“Nobody else?” I asked, looking seriously into his grey old face, my wine-glass poised in my hand.
“Ah, yes! One evening, three or four days ago, I was walking along King’s Road, towards Ship Street, when I passed a tall, thin, clean-shaven man in brown, whose face was quite familiar. I know that I’ve seen him many times in Petersburg, but I cannot recall who or what he is. He looked inquisitively at me for a moment, and apparently recognising me, passed on and then hurriedly crossed the road.”
“Was he a gentleman?” I asked with curiosity.
“He was dressed like one, M’sieur. He had on a dark grey Homburg hat and a fashionable dark brown suit.”
“You only saw him on that one occasion?”
“Only that once. When I returned home I told Dmitri, the police-agent, and described him. You don’t anticipate that he is here with any evil purpose, I suppose?” he added quickly.
“I can’t tell, Igor. I don’t know him. But if I were you I would not mention it to her Highness. She’s only a girl, remember, and her nerves have been greatly shaken by that terrible tragedy.”
“Rely upon me. I shall say no word, M’sieur,” he promised.
Then I rose and ascended to the drawing-room, where Natalia was seated alone.
“Miss West will be here in a few minutes,” she said. “Tell me, Uncle Colin, what have you been doing while you’ve been away—eh?”