“Well!” said Mirkovitch, “the last chapter of our sensational novel is closed. Dunajewski and our comrades are by now on their way to England, and Nicholas Alexandrovitch is discussing with Krapotkine the possibility of bringing us all into the clutches of the Third Section.”
Derisive laughter, full of gaiety, triumph, and enthusiasm, greeted this suggestion.
“That is an impossibility,” they all asserted; “they have not the faintest clue.”
They refused to listen to Mirkovitch’s threatening speeches, his regrets at the happy escape of one of the tyrant’s brood. They were discussing Dunajewski’s surprise when he found himself a free man, with a passport, allowing him and his comrades to go whither they chose. One or two of the older members had gone to meet them at Hamburg with money and clothes to enable them to embark for England.
Maria Stefanowna had gone with them. It had been thought wiser that she should be out of the country for a little while, both for her own safety and for that of all her comrades.
Let them, out there at Petersburg, do their worst to discover the originators of this great plot so complete in its victory. What could they do when there was no clue?
“None!” said Mirkovitch quietly, “except our papers, which we have entrusted to Volenski, and of which and of our messenger we have not the slightest news.”
If his wish was to damp an enthusiasm which he had not kindled, he certainly fully succeeded. It certainly did seem strange that no news of any sort or kind had been heard of the young Pole, since the night when he had announced his departure, under the protection of his Eminence the Cardinal, for the following morning; and nearly a fortnight had elapsed since then.
Though every confidence was still felt in the messenger, there was a curious restlessness—a vague, undefined fear appreciable when his name was mentioned. The president’s uneasiness at the topic was also decidedly ominous; but he evidently, though unable to account for Volenski’s protracted silence, would not allow the slightest doubt to be cast on his absent young friend’s good name.
The ugly word “traitor” had been whispered once or twice, but not in his hearing. The older men believed in some untoward accident to the messenger, but still hoped that the papers were safe.