“Was it?” she asked in a strange tone of alarm. “Ah, I remember. I—I was happy then, wasn’t I?”
“Are you not happy now?” I inquired.
“Yes—very,” she replied, smiling. “But I’m tired, and must go to my room, or I shall be fit for nothing to-morrow.”
“Very well,” I replied. “I’ll tell you to go in a few minutes.”
Then, after joining the driver and post-house keepers in another glass of vodka, I said to her—
“Ivan, you can go. I shall require you no longer.”
Gathering up her coat, hat and gloves, she bowed, and, wishing the men “Good-night,” went to her room.
After smoking for another hour, I also sought my dirty little den. In the heart of Siberia one must expect to rough it, therefore I took my revolver from my belt, placed it under my pillow, and, after removing some of my clothes, strapped my fur rug around my neck, and, stretching myself upon the hard pallet, soon dropped off to sleep.
Next morning, when I had dressed, I knocked several times at Prascovie’s door, but received no reply. Subsequently I pushed it open and entered, discovering, to my surprise, that the room was empty.
Notwithstanding my limited knowledge of Russian, I managed to make the men understand that my servant was missing, and they searched the premises, but without avail. They examined the road outside, but, as it had been snowing heavily during the night, no footprints were visible.