“Revenge?” Sturm echoed, staring.

“I have more than one score to pay out before I can cry even with life ... one above all!”

Studying intently that darkened face, and misled by its look of abstraction, Sturm was guilty of the indiscretion of his malicious smile.

“The Lone Wolf?”

Victor turned weary eyes his way, and under their black and lustreless regard the smile merged swiftly into a grin of nervous apology.

“You are shrewd,” Victor observed, thoughtfully.  “Be careful:  it is a dangerous gift.”

The man Nogam gently opened the door and approached the table, stopping just outside the area of illumination shed by the shaded lamp.  But since Victor continued to smoke absently, paying no attention, Nogam resigned himself to wait with entire patience:  the perfect pattern of a servant tempered by long servitude to the erratic winds of employers’ whims; efficient, assiduous, mute unless required to speak, long-suffering.

Victor addressed him suddenly, in a sharp voice that drew from Sturm a glitter of eager spite.

“Nogam!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where is the Princess Sofia?”

“In ’er apartment, sir.”

“And Mr. Karslake?”

“In ’is.”

“Then be good enough to send Shaik Tsin to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Nogam!”—­the servant checked in the act of turning—­“I shan’t need you again to-night.”

“’Nk you, sir.”

When Nogam had left the room, Sturm, remarking the slight frown that knitted Victor’s brows, ventured an impertinence couched in a form of respectful enquiry: 

“Excellency, perhaps you trust that fellow too much, hein?”

“You think so?”

“He is too perfect, if you ask me—­never makes a false move.”

“Either he is what he seems, in which event a false move would be against nature; or he is not, and knows one slip would mean his death.”

“Still, I maintain you trust him too much.”

“With what?”

“The freedom of your house, the opportunity to spy, to get to know who comes to see you and when, to listen at doors.”

“You have caught him listening at doors?”

“Not yet.  But in time—­”

“I think not.  I don’t think he has to.”

“You mean,” Sturm stammered, perturbed, “you think he knows—­suspects?”

“I think he is one thing or the other:  merely Nogam, or one of the greatest of living actors.  In either case he is flawless—­thus far.  But if not merely Nogam, he will have a subtler means of eavesdropping than by listening at doors.”

“The dictograph?”

“Make your mind easy about that.  This room is searched regularly by Shaik Tsin.  So is Nogam’s.  It is certain there is neither a dictograph installed here nor any means at Nogam’s disposal for connecting with a dictograph installation.  Indeed, so closely is Nogam watched, and by more cunning eyes than mine—­sometimes I begin to be afraid he is simply what he seems.”