She was awaiting him in her drawing-room, pale and rather worn, but no less richly handsome than usual. She had, however, nothing of her rallying good humour, her air of confident, luxurious grace. She told him that she had fallen into the hands of Captain Nadson and the Cossacks and had been taken by the captain privately before Prince Berloff. The prince had been most harsh with her, but to save his guests the unpleasantness of being involved in a scandal, he had decided to keep the matter secret for the present. They had all returned to St. Petersburg that day, except the prince; and she, though apparently free, was under what amounted to domiciliary arrest.
What had happened was of course a little otherwise. When taken before Prince Berloff, she had told the story of her failure, and how she had struggled to prevent Drexel’s escape, and had been corroborated by the captain and by the bruised arms which she exhibited. The prince, bitterly disappointed as he was, had to attribute the failure to Drexel’s quickness of brain and body.
Drexel told her in turn how he had got back to St. Petersburg.
“I know you have not returned to your hotel, for I called it up,” said she. “Where have you gone?”
Her pallor deepened as he answered her.
“And so you are in the midst of a revolutionary plot!” she breathed. “But how did you know of that house?”
Once more he was forced to give her an evasive reply. “Mr. Freeman told me of it.”
She gazed at him for several moments, and appalling fear grew upon her. He was going right forward with this plot she had lured him into—this plot against his life!
Suddenly she stretched out a jewelled hand and caught his arm. “Please—please do not go back to that house!” she cried.
He stared at her. “Why?”