smiled, and the act changed his whole expression. But Fred thought he
had never dreamed of so splendid a disguise. This man, he guessed, must
have come many miles through Germany, in a country where the closest
possible watch was being kept for spies, and for all, indeed, who might
even be suspected of espionage. And it was easy to see how he had been
able to do it. Fred knew that he must be a Russian. Yet in every detail
of his appearance he was German. His clothes, his bearing, his every
little mannerism, were carefully studied. Fred guessed that this was no
servant, but a secret agent of much skill and experience. He was to
learn the truth of his surmise before many days had passed.

"Ivan Feodorovitch!" said Boris. "So you really got through! Have you
brought the--"

He stopped at a forbidding look in the man's eye. For a moment he seemed
to be puzzled. Then he understood that it was the presence of Fred, a
stranger, that was bothering Ivan.

"Oh!" he cried, with a laugh. "Ivan, you may speak before this stranger
as freely as before me. Let him be a stranger to you no longer. He is my
cousin from America--the son of Marie Feodorovna, who went away to be
married before I was born!"

Fred was not prepared for what followed. There was an outcry, first of
all, from the half dozen servants in the great hall. They crowded
forward curiously to look at him. And as for Ivan, he stared blankly for
a moment, and then plumped down on one knee and, to Fred's unspeakable
embarrassment, seized his hand and kissed it.

"He and all of them are old, old retainers of our house," Boris