“The man who brought it looks like a servant,” said Nicolai, who was peering over his shoulder. “He is entering that great house.”
“More wonderful still!” cried Ivan. “But the writing is certainly hers!”
“And the signature! And an order is an order.”
“Yes.”
“See here, boys,” spoke up the mystified Drexel. “What does all this mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Nicolai, as he threw open the robes. “But the order says you are to go back to the person you were talking to.”
Drexel sprang from the sleigh. “Good-bye,” he shouted, and made for the Valenko door.
The footman ushered him up past the drawing-room, where he had so lately sat, and in which he glimpsed several new callers, and on back into a small rear drawing-room. Here an open fire was blazing, and beside it stood the tall slender figure of the princess, the same haughty, magnificent pride in her bearing. She did not give Drexel a look. He paused within the door, wondering, palpitant.
“Andrei,” said she to the footman, “give my excuses to any persons waiting and any who may come, and say that for the present I am engaged.”
“Yes, princess.”