"Ah, a traveller, I see," the Russian said at length in careful English. "You are most welcome, I assure you, sir. We are delighted to have your company. It is a pleasure which seldom comes to us in this lonely spot. My name," he added, stretching out his hand to Paul, "is Boris Ivanovitch, and this lady," turning to his companion, "is—my sister."
Paul bowed to the red-haired woman.
"Aldringham is my name," he said, as he grasped the gentleman's outstretched hand. He did not like the look in the heavy-lidded eyes of his host, and some quick instinct prevented him from giving his own name—so he fell back upon that of his mother's family.
And now a third occupant of the house entered—a tall young man of the most unpleasant appearance.
"My cousin Michael," said Ivanovitch in an even voice, "Michael, this is Mr. Aldringham, an English traveller."
The newcomer had very light blue eyes, closely set together, and a large, red, hawk-like nose. His hands too were large and red, with immense knuckles and brutal, short, stubbed nails. Paul took one of the huge red hands with a barely repressed shudder. It was cold and clammy and strong as a vise.
"If ever," thought the baronet to himself, "I have touched the hand of a murderer, I have touched one now."
The tall young man sat down presently and carefully watched Paul with his narrow, light blue eyes, which glinted and flashed all over Paul's face. Boris Ivanovitch looked at him sidelong. The red-haired woman alone gazed at him openly and frankly with eyes that were almost honestly blue.
There was a little pause while conversation hung fire. There was nothing for this curious collection of human beings to talk about except the traveller himself, and on this subject their tongues had to be silent as long as he remained.
Suddenly the door opened, and a portly man with a sallow, greasy face came quickly in. He stood still, with his hand on the panel of the door, and gave a short, quick gasp which caused Paul to look at him sharply. That form struck Paul as strangely familiar.