audacity, her lips were parted with the promise of a smile.

She loved it all, she adored this mood of London: its nights of rain were
sheer enchantment, arabesque, nights of secrecy and stealth, mystery, and
romance under the rose. On nights such as this lovers prospered, adventures
were to the venturesome, brave rewards to the bold.

For herself she was unafraid, she foretasted entire success. How should it
be otherwise? Consider how famously chance had prospered her designs,
playing into her hands the information that this Monsieur Lanyard was not
at home, might not return till very late, and was expecting a call from
somebody whom he desired to await his return in his rooms!

With such an open occasion, how could one fail?

Sofia asked only three minutes alone with the painting....

And if by any mishap she were caught, still she would not be dismayed. The
letters were hers, were they not? They had been stolen from her, he had no
right title to them who had purchased only the picture which had served as
their hiding-place. By all means, let him keep that stupid canvas; he could
hardly refuse to let her have her letters, not if she pleaded her
prettiest. And even if he should prove obtuse, ungenerous....

Her smile was definite and confident. She was beautiful--and Monsieur
Lanyard was aware of that. Had she not, that afternoon, in the auction
room, without his knowledge detected admiration in his eyes, a look warm
with something more than admiration only?

He was impressionable, then. And it would be no distasteful task to play