“Curse the business. I am sick of the place. The sooner this thing’s over and Christina is on the throne and married to Sergius, the sooner we shall be back in Moscow and out of this beastly hole.”
The voice was loud and strident, and the language Russian; and the speaker, a young red-haired man, in an officer’s uniform, laughed noisily. I was in the room before the sentence ended, but I came to an abrupt halt in my surprise, and perceiving at once the mistake that had been made, I half turned to leave the room again. But the man who had brought me had already closed the door.
My surprise was not one whit greater than that of the three men in the room, however, who were standing together by a table with their backs to the door, and not having heard it open, did not know I was there till the officer who had spoken turned round.
“Hullo! who the devil’s this?” he exclaimed. “What do you want, sir?” and I saw his hand go to his sword hilt.
His companions turned quickly on hearing him, and stared at me with evident amazement.
“Be quiet, Marx,” said one of them in Russian, a much older man, and apparently in command. Then in Bulgarian to me, “May I ask your business, sir?”
“On my word, I know no more than yourself,” I answered, keeping my eye on the red-haired man whose threatening looks I did not at all like. “I am here ‘In the Name of a Woman,’ I presume. A messenger accosted me a few minutes since in the street close by and gave me a written message to follow him. He brought me here—and that’s all I know.”
“A cool devil, on my word,” exclaimed the red-headed man, and whispered something to the third which I could not catch.
“There has seemingly been some mistake,” said the elder man suavely. “You have not been long in the room, sir?”
“Certainly not, the door has but barely closed.”