account of my interest in Owen, for Portia’s sake—to walk past the office before crossing. I glanced at the chauffeur as I went by, and was simply aghast at the fierceness of his black eyes; he looked to be a veritable Tartar, as he stared unseeingly past me into Owen’s office, where the princess sat comfortably enough in a chair near the flat-top desk behind which Owen was ensconced.
The Russian leaned forward, plucking at the same time something from the bosom of her dress. She stretched out slim white arms from the ermine wrap that swathed her lissom figure, and I distinctly saw her fasten something to Owen’s coat lapel. It made me feel furious again on Portia’s account.
I crossed the road, in front of the limousine. The chauffeur’s inscrutable black eyes snapped with such ferocity at the pretty little scene that I actually jumped when he ground out—so explosively, with such concentrated fury that it sent cold chills down my spinal column—what sounded like “Volko Dlak!” The sounds stuck so tenuously in my memory that when I got into the house (about half past 4 it was, then) and met Portia, dressed in one of her lovely, clinging, colorful negligees, I asked her at once what the words could be, and articulated them painstakingly for her.
She stared at me for a moment, uncomprehending. Then the soft color began to fade out of her cheeks.
“Not two words, just one,” she said, her smooth brow contracting, a strained expression on her face that had grown strangely serious. “I’m afraid that what he said was ‘volkodlak’.”
“You seem to recognize the word phonetically, Portia. Was it Russian? I didn’t know you were acquainted with that tongue.”
“It was Russian, Aunt Sophie. No, I’m not particularly up in that language, except in the case of a few words, or combinations of words, which I’ve had occasion to learn during my work with Mr. Differdale. That particular word I know. I wish it had been anything else,” she finished somberly. “Don’t ask me about it just now, please, Auntie. I’m in no mood to discuss Russian or any other language. But I would like to know just why that chauffeur said that,” she finished, musingly.
“It’s my opinion that he was fearfully upset about something,” I contributed. “Do you suppose that he was disgusted to be kept waiting there while milady pinned flowers in Owen’s buttonhole?”
There! The cat was out of the bag. I hadn’t intended to bother Portia with that, but it just slipped out, inadvertently. I could have bitten off my tongue when she turned her slow gaze upon me as if to verify with her eyes what her ears had heard.
“The Princess Tchernova was pinning a flower on Owen’s coat? You saw that? Oh, it is infamous! And I must stand by and do nothing!” burst out my niece. Her feeling seemed to me all out of proportion to the offence. “Yet—I must save him, somehow.”
She wrung her hands tensely, then with a sudden change of front, took a strong grip on herself and laughed, albeit rather an apology of a laugh.
“Let’s have dinner, Aunt Sophie. I think perhaps I worked too late last night and didn’t sleep enough today. It’s made me irritable. A brisk walk with Boris and Andrei will do me good tonight, after dinner—wake me up a bit, perhaps.”
“Oh, Portia, you’re not going to work again tonight?” I began, when she silenced me with a single high look.
“Aunt Sophie, when the Bible told us to watch and pray, it should have added, and work, lest we fall into the clutches of such foul evil as the human brain can hardly conceive. Come,
