“Signor,” went on the late outlaw, “I am sick of Russia. As soon as I get my money, and the Count promises it immediately, I shall leave this country. I am tired of it. I shall go to England—I hear it is a land of the free—set up a business there, and turn myself into an honest man.”
Corsini shook him by the hand. “Bravo, Ivan. Yes, by all means go to England. It is, as you say, a land of the free. I shall go back there as soon as I can. I am not over-fond of Russia.”
Ivan’s eyes sparkled. “Perhaps, Signor, we might meet there some day, if it would not be presumption on my part to intrude on you.”
“Nonsense, my good Ivan. I shall always be pleased to see you in memory of those few moments we spent before the village ikon. Here is an address to which you can always write me.”
He felt very grateful to Ivan. If it had not been for the good services of the “Cuckoo,” he would never have been a Count of the Russian Empire. He handed him an envelope on which he scribbled his full title and description, addressed to the care of the Baron Salmoros. Any letter directed to that quarter would be sure to reach him, and he knew the Baron would be certain to pardon him for taking the liberty.
A little later, in the leafy month of June, Corsini and his charming young wife spent a week-end with Salmoros at his beautiful place, Marwood Park, in Sussex.
Salmoros, with that spirit of unconscious ostentation which often marks the nouveau riche, had built himself a very lordly pleasure house, designed by an eminent architect. Although a childless man, and a bachelor to boot, he had insisted upon a very spacious dwelling.