Then he heard the striking of a match outside on the terrace, and the sound of his father's voice. Lord Sydney was slightly annoyed, uncertain for the moment whether to take his writing elsewhere. Some neighbour, old Pollock probably, had dropped in to talk politics and would stay as usual lor supper. His father was still speaking in low, even tones, not likely to disturb him. Lord Sydney became absorbed in his letter. It is curious to note that pens and matches were still in those days used by old-fashioned people. Outside, the Emperor, striking a match, and lighting his cigarette, heard the Chancellor patiently. "Yes," he said, "I understand, of course. Your Grace was, comparatively speaking, a poor man, and could not as such aspire to the Chancellorship. A legitimate ambition thwarted by want of means, a career in jeopardy--yes, I understand. As to Prince Ali's demands they seemed quite innocent--a diamond throne, a royal salute, a few such trifles. He offered you two millions sterling if the Viceroy could be moved to grant his claims. The Viceroy was moved, had no writings to show in defence--and shot himself. The claims were granted, and babies were dashed against stone walls. His Grace of Ulster, with two millions of money, rose to the Chancellorship. It might be awkward for my Lord Duke if these facts became generally known." The Chancellor gripped the arms of his chair, and leaning forward laughed in his throat. "Your Majesty," he answered hoarsely, "has acted with rare prudence. I am grateful for the opportunity of dealing with this disgraceful slander, which might otherwise have endangered our relations with your Imperial Majesty's Government. The fabrications of some secret service agent----" "Enough, my Lord; the agent in question was my agent, the money with which Prince Ali bought you was my money, and here," the Emperor produced from under his cloak the famous Russian papers, "I hold the written transactions." "Am I a child, sir," cried Ulster, testily, "to be frightened with bogies?" Nicholas opened the papers and bent forward that the Chancellor might see them. "Is that enough," he asked, "or do you want to see more? Look," he turned the papers slowly page by page, "at this, and this, and this!" "Forgeries," answered the other boldly, "forgeries all. How could your Majesty be so deceived?" Nicholas with a smile turned to the last page, "and this?" The Chancellor's eyes seemed starting from his head, his jaw dropped, a moan broke from his throat; then with a sharp effort he drew himself together, and pointed at the papers. "That--that--" he gasped, "that accuses me, much more it accuses you. That you, an Emperor, set such a trap is a disgrace crying aloud to Europe, that--that your Majesty is unfitted for a throne. I dare you, I challenge you. Publish those papers, and not an ambassador would remain at the Russian capital!"