“Then you have really decided to go?” she said, looking at me with brows slightly knit. “I cannot tell—I cannot—what I read in those letters after giving my word of honour to Marya.”
“I have decided,” I said briefly.
“I do not like the thought of your going. Something dreadful may happen to you.”
“I shall be wary—never fear,” I assured her with a laugh. “I intend to secure the release of Madame and Luba—to set right an unjust and outrageous wrong. I admire your firm devotion to your friend, but I will bring back to you, I hope, her written permission to speak and reveal the truth.”
Five minutes later I rose, and we descended to the hall, where patient Dmitri was idling over his French newspaper.
Then the weather being fine again, we passed out together into the autumn sunshine of the Lawns, at that hour of the morning agog with well-dressed promenaders and hundreds of pet dogs. And a few moments later we came face to face with Richard Drury, to whom she introduced me as “Mr Colin Trewinnard, my uncle, Mr Drury.” We bowed mutually, and then all three of us strolled on together, though he seemed a little ill at ease in my presence.
I had made a firm resolution. In order to learn the secret of those letters and to place Her Highness, who so honourably refused to break her word, in a position to expose the unscrupulous official who was the real Oppressor of Russia, I intended to set out on that long journey in search of the exile, now, alas! unknown by name, but only by number.
Drury struck me as a rather good fellow, and no doubt a gentleman. We halted together, and, when near the pier, he raised his hat and left us.
Before leaving Brighton I had yet much to do. I was not altogether satisfied concerning the young man, my object being to try and learn for myself something more tangible regarding him.
“Well,” she asked, when he had gone, “what is your verdict, Uncle Colin?”