A lighted candle revealed a big brown-bearded man, who gave Drexel a searching look. “All’s well, I see,” he said.
“Yes,” said Ivan.
The man silently turned over the candle to Nicolai and disappeared. “Who is he?” Drexel asked, as they mounted a flight of stairs.
“The keeper of this boarding-house,” answered Ivan.
Nicolai unlocked a door. They entered and crossed to another door, Drexel seeing nothing of the room save that it was almost bare. This second door entered and locked behind them, and an oil lamp with blackened chimney lighted, Drexel found himself in a square, low-ceilinged room furnished with a hunchbacked couch on one side, a bed of dubious comfort on the other, a wooden table in the centre with a battered and tarnished brass samovar upon it, three chairs—and that was all.
“Here we are at last,” said Ivan, rubbing his cold bare hands. “Now for a bite to eat. I’ll fix the samovar, comrade. Mr. Drexel, sit down.”
“But,” said Drexel, “I thought you were going to bring me to—to—Mary Davis.”
“It’s not time for her to come yet,” returned Ivan. “You’ll have to wait.”
It occurred to Drexel that this was a strange place to meet such a woman, but he brushed the thought aside. Afire with eagerness as he was, he realised that there was nothing for him but to command such patience as he could. So he took one of the rickety chairs and watched Ivan start the charcoal going in the samovar, and Nicolai take paper bags from the sill of the one window and from these bags take big sour pickles, a loaf of black bread and a roll of sausage, which last two he proceeded to slice. Presently the tea was brewed, and Drexel was asked to draw his chair to the table.
In all his life Drexel had never tasted such uninviting fare. “I’m not hungry, thank you,” he said.