The Prince was white with rage.  The sight of Lucille standing by Mr. Sabin’s side, her hand lightly resting upon his, her dark eyes full of inscrutable tenderness, maddened him.  He was flouted and ignored.  He was carried away by a storm of passion.  He tore a sheet of paper from his pocket book, and unlocking a small gold case at the end of his watch chain, shook from it a pencil with yellow crayon.  Mr. Sabin leaned over towards him.

“You sign it at your peril, Prince,” he said.  “It will mean worse things than that for you.”

For a second he hesitated.  Lucille also leaned towards him.

“Prince,” she said, “have I not kept my vows faithfully?  Think!  I came from America at a moment’s notice; I left my husband without even a word of farewell; I entered upon a hateful task, and though to think of it now makes me loathe myself—­I succeeded.  I have kept my vows, I have done my duty.  Be generous now, and let me go.”

The sound of her voice maddened him.  A passionate, arbitrary man, to whom nothing in life had been denied, to be baulked in this great desire of his latter days was intolerable.  He made no answer to either of them.  He wrote a few lines with the yellow crayon and passed them silently across to Lucille.

Her face blanched.  She stretched out an unwilling hand.  But Mr. Sabin intervened.  He took the paper from the Prince’s hand, and calmly tore it into fragments.  There was a moment’s breathless silence.

“Victor!” Lucille cried.  “Oh, what have you done!”

The Prince’s face lightened with an evil joy.

“We now, I think,” he said, “understand one another.  You will permit me to wish you a very pleasant evening, and a speedy leave-taking.”

Mr. Sabin smiled.

“Many thanks, my dear Prince,” he said lightly.  “Make haste and complete your charming little arrangements.  Let me beg of you to avoid bungling this time.  Remember that there is not in the whole of Europe to-day a man more dangerous to you than I.”

The Prince had departed.  Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette and stood on the hearthrug.  His eyes were bright with the joy of fighting.

“Lucille,” he said, “I see that you have not touched your liqueur.  Oblige me by drinking it.  You will find it excellent.”

She came over to him and hung upon his arm.  He threw his cigarette away and kissed her upon the lips.

“Victor,” she murmured, “I am afraid.  You have been rash!”

“Dearest,” he answered, “it is better to die fighting than to stand aside and watch evil things.  But after all, there is no fear.  Come!  Your cloak and dressing case!”

“You have plans?” she exclaimed, springing up.

“Plans?” He laughed at her a little reproachfully.  “My dear Lucille!  A carriage awaits us outside, a special train with steam up at the Gard de L’ouest.  This is precisely the contingency for which I have planned.”