The presence of Yakovkin was the only thing that served to cheer their desperate situation. The man had been born on the Plakoff estates; as a youth he had been one of the old Prince’s huntsmen. Many a time had he ridden behind the Duke, and once by his quickness and courage he had saved De Richleau from the tusks of an infuriated boar. Surreptitiously he showed them every kindness that he could, and managed to smuggle extra food to their cell.
The tramp of feet sounded on the stone flags of the passage. A sharp command, and a file of soldiers halted outside, the warder unlocked the barred gate of their cell, and the officer beckoned them to come out.
They obeyed quietly; there was nothing else to do. They were marched away, each with a Red Guard on either side, down the corridor, up a broad flight of stone stairs into an office on the upper floor. A few clerks were busy with files and papers. For some minutes they remained standing there, then they were taken into an inner room.
De Richleau smiled slightly as he recognized Leshkin seated behind a heavy table. The Kommissar looked more like a great red gorilla than ever. His low forehead, small eyes, and great protruding jowl sparsely covered with hair, all lent to the resemblance.
“You may go,” he ordered the guards sharply. He smiled slowly at the Duke.
“So we meet again, and for the last time, Mr. Richwater.”
“That causes me no concern, since I set no value on your acquaintance,” the Duke murmured.
“Last time we met you alluded to an acquaintance that you did not possess — I refer to Stalin!”
“It pleased me to amuse myself by frightening you a little.”
“It is you who will be frightened tomorrow morning.” The big man nodded heavily.