“Let me try, and don’t go after him until I have given him up,” I said. “He has been in prison once and under the knout, and his back is all cut and scarred. It is horrible, and I hate the whole system, and am glad we are going away in a few days.”
“Going away so soon?” the gendarme asked, and in his voice there was genuine regret such as we feel when parting from a friend.
“Yes,” I answered, not quite in the tone I had at first assumed.
I could not understand the influence this man had over me, or the sense of restfulness I felt as I walked beside him on the Nevsky, till we reached his house, which, at his invitation, we entered, hearing from the porter and a head servant an account of the robbery, which was so adroitly done as to leave in their minds no doubt that the thief was Carl Zimosky.
“But we’ll get him, we’ll get him,” the porter said, with a shake of his gray head, “and the knout will soon make him give up the plunder, if he has it.”
I shuddered, but made no remark. I meant to get the watch, if Carl had it, though how I scarcely knew. It was growing late, and I was too tired to walk the remaining distance to the hotel. I would take a drosky, I said, and, with Mary, was soon being hurled along the street in an old vehicle and at a pace which threatened the dislocation of our limbs, if indeed we were not thrown into the street.
If anyone at the hotel had heard of the robbery at Michel Seguin’s house, nothing was said of it, and by mutual consent Mary and I kept our own counsel with regard to our adventure. We had had a long walk and been in a queer part of the city, we said, when questioned, and that was all. I was more tired and excited than I had ever been in my life, and I made my fatigue an excuse for retiring early to my room, where I lay awake far into the night, devising means for getting Michel’s watch, if possible, from the hands of Carl Zimosky, if he had it, or through him from the one who did have it.
CHAPTER VI.
THE WATCH.
I changed my mind with regard to leaving St. Petersburg in three days, and decided to stay a week longer. For this change I made no explanation except to Mary, whom I took into my confidence, telling her of my intended visit to Ursula and asking her to go with me. At first she shrank from the idea in alarm, but finally consented, and on the afternoon of the second day after our adventure, we started again for what Mary called the thieves’ quarters. To save time we took a drosky nearly to the end of the Nevsky, and walked the rest of the way. It was a warm afternoon and the street was swarming with children who, at sight of us, set up a clamor. “She’s come again—the madame who talks as we do,” and they began to gather around us; but I waved them off so imperatively that they did not even touch us with their hands as I went forward to where Ursula was again sitting in her door mending some garments which I knew intuitively belonged to her scapegrace nephew. She looked surprised when she saw us, but arose at once and asked us to come in instead of sitting upon the steps, as we had done before. Her room was neat and clean and homelike, although poorly furnished and showing signs of poverty.
“Please keep them out,” I said, motioning to the children, some of whom followed us in. “My business with you is private.”