She had only returned from London an hour earlier, and now, far from the distractions of the momentous hours she had spent with the man whose love had been powerful enough to sweep aside every other consideration from her mind, she was striving to quell all emotion, and disentangle the skeins in which she felt hopelessly caught up. Paramount, her great love for Ruxton stood out and tripped her at every effort to concentrate upon those matters which related to the plans upon which they were all at work. Her alarm for her father was real and almost overwhelming. But her joy in her new-found love robbed it of half its significance. In the happiness of the moment it was impossible to believe or accept, even, the suggestion that disaster had overtaken, or could overtake him. In the first rush of her dread Ruxton's confidence had reassured her. Her father must be safe. Her lover's argument had been so clear and convincing. Then he had promised to meet him on his arrival in England. Yes, her father was bound to make for Dorby. That was their secret landing-place. Ruxton would be there. He would not fail. He would warn him of Von Salzinger's discovery of her house. He would arrange for his safety. To all these things he had given his word, and his word was all-sufficient for her. As for his ability to put his promise into effect there could be no question. The proud thought in her was supreme. She dwelt upon the glamored picture of her lover which was always in her mind, and it comforted her and reassured her as she had never found comfort or reassurance before. No one who knew him could question, she felt. Her vivid mental vision dwelt upon the sculptured beauties of his magnificent face and head. The calmly assured manner; the great physical strength, which reminded her of the men in the wonderful history of her own country,--these things overbore her woman's timidities, and reacted upon her in a manner which drove all doubts headlong. He would write her. How? Through the post, or would he send a messenger with the news of her father's safety? It was a useless speculation. All she knew was that the news would come. He had promised it. Vassilitz entered the room. Vita knew it because the door had opened, and the rattle of the handle had disturbed her. Otherwise the man's movements were decorously silent. He crossed to the windows and drew the curtains. He glided across the room, and prepared to remove the tea-things. Would madame have the lights? No, madame preferred the firelight. The brighter lights would have disturbed her dreaming. The man bore the tea-table away, his dark eyes and sallow features perfect in their immobility.