“You have been to Russia,” said Froman coldly. “You have learned much there. Surprising, is it not, to learn more of Russia outside of Russia?”
Holtmann’s lips moved. It was several moments before he could phrase a sentence. When he did speak, his tone was a mingling of bewilderment and indignation.
“Why am I here?” he gasped. “What have I done to you? Why do you want me? Who are you?”
Froman received each question with a smile of satisfaction. His eyes were gloating; his lips sneering. He folded his arms in a Napoleonic pose, and stopped the quizzing words with a hard, firm stare.
“I am of the old regime,” he said. “An American, by birth; a Russian by ancestry. My name is an adoption. These men whom you see here came to me after the Reds overswept Russia. They were the retainers of one of my relations — a man who perished in Russia. I have made Americans of them.
“That is enough concerning myself. I shall speak of you. You are a man with a mission that you believed was a secret. You went to Russia to study conditions there. You returned with new ideas. You have made it your appointed task to tour the United States creating interest in Russia — as it is now ruled.”
“Why not?” Holtmann’s question was challenging. “I have confidence in Russia of to-day. It is no crime for me to do as I have planned. I am not an agent of the Bolshevist government—”
“I have made no accusation” — Froman’s interruption was smooth-toned — “nor have I criticized your method. I have merely stated facts. You and your plans — they are nothing to me. But there is something else — a coincidence that has made you valuable to me.”
Holtmann’s gaze was blank. Froman smiled at his prisoner’s puzzled look. With arms still folded, the inquisitor spoke slowly and emphatically.
“WHEN you went to Russia,” he declared, “you were seeking opportunity. You found it. You received a proposal from a high official in Moscow.