She herself came across to them, a few moments later.

“Something tells me,” she declared, “that you are talking about me.”

“You are always a very much discussed young lady,” Karschoff rejoined, with a little bow.

She made a grimace and sank into a chair by her aunt.  She talked on lightly enough, but all the time with that slight suggestion of superficiality which is a sign of strain.  She glanced often towards the entrance of the lounge, yet no one seemed less disturbed when at a few minutes before eleven Prince Shan came quietly in.  He made his way at once to Mrs. Bollington Smith and bent over her fingers.

“It is so kind of you and Lord Dorminster,” he said, “to give me this opportunity of saying good-by to a few friends.”

“You are leaving us so soon, Prince?”

“To-morrow, soon after dawn,” he replied, his eyes wandering around the little circle.  “I wish to be in Pekin, if possible, by Wednesday, so my Dragon must spread his wings indeed.”

He said a few words to almost everybody.  Last of all he came to Maggie, and no one heard what he said to her.  There was no change in his face as he bent low over her fingers, no sign of anything which might have passed between them, as a few minutes later he turned to one side with Nigel.  Maggie held out her hand to Chalmers.  The strain seemed to have passed.  Her lips were parted in a wonderful smile, her feet moved to the music.

“Come and dance,” she invited.

They moved a few steps away together, when Maggie came to an abrupt standstill.  The two stood for a moment as though transfixed, their eyes upon the arched entrance which led from the restaurant into the lounge.  A man was standing there, looking around, a strange, menacing figure, a man dressed in the garb of fashion but with the face of a savage, with eyes which burned in his head like twin dots of fire, with drawn, hollow cheeks and mouth a little open like a mad dog’s.  As his eyes fell upon the group and he recognised them, a look of horrible satisfaction came into his face.  He began to approach quite deliberately.  He seemed to take in by slow degrees every one who stood there,—­Maggie herself and Chalmers, Naida, Nigel and Prince Shan.  He moved forward.  All the time his right hand was behind him, concealed underneath the tails of his dress coat.

“Be careful!” Maggie cried out.  “It is Oscar Immelan!  He is mad!”

Some of the party and many of the bystanders had shrunk away from the menacing figure.  Naida stepped out from among the little group of those who were left.

“Oscar,” she said firmly, “what is the matter with you?  You are not well enough to be here.”

He came to a standstill.  At close quarters his appearance was even more terrible.  Although by some means he had gotten into his evening clothes, he was only partly shaven, and there were gashes in his face where the hand which had held his razor had slipped.  The pupils of his eyes were distended, and the eyes themselves seemed to have shrunk back into their sockets.  His whole frame seemed to have suddenly lost vigour, even substance.  He had the air of a man in clothes too large for him.  Even his voice was shriller,—­shriller and horrible with the slow and bestial satisfaction of his words.