“My father was threatened in the same way,” retorted Clemenceau.  “He had not the patience I enjoy.  Had he but waited a little, the viper would have died in her own venomous slime!”

“Then you will not kill me as your murderer did my aunt?”

“No! you have wrecked my happiness, my home, my private life, but I forgive you, and that is your punishment.  You have cast your wicked, unholy lures about my adopted son, Antonino, but I overlook this because he will repulse you and, that will be an augmentation of your punishment.  You threaten Rebecca Daniels, but such are protected by the great Giver of good and, that is again an augmentation of your punishment.  No, I will not hurt you—­I would not kill one to whom long life—­as it was to your witch grandmother, embitters every fraction of time.  Live! and, remember, if you are here when I return, that our paths diverge forever here and beyond the earth!”

She had sunk in a heap on the tiger-skin rug and her hair, loosened by accident or perhaps by design, streamed in a sheet of graven gold over her faultless shoulders.  Through this shimmering net, her tears flowed, detached like strung diamonds scattered from the thread.  But her weeping and her attitude were thrown away, for she heard his step as regular as a soldier’s, leaving the room, crossing the vestibule and taking him out to where the carriage wheels ground the gravel.  Von Sendlingen had gone; the Daniels were descending the stairs; even the servants gave no sign of life.  Already the doomed house began to sound with those dull echoes when spectres promenade where human tenants have dwelt.  Under ordinary conditions, her place was to speed the parting guests, but her farewell to Rebecca had expressed her sentiments, and she dared not risk another contest of wits with the Hebrew.

She heard the horse’s hoofs and the wheels beat the sand, and the click of the gate closing after the vehicle.  The silence of death fell on the deserted house.

“I am alone,” she said, sitting up but not rising.

“Now it will be everyone for himself and myself upon the side of evil, where they forced me to rank.”

Hardly had she risen to her feet, very tremulous, and prepared to go to the mirror over the sideboard to re-arrange her hair, than she heard footsteps in the hall.

“Hedwig!” but listening more coolly, “no, a man!” she added, “has Von Sendlingen the audacity to enter?”

A man opened the door, but stood petrified on the threshold.

CHAPTER XXII

FELIX

It was Antonino.

“Is this the keeper?” thought Cesarine, laughing scornfully within herself.  “A pretty boy for the austere Clemenceau to trust!  Do not excuse yourself,” she called out.  “Close the door—­it causes a draft!  So, you told my husband that you loved me?”

Far from expecting this address, the Italian let several seconds pass before he faltered: