“I am very sorry,” she said.  “I do not think that you have properly understood me.  I have never made you any promise.”

For a moment he lost control of himself.  She shrank back at the blaze of indignation, half scornful, half incredulous, which lit up his clear, grey eyes.

“It is a lie!” he answered.  “Between you and me it can be no question of words.  You were always very careful of your pledges, but there are limits even to your caution—­as to my forbearance.  A woman does not ask a man who is pleading to her for her love to give up everything else he cares for in life without hope of reward.  It is monstrous!  I never sought you under false pretenses.  I never asked you for your friendship.  I wanted you.  I told you so plainly.  You won’t deny that you gave me hope—­encouraged me?  You can’t even deny that I am within my rights if I claim now at this instant the reward for my apostasy.”

Her hands were suddenly locked in his.  She felt herself being drawn into his arms.  With a desperate effort she avoided his embrace.  He still held her left wrist, and his face was dark with passion.

“Let me go!” she pleaded.

“Not I!” he answered, with an odd, choked little laugh.  “You belong to me.  I have paid the price.  I, too, am amongst the long list of those poor fools who have sold their gods and their honour for a woman’s kiss.  But I will not be left wholly destitute.  You shall pay me for what I have lost.”

“Oh, you are mad!” she answered.  “How could you have deceived yourself so?  Don’t you know that my husband is in London?”

“The man who calls himself Mr. Sabin?” he answered roughly.  “What has that to do with it?  You are living apart.  Saxe Leinitzer and the Duchess have both told me the history of your married life.  Or is the whole thing a monstrous lie?” he cried, with a sudden dawning sense of the truth.  “Nonsense!  I won’t believe it.  Lucille!  You’re not afraid!  I shall be good to you.  You don’t doubt that.  Sabin will divorce you of course.  You won’t lose your friends.  I—­”

There was a sudden loud tapping at the door.  Brott dropped her wrist and turned round with an exclamation of anger.  To Lucille it was a Heaven-sent interposition.  The Prince entered, pale, and with signs of hurry and disorder about his usually immaculate person.

“You are both here,” he exclaimed.  “Good!  Lucille, I must speak with you urgently in five minutes.  Brott, come this way with me.”

Lucille sank into a chair with a little murmur of relief.  The Prince led Brott into another room, and closed the door carefully behind him.

“Mr. Brott,” he said, “can I speak to you as a friend of Lucille’s?”

Brott, who distrusted the Prince, looked him steadily in the face.  Saxe Leinitzer’s agitation was too apparent to be wholly assumed.  He had all the appearance of being a man desperately in earnest.