Menken recoiled, thunderstruck.
“You knew what I was carrying?”
“As well as I know the contents of the telegram which the Princess sent from Irkutsk to the head of the Manchurian Syndicate—the man who has sworn that the Czar’s letter shall never be delivered.”
Colonel Menken staggered to his feet, bewildered, angry, half induced to threaten, and half to yield.
“You must be lying! Sophy never left my sight while we were at Irkutsk!”
“We can discuss that later. Will you, or will you not, reclaim his majesty’s letter—the letter entrusted to your honor?”
Menken turned white.
“I—I will approach the Princess,” he stammered, obviously divided between fear of losing her, and dread of myself and any action I might take.
“That will not do for me,” I said sternly. “I can only make you this offer: Come with me at once to this lady’s sleeping berth and regain the despatch, and I will agree to say no more about it; refuse, and I shall report the whole affair to his majesty personally.”