“I certainly have no knowledge of it,” Mr. Sabin admitted.
Felix was gently astonished.
“Really! I took it for granted, of course, that you knew. Well, I am employed—not in any important post, of course—at the Russian Embassy. His Excellency has been very kind to me.”
Mr. Sabin for once felt his nerve grow weak; those evil forebodings of his had very swiftly become verified. This man was his enemy. Yet he recovered himself almost as quickly. What had he to fear? His was still the winning hand.
“I am pleased to hear,” he said, “that you have found such creditable employment. I hope you will make every effort to retain it; you have thrown away many chances.”
Felix at first smiled; then he leaned back amongst the cushions and laughed outright. When he had ceased, he wiped the tears from his eyes. He sat up again and looked with admiration at the still, pale figure opposite to him.
“You are inimitable,” he said—“wonderful! If you live long enough, you will certainly become very famous. What will it be, I wonder—Emperor, Dictator, President of a Republic, the Minister of an Emperor? The latter I should imagine; you were always such an aristocrat. I would not have missed this journey for the world. I am longing to know what you will say to Prince Lobenski at King’s Cross.”
Mr. Sabin looked at him keenly.
“So you are only a lacquey after all, then?” he remarked—“a common spy!”