Motkin nodded. He gave Prensky his passports and papers. He explained tersely what their purpose was. He instructed the aid to remain within call. Then as an afterthought, he asked:
“The hat and cloak. They were all you found?”
Prensky nodded.
“Where are they?”
“In the cabinet — in the corner of the office—”
“Very good.”
Deliberately, Ivan Motkin entered the office. Folding his arms, he looked toward a chair by the window.
Some one was reclining there.
This was the prisoner. Motkin surveyed him with curiosity. He was attired in a dressing gown which Prensky had provided. His left arm was bandaged and in a sling. His head also wore a bandage.
The face was peaked and pale. It seemed almost like a waxen form, with hollow cheeks and thin, hawklike nose. It was a face that carried dignity, but it betrayed the weariness of its owner.