The grotesque figure, still wearing the mask of a Shamman, pulled out a chair and plumped down on it. Without speaking he crossed his muscular legs and, producing a tobacco pouch and papers, began to roll himself a cigarette.
De Richleau called the slatternly woman, and a fresh round of the spirit resembling Sleigowitz was put before them.
With his brilliant grey eyes the Duke studied the dancer. He felt certain now that they were on the right track; had the fellow churlishly refused, or been abusive of that invitation issued almost in the form of a command, he would have felt that probably they were mistaken, and that the man was no more than an ordinary moujik. Since the man accepted in seeming serenity, the inference was that he realized their visit to be no casual one, and was himself no casual peasant dancer.
“We are visitors here in Moscow for a few days,” the Duke began, in a low voice. “Americans. Do you get many Americans here?”
“Könen sie Deutsch sprechen?” the dancer inquired, softly.
“Jawohl,” De Richleau answered under his breath.
Simon pricked up his ears, for he had a fair knowledge of German.
“That is good,” the peasant went on in the same language, still looking the other way; the hideous mask hid the movement of his lips. “I also am American, so also are all the people in this room — every one, just as much American as yourself, old one. Now tell me the truth.”
A glint of humour showed in De Richleau’s piercing eyes. “I ask your pardon,” he said briefly, “but it is an American that I seek, and I thought that Jack Straw might give me news of him!”
“So?” The dancer seemed to consider. “How do I know that you are not the police?”