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fumbled in his pocket desperately, his fingers on that key all the time; but he did not want to give it up, he did not care to see Monsieur Chambret—not just yet. A dozen pretexts to escape the meeting, to prolong the interview, flashed through his brain in a brief moment; but none that he dared use.

Meanwhile, the rosy palm of his princess was outstretched to receive the key, and she was eying him with no great favor, biting her lip with impatience, because of his dalliance. In the end O'Rourke had to surrender both the key and all hope of delaying the introduction.

Madame la Princesse, with an audible sigh of relief, swept over to the door. O'Rourke remained, standing, at the side of the desk. Perhaps it was entirely by accident that his elbow touched the edge of the lamp shade, and replaced it in its former position; perhaps he made the adjustment in his preoccupation; perhaps—not.

At all events, that was what immediately happened, before the princess had time to get that door open; and then the line of the light cut sharply across the lower part of O'Rourke's shirt bosom, as he stood there, leaving the upper portion of his body—his face, in particular—deeply shadowed.

He turned toward the door in uneasy expectancy.

Now it was at last open; the princess stood to one side, her hand on the knob, bowing mockingly and with a laugh.