“Tied hand and foot, and flung into the Neva!” Pauline gasped. “My God! This must be Alexander’s work!”
“Not so, Baroness.”
“But I say yes. Who would dare lay a finger on her except by his order?”
“Be calm, dear Baroness. Alexander is guiltless. The truth is, the assassins made a terrible mistake. Did you not tell me that she went to this masquerade in gold-brocaded silk? Just so! Well, when discovered by us she was wearing a grey domino of common serge, which is a clear proof that she must have exchanged her costume with some other woman, her aim probably being to conceal more effectually her interview with Lord Courtenay, and I strongly suspect that this other woman was one Nadia Borovna, of the Inn of the Silver Birch. It is easy to see how one woman might meet the fate intended for the other. In fact, the ruffians appear to have made so sure of their victim that they did not even remove her mask. This letter, written by the said Nadia and found upon the dress of the victim, will partly help to prove my theory.”
Pauline took the missive and read it slowly.
“It must have been Baranoff’s doings,” she remarked, looking up from the letter, intensely relieved to find her suspicions against Alexander groundless.
“Seemingly. At any rate he is the one most interested in seeing that both the letter and its writer are destroyed. When he learns what a mistake his hirelings have made he’ll be ready to cut his throat. The Czar will show him no mercy.”
“I never believed in Lord Courtenay’s guilt at the Inn of the Silver Birch,” said Pauline, glancing over the missive again, “and this letter vindicates my opinion.”
“True, but you’ll be unwise to show it to him.”
“Why?”