“The fugitives might not relish such a press,” said I, with more meaning than he divined.
“I’m going to have a try,” he replied. “Do you remember Marvyn, Harold Marvyn, at Harvard; that thin dark chap we used to call the spectre? He’s at the Embassy here, and I’ve wired him to wire me a description of them if he can get it. I’m going to look for ’em at the frontier, and if I don’t find ’em there, I’m off back to the capital to look up things. I wish I’d never come away; worse luck.”
“You would like to hand them over to the police, M. Siegel?” asked Helga.
“Gee wiss, no, madame. If we were in the States, yes; but here, what are the police to me? I’m thinking of the Screecher and the interview I could get.” Helga laughed and said:
“And being in Russia, monsieur, if you interfered you would probably be clapped into one of their gaols as an accomplice.”
“Say, Harper,” he cried, turning to me, “wouldn’t that be just lovely! Gee, think of the headlines. Russia’s prisons from the inside. I could make half a column of them. Ah, I wish it could be worked,” and he sighed.
“You have some queer ambitions, Siegel,” I said. “You might find it easier to get in than to get out again. There’s Siberia, you know—not exactly a pleasure resort, either.”
“I came through there. Looks all right from the outside; what they let you see of it, you know; but I’d like to scratch the surface off.”
“You might not have far to look for the fugitive Nihilists, M. Siegel,” said Helga steadily.
“Don’t excite his zeal,” I put in hastily.