“And where is she,—the gracious lady herself?” I asked. It was with an effort that I forced myself to speak quietly; for my heart was thumping against my ribs, and my throat felt dry as bone dust. What could—or would—this weird creature tell me of Anne’s present movements; and could—or would—he tell me the secret of Cassavetti’s murder? Through all these weeks I had clung to the hope, the belief, that he himself struck the blow, and now, as he stood before me, he appeared more capable, physically, of such a deed than he had done then. But yet I could scarcely believe it as I looked at him.
He met my question with another, as Mishka so often did.
“How is it you do not know?”
“I have told you I have but now come to Russia.”
He spread his hands with a deprecatory gesture as if to soften his reply, which, however, was spoken decisively enough.
“Then I cannot tell you. Remember, Excellency, though you seem to be one of us, I have little knowledge of you. In any matter touching myself I would trust you; but in this I dare not.”
He was right in a way. Such knowledge as I had of the accursed League was gained by trickery; and to question him further would arouse his suspicion of that fact, and I should then learn nothing at all.
“Listen,” I said slowly and emphatically. “You may trust me to the death in all matters that concern her whom you call your gracious lady. I was beside her, with her father and one other, when the Five condemned her,—would have murdered her if we had not defended her. She escaped, God be thanked, but that I only learned of late. I was taken, thrown into prison, taken thence back to England, to prison again, accused of the murder of Vladimir Selinski,—of which I shall have somewhat more to say to you soon! When I was freed, for I am innocent of that crime, as you well know, I set out to seek her, to aid her if that might be; and, if she was beyond my aid, at least to avenge her. I was about to start alone when I heard that she was no longer threatened by the League; that she was, indeed, once more at the head of it; but I failed to learn where I might find her. Therefore I go to join one who is her good friend, in the hope that I may through him be yet able to serve her. For the League I care nothing,—all my care is for her. And therefore, as I have said, you may trust me.”
He watched me fixedly as I spoke, but his gaunt face remained expressionless; though his next words showed that he had understood me well enough.
“I can tell you nothing, Excellency. You say you care for her and not for the League. That is impossible, for she is its life; her life is bound up in it; she would wish your service for it,—never for herself! This I will do. If she does not hear otherwise that you are at Zostrov, as you will be to-morrow—though it is unlikely that she will not have heard already—I will see that she has word. That is all I can do.”