Razumov preserved the seriousness of his expression and the deliberate, if cautious, manner of speaking.
“Was not that the best thing to do?” he asked, in a dispassionate tone. “And anyway,” he added, after waiting a moment, “we did not give much thought to what would come after. We never discussed formally any line of conduct. It was understood, I think.”
She approved his statement with slight nods.
“You, of course, wished to remain in Russia?”
“In St. Petersburg itself,” emphasized Razumov. “It was the only safe course for me. And, moreover, I had nowhere else to go.”
“Yes! Yes! I know. Clearly. And the other—this wonderful Haldin appearing only to be regretted—you don’t know what he intended?”
Razumov had foreseen that such a question would certainly come to meet him sooner or later. He raised his hands a little and let them fall helplessly by his side—nothing more.
It was the white-haired woman conspirator who was the first to break the silence.
“Very curious,” she pronounced slowly. “And you did not think, Kirylo Sidorovitch, that he might perhaps wish to get in touch with you again?”
Razumov discovered that he could not suppress the trembling of his lips. But he thought that he owed it to himself to speak. A negative sign would not do again. Speak he must, if only to get at the bottom of what that St. Petersburg letter might have contained.