Count. “A Duke!” he said respectfully. He waved the solicitors to seats, then leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips. “Sanderson, Sanderson, I know of no one by that name.” He picked up a handbell from his desk and rang it. Instantly, the door opened and the huge man who had led them inside entered the room.
“Yes, My Lord?” he said, bowing.
“Do we have an Englishman named Sanderson working on the estate?”
“Sanderson? We did, My Lord. He was the young man who came from Italy when the Arab mare was brought up from there. He’s the one.”
“Oh, yes, I remember him now,” cut in the Count. He waved out the huge man, who backed out bowing. The Count pursed his lips again. “Your fine Duke is a horse thief!” he snapped at the solicitors.
“What!” shouted the three men.
“Yes, he worked here quite satisfactorily for about a month, then one morning my servants found both him and the Arab mare gone. They tracked them for a week and finally found the mare in a forest. It must have tripped and injured its leg or else my servants would never have caught up to them.”
“And Paul… His Grace?” asked Mr. Blatherbell
“My servants roused the countryside and they discovered his trail not far from where they found the mare. He seemed to have remained behind to tend it. Unfortunately, the next evening someone broke into their horse-lines and stole another animal. They were never able to catch up with the thief, and I am inclined to believe he also was your Duke.”
He broke off as the door opened. In walked a ray of gold, a tall, slim, elegant woman, burnished blond hair flowing to her shoulders, grey-green eyes looking out coolly from under curled lashes and perfectly trimmed brows, an expressive, Grecian nose which would seem haughty on any other woman, and soft wide lips that held their own private amusement. Her shoulders would appear stiff if held so by anyone else, but she made it appear regal, and her small, pointed breasts seemed to fit her exactly right as they pressed against an embroidered blouse. Her long, slender legs and tiny waist could belong only to a fine horsewoman. The solicitors stood up at once.
The Count rose. “My dear, I present three gentlemen from England. Gentlemen - my wife.” Without waiting for them to speak, he stepped around the desk and led her to one of the chairs standing near the fireplace.
Remaining next to her, the Count motioned for the solicitors to be seated. “My dear,” he said, his arm resting on the back of her chair and his fingertips gently caressing her blond hair. “I have just heard the most amusing news. Do you recall that Englishman who worked with our horses? The one who ran off with the Arab mare?”
“We had two or three,” she answered, her voice as light as the flutter of a bird’s wings. “Was he the one with that horrible cut on his forehead?”
“No, I think he had blond hair.” He turned to the solicitors. “A most ordinary looking person, your Duke. It’s actually difficult to remember what he did look like.”
“A Duke?” asked Countess Greski.
The Count gave vent to a mirthless laugh. “Incredible, isn’t it? Could happen only among the English.”
“My Lord,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “Have you any indication as to where His Grace went after the … episode in the forest?”
“There could be only one place – Russia.”
“Russia!” shouted Mr. Blatherbell, forgetting himself. Instantly calming down, he bowed to Count Greski. “Forgive me, My Lord, for my outburst, but Russia is so very distant and so very large. I would not know where to begin looking.”
The Count stopped fondling his wife’s hair. “I could give you a clue.”
“Yes, My Lord,” prompted Mr. Snoddergas.
“I do remember hearing of a discussion between this Duke of yours and one of my horse trainers. My trainer mentioned a group of people who are considered to be the best horsemen in the world, and your Mr. Sanderson said he would go to them even if it took a lifetime.”
“And who are these people, My Lord?” pressed Mr. Snoddergas.
The Count smiled coldly. “The Cossacks. The Don Cossacks?”
There was nothing more to be said. Bowing; the solicitors took their leave and walked quietly, thoughtfully, to the troika. As they settled themselves in the carriage, the door of the castle opened and the Countess came out.
“One moment, gentlemen,” she called, holding something in her outstretched hand. Advancing to the carriage she showed them a small chain. “I found this after you left. Did any of you drop it?”
Each of the solicitors shook his head. Smiling, the Countess nodded at them. “Pleasant journey, gentlemen,” she called out loudly. Then looking about swiftly, she lowered her voice, “Please, if you find Paul, tell him I love him with all my heart, and to send for me. I will come no matter where he is, even to the end of the earth. Please, please tell him.”
Mr. Blatherbell felt like weeping as he ordered the driver to start off.
CHAPTER III
Don Cossack Captain Grigory Kolkoff eased his horse down the narrow street, its hooves thudding lightly on the hard-packed dirt, the leather of his well-soaped saddle emitting only muted, disciplined squeaks as he shifted his weight. Both Grigory and his horse were weary of the saddle, each in his own way, for it had been the bond between them for sixteen long hours, with the exception of brief periods of rest for the thirty-year-old Captain to stretch his legs and snatch a quick bite of sausage and black bread, washed down by water from a nearby stream, and for the horse to sigh in relief and turn to nibbling at the thick, rich, Caucasian valley grass, grateful for the respite from carrying the huge Cossack officer. And Captain Grigory Kolkoff was huge. Nearly seven feet tall, his massive frame bearing two hundred and fifty pounds of hard-boned, hard-muscled fighting man, he seemed even bigger with his ten-inch-high black karakul hat topped by blood-red wool cloth decorated with a cross of silver threads running from edge to edge and tilted roguishly to one side over black, close-cropped hair. On the front of the hat was his kokarda, the small oval insignia of his unit, with its stripes of white, blue and red. Everything about Grigory was big, from his thick black brows hovering over grey eyes spaced far apart to his large jutting nose and his wide lips, almost lost in a heavy growth of black moustache and beard, properly trimmed by scissors, as is the custom of the Cossack fighting man.
His dark-blue, high-necked tunic fell to his thighs when he sat, and below it were trousers of the same blue color, slashed by wide red seams down the sides, bagged at the knees and tucked into black leather boots upon which were strapped stubby silver spurs. Both Grigory and his horse knew that the spurs were purely ornamental, since the thick riding crop dangling from his waist was sufficient evidence of what kept both the animal and the subjects of the Russian Tzar respectfully obedient.
Looped from his right shoulder to his left hip was a sturdy brown leather strap that held his sabre encased in a leather scabbard. Grigory was proud of his sabre, for it had been handed down from his father, who had gotten it from his father, who had gotten it from his father, who had had it specially made in the Turkish province of as-Souriya of Damascus steel that was guaranteed not to yield to anything yet made of man. On his right hip, he wore a seven-shot revolver, sheathed in a brown leather holster and fixed to a wide belt of similar brown leather.
Grigory Kolkoff paid no attention to the darkened huts on both sides of the street he was riding down, even though they contained the despised Cherkessians, his Moslem enemy. There were three excellent reasons why he ignored the hostile village; first, twenty-four hours earlier he had attacked it with his troop of Cossack cavalry and had cleared it of enemy warriors, house by house, chasing the remnants of the cursed Moslem heathen for eight hours into the hills; second, he was on a mission that brooked no delay; and third, and most important, behind him rode eighty-four of his officers and