"Menchikoff, the one at the table. The other is the Grand Duke Michael. How does he know you?" And he looked at Jim with new curiosity.
"Who--Menchikoff?
"No--the Grand Duke."
"Know me?" jerked Jim. "Some mistake. I never set eyes on him before."
"He told Menchikoff to do what you wanted, and said he knew you, or something about you, or something of the kind. He dropped his voice so that I couldn't catch it all."
"That's odd. I certainly know nothing of him."
"He thinks he knows you, anyway, and so much the better for you. You shall come with me and stop at my house. It is not far."
"You are very good. I shall have a better opinion of Russians in future."
"Russians! I am no Russian. I am a Pole. I hate the Russians, and would love the English if I might."
"I see. But why do you fight for them, then?"