The explicit order in His Majesty’s own handwriting altered things considerably in my case, and I saw that he was greatly puzzled as to who I really could be, and why his Master had been so solicitous regarding my welfare.
“I have travelled from Petersburg, Your Excellency, in order to have private interviews with two political prisoners who have recently arrived here,” I explained at last.
He frowned slightly at mention of the word “political.”
“I understand,” he said. “They are friends of yours—eh?”
“Yes,” I replied. “And I wish to have interviews with the ladies with as little delay as possible.”
“Ladies—eh?” he asked, raising his grey eyebrows. “Who are they?”
“Their name is de Rosen,” I said, “but their exile numbers are 14956 and 14957.”
He bent to his writing-table, near which he was at that moment standing, and scribbled down the numbers. “They arrived recently, you say?”
“Yes. And I may tell you in confidence that a grave injustice has been done in exiling them. His Majesty is about to institute full and searching inquiries into the circumstances.”
His bloated face fell. He grew a trifle paler, and regarded me with some concern.