Lord St. Helens had frequent interviews with Count Panine, the new chancellor of the Empire, and from each interview he returned more hopeful. He condescended now and again to favour Wilfrid, under the seal of secrecy, with the course taken by the negotiations. “Peace is agreed to,” he remarked, upon the seventh day after his arrival. “Nelson will be disappointed at having to take his ships home again. The Russians think so much of Cronstadt that naturally our admiral is burning to show that their much-vaunted fortress is not impregnable. Its capture would be the crowning-piece of his life.” But a man in love has no sense of historic perspective. Living in a pleasant day-dream Wilfrid paid little attention to his uncle’s political remarks. A single golden hair from the head of the Duchess had more interest for him than the departure of the British fleet from Revel. It was often in his mind to tell his uncle the story of the Duchess, but yet somehow he forbore. Supposing, in spite of the diplomatic caution upon which he prided himself, Lord St. Helens should, through some inadvertence, let fall a remark concerning her in the presence of any of the Czar’s ministers, she might receive from Court circles a supervision not at all agreeable to her. Her going to the masquerade, for example, might be stopped. “Two days more,” he thought, “and from her own lips I shall hear her name and story. I shall know then whether the case warrants the taking of my uncle into confidence.” On the morning of the day fixed for the masquerade Wilfrid, calling upon his uncle, found the latter looking so grave that he thought at first the peace-proposals must have fallen through. He soon found that the envoy’s gravity was due to a very different cause. “Is your swordsmanship as good as ever?” “I shall be happy to meet the man that questions it,” replied Wilfrid. “You are likely to do so. Have you seen Prince Ouvaroff since you came to St. Petersburg?” “Once, and that for a moment only, on the morning of Alexander’s accession. The Prince has not been seen since that day. Taken to a monastic life, some say.” “Nothing of the sort. He has been living quietly at his country seat in company with two or three of the best fencing-masters in Europe. During the past three months he has spent the greater part of every day in nothing but sword-practice. Yesterday he returned to St. Petersburg.” “With what object?” “To kill you.” Wilfrid’s smile implied that the Prince was welcome to try. “He evidently imagines he has some grievance against you. I don’t ask for confidences, but I suppose some woman is the cause of it all?” “It’s probable. He thinks that—but no matter what he thinks,” muttered Wilfrid, with a dark frown, as he recalled the night at the Silver Birch. If Ouvaroff could believe _that_ of the Duchess, there would be a pleasure in slaying him.