“Lord Courtenay,” she said in the faintest of whispers, “before you go, a few words. You have heard me called ‘Highness.’ Do you know my name and rank?” “I regret to answer no,” replied Wilfrid, speaking in a tone similarly subdued. As she did not seek to enlighten him it was clear that she preferred to remain unknown. “You will keep this meeting a secret?” Wilfrid bowed assent. “When you have found the right room let me entreat you to remain there till after ten in the morning.” Ten o’clock, he remembered, was the time arranged for the resumption of her journey. “My meaning is that if a certain one among my suite should learn that you have passed a night at this inn, the consequences to me may be,” she hesitated as to the choice of a word, finally selecting “hurtful.” Wilfrid had no doubt that the person she meant was Ouvaroff, and for the moment he felt that he would like to do for Ouvaroff what he had done for the Abbé Spada. “Your Highness, say no more. I stir not from my room till after the hour named.” “What other persons besides myself know that you are here?” “The innkeeper and his daughter, but for their own sake they will not speak of me to your suite. There is my yamchik, too, but they will take good care to keep him out of the way.” Though the Princess had hinted that it was time for him to go, she did not seek to hasten his departure. “Why do you, an Englishman, travel in Russia at a time so perilous as the present?” An embarrassing question, but before he had time to consider what answer he should give, the Princess spoke again. “Lord Courtenay,” she said in a grave earnest tone, “I am glad in one sense to have met you, for I can give you a warning. It has become known to me that your life is not safe in Russia. Leave the country with all speed. Take another name; assume a disguise; forge a fresh passport; go anywhere rather than to St. Petersburg, where you have an enemy who will not spare you.” “You allude to Count Baranoff?” “To one greater than Baranoff.” But when Wilfrid asked for the name of this person, the Princess shrank back with a strange and troubled look, so that Wilfrid refrained from repeating the question, for he could very well guess who was meant, though why she should hesitate at naming him was a mystery. One greater than Baranoff? Who but the Czar could be greater than the Czar’s minister? And the cause of the Czar’s enmity was doubtless to be found in the defeat at Berlin of his policy, a defeat due to Wilfrid alone. And yet it seemed improbable that Baranoff would have the courage to tell the story of his own cowardice and flight. It might be, however, that he had related the matter in such a way as to exculpate himself, representing that his triumph would have been certain but for a secret emissary of Pitt’s, Lord Courtenay by name, who, insinuating himself into the confidences of Frederick William, had induced that monarch to side with Great Britain.