During his term of service as _attaché_ to the Russian Embassy in London, the Prince had become well-known in West End salons, where he had met Wilfrid, who, in spite of an unreasoning prejudice against Muscovites, made an exception in favour of Prince Ouvaroff, appreciating his sterling qualities. The two had, therefore, become fast friends. There was a mystery attending Ouvaroff. He had been brought up by a boyar of high rank, who would never, even on his deathbed, reveal to his adopted son the secret of his parentage. “Your father lives and knows of your existence. ’Tis for him to speak—not me,” were almost the last words of his guardian. The matter troubled Ouvaroff a good deal. He had often talked it over with his English friend, and now, their first greetings over, that friend reverted to the old theme. “Any nearer to—to the discovery?” The Prince’s face assumed a somewhat sombre look. “No nearer, and, truth to tell, I hope I may never be any nearer than I am at present.” Wilfrid lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “Do you remember,” continued the Prince, “that old gipsy fortune-teller, whom you and I once met near your place in Surrey? She predicted that my father would become known to me in the very moment of my killing him.” “My dear Serge, surely you don’t attach any importance to her words?” “I do, and—fear. Her prophecies were three—first, that on my return to Russia I should be created a prince; second, that I should become _aide-de-camp_ to the Czarovitch Alexander. Both these have come to pass. Why should I refuse to believe the third?” “Why? Because the old sibyl assured me that within a year I should save the life of the fairest princess in Europe, gaining her love by that act. Eight years have passed since then, and so far I haven’t saved the life of any woman, whether princess or peasant. Since she can prophesy falsely as well as truthfully, dismiss your gloomy forebodings.” Ouvaroff changed the conversation. “What’s this I hear you’ve been doing at Paris?” he observed. “I am told that a picture of yours exhibited there last Christmas almost created a riot.” “A riot? Nonsense!” “I see you do not like to—what do you say in England?—blow your own trumpet. But for once lay aside your modesty, and let me have this story.”