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I looked for the key to this queer mixture of political faiths in the man’s association with Helga, and knowledge of her wrongs.

“You are very devoted to Mademoiselle Helga?” I asked presently.

“My life is hers if ever she should need it, your honour,” he answered readily, simply and very earnestly.

“You are a good fellow, Ivan,” I said; and soon after that we rattled on again at the canter. As we rode, he evidently thought over what had passed between us, for when we drew rein again he came up and said—

“I crave your honour’s pardon, but was it your honour who came last night to mademoiselle’s villa?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I am mystified, your honour. It was you then whom M. Boreski bound me by all I hold sacred to guard with my life. And yet you are an American—a stranger—an exile. He told me——”

He stopped and shook his head in perplexity.

“What did he tell you?”

“That I was to serve your honour as if you were the Little Father himself; God keep him; that there was danger from the desperado Vastic; that I should probably have to guide you by by-ways to the Palace from the villa. And yet you are an American. I am filled with wonder.”