Princess Zara

I had known Alexis Saberevski in St. Petersburg; I had known him again

in Paris. I had, in fact, encountered him at one time or another in

almost every capital of Europe, and I was therefore not greatly

surprised when, having just left the dining table at my club in my own

native city, New York, his card was given to me with the information

that the gentleman was waiting in the reception room.

I had him up at once, with the courtesies of the club extended to him,

and finding that he had dined, we ensconced ourselves in the depths of

a pair of huge chairs which occupied one of the secluded corners of the

library, each equally delighted to be again in the company of the

other. We had never known each other intimately, and yet we were

friends; friends after that fashion which sometimes comes between men

of pronounced characteristics, and which finds its expression in the

form of a silent confidence, and an undoubted pleasure in each other's

company.

I knew Saberevski to be a particularly strong man. Strong in the

highest and best acceptation and meaning of that word, for he was a

giant in intellect and in character.

He was also a mystery, and this fact possibly rendered him all the more

interesting to one whose business it had always been to solve

mysteries. I do not mean by that that I had ever made any effort to

delve into the secrets of Saberevski's past, or to read without his

knowledge and consent, any portion of that history which he kept so

carefully veiled; but the mere fact that an air of mystery did pervade

his presence, imparted to him a certain fascinating quality which might

not otherwise have been apparent.

I had not encountered him for several years, and our last parting had

occurred in front of Browne's hotel, Piccadilly, standing near the

entrance from Albemarle street. As I received his card from the club

servant, the words he had uttered at that hour of parting returned to

me, for I had made a mental note of them, at the time regarding them as

being of much more import than was nakedly expressed, coming from such

a man. He had said: "I shall probably never return to St. Petersburg or

pass across the border of Russia again, Derrington; but I may, and

probably will some day, find myself in New York; when I do, you shall

know of it." That day when I received his card, the last words he had

uttered to me recurred to my mind, and it was with unmixed pleasure

that I presently greeted him. I knew that there had been a time when he

was high in place at the court of his native city, St. Petersburg; I

knew that he had been prominent in the favor of Czar Alexander, and I

had no doubt that he was so still, notwithstanding the positive

assertion once made by him that he would probably never pass the

borders of Russia again. But this was only another phase of the mystery

that surrounded him, and it belittled not at all my estimation of the

man's character, and the power he could sway if he chose to do so. How

deeply he was, even at that moment, in the confidence of the Russian

emperor, I was one day to understand, although the moment of

comprehension was many months distant from me then.