ere of music, still present, was a wonderful background to the
intensified sensations of which both were conscious. Naida had the
utmost difficulty in steadying her voice.

"I wanted to talk to you seriously because you can help me very much if
you will," she began. "In a sense, I am over here upon a mission. Some
of us in Russia feel that your nation is imperfectly understood there.
We are bearing grudges against you which may not be wholly justified.
You see, to speak very plainly, we are under the constant influence of a
people which cherishes no feelings of friendship towards you."

For a moment the personal element had disappeared. Nigel remembered who
his companion was and all that she stood for. He drew his chair a little
nearer to hers.

"If you are looking for a typical Englishman," he said, "I fear that I
shall be a disappointment to you. The typical Englishman of to-day is
hiding his head in the sand. I am not disposed to do anything of the
sort. I recognise a great coming danger, and I am afraid of your
country."

"The attitude of the official Englishman I know," she declared, a little
eagerly. "What I want to find out is whether there are many like
yourself, who are awake."

"I am afraid that I am in the minority," he confessed. "I am trying to
carry on the work which my uncle commenced. I am trying to secure firm
and definite evidence of a certain plot which I believe to be brewing in
your country and in Germany."

"Tell me exactly what you know," she begged.

Nigel looked at her for several moments in silence. She was wearing a
Russian headdress, a low tiara of bound coils of pearls. A rope of
pearls hung from her neck. Her white net gown was trimmed with ermine.
At her first appearance in the front of the box she had created almost a
sensation among those to whom she was visible. In these darker shadows
the sensuous disturbance of which he had been conscious since his
entrance swept over him once more with overmastering power.

"You are very beautiful," he said, a little abruptly.

"I am glad you think so," she murmured, with a very sweet answering
light in her eyes, "but I am hoping that you have other things to tell
me."

"You are the friend of Immelan," he reminded her.

"To some extent, yes," she assented, "but I admit of no prejudices. The
greatest friend I have in the world is Paul Matinsky, and it is at his
wish that I am here. He is anxious above all things not to make a
mistake."