But I was both surprised and shocked by the frightened, grief-stricken look on the face of this woman whom I had come to dread as my most formidable opponent in the Russian Court.
“Mr. Sterling!—Monsieur V——?” she cried in an agitated voice that seemed ready to break down into a sob. “Can you forgive me for intruding on you? I dare not speak to you freely in my own house. I am beset by spies.”
“Sit down, Princess,” I said soothingly, as I rolled forward a comfortable chair. “Of course I am both charmed and flattered by your visit, whatever be its cause.”
With feminine intuition she marked the reserve in my response to her appeal.
“Ah! You distrust me, and you are quite right!” she exclaimed, casting herself into the chair.
She fixed her luminous eyes on me in a deep look, half-imploring, half-reproachful.
“It is true, then, what they have been telling me? You were the man, dressed as an inspector of the Third Section who traveled on the train with me? And you saw the death”—her words were interrupted by a shudder—“of that unhappy man?”
It was not very easy to preserve my composure in the face of her emotion. Nevertheless, at the risk of appearing callous, I replied:
“I cannot pretend to understand your question. However, even if I did it would make no difference.