Entering by the Ivanskaia Gate, whose sentinels presented arms as he passed, the minister made his way to his official study, where, somewhat to his surprise, he found awaiting him a visitor in the person of his brother Loris, his junior by two years.
A medium-sized man was Loris Baranoff, with a cold, hatchet-shaped face and grey eyes that in their keenness seemed capable of reading one’s thoughts. His appearing in any assembly—and all assemblies in St. Petersburg were open to him—was sufficient to send a thrill of uneasiness to the heart of any man or woman who in talking had been so rash as to touch, however remotely, upon State affairs. For Loris Baranoff was Chief of the Secret Police. “Let a man speak but three words,” said Richelieu, “and I will undertake to find treason in them.” Loris Baranoff would find treason if a man did not speak at all!
He was reclining at his ease in an arm-chair by a bright fireside, his legs stretched out before him at full length, his hands clasped at the back of his head. Usually impassive in his bearing, he had at this time a light in his eyes that told of some inward excitement; at least, so the elder brother judged.
“You have news, Loris?” said he, taking a seat that stood opposite. “Good news?”
“News!” echoed the other with a sort of fierce exultation. “News! Ay! Dame Fortune is smiling on us at last.”
“Time she did. She has dealt us some reverses of late. What happy discovery have you made?”
“Let us dispose first of little matters before we come to the big,” said Loris, taking out a pocket-book and referring to some notes therein, written in a shorthand of his own. “First, my spy Izak the yamchik arrived this morning with your Englishman, Lord Courtenay.”
“I am already aware of that.”
“This afternoon Lord Courtenay happening to meet the Czar——”
“I know the whole story; his refusal to kneel, his arrest, and his rescue by that marplot, Pauline de Vaucluse.”