Soon after noon next day I called at the Russian Embassy at Chesham House, and was ushered into the private room of my friend, Paul Verblioudovitch, the secretary to the urbane old gentleman who acted as the Tzar's representative at the Court of St James. It was a large but rather gloomy room, well stocked with books, containing a writing-table and several easy-chairs, into one of which I sank after the hall-porter, a gigantic, liveried Russian, had conducted me thither, and announced the immediate arrival of my official friend. While waiting, I reflected that my errand was scarcely one that would commend itself to the favour of Lord Warnham. Official relations between the Russian Embassy and the British Foreign Office, never very cordial, were, owing to our knowledge of the suppressed declaration of war, now seriously strained. Nevertheless, Paul and I were very intimate friends. I had first met him in St Petersburg, where for six months I had occupied an unimportant post in the British Embassy. Being compelled to pay frequent visits to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, I was always seen by Verblioudovitch, an official who spoke excellent English. Then I left and returned to London under Lord Warnham, and for nearly two years entirely lost sight of him, until I was one day delighted to find he had been promoted as Secretary of Embassy in London. Since that time our friendship had been renewed, and we had spent many a pleasant evening together. "Ah, my dear fellow!" he cried, almost without any trace of accent, as he suddenly opened the door and interrupted my reflections. "You're an early visitor," he laughed, shaking hands cordially. "Well, what is it? A message from your indefatigable chief?" "No, not exactly," I smiled, sinking again into my comfortable chair as he walked to the opposite side of his writing-table, afterwards seating himself at it. He was a well-preserved man of about forty-five, tall, erect, of military bearing, with closely-cropped, dark hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and a face that was an index to his happy, contented disposition. The Tzar's officials are supposed to be a set of the most stern, hard-hearted ruffians on earth, but there was certainly nothing of the heartless persecutor about him. Indeed, he was quite the reverse--a devil-may-care, easy-going fellow, who enjoyed a joke hugely, and when outside the sombre walls of the Embassy was full of genuine good humour and buoyant spirits. He may have been able to disguise his careless demeanour beneath the stern, strictly business-like manner of officialdom, but I, for one, had never seen him assume the loftiness of his position as secretary of the chief among the Embassies in London. "Our people at home have recently been playing an amusing little game at your expense, haven't they?" he laughed, passing over to me his silver cigarette case and selecting one himself when I gave it back to him. "I believe they have," I answered.