“We’ll go into the inside room. We can turn the light on there,” said Burrows. We all passed into the reception-room of the office, a nice airy place with the library along one wall and bright coloured maps on the other. We stood together and considered the matter.
“It’s real!” said Burrows, his red, cheery face perplexed and strained. “Who’d have thought it?”
“Of course it’s real!” cried Bohun impatiently (Burrows’ optimism had been often difficult to bear with indulgence).
“Now you see! What about your beautiful Russian mystic now?”
“Oh dear!” cried the little Russian typist. “And my mother!... What ever shall I do? She’ll hear reports and think that I’m being murdered. I shall never get across.”
“You’d better stay with me to-night, Miss Peredonov,” said Peroxide firmly. “My flat’s quite close here in Gagarinsky. We shall be delighted to have you.”
“You can telephone to your mother, Miss Peredonov,” said Burrows. “No difficulty at all.”
It was then that Bohun took me aside.
“Look here!” he said. “I’m worried. Vera and Nina were going to the Astoria to have tea with Semyonov this afternoon. I should think the Astoria might be rather a hot spot if this spreads. And I wouldn’t trust Semyonov. Will you come down with me there now?”
“Yes,” I said, “of course I’ll come.”