"Thank you," I returned, coldly. "I know what you can do. You can put me first on the list for some task which will insure my being served as you meant me to be served to-day. One commission is enough for me, and I prefer the Emperor's."
"You don't know what you say, nor what you refuse."
"All the more reason for not regretting my refusal," I retorted, lightly. "But this does not answer my question—Why do you seek to have me assassinated?"
"Siberia is getting overpopulated," he returned, manifestly angry at my refusal.
"You mean it's cheaper to kill than to exile."
"One must have some regard for its morals, too," he sneered, with a contempt at which my rage took fire.
I looked at him with a light in my eyes which he could read plainly enough.
"You are a coward, M. Tueski," said I, sternly: "because you presume upon the office you hold to say things which without the protection that guards you, you would not dare to let between your teeth."
"It is useless to talk in that strain to me," he said, shortly. "I know you."
"No—by Heaven, you don't—yet. But I'll let you know something of me now. Men say you know no fear; that your loves, desires, emotions, are all dead—all, save ambition. I'll test that. This plot you have laid against my life is your own private revenge for some fancied wrong. You have sought to carry it out even at the very moment when you had had a hint to guard me. It was cunningly laid, and nearly succeeded; and then you would have set the blame down at Devinsky's door."