He stared anxiously about him; then pointed to the windows at the front of the room.
There were black window shades there. One was not fully drawn, and Berchik could see the bottom of an outer yellow shade.
“I am Prince Zuvor,” admitted the man, in a low voice. “But you can see the precautions I take to conceal my identity and my actions. I always fear spies and intruders. As Richard Albion, I manage to avoid troubles.”
Berchik nodded. He was still stroking the wolfhound, which stood beside his chair.
Prince Zuvor gazed intently at Berchik.
“I believe I recognize you,” he said. “I remember you now. It is many years since you came to my palace in Petrograd, with your master — “
The tall man ended his sentence abruptly, as though loath to mention the name that was upon his lips. Berchik nodded to show that he understood.
“Your master is dead,” said Prince Zuvor quietly.
“Yes,” replied Berchik, in a voice choked with emotion.
“He was not so fortunate as I,” continued Zuvor. “All of my wealth has been saved. He lost much; but I have heard that he managed to retain a considerable portion of his valuables.”