“And you,” he said, “you to whom I owe an expiation which I can never make,—­do you know it is my servant who would have taken your life?”

In the brief interval following this naive assertion, his guests were not unnaturally speechless.  Miss Holland, bending slightly forward, looked at the prince breathlessly.

“I have suffered,” he went on, “I have suffered indescribably since that terrible morning when I missed her and understood her mission.  I followed quickly—­I was without when you entered, but I came too late.  Since then I have waited, unwilling to go to you, certain that the gods would permit the possible.  And now—­what shall I say?”

He hesitated, his eyes meeting Miss Holland’s.  And in that moment Mrs. Hastings found her voice.  She curved the chain of her eye-glasses over her ear, threw back her head until the tortoise-rims included her host, and spoke her mind.

“Well, Prince Tabnit,” she said sharply—­quite as if, St. George thought, she had been nursery governess to princes all her life—­“I must say that I think your regret comes somewhat late in the day.  It’s all very well to suffer as you say over what your servant has tried to do.  But what kind of man must you be to have such a servant, in the first place?  Didn’t you know that she was dangerous and blood-thirsty, and very likely a maniac-born?”

Her voice, never modulated in her excitements, was so full that no one heard at that instant a quick, indrawn breath from St. George, having something of triumph and something of terror.  Even as he listened he had been running swiftly over the objects in the room to fasten every one in his memory, and his eyes had rested upon the table at his side.  A disc of bronze, supported upon a carven tripod, caught the light and challenged attention to its delicate traceries; and within its border of asps and goat’s horns he saw cut in the dull metal a sphinx crucified upon an upright cross—­an exact facsimile of the device upon that strange opalized glass from some far-away island which he had lately noted in the window in Mrs. Hastings’ drawing-room.  Instantly his mind was besieged by a volley of suppositions and imaginings, but even in his intense excitement as to what this simple discovery might bode, he heard the prince’s soft reply to Mrs. Hastings: 

“Madame,” said the prince, “she is a loyal creature.  Whatever she does, she believes herself to be doing in my service.  I trusted her.  I believed that such error was impossible to her.”

“Error!” shrilled Mrs. Hastings, looking about her for support and finding little in the aspect of Mr. Augustus Frothingham, who appeared to be regarding the whole proceeding as one from which he was to extract data to be thought out at some future infinitely removed.

As for St. George, he had never had great traffic with a future infinitely removed; he had a youthful and somewhat imaginative fashion of striking before the iron was well in the fire.