Young Dabney met us in the hall. I introduced him to the Baron, who turned very pale, quite green, in fact. I was astonished at this loss of color on his part, especially as Mr. Dabney was extremely polite and gentle with him in his demure way, and strolled beside him into the bookroom chatting in the most friendly fashion, and reminding me of his manner to me on the first afternoon of our acquaintance. The Baron stood in the middle of the bookroom peeling off his gloves as though his hands were wet. His forehead certainly was, and he stayed green and kept those astonished eyes fixed upon me so that I felt like screaming at him to remove them.
Paul Dabney sat on the window seat and took up a book.
“I shall be perfectly quiet, Baron,” he said, “and not disturb your investigations.”
He was admirably quiet, but I could not help but see that he did very little reading. He did not turn a page, but sat with one hand in his pocket. I remembered that he had held his hand just that way on the night of Robbie's death. One of the outdoors men came across the lawn, and began to trim the vine beside one of the open windows. I thought the Baron could not complain of any too much privacy for his researches.
“This is the Russian library,” I said, and led the way to the shelves. He followed me so closely that I could feel his breath on my neck. He was breathing fast, and rather unevenly.
“Thank you so much,” he said. He took out a volume, and rustled the pages. At last, “I wonder if I might be allowed to pursue my studies with no other assistance than yours, Miss Gale,” he asked irritably. He wiped his forehead. “I am a student, a recluse. It is a folly, but these presences”—he pointed towards Mr. Dabney and the man at the window—“disturb me.”
I glanced at Paul Dabney, who smiled and came down from his window seat, moving towards the door, the book under his arm, his hand still in his pocket. He did not say anything, but went out quietly and nearly closed the door. I shut it quite. A second later I heard him speaking to the man outside, and he, too, removed himself. The Baron gave a great whistling sigh of relief, ran to each of the windows in turn, then came back to me and spoke in a low, muttering voice.
“You are incomparable, madame,” he said.
I was perfectly astonished, both at the speech and the manner. But this was my first specimen of the Russian nobility, and supposing that it was the aristocratic Russian method of compliment, I bowed, and was going to follow Mr. Dabney out, when the Baron, kneeling by the bookcase, clutched my skirt in his hand.
“You will not leave me?”