"Si, si, Signor," he mumbled, "I am but your servant; you command, I obey."
Vladimir paid no attention to this protestation save for another of those slow, scornful smiles, neither of which escaped the Italian's notice.
"You will take this letter, Mattalini," Count Mellikoff continued, lifting a sealed packet and passing it across the table, "to M. Stubeloff, who is at present in this city. You will deliver it into his hands and bring me back a written reply—you understand, Mattalini—a written reply."
There was that in the Count's tone that caused the blood to leap hotly within the Italian's veins; but he only bowed the more obsequiously as he replied:
"Si, Signor, I comprehend. The M. Stubeloff is he who represents our father the Tsar in this inferno of a country; he makes a sojourn here. Bene, he shall receive your packet, Excellenza, from my own hand, and you shall have his Excellency's written response."
The man's voice was quiet and respectful enough; but Vladimir caught the sudden look of hatred that flashed up for one moment in his eyes, and knew that Mattalini was his secret enemy. As he turned away, Count Mellikoff spoke again:
"You will give directions below at the office, that should a lady ask for me she is to be shown up at once—at once; do you understand?"
"Si, Signor," replied the man, quietly; and then, with creeping step and drooping shoulders, he crossed the room, appearing for one moment in the moonbeams like the shadow of an evil spectre, and then vanishing as noiselessly as he had entered.
Once outside the room he stopped and drew a deep breath, lifting his bowed form, and, raising his right hand, shook the open palm and long fingers at the closed door.
"Curse him," he muttered, "curse him root and branch. May the evil eye never leave him now or hereafter, in life or death!" Then he turned and walked swiftly down the passage towards the stairs.