"No. I am not angry with you," she said promptly.
"And you will let me try by my kindness and consideration to correct the poor estimate you have made of me?"
"Perhaps--" And then wearily, "But do not urge me further now, Grisha Khodkine. My mind refuses to act. I am more than half asleep."
"Poor dushka. I shall trouble you no more. Sleep on."
And then, after a while, without warning came the watchful Tanya's chance. A tire blew out. Gregory Khodkine with a muttered imprecation stopped the car, got down and examined the wheel. They were in a deserted road with no lights of any kind in sight. Tanya stirred and questioned lazily. Khodkine had already thrown off his coat and was on his knees in the road. By the reflection of the lights upon the indicators, Tanya's eyes furtively examined the suit-case which contained the fortune of Nemi. The catch was closed, but the key was in the lock. All day Gregory Khodkine, keeping the suit-case under his eye, had not deemed the key important. And now----
Tanya, fingering the catch with one hand to be sure that it would open, leaned past the wheel and peered over the side of the car.
"Do you think you will be long delayed?" she inquired sleepily.
"A matter of twenty minutes, I should say," he grunted from behind the car, where he was tugging at the straps of the spare tire.
"Oh! Then do you mind if I creep into the tonneau and steal a wink of sleep?"
"Not at all. You'd better," he growled. "I may be an hour."