“Come in!” said a voice which caused him to start.
He pushed open the door. The room was a small one, brilliantly lighted by a paraffin lamp. At the table sat an old man with broad benevolent face, high forehead, thin hair, and that smile which savors of the milk of human kindness, and in England suggests Nonconformity.
“You!” ejaculated Steinmetz. “Stipan!”
“Yes. Come in and close the door.”
He laid aside his pen, extended his hand, and, rising, kissed Karl Steinmetz on both cheeks after the manner of Russians.
“Yes, my dear Karl. It seems that the good God has still a little work for Stipan Lanovitch to do. I got away quite easily, in the usual way, through a paid Evasion Agency. I have been forwarded from pillar to post like a prize fowl, and reached Petersburg last night. I have not long to stay. I am going south. I may be able to do some good yet. I hear that Paul is working wonders in Tver.”
“What about money?” asked Steinmetz, who was always practical.
“Catrina sent it, the dear child! That is one of the conditions made by the Agency—a hard one. I am to see no relations. My wife—well, bon Dieu! it does not matter much. She is occupied in keeping herself warm, no doubt. But Catrina! that is a different matter. Tell me—how is she? That is the first thing I want to know.”
“She is well,” answered Steinmetz. “I saw her yesterday.”
“And happy?” The broad-faced man looked into Steinmetz’s face with considerable keenness.