Bernadine bent low in a parting salute.
“Madame,” he pleaded, “you will come?”
Bernadine was a handsome man, and he knew well enough how to use his soft and extraordinarily musical voice. He knew very well, as he retired, that somehow or other she would accept his invitation. Even then, he felt dissatisfied and ill at ease, as he left the place. He had made a little progress, but, after all, was it worth while? Supposing that the man with whom her husband was even at this moment closeted, was the Baron de Grost! He called a taxicab and drove at once to the Embassy of his country.
Even at that moment, De Grost and the Russian—Paul Hagon he called himself—were standing face to face in the latter’s sitting-room. No conventional greetings of any sort had been exchanged. De Grost had scarcely closed the door behind him before Hagon addressed him breathlessly, almost fiercely.
“Who are you, sir,” he demanded, “and what do you want with me?”
“You had my letter?” De Grost inquired.
“I had your letter,” the other admitted. “It told me nothing. You speak of business. What business have I with any here?”
“My business is soon told,” De Grost replied, “but in the first place, I beg that you will not unnecessarily alarm yourself. There is, believe me, no need for it, no need whatever, although, to prevent misunderstandings, I may as well tell you at once that I am perfectly well aware who it is that I am addressing.”
Hagon collapsed into a chair. He buried his face in his hands and groaned.
“I am not here necessarily as an enemy,” De Grost continued. “You have very excellent reasons, I make no doubt, for remaining unknown in this city, or wherever you may be. As yet, let me assure you that your identity is not even suspected, except by myself and one other. Those few who believe you alive, believe that you are in America. There is no need for any one to know that Father—”