"Very little more. I have not yet told you why I am a nihilist, and that is what this story is for. Yvonne was my most intimate friend. I loved her as I would have loved—no,—better than I could have loved a sister. Her brother Stanislaus, was my betrothed. We were to have been married within the year when Yvonne was taken away. Now you know all"; and she turned her head away again. I could see that she had dreaded this confession.
"No, not all, yet," I said. "What became of the officer who made all the trouble?"
"He returned," she replied, without again raising her eyes.
"Where is he now?"
"He is here."
"Here? In St. Petersburg?"
"Yes."
"Do you know him? Do you see him?"
"Yes, frequently. He was here last night."
"Will you tell me his name?"