Rowland glanced at her steadily a moment and then quickly went to the cupboard where last night she had found the jug of Chartreuse, and pouring her out a glass, carried it to where she stood struggling with herself at the window.
"Drink!" he said sternly. "It will quiet you."
She glanced at the glass, then at him and obeyed.
"Do not speak now," he urged quietly. "Wait until you feel better."
"No, I am well again. I must speak at once. I must tell you all. It is your right to know." She sank resolutely into the chair before him and leaned forward, her hands clasped over her knees, her gaze fixed on the empty hearth.
"Monsieur Ivanitch was--was my compatriot, Monsieur Rowlan'--that is all. I was sent here to him three years ago to help in the great cause to which I have given my life."
"Your parents, Mademoiselle?" broke in Rowland eagerly.
She moved a hand as though to eliminate all things that pertained to herself.
"It does not matter what I am, so long as you know that I am a Russian sworn to bring Russia's freedom from those who seek to work her ruin."
"And Ivanitch----?"