Domiloff shrugged his shoulders.
“It was most unfortunate,” he declared. “The train pulled up for a moment at a wayside station, and they appear to have descended—and to have been left behind.”
Brand nodded.
“I might also have remembered,” he continued, stroking his moustache thoughtfully, “a priest whose interest in his fellow-passengers was a little extraordinary—a cup of coffee pressed upon me, a queer taste—bah! Why waste time? I was drugged, sir, with your connivance, no doubt, and brought here. What is the meaning of it?”
Domiloff shrugged his shoulders.
“You assume too much, my dear Prince,” he declared, blandly. “Let us not waste time by fruitless discussion. I will admit that I was particularly anxious to have a few minutes’ quiet conversation with you before you entered the capital. The opportunity is here. Let us avail ourselves of it.”
“Well?”
Domiloff coughed. He had expected a torrent of indignation and abuse. His guest’s nonchalance was a little disquieting.
“You are entering,” he said, “upon a troublesome inheritance.”
“Well?”