*****
The house, a large, rambling, two-storied building, was about a hundred yards away, and almost concealed from where Roger stood by a belt of trees, beyond which lay an irregularly-shaped lawn with big ornamental trees growing round its edges. In the failing light the young spring green, which was just beginning to sprout from the earlier trees and bushes, was hardly apparent; but it served to thicken a little the cover afforded by the winter foliage.
Moving cautiously from tree to tree Roger made his way round the west side of the lawn towards the main block of the building. As he got nearer he could see that the ground-floor windows, three of which had lights shining from them, were raised a few feet above a low gravel terrace, on which stood two carved stone seats. The main block had two big bow-windows, each of which supported a separate balcony for the room above, and between them was a doorway with a flight of iron steps leading down to the garden.
Having reached the side of the house, which consisted of a slightly lower wing, he began to tiptoe along the terrace. Just before he came to the first of the lighted windows he crouched down, so as to bring his head below the level of the sill; then he lifted it and risked a quick peep inside. It was a dining-room, and two footmen were in there laying the table for supper. Crouching again, he tiptoed on.
Suddenly a bang and a rattle in his rear, caused him to start and quickly flatten himself against the wall; but it was only one of the footmen in the room he had just passed, closing the windowed drawing the curtains for the night.
Creeping another few steps he arrived at the first of the big bow-windows. This too, had a light coming from it but not so brightly as from the other. Lifting his head again he peeped in through its lower left-hand corner. The room was a handsomely-furnished study and in it, with his back half-turned to Roger, a wigless man was sitting writing at a desk by the light of a solitary two-branched candelabra. It gave the only light in the room, and so accounted for its dimness, but light enough for Roger to identify the writer. That broad, muscular frame and bull-like neck could belong only to Vorontzoff.
Roger saw that of the three windows that formed the bay those at each side were both open at the top; so he had only to ease up the lower sash of the one nearest him to crawl inside. But the noise he would make in doing so was certain to attract Vorontzoff's attention; and the Russian might shout for help, or if he were armed, become master of the situation before his visitor could cover him with a pistol.
To see the Russian sitting there with his back turned, and only some panes of glass in between them, was, for Roger, tantalising in the extreme. At first sight it had seemed such a piece of good fortune that the mildness of the weather had led to several ground-floor windows being open; so it was doubly aggravating now to realise that he could not take advantage of that without giving his enemy the advantage over him.
It occurred to him that he could smash one of the window panes, thrust his pistol through it pointed at Vorontzoff's back, and threaten to shoot him if he called for help; then make him come to the window, raise its lower sash and admit his visitor himself. But there was a danger attached to such a proceeding. One of the servants might hear the smashing of the glass, and come running to see if his master had met with an accident. On consideration that seemed unlikely, so Roger decided to risk it. But, just as he was about to pull out his pistol, he saw the door of the room opening, and was forced to duck out of sight.
A moment later he stole a cautious glance. A footman stood framed in the doorway and was just ending a sentence in Russian. Vorontzoff replied abruptly in the same language, and stood up.
Roger gave them another thirty seconds, then peeped again. The footman was lighting the candles in the chandelier and Vorontzoff was on the far side of the room putting on his wig in front of a gilt-framed wall-mirror. After a slightly longer interval Roger snatched another look. Vorontzoff was just going out of the door and the footman was walking towards the window. Scared that the man would see him, Roger dropped down on his knees and crouched almost flat, to get below the angle of the man's glance if he looked out.
The shadows were thickening now and the heavy foliage of a big magnolia grandiflora, climbing up the side of the house, helped to obscure the place where Roger was kneeling. The footman shut one of the windows but ignored the other, then pulled the heavy curtains, cutting off any further chance of Roger seeing into the room.
He got to his feet and stood there listening intently for a moment. He could hear the man's footfalls as they crossed the parquet of the floor, then they faded away. Roger had no idea if Vorontzoff had come back into the room or not, but he felt that it was now or never.
Gripping the lower framework of the window which was still open at the top, he eased it up. It ran smoothly on its weights making little noise. When he had it open a couple of feet he put his hands on the sill, kicked himself off the ground and, as quietly as possible, wriggled inside. Between the window and the fall of the curtain there was a space about a foot wide, and ample in which to stand up. Getting cautiously to his feet he listened again.
For half a minute he could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart, then he caught Vorontzoff's voice, distant but clear, speaking in French.
"This way, Madame. In my room we shall be able to talk at our ease."
A woman murmured something that Roger did not catch. There came the noise of footsteps on the parquet and people settling themselves in chairs, then Vorontzoff spoke again:
"His Excellency wrote to warn me that there was a prospect of my being able to welcome you here either this month or next. But there seemed some little doubt then whether you would be able to make the journey. I ani delighted that you managed to do so, as I feel certain that you will be of the very greatest assistance to me in London."
"I am, I believe, exceptionally well placed to be so," replied the woman, with a little laugh; and Roger stiffened where he stood, for the voice was that of Natalia Andreovna.
* * * * *
"I gather that you are married to a young man in the service of the British Foreign Office?" Vorontzoff remarked, continuing the conversation in French; and Roger blessed the custom of educated Russians of rarely using their own language, except when addressing servants.
"Yes, Monsieur," replied Natalia. " 'Tis too long a story to tell in detail now. This is my first night in London, and I succeeded in slipping away from the mansion where he lodged me only on the pretext of wishing to see the city at sunset by myself. I will give you simply the bare outline.
"I believed my husband to be a Frenchman when he married me at the order of the Empress, in Petersburg, towards the beginning of last September; but a fortnight later he left me at a moment's notice, marooned in Copenhagen, on the plea of urgent business. 'Twas on doing so that he disclosed in a letter that he was really an Englishman; and that gave me furiously to think. While we were in Stockholm, where we first met, and later in Russia, his curiosity on the subjects of Her Majesty's Court and our foreign policy had been insatiable. Naturally I wondered if he had been making use of me to gain information, so I determined to wait and find out. Then, early in October I had a letter despatched by him from Gothenborg. In it he told me that he would not be able to rejoin me for some time. To begin with I had been much attracted to him physically, but the attraction was Wearing thin, as these things do, and there was a certain softness about his nature which at times repelled me; so I decided to wait no longer, but rejoin my father."