"Yes," admitted Paul, in the same language, "I am, and you are his deadly enemy.'
"Bah!" exclaimed Poubalov in profound disgust, "you ought to know better. Come in here—but no! you are in a hurry. Go, then; I will talk to you another time."
"Better now, Poubalov," returned Paul, significantly, "one of us might be missing before another opportunity occurred. I am not so much in a hurry that I cannot listen to you."
"No!" said the spy, decidedly, "go your way, and take this comfort with you, Palovna, that you have done your friend Strobel a service."
He shrugged his shoulders and withdrew into his room and closed the door.
Paul went slowly down the stairs and opened the front door just as the landlady poked her head from her room on the ground floor and inquired in an agitated whisper, "Whatever was the trouble?"
"It is nothing," said Paul, "I stumbled, and the gentleman in the front room mistook me for a burglar, I guess. Sorry I disturbed you."
"It's all right," whispered the landlady, "but I guess he must have scared you some. Your face is as wet as if you'd been out in a rain."
Paul realized then to what a tense degree his nerves had been strained.
Perspiration seemed to be oozing from every pore. His knees felt weak and his head dizzy, but he kept in mind the part he was playing and left the house. However certain it was that Poubalov would infer that Strobel's intimate friend lodged there for the purpose of watching him, it would never do to openly admit the fact by returning immediately to his room.