His voice died gloomily away.
Bristow laughed unfeelingly. “Well,” he said, “others have failed before and will fail hereafter. You aren’t the only one. And—though you may not believe it—‘men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love.’ Things will seem brighter after awhile. Have you found out who she is yet?”
Caruth shook his head. “I don’t care,” he answered frankly. “She told me her mother was an American, and—oh, well, she is she. That’s enough.”
“I might find out for you,” suggested the reporter. “I’ve got sources of information that most men haven’t. I’ve only been here a short while, but I’ve learned a lot about the nihilists. Forbes, my predecessor here, established relations with them and built up a wonderful news system, to which, of course, I have fallen heir.”
“Do the nihilists trust you?”
“Certainly. Revolutionists all over the world trust American newspaper men. It’s positively marvellous how the most secretive conspirator will put his life in our hands. It speaks pretty well for the profession.”
“It does.”
“I can use my pull to find out who your charmer is, if you like?”
But Caruth shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “If she had wanted me to know, she would have told me. Thank you; but—never mind.”
“Just as you like. I’ve got to look my nihilist friends up, any way, to see if they have any news from Burndo. Their system of communication beats the government’s sometimes.”