Three hundred thousand roubles, or, roughly speaking, £50,000 in English money, would be a welcome gift to Wilfrid, whose family estate had a heavy mortgage upon it. But, mindful of the character of the speaker, he determined to learn first whether the proposal could be honourably entertained by an English gentleman and a patriot. “Three hundred thousand roubles! It must be a very substantial service to be worth so much.” “You speak truth. It _is_ a substantial service.” “There are thousands of suitable men in Europe. Why select me for the purpose?” “Thousands of men—true. But only one Courtenay.” Wilfrid did not controvert a remark so obviously just. “The work,” continued the Count, “is one requiring a spirit that will dare great things.” “Then, who more qualified for the task than Count Baranoff?” “You are very good,” smiled the envoy. “But I was not at Saxony in the summer of 1792—you were.” “So, too, were many other men in the year you mention.” “True, but you were the central figure in a certain affair, forgotten by you, perhaps, but remembered by others. I will explain anon.” The summer of 1792 was about eight and a half years back. Wilfrid hurriedly reviewing his brief sojourn in the kingdom of Saxony, could recall nothing to explain Baranoff’s words. “What I require for my three hundred thousand roubles is that you shall make love—successful love, mark you—to a certain lady.” Wilfrid gave a scornful laugh. “I thought the enterprise was one demanding a high degree of courage!” “And so it does. There’s great danger in it.” “That makes it interesting. Where is this Lady Perilous to be found?” “In the city of St. Petersburg.” “Is the lady young or old?” “She is in her twenty-third year.” “Seven years my junior. Ill-favoured, perhaps, and therefore unable to obtain a suitor?” “She has the loveliest face in St. Petersburg.” “Not ill-favoured? The daughter of a vulgar merchant, or of some wealthy serf desirous of obtaining a nobleman for his son-in-law?” “On the contrary, her father is a prince.” Wilfrid started. He thought of the gipsy’s prophecy. “Is the lady of fallen fortunes?” “She can command millions of roubles.” “A prisoner immured within a fortress from which you would have me rescue her?” “Nothing of the sort.” “A cloistered nun, repentant of her vows?” “Not at all. She moves freely in Court circles.” “Demented, or that way inclined?” “As sane as women in general.” “Subject to some hereditary taint? Epileptic or the like?” “As sound in physique as yourself.” “Then by all that’s holy!” cried Wilfrid, in a paroxysm of perplexity, “explain why a lady of princely birth, beautiful, and rich, can lack suitors among her own nation? Why must a foreigner from distant England play the lover?” “Because there is no one in St. Petersburg bold enough to take upon himself that _rôle_, since discovery means certain death to the lover, death perhaps to her.”