As honest a fellow as ever lived was Ouvaroff, but the words he had just spoken were a “white lie,” as Wilfrid quickly proved; for, upon looking down during the whole course of the waltz, he did not see the Prince among the dancers. While Wilfrid was puzzling himself to account for Ouvaroff’s conduct, he saw Count Baranoff coming along the gallery, smilingly exchanging a word here and there with those to whom he was known. Wilfrid watched him and took the measure of the man. His eyes, more oval in shape than those seen in Western Europe, had the deceitful, furtive glance of the Asiatic. “Were I a Czar, that is not the sort of man I should choose for my minister,” was Wilfrid’s comment. “Do I address Viscount Courtenay?” said the Count with a bow as he drew near to Wilfrid. Yes, he did address Viscount Courtenay. This somewhat bluntly. Wilfrid had not asked for the diplomatist’s acquaintance, nor was he disposed to be over polite to an enemy of England. But the envoy was not to be rebuffed by Wilfrid’s frigid manner. He sat down in the chair lately occupied by Ouvaroff. The little group of Prussian officers stared at the pair, wondering what there could be in common between the Czar’s representative and the eccentric young Englishman. As Baranoff seated himself a diamond dropped from his coat. Wilfrid picked it up and presented it to its owner, who gracefully waved it off. “It is beneath the dignity of a Baranoff to resume what he has once let fall.” “And beneath that of a Courtenay to accept it,” replied Wilfrid, placing the gem in the exact spot where it had fallen. This diamond-dropping was an old trick of Baranoff’s whenever he wished to gain the good graces of a stranger. He had always found the method very successful—with Russians. It didn’t seem to answer with an Englishman. The Count called for a bottle of Chartreuse and helped himself to a glass, first pouring in from a phial that he produced a few drops of a liquid that Wilfrid knew to be “diavolino,” one of those Italian nostrums much in vogue a century ago, as warranted to keep in tone the constitutions of those given to dissipation. Wilfrid’s dislike of the man increased. “You have business with me, sir?” “Ah, how delightfully English! You come to the point at once. Business? Yes, we may call it that. At any rate I have an offer—a magnificent offer to make.” He eyed Wilfrid curiously, dubious as to how his words would be received. And indeed it was on Wilfrid’s tongue to tell the envoy to take himself and his offer to Samarcand, or further, but he refrained for the moment, thinking that he might as well hear what the offer was. “I wish,” continued the Count, “to give you the opportunity of earning three hundred thousand roubles. Such is the price I am willing to pay for a service to be done by you.”