“You mean that I did not communicate, with either Lobkowitz or yourself, the moment those candlesticks passed out of my possession?”
Mirkovitch assented.
“Remember, I gathered from the Cardinal’s speech that the lady had never touched the one which contained our papers. It was damaged, and in his Eminence’s own presence she had packed it up and placed it on one side.”
“I notice, Iván, that you have not told me the name of the lady who had charge of the Emperor’s candlesticks, and therefore like yourself has some right to claim them?”
Volenski paused awhile, and then the name came from his lips like a whisper—
“It was Anna Demidoff.”
Mirkovitch jumped up, the gentleness, the sympathy he had assumed for a brief space was gone in a moment, and once more there stood the judge, ready to punish and to condemn.
“Iván Stefanovitch Volenski,” he said, “you were then content to allow that spy, that agent of our bitterest foes, to have even for an hour our dearest secrets under her roof, close to her very hand, without sweeping her out of our path, or, if you were too faint-hearted, asking those who are strong to clear the way from such a powerful foe?”
Iván did not reply. What could he say? The reproach was true enough, but he had meant well; it was fate that had been too strong. He watched Mirkovitch now as the grim Nihilist paced up and down the narrow room, with thoughts of vengeance written on his stern, rugged face.
“If only the Tsarevitch were under my hands still,” he muttered, “all might yet have been saved.”