I heard footsteps in the corridor. They drew near. They stopped. Some one knocked at the door. Terror choked my throat and made my knees totter.
I stooped in haste to pick up all the money while Prilukoff still looked at me without moving. I held it out to him in a great heap of crumpled paper. But still he did not stir.
Again the knocking was repeated. Who could it be? Kamarowsky? The police? I opened a desk and flung the bundle of banknotes into it.
Then I said, “Come in.”
XXVII
It was only a saucy little page-boy in red uniform.
“If you please, Count Kamarowsky sends word that he is waiting for you.”
“Say that I shall be down directly.”
“No,” contradicted Prilukoff; “send word that you are not going down.”