“What about Lavrovski?” asked a voice from the further end of the room.
“He went back to his box, and is waiting there now, I should imagine.”
“In the meanwhile, Mirkovitch, you have promised us the best possible treatment for our prisoner.”
“Yes,” said Mirkovitch grimly. “I hate him, but I will treat him well. The deaf-mute is a skilled valet, the rooms are comfortable, the bed is luxurious, the food will be choice and plentiful. Very different,” he added sullenly, “from what Dunajewski and the others are enduring at this moment.”
“They are practically free now,” said a young voice enthusiastically; “we can demand their liberty; let them refuse it, if they dare.”
“Yes,” added Mirkovitch with a smile, “it would go hard with Nicholas Alexandrovitch now if they refused to let our comrades go.”
“To business, friends, there is no time for talk,” said the authoritative voice of the elderly man, who wore decorations.
The cigarettes and pipes were with one accord put aside, and all chairs turned towards the table placed in the centre of the room, on which stood a lamp tempered with a green shade, and, scattered all about, loose bundles of papers, covered with writing and signatures.
“There are many points to decide,” resumed he, who appeared to be a leader amongst them; “the deed, accomplished to-night, thanks to those heads who planned, and those arms who executed it, great as it is, has still a greater object in view. This, we over here cannot attain; the turn of Taranïew and the brothers in Petersburg has now come, to do their share of the work.”
The chairman paused, all heads nodded in acquiescence, then he resumed—