“I do.”
“But how did she learn our plans?” he cried. “And how do you explain this?” And he told him of his escape with the countess from Berloff’s.
“I cannot explain that. And I do not know how she learned our plans. Yet I do know she is a spy. She knew our plans, and also the plans of the police; who but a spy could know both? It is plain she wished the police to succeed in every detail except the capture of you. If she were the revolutionist she claims to be, instead of trying to save you alone, why did she not give warning to you all in that note she sent?”
“You are right! I never thought of that!”
He seized his cap and was gone. Not knowing what he purposed doing, impelled by a blind, overmastering desire to make the person suffer who had brought on the night’s disaster, he sped away to the countess. He hastened up to her apartment and rang. She herself opened the door. Her face was blanched and strained.
She started at the sight of him. “You! Thank God, you are safe!” she cried—and there was a world of relief in her voice.
He walked in without a word.
“Tell me, how did you escape? No, no, not now!” Breathlessly she pushed him toward the door. “Go, go! It’s dangerous for you here. Some one is coming—”
She now noticed his face, black with awful accusation. She stepped back with widened eyes.
“What is it?” she whispered.