“That is her marvel!” he rejoined eagerly. “In France she is a Frenchwoman; in Germany you would swear she had never been outside the Fatherland; in England an English maiden to the life, and in Russia she is Russian, French, English, German,—American even, with a name to suit each nationality. That is how she has managed so long to evade her enemies. The Russian police have been on her track these three years; but they have never caught her. She is wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove—”
I had to cut his rhapsodies short once more.
“What is the peril that threatens her? She was in England until recently; the Secret Police could not touch her there?”
“It is not the police now. They are formidable,—yes,—when their grasp has closed on man or woman; but they are incredibly stupid in many ways. See how often she herself has slipped through their fingers! But this is far more dangerous. She has fallen under the suspicion of the League.”
“The League that has a red geranium as its symbol?”
He started, and glanced round as if he suspected some spy concealed even in this, his own room.
“You know of it?” he asked in a low voice.
“I have heard of it. Well, are you a member of it?”
“I? Gott in Himmel, no! Why should I myself mix in these Russian politics? But Carson was involved with them,—how much even I do not know,—and she has been one of them since her childhood. Now they say she is a traitress. If possible they will bring her before the Five—the secret tribunal. Even they do not forget all she has done for them; and they would give her the chance of proving her innocence. But if she will not return, they will think that is sufficient proof, and they will kill her, wherever she may be.”