Victor took the drink without a word of thanks and gulped it down noisily.  Lanyard drank sparingly, then crossed the room to a bell-push.  Seeing his finger on it Prince Victor started from his chair, but Lanyard hospitably waved him back.

“Don’t go yet,” he pleaded.  “You’ve only just dropped in, we haven’t had half a chance to chat.  Besides, you mustn’t forget I’ve got your pistol and your dirk and the upper hand and a sustaining sense of moral superiority and no end of other advantages over you.”

“Why,” the prince demanded, nervously—­“why did you ring?”

“To call a cab for you, of course.  I don’t imagine you want to walk home—­do you?—­in your present state of shocking disrepair.  Of course, if you’d rather ...  But do sit down:  compose yourself.”

“Let me be,” the other snapped as Lanyard offered good-naturedly to thrust him back into the chair.  “I am—­quite composed.”

“That’s good!  Excellent!  Hand steady enough to write me a cheque, do you think?”

“What the devil!”

“Oh, come now!  Don’t go off your bat so easily.  I’m only going to do you a service—­”

“Damn your impudence!  I want no services of you!”

“Oh, yes you do!” Lanyard insisted, unabashed—­“or you will when you learn what a kind heart I’ve got.  Now do be nice and stop protesting!  You see, you’ve touched my heart.  I’d no idea you were so passionate about that painting.  If I had for one instant imagined you cared enough about it to burglarize my rooms ...  But now that I do understand, my dear fellow, I wouldn’t deny you for worlds; I make you a free present of it, at the price I paid—­twenty thousand and one hundred guineas—­exacting no bonus or commission whatever.  You’ll find blank cheques in the upper right-hand drawer of my desk there; fill in one to my order, and the Corot’s yours.”

For a moment longer the prince stared, hate and perplexity in equal measure tincturing his regard.  Then slowly the look of doubt gave way to the ghost of a crafty smile.

What a blazing fool the fellow was (he thought) to accept a cheque on which payment could be stopped before banking hours in the morning—!

Such fatuity seemed incredible.  Yet there it was, egregious, indisputable.  Why not profit by it, turn it to his own advantage?  To secure what he had sought, the letters concealed between the canvases, and turn them against Sofia, and to play this Lanyard for a fool, all at one stroke—­the opportunity was too rich to be slighted.

He dissembled his exultation—­or plumed himself on doing so.

“Very well,” he mumbled, sulkily.  “I’ll draw the cheque.”

“That’s the right spirit!” Lanyard declared, and escorted him to the desk.

A knock sounded.  Lanyard called:  “Come in!” A sleepy manservant, half-dressed and warm from his bed, entered.

“You rang, sir?”

“Yes, Harris.”  Lanyard tossed him a sovereign.  “Sorry to rout you out so late, but I need a cab.  Whistle up a growler, will you?”