“No; it is not the Nihilists.”
“And they do not want money, Excellency; that seems strange.”
“Very!” admitted Paul ironically.
“And they give vodka.”
This seemed to be the chief stumbling-block in the starosta’s road to a solution of the mystery.
“Find out for me,” said Paul, after a pause, “who this man is, where he comes from, and how much he is paid to open his mouth. We will pay him more to shut it. Find out as much as you can, and let me know to-morrow.”
“I will try, Excellency; but I have little hope of succeeding. They distrust me. They send the children to my shop for what they want, and the little ones have evidently been told not to chatter. The moujiks avoid me when they meet me. What can I do?”
“You can show them that you are not afraid of them,” answered Paul. “That goes a long way with the moujik.”
They walked on together through the lane of cottages, where furtive forms lurked in door-ways and behind curtains. And Paul had only one word of advice to give, upon which he harped continually: “Be thou very courageous—be thou very courageous.” Nothing new, for so it was written in the oldest book of all. The starosta was a timorous man, needing such strong support as his master gave him from time to time.
At the great gates of the park they paused, and Paul gave the mayor of Osterno a few last words of advice. While they were standing there the other man who had been following joined them.