“That we didn’t!” I rejoined. “Say, Mishka, how did you get clear; and how did you know where to find me?”
“One thing at a time. First, I have brought you a letter. Read it.”
With exasperating deliberation he fetched out a bulky pocket-book, and extracted therefrom a packet, which proved to be a thick cream envelope, carefully protected from soilure by an outer wrapping of paper.
Within was a letter written in French, and in a curiously fine, precise caligraphy. It was dated August 10th, from the Castle of Zostrov, and it conveyed merely an invitation to visit the writer, and the assurance that the bearer would give me all necessary information.
“I can offer you very little in the way of entertainment, unless you happen to be a sportsman, which I think is probable. There is game in abundance, from bear downwards,” was the last sentence.
It was a most discreet communication, signed merely with the initial “L.”
“Read it,” I said, handing it to Mishka. He glanced through it, nodded, and handed it back. He knew its contents before, doubtless; but still I gathered that he could read French as well as German.
“Well, are you coming?” he asked.
“Why, certainly; but what about the information his Highness mentions?”
He put up his hand with a swift, warning gesture, and glanced towards the door, muttering: