“I am leaving Russia. After what has happened—I can’t stand it here—and it will be safest. I think that is all. Except”—and she looked him straight in the eyes, and her voice dropped to a barest breath—“I believe I know who this Captain Laroque is.”
“Yes?”
“What he did was—was wonderful!” Her dark eyes looked a quick, subdued admiration. “That is all. Good-bye.”
She rose and was leaving him, but he followed her to the tapestried doorway. Here, very pale, she inclined her head to him and was sweeping away—when suddenly he held out his hand.
“Good-bye,” he said. “And I hope—I hope—”
“Thank you. Good-bye.”
For an instant her hand pressed his with quivering tensity. Then she bowed again, and moved away.
Drexel returned to his table and again set his ears open, but heard nothing more of consequence. He thought of his relatives above; of Alice, even now, perhaps, beginning excitedly to prepare for the wedding. He was rising to go upstairs and discharge his painful duty, when he saw that Prince Valenko had entered the room and was bearing in his direction. They exchanged a few words of commonplace, then they drew apart to a window and made a show of gazing out.
The prince’s manner was cool, even casual, for the sake of those eyes that might be looking on, and in it was no slightest sign of the secret that lay between them. But when he spoke, his low words vibrated with eagerness.
“Have you heard anything of the escaped prisoners?” he asked.