"Very well. Good-bye."
"The Night Express?"
The Musician closed his eyes and nodded. "You cackle like an old woman, Galitsin; you would talk a cricket dumb. Send me up Bobo, if you see him, will you?—Good-bye."
Galitsin took out his watch. "In three hours then," he said, "Au revoir! You have plenty of time to pack. Eleven thirty, Velasco."
The door closed behind the short, thick-set figure with the crisp, curling hair, and the Musician waited in his chair. Presently the door opened again.
"Is that you, Bobo,—eh? Come in. I sent for you. Didn't you tell me your wife was ill?"
"Yes, Bárin."
"You would like to go to her to-night?—Well, go. I shan't need you. Don't jabber, you make my head spin. Go at once and stay until morning; leave the cigarettes on the tray and the wine on the table—that is all. Just take yourself off and quietly."
After a moment or two the door closed, and the sound of footsteps, scuffling in list slippers, died slowly away in the corridor. Velasco leaned forward with his head in his hands, his bloodshot eyes staring into the coals.
"He may be one of them," he murmured, "or he may not. You can't trust people. He is better out of the way."