“Make no friends, I have told you.”
“A former friend whom I had known in Sofia. I but met him on the street one day, a very old man, Boris—”
Georges held up his hand with a frown. The Count perused the first letter he opened twice, and smiled. It was from Mrs. Carrington Nevins, urgently requesting his presence and assistance in the success of her entertainment at Belvoir, Long Island.
“The social ruse always wins out, Georges. We are the emissaries of the queen’s mercy; we wish to study the methods for rehabilitating the wounded, for salvaging the war wreckage of humanity. The exiled queen’s heart is torn with remorse for her poor lost ones. It sounds well and opens many doors, among them, Belvoir.” He laughed and tossed the letter to Georges. “Accept. It is for a week from Saturday.”
Steccho waited his pleasure by the door. Timidly, as Jurka went through his mail, he ventured to attract his attention once more.
“Excellenza, you have heard some news recently, perhaps from Sofia, from Rigl?”
Georges motioned him to leave, but he lingered obstinately.
“You have news of my mother and sister, yes, of Maryna, excellenza? You remember Maryna, the little girl who—”
The Count nodded his blond head towards the door.
“Out!” he said briefly. “Bring me the jewels by Saturday.”