Rowland grinned at him cheerfully. They dreaded him, these four men, dreaded and feared him, but Ivanitch dreaded and feared him most. The situation was comic. Rowland increased his pace; they increased theirs. He paused; they stopped. It was like a game, Rowland went on again. He was the "guide," it seemed, of this strange awkward squad. But as he neared the turn in the path which led to the gate, the shock-headed man went forward in the direction of the daïs while Ivanitch came a pace closer, bent forward, his long arms hanging, still watching him eagerly. The creature was menacing. The distance to the gate was now short, but the idea of turning his back to this madman, who might spring upon him from behind, was most unpleasant. So Rowland stopped and faced him, catching a glimpse of Tanya Korasov who had followed them and stood nearby, listening and watching, aware of the hazardous moment.
"It is a pleasant morning, Monsieur Ivanitch," said Rowland coolly.
"The gate--is yonder," croaked the Russian. "Go!"
"All in good time," said Rowland. "But I've something to say first."
The Russian's thin lips worked but he said nothing, though his fingers twitched against his legs.
"I thank you for your hospitality--such as it is. But you don't like me, Monsieur. Our sentiments are reciprocal. Your attitude even now is most unpleasant--not to say offensive. Were it not for Mademoiselle, I should have lost my temper long ago."
"Go----! Go----!" cried the Russian chokingly. He seemed trembling on the brink of some nervous paroxysm.
"When I'm ready. In the meanwhile, listen----"
"What have I to do with you?"
"You know best about that," said Rowland coolly, aware of a new desire to probe the mystery if he could.