“I am the Count Benderoff, of Radova.”
She saw the hesitation, but put it down to a momentary reluctance to disclose my identity, for she answered:
“You will not repent having trusted me with your name, Count.” Then, with a flashing, subtle underglance, she added, “And do you know me?”
“As yet, madame, I have not that honour, to my regret.”
“Yet I am not unknown in Bulgaria,” and she raised her head with a gesture of infinite pride.
“I am a stranger in Sofia,” said I, in excuse of my ignorance.
“Even strangers know of the staunch woman-friend of his Highness the Prince. I am the Countess Anna Bokara.”
I knew her well enough by repute, and her presence in the house alone and defenceless was the more mystifying.
“Permit me to wish you a speedy recovery from your wound, Countess,” and to cover the thoughts which her words started I raised my glass. She seemed almost to caress me with her eyes and voice as she replied:
“I drink to my newest friend, that rare thing in this distracted country, a man of honour, the Count Benderoff, of Radova.” As she set her glass down she added: “My enemies have done me a splendid service, Count—they have brought me your friendship. They could not have made us a nobler or more timely gift. The Prince has need of such a man as you.”