Wilfrid’s love-affair was a matter unknown to the European chancelleries of that day. It would have surprised them—it certainly would have surprised Wilfrid—to know that it was a potent factor in shaping the foreign policy of the Czar. Another proof that great events spring from trifling causes. Did not all the wars of the Grand Monarch originate in a dispute about a window? At this juncture there came a knock at the folding-doors followed by the entrance of two chamberlains, who, bowing low, announced that the new Czarina desired to speak with the Czar, whom she had not seen since his accession. Alexander received this message with a frown. “I am occupied on matters of State, and cannot see her now.” In the ante-chamber, arrayed in deep mourning that enhanced, rather than detracted from her beauty, stood Alexander’s wife, the youthful Elizavetta, receiving with a gracious air the congratulations of the ministers on her accession to Imperial rank. Upon this little circle the Emperor’s cold and curt message fell like a bolt from the blue. Too proud to venture into Alexander’s presence after such a rebuff, the Empress turned away, affecting an air of unconcern, though in her eyes could be seen the glitter of tears. “The devil!” growled Benningsen. “Baranoff has the laugh on us. He has become of more moment than the Czarina herself!” CHAPTER XIV IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT On the second night after the death of the Czar Paul, it happened that Wilfrid was sitting over a newspaper in his private room at the Hôtel d’Angleterre, when a sound caused him to look up. There, a few paces off, stood a young man, wrapped in a long cloak that glistened with the moisture deposited, apparently, by a heavy fog. He was perhaps not more than twenty years of age, singularly mild and placid of countenance, and with light blue eyes marked by a somewhat odd expression; they appeared to be looking straight at Wilfrid without seeing him. “Do I address Lord Courtenay?” His voice was like his looks. He had a subdued air altogether. “My name, sir,” replied Wilfrid, somewhat resenting this sudden intrusion. “And yours?” “Alexis Voronetz.” “Voronetz, Voronetz,” repeated Wilfrid thoughtfully. “Any relative of a certain lieutenant of that name?” “His brother.” “That cannot be.” “Why not?” “I understand that the man who killed him still lives.” “I am blind,” answered the stranger with a sigh. “Your pardon, good Alexis. I was not aware of that.” Wilfrid guided the stranger to a chair, and offered him wine. “And what does the brother of Lieutenant Voronetz want with me?” he asked, when the other had set down his glass. “My errand is a strange one. I am sent by a certain person, whose will is that I should escort you to a place, not far hence, where your coming is awaited.” “What place?” “I am forbidden to reveal its name. You will learn, if you come.”