“A body was found on the steppe,” he said; “the body of a middle-aged man dressed as a small commercial traveller would dress.  He had a little money in his pocket, but nothing to identify him.  He was buried here in Tver by the police, who received their information by an anonymous post-card posted in Tver.  The person who had found the body did not want to be implicated in any enquiry.  Now, who found the body?  Who was the dead man?  Mrs. Sydney Bamborough has assumed that the dead man was her husband; on the strength of that assumption she has become a princess.  A frail foundation upon which to build up her fortunes, eh?”

“How did she know that the body had been found?” asked De Chauxville, perceiving the weak point in his companion’s chain of argument.

“It was reported shortly in the local newspapers,” replied Vassili, “and repeated in one or two continental journals, as the police were of opinion that the man was a foreigner.  Any one watching the newspapers would see it—­otherwise the incident might pass unobserved.”

“And you think,” said De Chauxville, suppressing his excitement with an effort, “that the lady has risked every thing upon a supposition?”

“Knowing the lady, I do.”

De Chauxville’s dull eyes gleamed for a moment with an unwonted light.  All the civilization of the ages will not eradicate the primary instincts of men—­and one of these, in good and bad alike, is to protect women.  The Frenchman bit the end of his cigarette, and angrily wiped the tobacco from his lips.

“She may have information of which you are ignorant,” he suggested.

“Precisely.  It is that particular point which gives me trouble at the present moment.  It is that that I wish to discover.”

De Chauxville looked up coolly.  He saw his advantage.

“Hence your sudden flow of communicativeness?” he said.

Vassili nodded.

“You cannot find out for yourself, so you seek my help?” went on the Frenchman.

Again the Russian nodded his head.

“And your price?” said De Chauxville, drawing in his feet and leaning forward, apparently to study the pattern of the carpet.  The action concealed his face.  He was saving Etta, and he was ashamed of himself.

“When you have the information you may name your own price,” said the Russian coldly.

There was a long silence.  Before speaking De Chauxville turned and took a glass of liqueur from the table.  His hand was not quite steady.  He raised the glass quickly and emptied it.  Then he rose and looked at his watch.  The silence was a compact.

“When the lady dined with you in Paris, did she recognize you?” he asked.

“Yes; but she did not know that I recognized her.”

For the moment they both overlooked Steinmetz.

De Chauxville stood reflecting.

“And your theory,” he said, “respecting Sydney Bamborough—­what is it?”