Caruth’s lips opened. He was about to ask a question, when the other interposed. “Curiosity killed a cat,” he murmured. “Where ignorance is bliss, etc. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Talk about the weather if you can’t think of anything else, but don’t be inquisitive. Pretty country this—if you don’t mind what you say!”
Thus adjured, Caruth made no attempt to question his mentor, but chatted on indifferent subjects till the train stopped at Gatchina, where the two left it and entered a cab, which at once started off at the usual speed. “I’ll leave you in a moment now,” said the other quietly. “Stay in the cab. The driver has his orders and has been paid. When he stops in front of a house, No. 351, go up to the door and walk in without ringing. You will be expected.”
His instructions finished, the young fellow turned the handle of the door. “Au revoir,” he said, and leaped out as the cab swung round a corner.
Caruth caught and closed the swinging door, and sat back to await events. Evidently the men he was to see took good precautions to keep their meeting place secure.
The drive did not last long. It ended in a street of cheap looking houses, over the door of one of which Caruth descried the number 351. Promptly he dismounted and walked up the steps, noting that his cab drove away the moment he left it. The next instant he had opened the door and stepped into a dimly lighted hall.
A man seated on the foot of a flight of stairs that led upward rose as Caruth entered and glanced at him sharply, then made way for him to pass, jerking his thumb over his shoulder as a direction. He added something, probably a word of instruction, but as it was in Russian the American could not profit by it.
At the head of the stairs Caruth hesitated for a moment, then tapped at a doorway whence came the low sound of voices. Some one answered, presumably in invitation to enter, and Caruth opened the door and went in.
Half a dozen men seated around a table looked up as he entered, and the one at the head addressed him in fair English.
“Mr. Caruth?” he questioned. “Yes? I am Sergius Lermantoff. Take a seat, please, Mr. Caruth.”
Caruth sat down with a strong feeling of disappointment. Could these be the members of the famous Inner Circle, before which the mighty Czar quailed, and under whose menace the atrocities formerly perpetrated on helpless prisoners had recently come to an end? Certainly they did not look it! Four of them appeared to be stolid peasants, and the other two, including the leader, while more intelligent-looking, did not look at all above the grade of the average immigrant whom Caruth had often seen trailing up town from Castle Garden. Could it be that such men as this held the destinies of a girl like Marie in their hands?