“Ah, I forgot! I suppose I ought to introduce myself,” she said, laughing. “I’m Prascovie Souvaroff. I know your name, and have heard how you assisted our cause.”
After I had acknowledged the compliment, we commenced a commonplace conversation, which was interrupted by the entrance of a tall, elderly man, whose thin face, sunken cheeks, and deeply furrowed brow were indicative of heavy toil or long imprisonment.
Prascovie rose quickly and introduced him.
“Ivan Souvaroff, my father,” she exclaimed, and when we had exchanged greetings, she said, “Now I’ll go, because you want to talk. When you have finished your conversation, ring the bell, and I will return and bore you.” And, laughing gaily, she tripped out of the room.
Souvaroff took a cigarette, lit it, and, seating himself thoughtfully, looked into my face and said—
“I have to thank you for coming here to-night, sir; but the matter about which I desired to see you is one of urgency. I have heard from Grigorovitch and others how you have assisted us in London and in Petersburg, and I thought it probable you would render me a small personal service.”
“If it is in my power, I shall be most happy,” I replied.
“It is quite easy if you will only do it; it is merely to insert a paragraph in the papers as news. I have it here, ready written.” Then, taking a slip of paper from his pocket, he read the following announcement: “Prascovie, only daughter of Ivan Souvaroff, who escaped from Siberia after five years at the mines, died in London yesterday.”
“Died?” I repeated, in surprise. “What do you mean? Your daughter was here, alive and well, a few moments ago!”
“I’m aware of that,” he replied, smiling mysteriously. “You are not one of Us, otherwise I could tell you the reason.”