“It is the truth. But you do not know Russia. Here every man has his price. Every one is making himself rich. What you call graft flourishes. You are the Princess Yves Napraxine; that is true. You are heiress to enormous wealth; that also is true. But if you think that all you have to do is to come forward and show who you are, in order to get that rank and wealth, you know little of Russia. Your estates are in the hands of a trustee who has grown rich in caring for them. Think you he will readily give them up? Not so! He is a powerful man--one who stands in a high place. Once he hears of you, you will disappear, unless protected by a power as strong or stronger than his--in fact, Princess, unless protected by me.” Florence nodded. The Baron’s words were really a relief to her. It was quite believable that a man who had had the control of twenty millions for ten years would fight to retain that control, and that they could easily dispose of a lone woman, irrespective of the fact that she was really an impostor. But if the Baron were ready to back and protect her, as he seemed to imply, the situation would be changed. “You’re all to the good, Baron,” she agreed. “Go on and tell me. I’m from Missouri, you know.” “This trustee is my enemy, Princess,” went on Demidroff. “For years he has been trying to ruin me. In the effort, he has used the power of your millions unscrupulously. A year ago I concluded that I must wrest the control of those millions from him, or he would destroy me. I set on foot inquiries which led me to you. The nihilists thought they had you brought to Russia. Well, so they did, but it was I that pulled the strings. I brought you here to wrest Count Strogoff’s wealth from him. By my aid, you can win money and place; by your aid, I shall triumph over the Count. United, we shall win everything; divided, we both lose. But I must help you before you will be able to help me. It is really I that should demand guarantees, Princess.” Florence did not answer for a moment. The Baron’s words seemed reasonable enough, and she felt somehow that he was telling her the truth. The mist of intrigue, plot, and counterplot in the midst of which she found herself, was exactly the sort of thing she had always understood was characteristic of Russia. To her dramatic instincts the whole thing seemed logical and feasible, supposing her to be the real Olga Shishkin. Well, she might as well go on pretending. Obviously nothing was to be gained by confession. “And the _Orkney’s_ gold?” she questioned. “The _Orkney’s_ gold? I want it! Yes, but only to aid me to aid you. If I recover it, I win my imperial master’s favor and I pave the way for your recognition. On the other hand, failure will lose me that confidence, and make it harder for me to triumph over Count Strogoff and help you. Except for this, the gold counts for comparatively little. Your estates are worth five times as much.” “I see.”