seemed to have lost interest. The glow ebbing from his
face, his lips tightening, the thick lids drooping low over his eyes, he
sat in apparent abstraction, aping the impassivity of the graven idols that
graced his study.

"I don't mind owning, sir," the younger man resumed, nervously, "she had me
sparring for wind when she put it to me point-blank her father's name was
Michael Lanyard."

Without moving Victor enquired in a dull voice: "What did you tell her?"

"That it was a name you had once used, sir, but.... Well, what you told
her, all except the Lone Wolf business. Don't mind telling you I was in a
rare funk till you capped my story so neatly."

He laughed and ventured with a hesitation quite boyish: "I say, Prince
Victor--if it's not an impertinent question--was there any truth in that? I
mean about your having been the Lone Wolf twenty years ago."

"Not a syllable," said Victor, dryly.

"Then your name never was Michael Lanyard?"

"Never, but ..."

During a long pause the secretary fidgeted inwardly but had the wisdom to
refrain from showing further inquisitiveness. He could see that strong
passions were working in Victor: a hand, extended upon the table, unclosed
and closed with a peculiar clutching action; the muscles contracted round
mouth and eyes, moulding the face into a cast of disquieting malevolence.
The voice, when at length it resumed, was bitter.

"But Michael Lanyard was my enemy ... and is to-day.... He became a lover
of Sofia's mother, he had a hand in overturning plans I had made, he
humiliated, mocked me.... And to-day he is interfering again.... But ..."

Victor sank back in his chair. Suddenly that unholy grin of his flashed and
faded.

"But now his impertinence fails, his insolence over-reaches itself. Now I
have the whip-hand and ... I shall use it!"

Vindictiveness that could find relief only in action mastered the man.

"Be good enough to take this dictation."

Karslake turned to the table and opened a portfolio of illuminated Spanish
leather.

"Ready, sir," he said, with pencil poised.

_"To Michael Lanyard, Intelligence Division, the War Office, Whitehall.
Sir: Your daughter Sofia is now with me. Permit me to suggest that, in
consideration of this situation, you cease to meddle with my affairs. Your
own intelligence must tell you nothing could be more fatal than an attempt
to communicate with her._"

"Sign on the typewriter with the initial _V_."

"Yes, sir."

"T