“The White One!” exclaimed Drexel. “You know The White One?”
“Well.”
“I have heard no name more often since I’ve been in Russia. Might I ask what he is like?”
“Forgive me—I cannot tell even you. Only the Central Committee and a very few others, persons who have been tested by fire and water, know who The White One is.”
She paused, then said hesitant: “Possibly, after all, you may see for yourself. I told about your saving me and your offer to help us, and The White One was very much interested. By what you have done you have earned and proved the right to be trusted, and when I tell all—who knows? At any rate, I was going to ask you to walk there with me.”
“I am ready,” said Drexel springing up.
“In those clothes?”
Drexel for the first moment since waking thought of what he wore, and of him who waited for the garments.
“What shall I do?” he cried. And he told her of leaving the peasant at the station twelve hours before.
“Believe me,” she returned, “he is patiently sitting there, his left leg over his right leg, his wrong-side-out cap on his left knee. Ivan will take the clothes to him. The outfit Ivan bought for you is on the table. I will wait for you in the next room.”