It was Kosmaroff.  His eyes were wild; he was breathless.  For a moment he was not a civilized man at all.  Then he made an effort, clinched his hands, and bit his lips.  His whole demeanor changed.

“You, mademoiselle!” he said, in broken English.  “Then Heaven is kind—­Heaven is kind!”

In a moment he was at her feet, holding her two hands, and pressing first one and then the other to his lips.  He was wildly agitated, and Netty was conscious that his agitation in some way reached her.  In all her life she had never known what it was to be really carried away until that moment.  She had never felt anything like it—­had never seen a man like this—­at her feet.  She dragged at her hands, but could not free them.

“I came,” he said—­and all the while he had one eye on the passage to see that no one approached—­“to see you, because I could not stay away!  You think I am a poor man.  That is as may be.  But a poor man can love as well as a rich man—­and perhaps better!”

“You must go! you must go!” said Netty.  And yet she would have been sorry if he had gone.  The worst of reaching the high-water mark is that the ebb must necessarily be dreary.  In a flash of thought she recollected Joseph Mangles’ story.  This was the sequel.  Strange if he had heard his own story through the door of communication between Mangles’ bedroom and the dining-room.  For the other door, from the salon to the bedroom, stood wide open.

“You think I have only seen you once,” said Kosmaroff.  “I have not.  I have seen you often.  But the first time I saw you—­at the races—­was enough.  I loved you then.  I shall love you all my life!”

“You must go—­you must go!” whispered Netty, dragging at her hands.

“I won’t unless you promise to come to the Saski Gardens now—­for five minutes.  I only ask five minutes.  It is quite safe.  There are many passing in and out of the large door.  No one will notice you.  The streets are full.  I made an excuse to come in.  A man I know was coming to these rooms with a parcel for you.  I took the parcel.  See, there is the tradesman’s box.  I brought it.  It will take me out safely.  But I won’t go till you promise.  Promise, mademoiselle!”

“Yes!” whispered Netty, hurriedly.  “I will come!”

Firstly, she was frightened.  The others might come at any moment.  Secondly—­it is to be feared—­she wanted to go.  It was the high-water mark.  This man carried her there and swept her off her feet—­this working-man, in his rough clothes, whose ancestor had been a king.

“Go and get a cloak,” he said.  “I will meet you by the great fountain.”

And Netty ran along the corridor to her room, her eyes alight, her heart beating as it had never beaten before.

Kosmaroff watched her for a moment with that strange smile that twisted his mouth to one side.  Then he struck a match and turned to the chandelier.  The globe was still warm.  He had turned out the gas when Netty’s hand was actually on the handle.