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Author of "The Tortoise-Shell Cat," "The Remorse of Professor Panebianco," etc.
Synopsis of Preceding Chapters
Sophie Delorme, coming to live with her niece, the young widow Portia Differdale, finds her engaged in carrying on her deceased husband's warfare against the unseen powers of evil.
The Russian Princess Irma Andreyevna Tchernova comes to live in the old Burnham mansion, accompanied by five pet wolves, which she keeps in a wolf-den in the Burnham grounds. She proceeds to flirt with Owen Edwardes, with whom Portia Differdale is in love.
Princess Tchernova excites the comment of the tradespeople by ordering great quantities of red meat, ostensibly for her wolves. She spreads the rumor abroad that Portia's two magnificent wolfhounds are running wild at night. A few nights after this, Policeman O'Brien is attacked by a white animal, presumably a large dog, and severely bitten. The animal is put to rout by Portia's two wolfhounds, Boris and Andrei. Portia's mother-in-law and sister-in-law, as well as the princess, spread the rumor that Officer O'Brien was attacked by one of Portia's wolfhounds.
PART 7
THERE was no way to evade the proffered invitation. Owen and I walked behind the trailing-robed, sinuous, triumphant princess, and her savage-eyed chauffeur helped each in turn into her limousine. It made me think of ancient conquerors and their captives of war.
I was thankful that the cut-glass vase did not hold marigolds, the odor of which I detest; it was full on this occasion of lilies-of-the-valley, which had filled the car with an almost cloying sweetness of perfume.
As we rolled down Elm Street toward the boulevard, I leaned forward to examine more closely a central flower in the white-and-green of the valley lilies, a flower that to me was a hideous travesty upon the beauty of nature’s garden products. It was of a deep burnt-orange color, with irregular, swollen black blotches, and the petals were not delicately translucent as orchids I have seen mostly were, but of a thick fleshiness that was somehow unpleasantly suggestive of—of life!—not the innocent life of a flower, but life that reeked of something inherently, powerfully evil and malevolent.
"You admire my beautiful Balkan orchid, yes, Aunt Sophie?" asked the princess, her delicate brows raised slightly as if she herself were not quite sure of the purpose of my extreme interest in the strange-appearing flower.
