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“They are at your feet,” he whispered. “I have made you.”

She did not answer—merely opened her eyes and looked at him and through the darkness, something like tears glistened on the lashes.

They drove on in silence. He recaptured her hand, held it to his lips. She looked away.

The car drew up before a modest apartment building in a side street. He helped her out, entered with her, and the elevator swung them upward. He made a movement for the key she took from her bag but she unlocked the door and led the way into the foyer.

Slowly he reached up, lifted the fur toque from her black hair and the wrap from her shoulders, and his touch lingered caressingly as he turned her toward him.

“You are my creation!” he told her. “Parsinova cannot exist without me.”

Into the throat of the great Russian actress with the questionable past came a flutter of fear. Her lips quivered. She gave a convulsive choking sound. Her eyes raced the length of the hall as though she wanted to run away, then went pleading up to his. He smiled down into them, drew her firmly to him.