"I don't see why, Miss Hilman. Why shouldn't he think what other people thought? I'm afraid he did, for last Thursday evening he called here, and we had a real good talk about it. He seemed——"
"Did you tell him I had gone to New York?" interrupted Clara, sharply, for she was impatient with these ingenuous statements of what Poubalov seemed to be.
"Land sakes, no!" replied Mrs. White, "but he told me he was going on, and when he suggested so kindly that he would look up Lizzie, and let me know how she was situated, I was glad to give him her address. He hasn't been here since, though. Perhaps he hasn't got back yet."
Clara wondered wearily how stupidity should manage to flourish in a world where people have to struggle so hard against one another, and then she immediately reproached herself for the thought, recalling what a taxing puzzle Poubalov's character presented to herself. She made no effort to undeceive Mrs. White—how could she with so little as she herself actually knew?—but rather turned the conversation into simple channels until she took her departure.
Paul arrived at Mr. Pembroke's about six o'clock, reporting that Poubalov had been absent all day until late in the afternoon, and that when he came in he immediately began preparations for going out again.
"I came along at once," said Paul, "lest he should get here ahead of me."
Clara asked her uncle if he would like to meet the spy.
"No," he answered uneasily; "what good purpose would it serve?"
"I thought that perhaps you might read him better than I can," said Clara; "I don't see how we can help coming to a crisis this evening, and if you could help, we might bring about the release of Ivan all the sooner."
Mr. Pembroke was careworn, and all his utterances and actions had been marked by indecision since his return from New York.