The room had the appearance of an office.  There were two safes—­square chests such as we learn to associate with the name of Griffiths in this country.  There was a huge writing-table—­a double table—­at which Paul and Steinmetz were seated.  There were sundry stationery cases and an almanac or so suspended on the walls, which were oaken panels.  A large white stove—­common to all Russian rooms—­stood against the wall.  The room had no less than three doors, with a handle on no one of them.  Each door opened with a key, like a cupboard.

Steinmetz had apparently finished his work.  He was sitting back in his chair, contemplating his companion with a little smile.  It apparently tickled some obtuse Teutonic sense of humor to see this prince doing work which is usually assigned to clerks—­working out statistics and abstruse calculations as to how much food is required to keep body and soul together.

The silence of the room was almost oppressive.  A Russian village after nightfall is the quietest human habitation on earth.  For the moujik—­the native of a country which will some day supply the universe with petroleum—­cannot afford to light up his humble abode, and therefore sits in darkness.  Had the village of Osterno possessed the liveliness of a Spanish hamlet, the sound of voices and laughter could not have reached the castle perched high up on the rock above.

But Osterno was asleep:  the castle servants had long gone to rest, and the great silence of Russia wrapped its wings over all.  “When, therefore, the clear, coughing bark of a wolf was heard, both occupants of the little room looked up.  The sound was repeated, and Steinmetz slowly rose from his seat.

“I can quite believe that our friend is able to call a wolf or a lynx to him,” he said.  “He does it uncannily well.”

“I have seen him do so,” said Paul, without looking up.  “But it is a common enough accomplishment among the keepers.”

Steinmetz had left the room before he finished speaking.  One of the doors of this little room communicated with a large apartment used as a secretary’s office, and through this by a small staircase with a side entrance to the castle.  By this side entrance the stewards of the different outlying estates were conducted to the presence of the resident secretary—­a German selected and overawed by Karl Steinmetz—­a mere calculating machine of a man, with whom we have no affairs to transact.

Before many minutes had elapsed Steinmetz came back, closely followed by the starosta, whose black eyes twinkled and gleamed in the sudden light of the lamp.  He dropped on his knees when he saw Paul—­suddenly, abjectly, like an animal, in his dumb attitude of deprecation.

With a jerk of his head Paul bade him rise, which the man did, standing back against the panelled wall, placing as great a distance between himself and the prince as the size of the room would allow.

“Well,” said Paul curtly, almost roughly, “I hear you are in trouble in the village.”