No: she wasn't in the least afraid. Even if she were being kidnapped, she wasn't afraid. She was so young, so absurdly confident in her ability to take care of herself. On the other hand, intuition kept admonishing her that in real life things simply didn't happen like this, so smoothly, so fortunately; somehow, somewhere, in this curious affair, something must be wrong.

"Please: what is my father's name?"

"Prince Victor Va.s.silyevski."

"You're sure it isn't Michael Lanyard?"

Now Mr. Karslake was genuinely startled and showed it. Sofia remarked that he eyed her uneasily.

"My sainted aunt! Where did you get hold of that name?"

"Isn't it my father's?"

"Ye-es," the young man admitted, reluctantly; at least with something strongly resembling reluctance. "But he doesn't use it any more."

"Why not?"

Mr. Karslake was silent, thoughtful. Sofia felt that she had scored and with determination pressed her point.

"Do you mind telling me why he doesn't use that name, if it's his?"

"See here, Princess Sofia"--Karslake slewed round to face her squarely with his most earnest and persuasive manner--"I am merely Prince Victor's secretary, I'm not supposed to know all his secrets, and those I do know I'm supposed not to talk about. I'd much rather you put that question to Prince Victor yourself."

"I shall," Sofia announced with decision. "When am I to see him? To-night?"

"Of course. That is, I presume you will. I mean to say, Prince Victor wasn't at home when I left, but if I know him he's sure to be when we arrive. And I'm taking you there as directly as a motor can travel in this blessed town."

Sofia looked out of the window. The car, having turned down Regent Street from Piccadilly Circus, was now traversing sedate Pall Mall; and in another moment it swung into the pa.s.sage between St. James's Palace and Marlborough House Chapel; and then they were in The Mall, with the Victoria Memorial ahead, glowing against the dingy backing of Buckingham Palace.

Now, since all Sofia's reading had inculcated the belief that the enterprising kidnapper always made off with his victim by way of dark bystreets and unsavoury neighbourhoods, she felt somewhat rea.s.sured.

"Have we very far to go?"

"We're almost there now--Queen Anne's Gate."

A good enough address. Though that proved nothing. There was still plenty of time, anything might happen....

Sofia shrugged, and settled back to await developments.

But there was nothing to warrant misgivings in the aspect of the dwelling before which the car presently drew up. If it wasn't the palace Sofia had unconsciously been looking forward to, it owned a solid, dull-faced dignity that suited well the town-house of a person of quality, it measured up quite acceptably to Sofia's notion of what was becoming to the condition of a prince in exile--who naturally would live quietly, in view of the recent revolution in Russia.

Without augmented fears, then, though still on the alert for anything that might seem questionable, and more agitated with excitement than she let him suspect, Sofia permitted Mr. Karslake to conduct her to the door.

He had barely touched the bell-b.u.t.ton when this door opened, revealing a vista of s.p.a.cious entrance-hall.

To one side stood a manservant to whom Sofia paid no attention till the sound of his name on Karslake's tongue struck an echo from her memory.

"Thanks, Nogam. Prince Victor home yet?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Tell him, please, when he comes in, we're waiting in the study."

"'Nk-you, sir."

The servant was the man whom Karslake had met in the Cafe des Exiles only a few hours before. Catching Sofia's quick, questioning glance, Nogam paused at respectful attention. And, even then, she was struck again with his fidelity to the role in the social system for which Life had cast him. In the cafe, that afternoon, he had cut a mildly incongruous figure, unpretending but alien to that atmosphere; here, in the plain evening-dress livery of his station, he blended perfectly into the picture.

Karslake gave his hat and stick to the man, then opened one wing of a great double doorway, and with a bow invited Sofia to precede him. She faltered, hazily conceiving that threshold in the guise of an inglorious Rubicon. But she had already gone too far into this adventure to draw back now without forfeiting her self-respect. With a deceptively firm step she entered a room to wonder at.

