"It is no time to jest, Monsieur. I'm afraid you're badly hurt."
"I'm all right," he smiled, "but nitro-glycerine is not the best thing for a headache."
"I'm sorry, Monsieur." He saw Madame Rochal start and put her finger to her lips. "Sh--," she whispered and peered out from behind the bush where Rowland was sitting, toward the wall. He got up to his knees and followed her glance. It was still quite dark, but in the growing light he saw a movement in the branches of a tree near by and presently made out a pair of legs, dangling above the top of the wall. "It's a man," whispered Madame Rochal, "coming over. What----?"
Rowland slowly got to his feet and stood, his hand in warning on the arm of Madame Rochal, waiting until the man should descend. The gray figure hovered for a moment on the top of the wall and then they heard the thud of his boots as he reached the ground. In a moment, as the man emerged from the bushes, Rowland sprang out and faced the intruder. And as each man recognized the other in the growing light, he stepped back, the one in, surprise, the other in consternation.
"Picard----!"
"You, Monsieur Rowland! Safe!" He breathed hard like one in the last stages of exhaustion.
"Quite, as you see. Mademoiselle Korasov sent you?"
Picard gasped and nodded. "With this note to Monsieur Shestov."
"Let me see it."
While Zoya Rochal turned on the light of Liederman's torch Rowland unfolded the slip of paper covered with close writing--in Russian.