“Not to-night?” asked the chief of police, scribbling a memorandum.
“No; to-morrow.”
“Very well,” he said, rising and putting on his hat. “I am obliged for your information. Bon jour, madame. If I have been a little—a little abrupt, forgive me.”
A moment later he had gone.
The scene was a weird one. In a low, damp, underground cellar, a dozen men and women were sitting around a table, upon the centre of which a playing-card was pinned by a thin ivory-hilted dagger. A couple of guttering candles shed a feeble light upon the pale, determined countenances of the conspirators, among whom sat Paul Denissoff.
The elderly, wild-haired man who sat at the head of the table was speaking authoritatively, and had been explaining to those assembled, the proposals for the coup at Peterhof, a map of the neighbourhood being spread before him.
“And now,” he said gravely, “we must draw lots for the removal of the traitor to whom I referred at the opening of our council.”
A dead silence followed, while a man who sat on the president’s right prepared a number of small folded slips of paper. Upon one of these the president scribbled a name. Then they were placed together in a small box, and each of the revolutionists drew. In addition to the president himself, only the person who drew the paper with the name upon it knew who had been guilty of treachery, while all remained in ignorance of the chosen assassin.
Then the council broke up, arranging to meet on the following night.