“No, no, don’t jump at any false conclusion. We are both nervous wrecks this afternoon. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t care—I don’t care, except that I hate tyranny, and am sorry for the victims of it.”
“Dorothy, Dorothy!”
“We need a sane man in the house, Kate. Telegraph for your father to come down and talk to us both. I must finish my letter to the Nihilist.”
“Dorothy!” said Katherine, kissing her.
CHAPTER XII —THE DREADED TROGZMONDOFF
THE Nihilist was shown into the dainty drawing room of the flat, and found Dorothy Amhurst alone, as he had stipulated, waiting for him. He was dressed in a sort of naval uniform and held a peaked cap in his hand, standing awkwardly there as one unused to luxurious surroundings. His face was bronzed with exposure to sun and storm, and although he appeared to be little more than thirty years of age his closely cropped hair was white. His eyes were light blue, and if ever the expression of a man’s countenance betokened stalwart honesty, it was the face of this sailor. He was not in the least Dorothy’s idea of a dangerous plotter.
“Sit down,” she said, and he did so like a man ill at ease.
“I suppose Johnson is not your real name,” she began.
“It is the name I bear in America, Madam.”