He entered at once.  She turned and passed into the room on the other side of the landing.  Arnold glanced around him with some curiosity.  The room was well appointed and a luncheon table was laid for four people.  There were flowers upon the table, and the glass and cutlery were superior to anything one might have expected from a restaurant in this vicinity.  The window looked down into the street.  Arnold stood before it for a moment or two.  The traffic below was insignificant, but the roar of Oxford Street, only a few yards distant, came to his ears even through the closed window.  He listened thoughtfully, and then, before he realized the course his thoughts were taking, he found himself thinking of Ruth.  In a certain sense he was superstitious about Ruth and her forebodings.  He found himself wondering what she would have said if she could have seen him there and known that it was Fenella who had brought him.  And he himself—­what did he think of it?  A week ago, his life had been so commonplace that his head and his heart had ached with the monotony of it.  And now Fenella had come and had shown him already strange things.  He seemed to have passed into a world where mysterious happenings were an every-day occurrence, into a world peopled by strange men and women who always carried secrets about with them.  And, in a sense, no one was more mysterious than Fenella herself.  He asked himself as he stood there whether her vagaries were merely temperamental, the air of mystery which seemed to surround her simply accidental.  He thought of that night at her house, the curious intimacy which from the first moment she had seemed to take for granted, the confidence with which she had treated him.  He remembered those few breathless moments in her room, the man’s hand upon the window-sill, with the strange colored ring, worn with almost flagrant ostentation.  And then, with a lightning-like transition of thought, the gleam of the hand with that self-same ring, raised to strike a murderous blow, which he had seen for a moment through the doors of the Milan.  The red seal ring upon the finger—­what did it mean?  A doubt chilled him for a moment.  He told himself with passionate insistence, that it was not possible that she could know of these things.  Her words were idle, her theories a jest.  He turned away from the window and caught up a morning paper, resolved to escape from his thoughts.  The first headline stared up at him: 

The Rosario murder. 
Sensational arrest expected.
Rumored extraordinary disclosures.

He threw the paper down again.  Then the door was suddenly opened, and Fenella appeared.  She rang a bell.

“I am going to order luncheon,” she announced.  “My brother will be here directly.”

Arnold bowed, a little absently.  Against his will, he was listening to voices on the landing outside.  One he knew to be Starling’s, the other was Count Sabatini’s.  He closed his ears to their speech, but there was no doubt whatever that the voice of Starling shook with fear.  A moment or two later the two men entered the room.  Count Sabatini came forward with outstretched hand.  A rare smile parted his lips.  He looked a very distinguished and very polished gentleman.