Sombre shadows masked much of its magnificent proportions, but what Sofia could see suggested less the study of a man of everyday interests than the private museum of an Orientalist whose wealth knew no limits.

The air was warm and close, aromatic with the ghosts of ten thousand perished perfumes.  The quiet, when Karslake had closed the door, was oppressive, as if some dark enchantment here had power to tame and silence the growl of London that was never elsewhere in all the city for an instant still.

On a great table of black teakwood inlaid with mother of pearl burned a solitary lamp, a curious affair in filigree of brass, furnishing what illumination there was.  Its closely shaded rays made vaguely visible walls dark with books, tier upon tier climbing to the ceiling; chairs of odd shape, screens of glowing lacquer; tables and stands supporting caskets of burning cinnabar, of ivory, of gold, of kaleidoscopic cloisonne; trays heaped high with unset jewels; cabinets crowded with rare objects of Eastern art; squat shapes of neglected gods brandishing weird weapons; grotesque devil masks ferociously a-grin; chests of strange woods strangely fashioned, strangely carved, and decorated with inlays of precious metals, banded with huge straps of black iron, from which gushed in rainbow profusion silks and brocades stiff with barbaric embroideries in gold- and silver-thread and precious stones.

Confused by the impact upon her perceptions of so much that was unexpected and bizarre, the girl looked round with an uncertain smile, and found Karslake watching her with a manner of peculiar gravity and concern.

“Prince Victor is an extraordinary man,” Karslake replied to her unspoken comment; “probably the most learned Orientalist alive.  Sometimes I think the East has never had a secret he doesn’t know.”

He paused and drew nearer, with added earnestness in his regard.

“Princess Sofia,” said he, diffidently, “if I may say something without meaning to seem disrespectful—­”

Perplexed, she encouraged him with one word:  “Please.”

“I’m afraid,” Karslake ventured, “you will have many strange experiences in this new life.  Some of them, I fancy, you won’t immediately understand, some things may seem wrong to you, you may find yourself confronted with conditions hard to accept ...”

He rested as if in doubt, and she fancied that he was listening intently, almost apprehensively, for some signal of warning.  But on her part Sofia heard no sound.

Impressed and puzzled, she uttered a prompting “Yes?”

“I only want to say”—­he employed a tone so low that she could barely hear him—­“if you don’t mind—­whatever happens—­I’d be awf’ly glad if you’d think of me as one who sincerely wants to be your friend.”

“Why,” she said in wonder—­“thank you.  I shall be glad—­”

She checked in astonishment:  a man was approaching from the general direction of the door by which they had entered.