“I have not said that my principal is a lady.”
True, but he had shown a scrupulous avoidance of the masculine pronoun, and hence Wilfrid’s conclusion. Who was this lady, if not the mysterious duchess?
The atmosphere of peril in which she moved had doubtless left her no other way of seeing him except at midnight and in secrecy.
She wanted him, and that at once: to-morrow would be too late! Was it to give warning of some danger that threatened him, or her, or, possibly, both?
“Had the lady any reason for selecting you as her messenger?”
“My brother’s death was mentioned, and I was told to be earnest in persuading you to accompany me, for it might lead to the punishment of his murderer.”
As Alexis spoke he set his sightless eyes appealingly upon Wilfrid. There was something pathetic in the picture of this youth, whose infirmity rendered him unable to avenge himself. The brutal slaughter of Lieutenant Voronetz had filled Wilfrid with disgust, a feeling that, in a degree scarcely less strong, included the Czar likewise, when that ruler, instead of punishing the savage, gave him a place in the Ministry. Wilfrid hesitated no longer when he heard that his going with Alexis might bring about the downfall of Benningsen, against whom Pauline had whispered certain dark hints. In what way this was to be brought about, Wilfrid did not stop to inquire. Arming himself with a sword and a brace of pistols, he declared himself ready for the journey.
Sallying forth from the hotel, Wilfrid found the city wrapped in a fog so thick as to prevent him from seeing anything distant more than an arm’s length.
No voices: no footsteps: no wheels: not the faintest sound anywhere. There was something weird in the silence that hung over all. Petersburg was like a city of the dead.