"You are quite safe, Zoya," he found himself saying, "and in good hands. You will sleep now."
They gave her an opiate, and, with a weak smile, she obeyed him.
The dawn was creeping up over the roof-tops outside and searched the dark shadows of the room. Their host had risen, tall and gaunt, staring down at the woman on the couch. His white hair had deceived them, and in the pale light of day they could see that he was not as old as he had seemed to be, a man not far from forty. The lines in his cheeks were deeply graven as though seared by sudden misfortune, but his somber eyes burned steadily and the smile which parted his lips as he looked at his handiwork was very gentle and very sweet. For the moment, it seemed that he had forgotten Rowland and Tanya--in the spell of some memory that was not all bitterness.
The early morning air was chill and for nearly two hours Tanya had sat in her drenched clothing. Her sneeze, which she tried to repress, awoke their host from his revery with a start.
"Fräulein, I am sorry my poor chamber affords so little of comfort. But you must sleep and have dry clothing. I am afraid, Herr----" he paused.
"Rowland."
"I am afraid, Herr Rowland, that I must take Frau Nisko into our confidence."
"Who is Frau Nisko?"
"The amiable person who lets out these palatial lodgings," he said with a smile and an expressive gesture of the hand. "A compatriot of mine--Bohemian," he explained. "A lover of liberty and a woman to be trusted."
"We can pay well for silence."