Fixing my eyes upon her steadily, I remained silent, pulling long, slow strokes. The evening was calm and delightful, but the blood-red after-glow no longer reflected on the placid Thames, for already the purple haze was gathering.
“You know many Belgians in London, I suppose?” I said at last.
“Oh dear, no!” she answered, with a rippling laugh, toying with one of her gloves that lay on the cushion beside her. “True, I know some of the people at our Legation; but I come abroad to visit the English, not the Belgians.”
“And you have never visited West Hill, Sydenham, mademoiselle?” I asked, resting upon the oars suddenly, and looking straight into her dark, wide-open eyes.
She started, but next second recovered her self-possession.
“No, not to my knowledge.”
“And have you never met Fedor Nikiforovitch; has he never addressed you by your proper name, Sonia Ostroff?”
The colour left her face instantly, as she started up with a look of abject terror in her eyes.
“M’sieur is of the Secret Police!” she gasped hoarsely, clenching her hands. “Dieu! Then I am betrayed!”
“No,” I answered calmly. “I am aware that mademoiselle is an active member of the Narodnaya Volya, but, I, too, am a friend of the Cause;” and I added a word which signifies indivisibility, and is the recognised password of the Circle of desperate Russian revolutionists to which she belonged. It gave her confidence, and she sank back upon the cushions, questioning me how I had recognised her.