CHAPTER XX
THE PLOT DISCOVERED
Olga slowly sat up. The room, she realised, was now empty save for the man who knelt beside her couch; a man in a long military cloak, that belonged, she knew, or had belonged, to her arch-enemy, now her husband. But the man wearing the cloak was not old, dark, and heavily whiskered. On the contrary, he was young, fair, and without a hair on his face. Donald Fenton sat on the floor beside her, in Miridoff's cloak, and he it had been who had said, "Miridoff is dead!"
Olga gazed at him in bewilderment.
"The duke, where is he?" she questioned faintly.
"He is not here," said Fenton. There was something strangely thrilling about this handsome young alien kneeling before her. It was perhaps the rapt way in which he was regarding her; almost as though he thought she belonged to him. His eyes were full of some secret that he wanted to share with her, a secret that already she intuitively seemed to understand.
"Have I been dreaming?" she asked. "Did I really go to-night to that place where all those dreadful people were, or was it just a dream?"
"You were really there," replied Fenton. His tone was quite calm, but that secret was burning in his eyes.
"Then where is the Grand Duke? And my father—will he——"
"His highness will be quite safe," Fenton assured her. "But as for Miridoff, he is dead!"
His hand reached out and took possession of hers. It was quite respectfully done, as though he sought to convey sympathy, assurance. She made no effort to withdraw her hand.