"I am addressing the prisoner, sir," was his cold remark.
"You refuse to obey the order of the Emperor's representative in London! Good! Then I shall report you to the Minister," I exclaimed, piqued at his insolence.
"Speak, girl!" he roared, his black eyes fixed fiercely upon her. "Why are you in Ostrog? You are no provincial, you know."
"She is my affianced wife," I said, "and in face of my statement and my passport she need make no reply to any of your questions."
A short, stout little man, shabbily dressed, pushed his way forward to the table, saying:
"Luba Lazareff is a well-known revolutionist, your Excellency. The German maker of bombs, Gustave Englebach, is her lover—not this gentleman. Gustave only left Ostrog yesterday."
The speaker was, I afterwards discovered, one of Hartmann's agents.
"And where is Englebach now? I gave orders for his arrest some days ago."
"He was found this morning by the patrol on the road to Schumsk, recognised, and shot, your Excellency."
At this poor little Luba gave vent to a piercing scream and burst into a torrent of bitter tears.