The starosta shrugged his narrow shoulders in cringing deprecation.
“Excellency, I do not know. There is something in the village—something in the whole country. I know not what it is. It is a feeling—one cannot see it, one cannot define it; but it is there, like the gleam of water at the bottom of a deep well. The moujiks are getting dangerous. They will not speak to me. I am suspected. I am watched.”
His shifty eyes, like black beads, flitted from side to side as he spoke. He was like a weasel at bay. It was the face of a man who went in bodily fear.
“I will go with you down to the village now,” said Paul. “Is there any excuse—any illness?”
“Ah, Excellency,” replied the chief, “there is always that excuse.”
Paul looked at the clock.
“I will go now,” he said. He began his simple preparations at once.
“There is dinner to be thought of,” suggested Steinmetz, with a resigned smile. “It is half-past seven.”
“Dinner can wait,” replied Paul in English. “You might tell the ladies that I have gone out, and will dine alone when I come back.”
Steinmetz shrugged his broad shoulders.