In tenderness I hold her hand as she told me of the brutal treatment both she and her fellow-prisoners had received at the hands of the Cossacks.
“Never mind, Luba,” I said with a smile, endeavouring to cheer her, “every cloud has its silver lining. Your poor mother is dead, and nobody regrets it more than myself. I travelled in haste from England in order to see her—in order to advise her to reveal to me a certain secret which she possessed.”
“A secret!” said the girl, looking straight into my face. “A secret of what?”
“Well,” I said slowly, “first, Luba, let me explain that as you well know, I am an old friend of your dear mother.”
“I know that, of course,” she said. “Poor mother has frequently spoken of you during her journey. She often used to wonder what you would think when you heard of our arrest.”
“I knew you were both the innocent victims of General Markoff,” I said quickly.
“Ah! then you knew that!” she cried. “How did you know?”
“Because I was well aware that Markoff was your mother’s bitterest enemy,” I answered.
“He was. But why? Do you know that, Mr Trewinnard? Can you give me any explanation? It has always been a most complete mystery to me. Mother always refused to tell me anything.”
I paused. I had hoped that she would know something, or at least that she might give me some hint which would serve as a clue by which to elucidate the mystery of those incriminating letters, now, alas! destroyed.