The princess, it would appear, was absurdly anxious about the welfare of her husband--an experienced hunter and a dead shot.
Claude de Chauxville then went to the library, where he waited, booted, spurred, rifle in hand, for Etta.
After a lapse of five minutes or more, the door was opened, and Etta came leisurely into the room.
"Well ?" she enquired indifferently.
De Chauxville bowed.

He walked past her and closed the door, which she happened to have left open.
Then he returned and stood by the window, leaning gracefully on his rifle.

His attitude, his hunting-suit, his great top-boots, made rather a picturesque object of him.
"Well ?" repeated Etta, almost insolently.
"It would have been wiser to have married me," said De Chauxville darkly.
Etta shrugged her shoulders.
"Because I understand you better; I _know_ you better than your husband." Etta turned and glanced at the clock.
"Have you come back from the bear-hunt to tell me this, or to avoid the bears ?" she asked.
De Chauxville frowned.

A man who has tasted fear does not like a question of his courage.
"I have come to tell you that and other things," he answered.
He looked at her with his sinister smile and a little upward jerk of the head.

He extended his open hand, palm upward, with the fingers slightly crooked.
"I hold you, madame," he said--"I hold you in my hand.