Sombre shadows masked much of its magnificent proportions, but what Sofia could see suggested less the study of a man of everyday interests than the private museum of an Orientalist whose wealth knew no limits.

The air was warm and close, aromatic with the ghosts of ten thousand perished perfumes. The quiet, when Karslake had closed the door, was oppressive, as if some dark enchantment here had power to tame and silence the growl of London that was never elsewhere in all the city for an instant still.

On a great table of black teakwood inlaid with mother of pearl burned a solitary lamp, a curious affair in filigree of bra.s.s, furnishing what illumination there was. Its closely shaded rays made vaguely visible walls dark with books, tier upon tier climbing to the ceiling; chairs of odd shape, screens of glowing lacquer; tables and stands supporting caskets of burning cinnabar, of ivory, of gold, of kaleidoscopic cloisonne; trays heaped high with unset jewels; cabinets crowded with rare objects of Eastern art; squat shapes of neglected G.o.ds brandishing weird weapons; grotesque devil masks ferociously a-grin; chests of strange woods strangely fashioned, strangely carved, and decorated with inlays of precious metals, banded with huge straps of black iron, from which gushed in rainbow profusion silks and brocades stiff with barbaric embroideries in gold- and silver-thread and precious stones.

Confused by the impact upon her perceptions of so much that was unexpected and bizarre, the girl looked round with an uncertain smile, and found Karslake watching her with a manner of peculiar gravity and concern.

"Prince Victor is an extraordinary man," Karslake replied to her unspoken comment; "probably the most learned Orientalist alive. Sometimes I think the East has never had a secret he doesn't know."

He paused and drew nearer, with added earnestness in his regard.

"Princess Sofia," said he, diffidently, "if I may say something without meaning to seem disrespectful--"

Perplexed, she encouraged him with one word: "Please."

"I'm afraid," Karslake ventured, "you will have many strange experiences in this new life. Some of them, I fancy, you won't immediately understand, some things may seem wrong to you, you may find yourself confronted with conditions hard to accept ..."

He rested as if in doubt, and she fancied that he was listening intently, almost apprehensively, for some signal of warning. But on her part Sofia heard no sound.

Impressed and puzzled, she uttered a prompting "Yes?"

"I only want to say"--he employed a tone so low that she could barely hear him--"if you don't mind--whatever happens--I'd be awf'ly glad if you'd think of me as one who sincerely wants to be your friend."

"Why," she said in wonder--"thank you. I shall be glad--"

She checked in astonishment: a man was approaching from the general direction of the door by which they had entered.

The effect was uncanny, as if the figure had materialized before her very eyes, out of clear air, as if one of those many shadows had taken on shape and substance while she looked.

The man himself was nothing unusual in general aspect, of no remarkable stature, neither tall nor small, neither robust nor slender. His evening clothes were without fault, but as much might be said of ten thousand men who might be seen any night in the public rendezvous of leisured London.

His carriage had special distinction only in that he moved with a sort of feline grace. Still, something elusive made him unlike any other man Sofia had ever met, something arresting and not altogether prepossessing.

As he drew nearer and his features became more clearly defined by the light, she was sensible of gazing into a face of unique cast. Of an odd grayish pallor accentuated by hair so black that it might have been painted on his skull with india-ink, the skin seemed to be as soft and smooth as a child's, beardless and wholly without l.u.s.tre. The mouth was sensuous yet firm, with hard, full lips. Leaden pouches hung beneath heavy-lidded eyes set at a noticeable angle. The eyes themselves were as black as night and as lightless; the rays of the lamp struck no gleam from them; in spite of this they were compelling, masterful, and disconcerting.

Karslake at once fell back, with a bow so low it was little less than an obeisance.

"Prince Victor!"

The man nodded acknowledgment of this greeting without detaching attention from the girl. His voice, slightly tremulous with emotion, uttered her name: "Sofia?"