“I cannot write this myself, but do not fail me.”
His shrewd eyes were fixed upon me as I looked up. “Umph! Who’s the woman?” he asked. I hesitated and smiled as I laid the letter down, and, to fill the pause, lighted my cigar. “Don’t,” he jerked. I started; for the warning came so pat on my thoughts of the best tale to make.
I looked across and met his keen, penetrating gaze.
“Young Bob Anstruther, if you try and lie to me I’ll throw up the whole thing. Trust me with the truth, and I’ll do for you what your father’s friend should.”
“The secret is not mine and——”
“Devil take the boy,” he burst in vehemently. “Don’t I love John Anstruther’s son like my own child, or do you think an old diplomat gabs and blabs like a washerwoman? Confound you, do you want to make me give you my word of honour, you young idiot?”
I hesitated no longer, but told him the whole story from the meeting with Volna at Bratinsk railway station down to that moment, omitting only the part which referred to Father Ambrose and the Fraternity signals.
“The portion I don’t tell you doesn’t affect my case, General; and I am under my pledged word not to reveal it.”
“You’ve told me about enough,” he retorted grimly; and for a while we sat and smoked and looked at one another in silence.
Presently, with a short laugh, he took his cigar from his lips. “You’re a hot-headed young fool, Bob, just that and nothing more. But”—he paused, brushed back his grey hair, sighed, and then smiled—“I suppose at your age I should have done pretty much the same, and I’m cock-sure your father would.”