Hassen held up his hand.
“You forget,” he said. “The Duke of Reist and I are ancient enemies. I was in command when we raided the frontier ten years ago. Perhaps my men were a little rough to their prisoners—I forget the circumstances now, but there was trouble between us.”
Domiloff shrugged his shoulders.
“So was I his enemy a short time ago,” he answered. “It is barely a month since the name of a Russian was like poison to him. But those things are forgotten now. Reist is ours—absolutely. Our friends must be his friends, and our enemies his. So I shall take you to him. Believe me, it will be best.”
Even then Hassen hesitated. The memory of Reist’s outburst in London was still before him. But Domiloff had already opened the door.
“Come,” he said, softly, “I know that Reist is alone.”
CHAPTER XLV
It seemed to Reist that this was the supreme moment of his indignity. He stood before the two men, white-faced, hollow-eyed, speechless. And Marie, who had joined their councils, watched him anxiously.