The Kommissar placed his automatic on the table before him, his little, red-rimmed eyes screwed up into a malicious smile as he looked from one to the other of his prisoners; he addressed Simon.
“We have met in London — we have met in Moskawa — and now we meet in Romanovsk — is it not, Mr. Aron?”
Simon nodded.
“I am very happy to see you in Romanovsk, Mr. Aron — it gives me opportunity to entertain you in my own fashion. I have been wanting to do that for a long time.” There was a world of unpleasant meaning in Lishkin’s voice.
“That’s very nice of you,” said Simon, suspiciously.
Leshkin ran his finger-nails with a rasping sound through his short, stubbly red beard. “Do not mention it,” he said, with mock politeness. “I owe you a very special debt for the way in which you have entertained Valeria Petrovna when you were in Moskawa. That debt shall be paid in the true Russian manner.”
“Thought Russia gave up paying her debts at the time of the Revolution,” murmured Simon.
“Silence,” snapped the Kommissar, with a sudden change of manner. “Now, you,” he addressed the Duke. “You call yourself Richwater?”
“That is so,” replied De Richleau. “You will see that from my passport.”
“The passport lies; it is not so that you are known in London — in Curzon Street, or at the Mausoleum Club for instance?”