“At the hotel this morning, I gathered that the Tsarevitch has up to this moment not reappeared, for Count Lavrovski, whom I followed at about two o’clock this afternoon, went off to the business house of a certain M. Furet, who, as I learnt from his concierge, is a very well-known and much-thought-of detective in this city.”
“H’m! I wonder what his hopes were in that quarter!” mused Madame Demidoff. “You are sure he did not send a telegram across to Petersburg first?”
“Quite sure, your Excellency; I am coming to that presently. What happened at the interview I, of course, cannot say, but what struck me was, that when Count Lavrovski left M. Furet’s office half an hour later, he seemed, if possible, more hopelessly dejected than before. I concluded from that——”
“Never mind conclusions and surmises, my friend; it is facts we want to get hold of,” said Madame Demidoff reflectively. “No doubt Lavrovski did not dare to fully confide in this Furet, and the detective, thereupon, would refuse to spend his time on a wildgoose-chase. What happened after that?”
“There is very little more to tell, Excellency. Count Lavrovski went straight back to the hotel, from whence he has not stirred all day. Stepán, the Russian valet, however, went out about five o’clock. I noticed he carried a piece of paper in his hand. I followed him to a telegraph office, and was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the contents, as he handed it across the counter.”
“And?”
“It contained only a few words: ‘Nicholas confined to his bed; doctors say German measles; not the least serious; will be up in less than a week. Lavrovski.’ ”
Madame Demidoff sat still awhile now, reflecting on what she had heard, her brows knit, buried in thought.
“To whom was the telegram addressed?” was the last question she asked.
“I could not see, Excellency,” answered the man. “I could only get one glance at it, and have told you the words that struck me.”