A Secret Service by Fred M. White — Read

On the opposite side of Grosvenor-square from that occupied by Valerie Brune, there is a house painted white and gay with flowers, which usually attracts the passer's attention. Here Baron Ruperra has his residence, and here he gives those select little dinner parties which are the envy of his friends and acquaintances. The baron keeps a French chef, and report has it that this pampered menial is in receipt of at least a thousand pounds a year. This may be so, because the baron is a financier of repute, and, unlike most foreign capitalists, his title is both ancient and genuine.

As most people who study that kind of thing know, the Ruperras have played no small part in making the map of Europe. During the last century or two they have figured largely in every rising and insurrection, generally not to their own advantage, for the Ruperras have always been on the losing side, though occasionally the losers are not the sufferers in the long run. The present holder of the title up to ten years ago had played a not inconspicuous part in the politics of his native land; indeed, time was when he had looked like becoming Chancellor to one of the strongest dynasties in Eastern Europe. Nobody, not even the Foreign Office, knew the whole of the story which culminated in Ruperra's downfall. He had been strapped of his honors and estates, and had come to England with a limited knowledge of the language, ten pounds in his pocket, and an indomitable courage which was all his own.