“Now, Macshanovich,”—for such was the familiar way in which Dimitri addressed his supposed brother-servant—“I suspect this Princess Czartorinski is some way connected with your master’s coming here. Tell me the truth—is such the case? I’m sure it is.”

“Then you know more than I do,” replied McShane, correcting himself, “for I’m not exactly in my master’s secrets; all that I do know is, that my master met her in England, and I thought her very handsome.”

“And so did he?”

“That’s as may be; between ourselves, I’ve an idea he was a little smitten in that quarter; but that’s only my own opinion, nothing more.”

“Has he ever spoken about her since you were here?” said Dimitri.

“Just once, as I handed his waistcoat to him; he said—‘I wonder if. . . Read More