The new-comer was of Russian nationality, with a countenance decidedly unhandsome, a genuine Kalmuck physiognomy, though its ugliness was redeemed by the mild expression of the dark eyes. But however unprepossessing in face, his figure was tall and well proportioned, and arrayed in the blue uniform of the Preobrejanski Guards, who formed, in 1801 at least, the corps d’élite of the Czar’s army.
During his term of service as attaché to the Russian Embassy in London, the Prince had become well-known in West End salons, where he had met Wilfrid, who, in spite of an unreasoning prejudice against Muscovites, made an exception in favour of Prince Ouvaroff, appreciating his sterling qualities. The two had, therefore, become fast friends.
There was a mystery attending Ouvaroff. He had been brought up by a boyar of high rank, who would never, even on his deathbed, reveal to his adopted son the secret of his parentage.
“Your father lives and knows of your existence. ’Tis for him to speak—not me,” were almost the last words of his guardian.
The matter troubled Ouvaroff a good deal. He had often talked it over with his English friend, and now, their first greetings over, that friend reverted to the old theme.
“Any nearer to—to the discovery?”
The Prince’s face assumed a somewhat sombre look.
“No nearer, and, truth to tell, I hope I may never be any nearer than I am at present.”
Wilfrid lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise.
“Do you remember,” continued the Prince, “that old gipsy fortune-teller, whom you and I once met near your place in Surrey? She predicted that my father would become known to me in the very moment of my killing him.”