“But why should the revolutionists wish to harm me—a girl?” she asked. “My own idea is that they’re not half as black as they’re painted.”
I did not reveal to her the serious facts which I had recently learnt.
“Did you make any mention to Oleg of the man following you?”
“No, it never occurred to me. But there, I suppose, he only followed me, just as other men seem sometimes to follow me—to look into my face.”
“You are used to admiration,” I said, “and therefore take no notice of it. Pretty women so soon become blasé.”
“Oh! So you denounce me as blasé—eh, Uncle Colin?” she cried, just as we arrived before the door in Brunswick Square. “That is the latest! I really don’t think it fair to criticise me so constantly,” and she pouted.
Then she gave me her little gloved hand, and I bent over it as I wished her good-night.
I wished to question Oleg regarding the man we had seen, but I could not do so before her.
I turned back along the promenade, and was walking leisurely towards the “Métropole,” when suddenly from out of the shadow of one of the glass-partitioned shelters the dark figure of a man emerged, and I heard my name pronounced.
It was the ubiquitous Hartwig, wearing his gold pince-nez. As was his habit, he sprang from nowhere. I had clapped my hand instinctively upon my revolver, but withdrew it instantly.