“I know no more,” he protested wildly; “if you torture me, you can learn no more.”
I looked at him coldly. “Perhaps,” I said, “you can tell me more about the mode in which Vladimir Sergheievitch learned that mademoiselle, his niece, was at Von Gaden’s house at all.”
He shrank back, and looked at me like a hunted beast.
“You dogged my footsteps,” I went on harshly; “you tracked mademoiselle and her companion to the doctor’s house and betrayed them, and now you ask mercy of me with a lie in your mouth!”
“It is not a lie!” he cried, thoroughly cowed. “It is the truth, by our Lady of Kazan! I do not know—but I can tell you of one who does,” he added, a gleam of hope showing in his eyes as he realized that he had not yet played his last card and lost.
“Tell me the name at once,” I said sternly; “every minute’s delay will cost you dear!”
“Be merciful to me, and I will tell you the truth; I can do no more!” he protested pitifully.
“Be quick!” I cried angrily.
“My master and Viatscheslav Naryshkin were obliged to be in attendance at the palace,” Polotsky said, “and a dwarf whom they trust—”
“Homyak!” I exclaimed at once.