“That is good. We like to treat our guests well.”
He rang up a number on the telephone, and spoke rapid Russian. Then he turned to Christy again.
“It is settled. Sophieskaya, 14. They have prepared a room for him. Good evening, Mr. Pollard. I shall read your articles with interest, I am sure.”
Christy led the way out of the building, and asked Bertram to get into the droschke again. They drove across a bridge, turned at right angles along the bank of the river. On the other side was an astonishing view of the Kremlin again in the white moonlight, with great blocks of darkness between its churches and palaces and towers.
“An ‘Arabian Nights’ Dream!” said Bertram, in a low voice.
Christy did not answer him directly.
“That fellow Weinstein is not a bad fellow. As gentle as an invalid lady at Bournemouth. As subtle as a Chinese mandarin. I don’t think he’d hurt a spider, willingly. But of course he’d vote for the death of any counter-revolutionary, man, woman, or child. That’s fear. Fear is the father of cruelty. Well, here we are.”
The droschke driver pulled up his horse with a clatter of hoofs. Two soldiers standing by a sentry-box came forward with a lantern, and held it up to Christy’s face, and Bertram’s.
“That’s all right, my children,” said Christy. “Now for a hundred thousand roubles.”
“In Heaven’s name, what for?” asked Bertram, still ignorant of Russian money.