The Price of Power. Le Queux William

all in English.”

      “Some spy or other, I suppose.”

      “Without a doubt,” she said, clasping her white hands before her and raising her wonderful eyes to mine. “And do you know, Uncle Colin, the affair has since troubled me very considerably. I wanted to see you and hear your opinion regarding it.”

      “My opinion is that your window ought not to have been left open.”

      “It had not been. The maid whose duty it is to close the windows on that floor one hour before sunset every day has been closely questioned, and declares that she closed and fastened it at seven o’clock.”

      “Servants are not always truthful,” I remarked dubiously.

      “But the intruder was there with some distinct purpose. Don’t you think so?”

      “Without a doubt. He was endeavouring to learn some secret which Your Highness possesses. Cannot you form any theory what it can be? Try and reflect.”

      “Secret!” she echoed, opening her eyes wide. “I have no secrets. Everybody tells me I am far too outspoken.”

      “Here, in Russia, everyone seems to hold secrets of some character or other, social or political, and spies are everywhere,” I said. “Are you quite certain you have never before seen the intruder?”

      “I could only catch the silhouette of his figure against the moonlight, yet, to tell the truth, it struck me at that moment that I had seen him somewhere before. But where, I could not recollect. He read each letter through, so he must have known English very well, or he could not have read so quickly.”

      “But did you not tell me in the winter garden of the Palace, on the night of the last Court ball, that Marya de Rosen had given you certain letters – letters which reflected upon General Markoff?” I asked.

      She sat erect, staring at me open-mouthed in sudden recollection. “Why, I never thought of that!” she gasped. “Of course! It was for those letters the fellow must have been searching.”

      “I certainly think so – without the shadow of a doubt.”

      “Madame de Rosen feared lest they should be stolen from her, and she gave them over to me – three of them sealed up in an envelope,” declared my dainty little companion. “She expressed apprehension lest a domiciliary visit be made to her house by the police, when the letters in question might be discovered and seized. So she asked me to hold them for her.”

      “And what did you do with them?”

      “I hid them in a place where they will never be found,” she said; “at a spot where nobody would even suspect. But somebody must be aware that she gave them to me for safe-keeping. How could they possibly know?”

      “I think Your Highness was – well, just a little indiscreet on the night of the Court ball,” I said. “Don’t you recollect that you spoke aloud when other people were in the winter garden, and that I queried the judiciousness of it?”

      “Ah! I remember now!” she exclaimed, her face suddenly pale and serious. “I recollect what I said. Somebody must have overheard me.”

      “And that somebody told Serge Markoff himself – the man who was poor Madame de Rosen’s enemy, and who has sent both her and Luba to their graves far away in Eastern Siberia.”

      “Then you think that he is anxious to regain possession of those letters?”

      “I think that is most probable, in face of your statement that you intend placing them before the Emperor. Of course, I do not know their nature, but I feel that they must reflect very seriously upon His Majesty’s favourite official – the oppressor of Russia. You still have them in your possession?” I asked.

      “Yes, Uncle Colin. I feared lest some spy might find them, so I went up to my old nursery on the top floor of the Palace – a room which has not been used for years. In it stands my old doll’s house – a big, dusty affair as tall as myself. I opened it and placed the packet in the little wardrobe in one of the doll’s bedrooms. It is still there. I saw it only yesterday.”

      “Be very careful that no spy watches you going to that disused room. You cannot exercise too much caution in this affair,” I urged seriously.

      “I am always cautious,” she assured me. “I distrust more than one of our servants, for I believe some of them to be in Markoff’s pay. All that we do at home is carried at once to the Emperor, while I am watched at every turn.”

      “True; only we foreign diplomats are exempt from this pestilential surveillance and the clever plots of the horde of agents-provocateurs controlled by the all-powerful Markoff.”

      “But what shall I do, Uncle Colin?” asked the girl, her white hands clasped in her lap.

      “If you think it wise to place the letter before the Emperor, I should certainly lose no time in doing so,” I replied. “It may soon be too late. Spies will leave no hole or corner in your father’s palace unexamined.”

      “You think there really is urgency?” she asked.

      I looked my charming companion straight in the face and replied:

      “I do. If you value your life, then I would urge you at once to get rid of the packet which poor Madame de Rosen entrusted to you.”

      “But I cannot place it before the Emperor just at present,” the girl exclaimed. “I promised secrecy to Marya de Rosen.”

      “Then you knew something of the subject to which those letters refer – eh?”

      “I know something of it.”

      “Why not pass them on to me? They will be quite secure here in the Embassy safe. Russian spies dire not enter here – upon this bit of British soil.”

      “A good idea,” she said quickly. “I will. I’ll go home and bring them back to you.”

      And in a few minutes she rose and with a merry laugh left me to descend to her carriage, which was waiting out upon the quay.

      I stood looking out of the window as she drove away. I was thinking – thinking seriously over the Emperor’s strange apprehension.

      Two visitors followed her, the French naval attaché, and afterwards old Madame Neilidoff, the Society leader of Moscow, who called to congratulate me upon my escape, and to invite me to spend my convalescence at her country estate at Sukova. With the stout, ugly old lady, who spake French with a dreadfully nasal intonation and possessed a distinct moustache, I chatted for nearly an hour, as we sipped our tea with lemon, when almost as soon as she had taken her departure the door was flung open unceremoniously and the Grand Duchess Natalia burst in, her beautiful face blanched to the lips.

      “Uncle Colin! Something horrible has happened; Those letters have gone!” she gasped in a hoarse whisper, staring at me.

      “Gone!” I echoed, starting to my feet in dismay.

      “Yes. They’ve been stolen – stolen!”

      Chapter Nine.

      The Little Grand Duchess

      In the golden September sunset, the long, wide promenade stretching beside the blue sea from Brighton towards the fashionable suburb of Hove was agog with visitors.