“Doubtless, and the young Czarina as well, and the Imperial Duchesses. But I don’t call it seeing a woman when her face is covered with a mourning veil.” In truth, Wilfrid, from his secret place of espial, had breathed anything but a blessing upon the heavy veils worn by the Court ladies on the occasion in question, since the wearing of them prevented him from identifying the mysterious Duchess who, he doubted not, formed one of the group. “And Ouvaroff, you say, is Paul’s son?” remarked Pauline. “A natural son, of course? It was long suspected—the likeness between the two was so remarkable—but Ouvaroff himself appears to have been almost the last to learn it, and that at a dreadful moment. Poor Ouvaroff! No wonder he looked so ghastly and wild next morning! Do you know he has not been seen since that day?” “A pity that, for there was a matter I would fain discuss with him,” said Wilfrid, thinking of the night at the Silver Birch. “No one knows where he is. Some say that in penitence he has turned monk.” And then, coming back to the subject of the picture again, she continued, “And you didn’t fear to set your name to the picture?” “Fear! Do you take me for Alexander?” Pauline thought it prudent to ignore this reflection upon her hero. She could not help inwardly acknowledging that while Alexander had walked in darkness, assenting to a course of deceit in the matter of his father’s death, Wilfrid, though well aware that grim fortresses and Siberian mines awaited those who should give umbrage to ministers, had not shrunk from proclaiming the truth in the light of day. “Three months’ toil!” she said, her eyes round with wonder. “Did you do all this without hope of reward? from a mere abstract love of justice?” “No—o! not exactly. I am to receive a sort of—of _douceur_,” said Wilfrid. “Very much _douce_,” he added, with a smile. “It’s nature? Your pardon, Baroness. You shall know, but not yet. After it has been received.” Pauline thought Wilfrid was becoming very mysterious all at once. It was hard for her to put a curb upon her curiosity. After a short pause she murmured with a glad light in her eyes:— “Well, thanks to you, Benningsen and Pahlen have had to go.” “True,” grumbled Wilfrid, “but it’s rather mortifying to find that one result of my work is to confirm in office the very man whose confusion both you and I desire to see. Count Baranoff, having had no part in Paul’s murder, is not included in the list of disgraced ministers, and still retains his post.” “But not for long,” replied Pauline. “His power is on the wane. His counsels are already being ignored by the Czar.” “In what way?”