But he was studious to show nothing of his own emotion. It was his part to
be merely a mirror, to reflect rather than to feel, to be an instrument
infinitely supple and unfailing, never an independent intelligence. Not
otherwise could he count on holding his place in Victor's favour.

"You were quicker than I hoped."

"I had no trouble, sir," Karslake returned, cheerfully. "Things rather
played into my hands."

Victor dropped into a chair beside the table and lifted the lid of a small
golden casket. Helping himself to one of its store of cigarettes, he made
Karslake free of the remainder with a gracious hand. The secretary
demurred, producing his pocket case.

"If you don't mind, sir ..."

Victor moved a supercilious eyebrow. "Woodbines again?"

"Sorry, sir; I know they're pretty awful and all that, but they were all I
could get in France, and I contracted a taste for them I can't seem to
cure. I remember, while I lay in a hospital, hardly a whole bone in my
body, thanks to the Boche and his flying circus--it was that lot sent me
crashing, you know--the nurses used to tempt me with the finest Turkish;
but somehow I couldn't go them; I'd beg for Woodbines."

Prince Victor dismissed the subject curtly. "I am waiting to hear about
Sofia."