“Pshaw!” I cried. “Of what use are such vain reasonings when one has only to open his eyes—open them, Rouletabille!”
He opened them.
“Upon whom?” he asked with a trace of bitterness in his voice. “Upon Prince Galitch?”
“Why not? Do you like him, this prince from the Black Lands who sings Lithuanian folk songs?”
“No,” replied Rouletabille. “But he entertains Mme. Edith.”
And he smiled. I pressed his hand. He acted as though he had not felt the touch, but I knew that he did.
“Prince Galitch is a Nihilist and I am not troubled over him in the least degree,” he said, tranquilly.
“Are you sure of it? Who told you?”
“Bernier’s wife, who knows one of the three old women whom Mrs. Edith told about at luncheon. I have made an investigation. She is the mother of one of the three men hanged at Kazan for the attempted assassination of the Emperor. I have seen the photograph of the poor wretches. The other two old women are the other two mothers. There’s nothing interesting about that!”
I could not refrain from a gesture of admiration.