"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 004 - The Red Menace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

almost barbaric in their splendor.

A Russian wolfhound was reclining upon a magnificent Oriental rug. The huge dog arose and stretched
itself; then it stalked across the room and rubbed its head against the visitor's hand. Berchik smiled as he
stroked the dog's back.

Two velvet curtains parted at the left side of the room. A man entered.

He was a tall man, of courtly appearance. His hair was gray; his face was clean-shaven. His features
were those of a stern, unyielding fighter; his entire appearance showed that he regarded himself as
superior to other persons.

The visitor bowed as he observed the man enter.

"Your name is Berchik?"

The tall man's words came in sharp syllables, with a slight accent.

"Yes," replied the visitor, in a respectful tone.

"You asked to see me," replied the tall man. "I am Mr. Albion."

Berchik looked at the tall man, and a smile of recognition dawned upon his face.

Despite the plainness of the man's attire—he was dressed in somber black —the visitor knew that he
stood in the presence of an important personage.

"I know you, sir," explained Berchik, in a respectful tone. "You are Prince Zuvor."

The tall man held up a warning hand.

"Hush!" he commanded. "Do not mention that name. It must be forgotten."

HE walked across the room, and sat in a huge armchair. He waved his hand, and Berchik took his seat
opposite him.

"My name is Richard Albion," said the tall man, with a slight smile. "It is better that I should be known by
that name than by my former title."

He stared anxiously about him; then pointed to the windows at the front of the room.

There were black window shades there. One was not fully drawn, and Berchik could see the bottom of
an outer yellow shade.

"I am Prince Zuvor," admitted the man, in a low voice. "But you can see the precautions I take to conceal
my identity and my actions. I always fear spies and intruders. As Richard Albion, I manage to avoid
troubles."

Berchik nodded. He was still stroking the wolfhound, which stood beside his chair.