“Pardon me if I do,” and he lit a cigarette and settled back in comfort. “I--the fact is,” Drexel began with an effort, “this is not a social call. I should have said so. I came on business.” “Business?” The prince raised his heavy eyebrows. “I am at your service.” For a moment Drexel hesitated; and for that moment he wondered how that stern old warrior, puffing there at his ease, would take the revelation about his son and daughter. Would he inflexibly allow their execution to go on? And he had an instantaneous fear for himself. Would he order his arrest when he guessed his connection with the revolutionists? “I am at your service,” the prince repeated. “I came about two prisoners whom you ordered to be executed to-morrow morning--Borodin and Sonya Varanova.” The prince straightened up. “How did you learn of this, Mr. Drexel?” he asked sharply. “It does not matter, since it is true. Do you know who Borodin is?” “Pardon me, Mr. Drexel, if I refuse to be catechized upon matters pertaining to my official business,” he returned, coldly. “And pardon me, prince, if I insist.” The tense seriousness of Drexel caught his attention. “Eh--what’s the matter?” “Do you know who he is?” “Oh, I suppose there is no reason why I should not tell you; it will be all over the city to-morrow. He is Borski.” Drexel leaned forward. “Yes--but do you know who else he is?” “I think that knowing he is Borski is quite enough,” was the grim response. “Not enough for you, prince.” “For me? What do you mean?” “That for you he is some one far more important than Borski.” “Who?” “Prince Vladimir Valenko.” The commanding figure rose, and the ruddy colour fled his cheeks. “My son?” “Your son.” “You are--you are certain of this?” “Certain.” He stared at Drexel in dumbfoundment. Drexel stood up. “And do you know who Sonya Varanova is?” “Who is she?” “Princess Olga Valenko.” “Olga!” he gasped. His face overspread with ashy horror. But the next instant it cleared, and he gave a cry of relief. “It’s all a mistake, Mr. Drexel! But for a moment, how you did frighten me!” “It is not a mistake!” “It is, and the proof of it is that my daughter is in this house, dangerously ill.” “But should she not be in this house, what would that prove?” “Not in this house?” He fell back a pace. “Look in her room,” said Drexel. The prince gazed a moment at Drexel’s pale face, then turned and fairly plunged away. “Keep the deception from the servants,” Drexel warned in a whisper as he went through the door. Two minutes later he reëntered the room. His face was blanched and was filled with fear and horror. “She’s not there--you may be right--I am going to the Fortress,” he said in a husky whisper. He started out. Drexel caught his arm. “What are you going to do?” “I do not know.” “But I must know what you do!” “Wait here, then,” he said.