“Well, we know very little so far, do not let us imagine the worst. He writes hopefully after all.”
“I had better start to-night,” said Mirkovitch. “Can you let me have the funds? He says much may be wanted; for bribery, I suppose.”
“Come and see me at my house before you start, and I will have everything ready for you.… And… Mirkovitch,” he added, “do not condemn unheard. Remember, Iván is young, and has our cause just as much at heart as you have.”
“Well, if he has, he certainly has it in a different way,” said Mirkovitch as he shook the president’s hand, and prepared to leave.
The latter sighed as he tried to read the Russian’s thoughts through his deeply sunken eyes, tried to fathom if there lurked some danger there for his young friend. Then, half reassured, he gave Mirkovitch a parting handshake, and watched the old fanatic’s figure slowly disappearing down the stairs.
CHAPTER XIX.
“By Order of the Executors of the Late
Mr. James Hudson.“Messrs. Phillips and Phillips will sell on the premises the whole of the contents of the superb mansion known as 108, Curzon Street, Mayfair, consisting of antique and modern furniture, piano, china, glass, pictures, and a rare and valuable collection of antiquities, gold and silver plate, jewels, etc. The sale will take place on Thursday next, the 12th inst., at eleven o’clock precisely. To view, by cards only, the day prior to and morning of the sale. Cards from Messrs. Gideon, Eyre, and Blackwell, Solicitors, 97, Bedford Row, W.C., or from the Auctioneers.”
It was some ten days since Volenski, stricken down by illness, had had enforced rest and captivity in a London hotel, and he now sat convalescent, yet still ailing, bodily and mentally, with that day’s Times, containing the above announcement, in his hand.
He had now become almost accustomed to his ill-luck, which had been pursuing him so steadily without break or respite, landing him at last on a bed of sickness in a hotel—in a strange land, far from all his friends.
The long-enforced rest the doctor had prescribed for him had enabled him to collect his energies for a final struggle, which he knew was inevitable. Matters, he knew, could not remain as they were. The sacred trust that had been placed in his charge, and which he had so unwittingly betrayed into alien hands, must become his again, if at the cost of the last remnant of energy left in him after so protracted a struggle. Vainly, during the long hours of enforced idleness, he had tried to conjecture where the scene of his next battle would be laid, the decisive battle he would yet have to fight.