It was now past two o’clock. He had by eight of the clock to be at a spot distant six miles from the city, and in the interval he must find a second, and try to snatch a short repose. He had no time to waste. Making his way to the entrance of the Sumaroff Palace he procured a car and drove to his hotel, where he changed his antique garb for one more modern, and this done, he went off at once to the British Embassy, with a view of getting one of his uncle’s secretaries to act as his second. “Unless indeed the old boy himself will volunteer, which isn’t very likely,” thought Wilfrid. “He’d be compromising his diplomatic office.” On reaching the Embassy Wilfrid learned that, late as the hour was, the “old boy” had not yet gone to bed, but was sitting alone in his study. Making his way thither Wilfrid found the Ambassador seated at a table, upon which, in addition to cigars and wine, was a very large parchment with seals attached thereto, and bearing every appearance of being an important State document. “Pouf! windows closed and curtains drawn this hot July night?” said Wilfrid, glancing at the heavily-draped casements. “Put your head out of the window, and you’ll soon scent the reason. Fontanka Canal below. What do the Russian Government mean by putting me in this malodorous hole? Damme! they’ll have to find me fresh quarters. See my new Diana over there? Winkelman! Bought it yesterday. Cost seven hundred roubles—think it’s worth it?” And then, seeing Wilfrid’s eyes attracted by the document upon the table, he continued, “Ah! the editor of the _Journal de St. Petersbourg_ would give much for a copy of this.” “It is, I presume——?” “A duplicate of the secret Anglo-Russian Treaty of Peace. I am studying it for the twentieth time. Must leave no loophole for the enemy to creep through.” “The Czar hasn’t signed it yet?” “He signs to-morrow night, or rather, as it’s long past midnight, to-day. And yet,” continued the Ambassador, a queer look coming over his face, “and yet—who knows?—he may never sign it.” “His autocratic Majesty is so changeable?” “No, but life is. The Czar may be dead by to-morrow.” “For the matter of that so may I,” remarked Wilfrid, thinking of the coming duel. “So may you; so may all of us.” “Ah! but in the Czar’s case there is special cause for fear. But there! I’m talking too fast. I mustn’t betray State secrets.” This assumption of reticence was a mere preliminary to disclosure, as Wilfrid very well knew. The Ambassador had a tale to unfold, and was burning to unfold it, and, anxious as Wilfrid was to get to the subject of the coming duel, he was not unwilling to be a listener, impressed by his uncle’s air of subdued excitement.