The doomed man was in good spirits as the droshky put him down at the door of my house.
“Decidedly an out-of-the-way retreat!” he commented gaily. “I should hardly be able to find my way here again without your assistance!”
The silent Breuil merely bowed, as he proceeded to open the street door with a latch key.
Perhaps Petrovitch had been a little more nervous than he allowed to appear. When he noticed that his escort simply closed the door on the latch, without locking or bolting it further, he said in a tone of relief:
“You are not much afraid of being visited by the police, I see.”
Breuil, as silent as ever, led the way into a back parlor, overlooking the Neva, where I was waiting to receive my visitor.
The room was plainly furnished as a study, and I had placed myself in an arm-chair facing the window, so that my back was turned to the door as Petrovitch entered.
I pretended to be writing furiously, as a pretext for not turning my head till the visitor had seated himself.
Breuil said quietly, “M. Petrovitch is here,” and went out of the room.
As the door closed I tossed away my pen and turned around, facing my assassin.