Maxgregor paused and broke off with a quick sneeze. The thing was ostensibly done, and served very well to hide an exclamation of surprise. For in the sitting-room, with his finger to his lips, Lechmere stood. He shook his head warningly, and pointed to Mazaroff. Then he crossed the room and took his place behind the heavy curtain before the window. No sooner was he secure of his hiding place than he walked out and signified Maxwell to approach the window.
In a casual way Maxwell sauntered into the sitting-room. He first moved the curtain, and appeared to be looking idly into the street below.
"Good boy!" Lechmere whispered approvingly. "What is that fellow doing here? Said he came here in mistake, for a suite of rooms occupied by a man named Barlow? Didn't come here to murder Maxgregor as you might have been inclined to imagine. Well, I quite agree that Mazaroff has made a mistake and shall be able to prove to you why a little later on. I want you to shut the bedroom door for a time till I give you the signal—a tap of the blind on the window—and keep Mazaroff talking. Make him feel at his ease, if possible. Big events are in the air."
Maxwell sauntered back to the bedroom and pulled the door to behind him. Mazaroff was quite himself again by this time, and stood chatting gaily to Maxgregor. It was no part of the latter's policy to let Mazaroff know that he had been nearly done to death at Merehaven House.
"How did you come by that sprained ankle?" he asked. "You seemed all right just an hour or so ago, when I saw you at Merehaven House."
"That's where I did it," Maxgregor lied coolly. He had no scruples whatever in dealing with a man like Mazaroff. "Slipped on a confounded banana skin, which, by the way, is a little more dangerous than orange peel. It's a nuisance just at present, when I am so busy with Asturian affairs and the king is such a handful to hold. I daresay some confounded Russian placed that banana skin for me."
"Don't forget that Prince Mazaroff is a Russian," Maxwell laughed.
"Oh, you need not trouble about me," Mazaroff said in his most fascinating manner. "There are Russians and Russians. I am too enlightened and progressive to feel comfortable in my own country, and that is why I spend so much time in England. So far as I am concerned, you have all my sympathy in your efforts to check the Russian influence in the Balkans. What was that?"
From the sitting-room beyond there came the sounds of somebody gently whistling. The thing was natural enough, and yet Mazaroff listened with a certain suggestion of uneasiness. It came to Maxwell, quick as a flash, that here was something that Mazaroff must not see, for a moment at any rate. Lechmere had charged him distinctly to keep Mazaroff talking for a time.
"My man, I expect," he explained. "I told him to come here about this time, and I suppose he is whistling to let me know that he is handy. When anybody is in trouble, as I am at present, it behoves one to be careful. As one accused of betraying diplomatic secrets——"