The next day, when no news came, the old Russian began looking longingly at a tiny revolver, he always carried with him. Better that, than to be dragged home to Russia, arraigned for high treason, and sent to Irkutsk to dig out salt for the Imperial exchequer, for having neglected his duties as keeper and caretaker of the young heir to the throne.
But Lavrovski was over sixty, and at that age life seems very sweet, a dear friend we have known so long, and therefore from whom we are loth to part. He replaced the pistol in his dressing-bag, and looked elsewhere for counsel and guidance.
A good detective—private, not official—might save matters and unearth the truant, if he was still alive. Well! if he were not, Lavrovski’s life was in any case not worth an hour’s purchase, and the revolver would always be handy.
Stepán asked no questions. Lavrovski looked harassed and anxious; that was sufficient information for the stolid Russian.
The morning papers had no account of mysterious dead bodies found looted in the streets, and Lavrovski sallied forth to seek out a detective.
They recommended him one at one of the newspaper offices—M. Furet, a Frenchman, a man of wide experience and good connection.
Lavrovski went to him. He had tried so far not to think too much; the thoughts to which he did not allow coherence, would have led him to a lunatic asylum, and he wished to keep his mind clear of all things, save his duty to his missing charge and to the honour of his own name.
M. Furet was astute, wise, but not omnipotent. Lavrovski told him too little; he felt it as he spoke. The detective, a Frenchman, guessed there was some mystery, and tried to probe the Russian’s secret.
But Lavrovski was obdurate. When the time came for throwing himself on the detective’s discretion he shrank from the task, dared not avow to him the identity of the missing stranger, and spoke vaguely of him as a young foreigner of distinction.
The matter was hopeless. M. Furet was waxing impatient.