“Knowing, Sire, how great is your love for the Grand Duchess Marie—your pardon, I ought to call her——”
“Is this a time for titles? You would accuse her? Of what? Speak out, and speak the truth; for, as there is a God above us, you receive a stroke of the knout for every false word.” He spoke in real anger, but beneath it all it was easy to see there lurked a fear that what Baranoff would say might prove true. “Of what would you accuse her?”
“Of letting her love wander from the Czar.”
“To whom?”
“To an Englishman.”
“His name.”
“Lord Courtenay.”
It seemed as if the name were familiar to the Czar; at any rate he asked no question as to who Lord Courtenay might be.
“Your proofs?” he asked, affecting a disdain that did not deceive Baranoff.
“She wears at her heart a locket containing his portrait.”