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As Pagratide's pupils accustomed themselves to the murk he realized that this last room was bare except for tapestries hung flat against the wall, and that at its farther side narrow slits of light showed along the sills of two doors. Turning, he noted the darker shadow of some recess in the wall, immediately to his left.
He's ensconced in rooms adjoining yours. You might look in on him as you go up to dress. He seems to be in the very devil of a hurry." Pagratide's brows went up in evident annoyance and for an instant there was a defiant stiffening of his jaw, but when he spoke his voice held neither excitement nor surprise. "Ah, indeed!" The exclamation was casual.
The pause belonged to them their moment of reprieve. At last she said quietly: "But you are stupid not to guess it." "Guess what?" he inquired. "There is no Pagratide. Pagratide's real name is Karyl of Galavia." If the living-room at "Idle Times" bore the impress of Van Bristow's individuality and taste, his den was the tangible setting of his personality.
Some delirious accusation that this man cost him every dear thing in life seemed fighting for expression and reprisal, then he realized that the toreador had won his way into Pagratide's affection as well as his own. Tears came to his eyes for an instant. He focused his gaze on a cigarette-shop across the street. "Lady!"
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