“Nothing, my dear young lady—yet,” he answered, coming forward and rubbing his broad palms slowly together.
Maggie was reading an English newspaper. She turned its pages without pausing to notice the black and sticky obliterations effected by the postal authorities before delivery. It was no new thing to her now to come upon the press censor’s handiwork in the columns of such periodicals and newspapers as Paul received from England.
“Because,” she said, “if there is you need not be afraid of telling me.”
“To have that fear would be to offer you an insult,” replied Steinmetz. “Paul and I are investigating matters, that is all. The plain truth, my dear young lady, is that we do not know ourselves what is in the wind. We only know there is something. You are a horsewoman—you know the feeling of a restive horse. One knows that he is only waiting for an excuse to shy or to kick or to rear. One feels it thrilling in him. Paul and I have that feeling in regard to the peasants. We are going the round of the outlying villages, steadily and carefully. We are seeking for the fly on the horse’s body—you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
She gave a little nod. She had not lost color, but there was an anxious look in her eyes.
“Some people would have sent to Tver for the soldiers,” Steinmetz went on. “But Paul is not that sort of man. He will not do it yet. You remember our conversation at the Charity Ball in London?”
“Yes.”
“I did not want you to come then. I am sorry you have come now.”
Maggie laid aside the newspaper with a little laugh.