, Sofia admitted) and tossed them lightly upon the face of the fraudulent canvas.

“Birds of a feather,” was his comment, whimsical; “coals to Newcastle!”

“My jewels!” The princess gathered them up tenderly and faced him, blazing with resentment.  He returned a twisted smile, an apologetic shrug.