“Ah, out I suppose. She is in great demand. She will make a very popular Russian, your cousin.” He held out a golden cigarette case.
“I don’t care to smoke—thank you, prince.”
“Pardon me if I do,” and he lit a cigarette and settled back in comfort.
“I—the fact is,” Drexel began with an effort, “this is not a social call. I should have said so. I came on business.”
“Business?” The prince raised his heavy eyebrows. “I am at your service.”
For a moment Drexel hesitated; and for that moment he wondered how that stern old warrior, puffing there at his ease, would take the revelation about his son and daughter. Would he inflexibly allow their execution to go on? And he had an instantaneous fear for himself. Would he order his arrest when he guessed his connection with the revolutionists?
“I am at your service,” the prince repeated.
“I came about two prisoners whom you ordered to be executed to-morrow morning—Borodin and Sonya Varanova.”
The prince straightened up. “How did you learn of this, Mr. Drexel?” he asked sharply.
“It does not matter, since it is true. Do you know who Borodin is?”