On reaching the Embassy Wilfrid learned that, late as the hour was, the “old boy” had not yet gone to bed, but was sitting alone in his study.
Making his way thither Wilfrid found the Ambassador seated at a table, upon which, in addition to cigars and wine, was a very large parchment with seals attached thereto, and bearing every appearance of being an important State document.
“Pouf! windows closed and curtains drawn this hot July night?” said Wilfrid, glancing at the heavily-draped casements.
“Put your head out of the window, and you’ll soon scent the reason. Fontanka Canal below. What do the Russian Government mean by putting me in this malodorous hole? Damme! they’ll have to find me fresh quarters. See my new Diana over there? Winkelman! Bought it yesterday. Cost seven hundred roubles—think it’s worth it?” And then, seeing Wilfrid’s eyes attracted by the document upon the table, he continued, “Ah! the editor of the Journal de St. Petersbourg would give much for a copy of this.”
“It is, I presume——?”
“A duplicate of the secret Anglo-Russian Treaty of Peace. I am studying it for the twentieth time. Must leave no loophole for the enemy to creep through.”
“The Czar hasn’t signed it yet?”
“He signs to-morrow night, or rather, as it’s long past midnight, to-day. And yet,” continued the Ambassador, a queer look coming over his face, “and yet—who knows?—he may never sign it.”
“His autocratic Majesty is so changeable?”
“No, but life is. The Czar may be dead by to-morrow.”