“That you must judge for yourself,” the Duke replied lightly. “If I showed you my passport, you would say that it is forged, perhaps.”
“You are not of the police,” said the other, decisively. “No spy of the Ogpu could call an artiste to his table as you call me. Yet it was a risk you ran — such is no longer the manner used in Moscow!”
De Richleau smiled, pleased that his subtlety had been appreciated. “I must run risks if I wish to find my friend,” he said, simply. “A tall, young American — he came here one night early in December — Tsarderynski, or Rex Van Ryn, which you choose, that is his name.”
“I know him,” the other nodded laconically, and spat on the floor.
“Did you know that he was in prison?” the Duke inquired, guardedly.
“No, but I suspected that, else he would have returned by now; but it is better not to talk of this here!”
“Where can we meet?” De Richleau asked at once.
“Where is your guide?” the dancer countered, quickly.
“We are supposed to be at Meyerhold’s Theatre tonight, but we came here instead.”
“Good. It must be some place where he will not accompany you.”