“I can speak to him—”
“Not now” — the doctor shook his head — “but to-morrow, surely. He is sleeping, and must not be disturbed until the morning. He is past all danger. Soon he will be well. But should he be awakened now, his weakness might return very quickly.”
“You will come to-morrow?”
“Not unless it is absolutely necessary Ordinary care will assure his recovery from now on.”
Motkin watched the physician depart. Like many other professional men in Moscow, this doctor had once been suspected of Czarist leanings. Motkin had done much to assure the man’s safety under the Bolshevist regime. He knew that he could rely upon absolute silence.
WHEN Motkin reached his upstairs room, Prensky came in to see him, and repeated what the physician had said. The captive was sleeping quietly. A telephone bell rang before Motkin could make a reply.
Motkin’s voice was a growl as he answered the phone. Then it changed to a careful tone. Prensky knew that the man was speaking to some superior. He saw Motkin’s eyes light as his lips formed quick phrases.
“Yes? You have received a report from Paris? Ah… Michael Senov… Yes, he has been missing… In Paris, reported by our agents there? Good… I shall go… Soon, yes, soon.”
Motkin’s eyes showed a sudden shrewdness. Prensky, taciturn, but observant, knew that his master was thinking of the unknown prisoner.
“… Tomorrow,” declared Motkin, still speaking over the phone. “Tomorrow, in the afternoon… Yes, my aid will follow. Later… Good. I shall expect the passports in the morning.”