“Well, you surely know Danilovitch?” I said. “He is your most trusted and useful agent-provocateur. He is at this moment in England. I can take you now to where he is in hiding, if you wish,” I added, with a smile of triumph.
“Danilovitch,” he repeated, as though trying to recall the name.
“Yes,” I said defiantly, standing with my hands in my trousers pockets and leaning against the table placed in the centre of the room. “Danilovitch—the shoemaker of Kazan and murderer of Marie Garine, the poor little tailoress in Petersburg.”
His face dropped. He saw that I was aware of the man’s identity.
“He is now staying with a compatriot in Blurton Road, Lower Clapton,” I went on.
“I don’t see why this person should interest me,” he interrupted.
“But he is a conspirator. General Markoff; and I am giving you some valuable information,” I said, with sarcasm.
“You are not a police officer. What can you know?”
“I know several facts which, when placed before the Revolutionary Committee—as they probably are by this time—will make matters exceedingly unpleasant for Danilo Danilovitch, and also for certain of those who have been employing him,” was my quiet response.
“If this man is a dangerous revolutionist, as you allege, he cannot be arrested while in England,” remarked the General, his thick grey eyebrows contracting slightly, a sign of apprehension. “This country of yours gives asylum to all the most desperate characters, and half the revolutionary plots in Europe are arranged in London.”