But that evening, alone in the charming bedchamber that had been allotted to him, Anthony shook his head several times.
“I’m wrong,” he said to himself. “For the second time, I’m wrong. Somehow or other, I can’t get the hang of this thing.”
He stopped in his pacing of the floor.
“What the devil” began Anthony.
The door was being softly opened. In another minute a man had slipped into the room, and stood deferentially by the door.
He was a big fair man, squarely built, with high Slavonic cheek-bones, and dreamy fanatic eyes.
“Who the devil are you?” asked Anthony, staring at him.
The man replied in perfect English.
“I am Boris Anchoukoff.”
“Prince Michael’s servant, eh?”
“That is so. I served my master. He is dead. Now I serve you.”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Anthony. “But I don’t happen to want a valet.”
“You are my master now. I will serve you faithfully.”
“Yes—but—look here—I don’t need a valet. I can’t afford one.”
Boris Anchoukoff looked at him with a touch of scorn.
“I do not ask for money. I served my master. So will I serve you—to the death!”
Stepping quickly forward, he dropped on one knee, caught Anthony’s hand and placed it on his forehead. Then he rose swiftly and left the room as suddenly as he had come.
Anthony stared after him, his face a picture of astonishment.
“That’s damned odd,” he said to himself. “A faithful sort of dog. Curious the instincts these fellows have.”
He rose and paced up and down.
“All the same,” he muttered, “it’s awkward—damned awkward—just at present.”
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