Ivor obeyed at once, and for some time only the rapid passing to and fro of the quill pens upon the paper were the only sounds.
Ivor Tolskoi had removed his heavy outside wraps and thus revealed the fact that he still wore evening-dress, and that a white rose-bud lingered in his button-hole, its freshness somewhat tarnished, but its perfume as sweet as ever.
After about half an hour's silence, Patouchki pushed back his chair and laid down his pen, passing his hand rapidly across his forehead once or twice, and looking keenly at his young companion as he did so. In the cruelly frank and searching morning light the face seemed to lose something of its pristine youth; the faint lines about the eyes and mouth became accentuated, the pallor of the temples more noticeable, the cruelty of lips and chin more pronounced. He did not look up however, though aware of the chief's scrutiny, until Patouchki's harsh voice and bullet-like sentences broke the silence.
"Burning the candle at both ends are you, Ivor? Pardon me if I remind you that wilful waste will scarcely benefit yourself, or us. Let me also remind you that that moderation in all things of which the apostle speaks, has always produced far more lasting results than reckless enthusiasm and imprudent zeal."
The young man flushed slightly as he replied: "If you would imply, chief, that my present dress is scarcely suited to my present occupation, I acknowledge the reproof with all promptitude. I was late at the Court Ball last night, and had not time to return to my apartments before making my journey across the bridge. I could not fail in that, since it was undertaken by your orders, consequently I must beg your pardon for appearing in such attire."
The words were apologetic enough, but the tone was slightly antagonistic. Patouchki looked more closely at him; it was not usual for his subordinates to use any but obsequious words and tones when addressing him, and his quick ear caught the foreign ring in Ivor's voice. He passed it by, however, without open comment, though inscribing it on the tablets of his memory, and replied, calmly:
"And have you brought me confirmation of the business on which I sent you?"
"Yes, chief," answered the young man, shortly. "I saw the man Mattalini, who is a veritable specimen of Southern Italy intrigue and falsehood. He would rather lie than tell the truth, I take it; but he will be faithful enough to the Chancellerie if paid sufficiently. He had arrived only last night from Paris, and brought news of Count Vladimir Mellikoff's occupations and associates in gay Lutetia."
A slight sneer curled Ivor's lips as he spoke the Count's name, which was no more lost upon the chief than the unusual ring in his voice a moment before.
"Tolskoi grows restive," he mused, letting his keen black eyes rest piercingly on the young man's face for several moments; "nor is he quite frank with me. He keeps something back concerning Vladimir, whom I have noticed he never mentions without a covert sneer. There is without doubt a woman in the case. It is always so; Eve's daughters ruin our most promising patriots, sapping their energy, their spirit, their wit, and talent, by slow but sure degrees. And for what? A gleam of white teeth in a dangerous smile, the pressure of a traitorous hand, the hypocrite tears in melting eyes! Ah, bah! It's the old old story of the garden, for ever repeating itself—'the woman tempted me and I did eat;' and eating of the forbidden fruit, have become dead to all things save the unsatisfied desire it creates but never satisfies."