Domiloff turned upon him swiftly.
“And who, sir, are you?” he asked, harshly.
“Walter Brand, journalist—the Daily Courier, you know.”
Domiloff caught up the lamp which stood on the long oaken table, and looked steadily from one to the other of the two men. When he set it down there was a queer, bitter, little smile upon his lips. The moment was one of unspeakable humiliation to him. He, a seasoned diplomatist, trusted by his master, feared and respected everywhere, had been befooled and outwitted—by an Englishman!
“I beg to offer my tardy congratulations to your Highness,” he said, bowing to Ughtred. “My mistake was an unpardonable one. Yet this gentleman is, perhaps, also of the family of Tyrnaus? The resemblance is certainly remarkable.”
“Mr. Brand is not connected in any way with my family,” Ughtred answered. “The resemblance between us is merely a coincidence—to which it seems I owe my presence here, Baron Domiloff.”
The Russian remained silent. He stood with bowed head, awaiting the storm.
“It appears,” Ughtred continued, “that by proxy I was drugged and detained upon the frontier by your orders. For these doings I shall certainly, when the proper moment arrives, demand an explanation.”
Domiloff raised his eyes for a moment. His expression was inscrutable.
“When the time comes, your Highness,” he said, “I shall be prepared to satisfy you.”