“And beneath that of a Courtenay to accept it,” replied Wilfrid, placing the gem in the exact spot where it had fallen.
This diamond-dropping was an old trick of Baranoff’s whenever he wished to gain the good graces of a stranger. He had always found the method very successful—with Russians. It didn’t seem to answer with an Englishman.
The Count called for a bottle of Chartreuse and helped himself to a glass, first pouring in from a phial that he produced a few drops of a liquid that Wilfrid knew to be “diavolino,” one of those Italian nostrums much in vogue a century ago, as warranted to keep in tone the constitutions of those given to dissipation.
Wilfrid’s dislike of the man increased.
“You have business with me, sir?”
“Ah, how delightfully English! You come to the point at once. Business? Yes, we may call it that. At any rate I have an offer—a magnificent offer to make.”
He eyed Wilfrid curiously, dubious as to how his words would be received. And indeed it was on Wilfrid’s tongue to tell the envoy to take himself and his offer to Samarcand, or further, but he refrained for the moment, thinking that he might as well hear what the offer was.
“I wish,” continued the Count, “to give you the opportunity of earning three hundred thousand roubles. Such is the price I am willing to pay for a service to be done by you.”
Three hundred thousand roubles, or, roughly speaking, £50,000 in English money, would be a welcome gift to Wilfrid, whose family estate had a heavy mortgage upon it. But, mindful of the character of the speaker, he determined to learn first whether the proposal could be honourably entertained by an English gentleman and a patriot.
“Three hundred thousand roubles! It must be a very substantial service to be worth so much.”