“To my house party.”
“Of course. Your parties, prince, are the sort one cannot afford to miss.”
They asked her to join the group, and as Freeman at this moment came up with her coat upon his arm, they could but include him in the invitation. Drexel felt a shiver as the lean, dark correspondent sat down among them; and he could but wonder what these women would think, what the prince would think, if they knew what he knew. Drexel watched him covertly. The lean, lithe grace of his figure, the reposeful alertness of his gleaming eyes, the cool indifference with which he met the prince’s thinly hid disdain—all these bore it in upon him again that here was a man who respected no one, who feared no one.
It was not long ere these qualities had exemplification. The three women presently withdrew, and Mr. Howard began to question the prince about Russia’s political situation. The prince answered that the Czar was kindly, that he loved his people and did only what was best for them; but like a father with an unruly son he had to chastise where he loved. As for the trouble, that was all made by the country’s scum—and it would be best for the country if it were exterminated.
Freeman’s eyes had begun to blaze. “Your last statement, prince, is quite true,” he said quietly. “Yet it is altogether misleading.”
“Misleading?” the prince queried coldly.
“Yes. You neglected to inform Mr. Howard that the trouble-making scum whose extermination would so benefit the country, is where the scum always is—at the top.”
“You mean?” said the prince.
“I mean the officials, the nobility—and royalty, if you please.”
The prince gave a start and slowly wet his thin lips. Drexel held his breath, and waited what should come next. He knew what temper of a man was the terrorist; and he knew, too, that a man who had merely refused to rise when the Czar had been toasted in a restaurant had been shot dead in his chair by an officer opposite—and the officer had been acquitted.