“I am afraid that I am in the minority,” he confessed.  “I am trying to carry on the work which my uncle commenced.  I am trying to secure firm and definite evidence of a certain plot which I believe to be brewing in your country and in Germany.”

“Tell me exactly what you know,” she begged.

Nigel looked at her for several moments in silence.  She was wearing a Russian headdress, a low tiara of bound coils of pearls.  A rope of pearls hung from her neck.  Her white net gown was trimmed with ermine.  At her first appearance in the front of the box she had created almost a sensation among those to whom she was visible.  In these darker shadows the sensuous disturbance of which he had been conscious since his entrance swept over him once more with overmastering power.

“You are very beautiful,” he said, a little abruptly.

“I am glad you think so,” she murmured, with a very sweet answering light in her eyes, “but I am hoping that you have other things to tell me.”

“You are the friend of Immelan,” he reminded her.

“To some extent, yes,” she assented, “but I admit of no prejudices.  The greatest friend I have in the world is Paul Matinsky, and it is at his wish that I am here.  He is anxious above all things not to make a mistake.”

“Your country is very much under the dominance of Germany,” he ventured.

“Very much, I admit, but not utterly so.  You must remember that after the cataclysm of 1917, Russia has been born again in travail and agony.  No hand was outstretched to help her, save that of Germany alone, for her own sake ultimately, perhaps, but nevertheless with invaluable results to Russia.  We had vast resources which Germany exploited, magnificent human material which Germany has educated and disciplined.  The two nations have grown together for their common interest.  At the same time, Paul Matinsky and very many others have always felt that there is one of Germany’s great ambitions in which Russia ought not necessarily to become involved.  I think—­I hope that you understand me.”

“In plain words,” Nigel said, “you refer to this projected plan of isolating England.”

“In plain words, I do,” she admitted.  “Russia’s intentions concerning that are trembling in the balance.  Germany is pressing her hard.  Nothing will be finally decided until I return to Petrograd.  You see, I speak to you quite openly, for I myself have had some experience of your present statesmen.  I believe if you were to repeat this conversation to any one of them, if, even, you could open their eyes to what is happening, they would only shrug their shoulders and say that they relied for their protection on the League of Nations.”

“You are unhappily right,” Nigel groaned, “yet one perseveres, and after all there is an element of mystery about the whole affair.  The French, as you know, have not imitated our blind credulity.  Their frontier would seem to be impregnable, and the difficulties of invading England, even from the air, are very much as they were during the last war.  It was these considerations which made my uncle persevere in his attempt at secret-service work on the Continent.  Everything depends upon our knowing exactly what is in store for us.”