“As you will. God send you may be successful for the sake of Russia.”
His tone was intensely earnest, and with the words ringing in my ears I swung off into the road in the direction of the autocar, and when I turned once I saw him watching me intently and eagerly.
Now that the moment for action had really come, I was as cool as I could have wished. I took a mental note of everything and I was careful to assume so far as possible the swinging stride of the man I was personating.
As I neared the car a man stepped from inside it and touched his cap.
“Who is your master?” I asked, putting all the authority I could into my manner, and staring hard at the man. He was dressed like a chauffeur, and save for his black beard and moustache his face was almost hidden by the peak of his cap and a pair of hideous driving goggles.
“M. Boreski, m’sieur.” His French was that of an educated man, I thought.
“What are your instructions?”
“We are waiting for some one from the Palace, m’sieur.” The “we” struck me as peculiar. I stopped by the car and looked harder at him.
“You speak French with a good accent, my man,” I said, with some suspicion in my tone, and then the unexpected happened.
A girl, closely veiled, put her head out from the hood which covered the back seat, and with a dash of contempt said—