“And you probably know something of his affairs?”
“Very little. He doesn’t tell me much.”
“He talks of me sometimes, I suppose?” remarked the old man with a good-humoured smile.
“With the greatest admiration always, Mr Statham. He is devoted to you,” she declared.
The old man moved uneasily, and gave a sniff of suspicion combined with a low grunt of satisfaction.
“He’s engaged to some foreign woman, I hear,” he said. “You know her, of course.”
“You mean Maud Petrovitch. Yes, she is my friend.”
“Petrovitch—Petrovitch,” he repeated, as though in ignorance of the fact. “I’ve heard that name before. Sounds like a Russian name.”
“Servian. She is the daughter of Doctor Petrovitch, the well-known Servian statesman.”
“Of course. I recollect now. He’s been in the Ministry once or twice. I recollect having some dealings with him over the Servian Loan. He was Finance Minister then. And so he is in love with her!” he said, reflectively. “If I remember aright, she’s the only daughter. His Excellency invited me to dine at his house in Belgrade one night a few years ago, and I saw her—a very pretty, dark-haired girl; she looked more French than Servian.”