"Shall I go, your Excellency?" he asked, quietly.
The Governor held out his hand. "Accept my sympathy," he said, gravely. Felix knelt, took the offered hand, and kissed it with gratitude.
Stepan Stepanovitch, without a word, turned to his table, opened the package sent him by Vronsky, and began to examine the contents. Among these were one or two photos—snapshots. "These are pictures of Cravatz?" he asked.
Felix assented, and drawing near the table, told him the story of Streloff's behavior that day.
The Governor listened with attention. "But this means," he said, "that until Cravatz is arrested your life is not safe. If so much is known one must move very warily. You could hardly arrest the man Streloff on the evidence you have. But if there is one spy, there may be others, and you go in danger. They will not give you till August 31st."
Felix pondered. "That is true," he said. "I am hoping to take a short holiday in England before long, but I should not be safe there. Several things combine to make me sure that Cravatz has not made known at headquarters the fact of my presence here; because he is playing his own game. But were I to attempt to leave the country, he could telegraph to a dozen places to have me waylaid and disposed of. While he is at large, I can think of no place in which I should be safe."
"I can imagine a way to insure your safety," said the Governor, thoughtfully, "but I do not like to suggest it, because it might seem to you as if I do not trust you."
Felix made a movement of gratitude. "Your Excellency," he said, with a sincerity which carried conviction, "I am in your hands. Do what you think best. You have every reason to distrust a man with such a record as mine. How could I complain? I will not protest my loyalty, my hatred of assassination. I will only say that I am ready, not merely to give my life for yours if necessary—that would be quite simple—but to fall in with any plan you may have to suggest, in deepest gratitude to you for thinking of my safety."
The Governor smiled. Nadia, who stood near, impulsively held out both hands to Felix, and the young man bent his head above them, the hot color suffusing his face. He was only twenty-five, after all.
"You may rely upon him, your Excellency," quietly said Miss Forester, the English governess. "My countrymen are not traitors—still less are they assassins."