“This Nicolai will be in attendance on you; he speaks German,” my courteous guide informed me in French. “He will bring you all you need; you have only to give him orders. You will dine at the officers’ mess, and after dinner his Highness will give you audience.”
“Does Monsieur Pavloff—the land steward—live in the castle?” I asked, thinking it wise to emphasize my assumed rôle. “I understand that I’ll have to work with him.”
“No; his house is some two versts distant. But he is often in attendance here, naturally. Perhaps you will see him to-night; if not, without doubt, you will meet him to-morrow. Nicolai awaits your orders, and your keys.”
He bowed ceremoniously, and took himself off.
That Nicolai was a smart fellow. He already had the bath prepared,—I must have looked as if I wanted one,—and when I gave him the key of my bag, he laid out my clothes with the quick deftness of a well-trained valet.
I told him I shouldn’t want him any more at present, but when I had bathed and changed, I found him still hovering around in the next room. He had set a tea-table, on which the silver samovar was hissing invitingly. He wanted to stay and wait on me, but I wouldn’t have that. Smart and attentive as he was, he got on my nerves, and I felt I’d rather be alone. So I dismissed him, and, in obedience to some instinct I didn’t try to analyze, crossed the room softly, and locked the door through which he had passed.
I had scarcely seated myself, and poured out a glass of delicious Russian tea,—which is as wine to water compared with the crude beverage, diluted with cream, which Americans and western Europeans call tea,—when I heard a queer little sound behind me. I glanced back, and saw that one section of the big bookcase had moved forward slightly. With my right hand gripping the revolver that I had transferred from my travelling suit to the hip pocket of my evening clothes, I crossed swiftly to the alcove, just as some three feet of the shelves swung bodily inwards, revealing a doorway behind, in which stood none other than Mishka.
“The fool has gone; but is the outer door locked?” he asked in a cautious undertone.
“Yes,” I answered, noticing as I spoke that he stood at the top of a narrow spiral staircase.