And this last
could be counted upon not to put in appearance until Nogam took him word
that Victor was waiting.
So, having laid aside her furs and satisfied herself, by a seemingly
aimless but in fact exacting survey, that the abominable Sturm was not
skulking anywhere in the shadows, Sofia established herself on a lounge
that faced the fireplace, while Karslake stood before the fire, looking
down with an expectant smile of which she was but half aware.
"Aren't you going to forgive me?" he asked, quietly, after a time.
Sofia withdrew a pensive gaze from the ruddy bed of coals.
"For what?"
"You were kind enough to call it merely fibbing."
"I'm still thinking about that."
In fact, she had been thinking of nothing else. There was so much to be
considered. Imprimis, that Karslake had been guilty of practising a
deception upon her father. Deceit in itself was one form of treachery. And
how often had Victor stressed to her the dangers of his position,
surrounded by nameless but implacable enemies who would stick at no infamy
to compass his ruin!
But if she told him that Karslake understood Chinese she would lose her
friend forever--no question about that. Victor would not hesitate an
instant--indeed, Sofia felt sure he was only waiting for some such pretext
to get rid of his secretary. She was anything but unobserving, this child
of Soho, whose wits had been sharpened in the sophisticated atmosphere of a
French restaurant; and more than once she had seen Victor's face duplicate
the expression Papa Dupont's had so often assumed on his discovering that
some patron of the cafe was taking too personal an interest in the pretty
young dame du comptoir.
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