“But, after all, he is a very fine fellow. He actually asked me how old I was! He does not imagine that I am older than himself, and I should not be astonished in the slightest, if he were to cherish the idea of marrying me. I lead him by a thread—he neither feels nor sees—on towards absolute slavery. Then, after he has delivered up to me his secret, as all the rest have done, I shall disappear. Once the mourning weeds of Mme. Vignola flung aside, I shall again become the Baroness Sophia, in which character I challenge my lover to recognize the plaintive sorrowful widow he is paying court to just now. So, you see, I am not neglecting business matters. I hope you are doing the same on your side. The little Lichtenbach heiress will be a multi-millionaire; that is well worth the trouble of whispering words of love into her ear. “A thousand kisses, Cesare. _Sempre t’amero_. “SOPHIA.” She sealed the letter, took up a cigarette, and was preparing to retire to rest, when three slight taps on the shutters sent a shudder through her veins. She listened, an anxious frown on her face, and, after a moment’s interval, the taps were repeated. Opening a drawer, she seized a revolver, and, walking deliberately to the window, half opened it, and, speaking through the closed shutter, said in Italian accents— “Who is there?” A voice replied in muffled tones, “It is I—Hans; there is nothing to fear, Sophia.” A slight pallor came over her face, but she placed back the revolver in the drawer, and, without replying, left the salon. On reaching the outside door she drew the bolts, and noiselessly opened the door. A tall man entered. Without the exchange of a single word, she led the way to the salon, then carefully closed the door. The man removed the felt hat which covered his head, displaying a bold, rough countenance. He was a man of athletic build, and very broad-shouldered, whilst a reddish beard covered the lower portion of his face. Taking a seat, he cast a keen look at Sophia, and said— “Who is with you, here?” “Milona.” “Where is Agostini?” “In Paris. And where have you come from?” “From Geneva. Lichtenbach sent me your address.” “How did you enter?” “Over the wall.” “With your wounded arm?” “My arm is healed.” As he spoke he extended it with a threatening smile. The arm was indeed whole. A glove covered the hand. He continued— “The Swiss are very fine mechanics. They have made for me a jointed fore-arm which works like a natural one. The hand is of steel. It is the best fisticuff imaginable. A blow from that hand, Sophia, would kill a man.” With a sigh he continued. “But, after all, this arm is not worth the one I have lost. Still, those who have mutilated me shall pay for my flesh and blood.” As he spoke his face assumed a ferocious expression, and _he_ ground his teeth savagely. Sophia, in grave accents, replied—