“A local newspaper reports that the body of a man was discovered on the plains of Tver and duly buried in the pauper cemetery,” said De Chauxville indifferently.  “Your husband—­Sydney Bamborough, I mean—­was, for reasons which need not be gone into here, in the neighborhood of Tver at the time.  A police officer, who has since been transferred to Odessa, was of the opinion that the dead man was a foreigner.  There are about twelve thousand foreigners in Tver—­operatives in the manufactories.  Your husband—­Sydney Bamborough, bien entendu—­left Tver to proceed eastward and cross Siberia to China in order to avoid the emissaries of the Charity League, who were looking out for him at the western frontier.  He will be due at one of the treaty ports in China in about a month.  Upon the supposition that the body discovered on the plains of Tver was that of your husband, you took the opportunity of becoming a princess.  It was enterprising.  I admire your spirit.  But it was dangerous.  I, madame, can suppress Sydney Bamborough when he turns up.  I have two arrows in my quiver for him; one is the Charity League, the other the Russian Government, who want him.  Your husband—­I beg your pardon, the prince—­would perhaps take a different view of the case.  It is a pretty story.  I will tell it to him unless I have your implicit obedience.”

Etta stood dry-lipped before him.  She tried to speak, but no words came from her lips.

De Chauxville looked at her with a quiet smile of triumph, and she knew that he loved her.  There is no defining love, nor telling when it merges into hatred.

“Thursday evening, before dinner,” said De Chauxville.

And he left her standing on the hearth-rug, her lips moving and framing no words.

CHAPTER XXXIV

AN APPEAL

“Have you spoken to the princess?” asked Steinmetz, without taking the cigar from his lips.

They were driving home through the forest that surrounded Osterno as the sea surrounds an island.  They were alone in the sleigh.  That which they had been doing had required no servant.  Paul was driving, and consequently the three horses were going as hard as they could.  The snow flew past their faces like the foam over the gunwale of a boat that is thrashing into a ten-knot breeze.  Yet it was not all snow.  There were flecks of foam from the horses’ mouths mingled with it.

“Yes,” answered Paul.  His face was set and hard, his eyes stern.  This trouble with the peasants was affecting him more keenly than he suspected.  It was changing the man’s face—­drawing lines about his lips, streaking his forehead with the marks of care.  His position can hardly be realized by an Englishman unless it be compared to that of the captain of a great sinking ship full of human souls who have been placed under his care.

“And what did she say?” asked Steinmetz.

“That she would not leave unless we all went with her.”