Keyork Arabian was standing in the middle of the parlour waiting for Beatrice. When she entered at last he made two steps forward, bowing profoundly, and then smiled in a deferential manner.

"My dear lady," he said, "I am here. I have lost no time. It so happened that I received your note just as I was leaving my carriage after a morning drive. I had no idea that you were in Bohemia."

"Thanks. It was good of you to come so soon."

She sat down upon one of the stiff chairs and motioned to him to follow her example.

"And your dear father--how is he?" inquired Keyork with suave politeness, as he took his seat.

"My father died a week ago," said Beatrice gravely.

Keyork's face a.s.sumed all the expression of which it was capable. "I am deeply grieved," he said, moderating his huge voice to a soft and purring sub-ba.s.s. "He was an old and valued friend."

There was a moment's silence. Keyork, who knew many things, was well aware that a silent feud, of which he also knew the cause, had existed between father and daughter when he had last been with them, and he rightly judged from his knowledge of their obstinate characters that it had lasted to the end. He thought therefore that his expression of sympathy had been sufficient and could pa.s.s muster.

"I asked you to come," said Beatrice at last, "because I wanted your help in a matter of importance to myself. I understand that you know a person who calls herself Unorna, and who lives here."

Keyork's bright blue eyes scrutinized her face. He wondered how much she knew.

"Very well indeed," he answered, as though not at all surprised.

"You know something of her life, then. I suppose you see her very often, do you not?"

"Daily, I can almost say."

"Have you any objection to answering one question about her?"

"Twenty if you ask them, and if I know the answers," said Keyork, wondering what form the question would take, and preparing to meet a surprise with indifference.

"But will you answer me truly?"

"My dear lady, I pledge you my sacred word of honour," Keyork answered with immense gravity, meeting her eyes and laying his hand upon his heart.

"Does she love that man--or not?" Beatrice asked, suddenly showing him the little miniature of the Wanderer, which she had taken from its case and had hitherto concealed in her hand.

She watched every line of his face for she knew something of him, and in reality put very little more faith in his word of honour than he did himself, which was not saying much. But she had counted upon surprising him, and she succeeded, to a certain extent. His answer did not come as glibly as he could have wished, though his plan was soon formed.

"Who is it! Ah, dear me! My old friend. We call him the Wanderer. Well, Unorna certainly knew him when he was here."

"Then he is gone?"

"Indeed, I am not quite sure," said Keyork, regaining all his self-possession. "Of course I can find out for you, if you wish to know.

But as regards Unorna, I can tell you nothing. They were a good deal together at one time. I fancy he was consulting her. You have heard that she is a clairvoyant, I daresay."

He made the last remark quite carelessly, as though he attached no importance to the fact.

"Then you do not know whether she loves him?"

Keyork indulged himself with a little discreet laughter, deep and musical.

"Love is a very vague word," he said presently.

"Is it?" Beatrice asked, with some coldness.

"To me, at least," Keyork hastened to say, as though somewhat confused.

"But, of course, I can know very little about it in myself, and nothing about it in others."

Not knowing how matters might turn out, he was willing to leave Beatrice with a suspicion of the truth, while denying all knowledge of it.

"You know him yourself, of course," Beatrice suggested.

"I have known him for years--oh, yes, for him, I can answer. He was not in the least in love."

"I did not ask that question," said Beatrice rather haughtily. "I knew he was not."

"Of course, of course. I beg your pardon!"

Keyork was learning more from her than she from him. It was true that she took no trouble to conceal her interest in the Wanderer and his doings.

"Are you sure that he has left the city?" Beatrice asked.

"No, I am not positive. I could not say with certainty."

"When did you see him last?"

"Within the week, I am quite sure," Keyork answered with alacrity.

"Do you know where he was staying?"

"I have not the least idea," the little man replied, without the slightest hesitation. "We met at first by chance in the Teyn Kirche, one afternoon--it was a Sunday, I remember, about a month ago."

"A month ago--on a Sunday," Beatrice repeated thoughtfully.

"Yes--I think it was New Year's Day, too."

"Strange," she said. "I was in the church that very morning, with my maid. I had been ill for several days--I remember how cold it was.

Strange--the same day."

"Yes," said Keyork, noting the words, but appearing to take no notice of them. "I was looking at Tycho Brahe's monument. You know how it annoys me to forget anything--there was a word in the inscription which I could not recall. I turned round and saw him sitting just at the end of the pew nearest to the monument."

"The old red slab with a figure on it, by the last pillar?" Beatrice asked eagerly.

"Exactly. I daresay you know the church very well. You remember that the pew runs very near to the monument so that there is hardly room to pa.s.s."

"I know--yes."

She was thinking that it could hardly have been a mere accident which had led the Wanderer to take the very seat she had occupied on the morning of that day. He must have seen her during the Ma.s.s, but she could not imagine how he could have missed her. They had been very near then. And now, a whole month had pa.s.sed, and Keyork Arabian professed not to know whether the Wanderer was still in the city or not.