“And get him out of the way so that no suspicion or blame could attach to you,” she went on. “Get him involved in some revolutionary plot you were watching, have the gendarmes break in upon the plotters and kill Mr. Drexel in the struggle, or have him immediately executed with the others before his identity should be learned. Then when his fate became known, the Government would be very sorry—but really, you know, no one would be to blame but Mr. Drexel’s own rashness. And you could be very sympathetic with his family, and they would never guess that you were the man behind it. Very safe, prince—and very, very clever!”
The prince’s face was still a cold, impenetrable mask.
“Am I not right?”
“I do not choose to discuss my purpose,” he said.
Her head slowly nodded. “Oh, I am right!” She gazed into his face with keen, analyzing thought. “They say Richard the Third of England murdered cousins, uncles, all sorts of relatives, to get to the throne. Our own Catherine the Great had her husband, Czar Paul, killed that she might become ruler of Russia. You have a family likeness to them, prince. I should not care to stand between you and anything you desire.”
“I have not noticed any particular strain of tenderness in the Countess Baronova,” he returned dryly. “You spoke of a second request.”
“Yes. The important one. If I am to go ahead, you must pay me more.”
“Pay you more! I have offered you ten thousand rubles for this above your regular salary!”
“I know. I must have fifty thousand.”
“Fifty thousand! Never!”