“Dead! Well, the grave is, I think, about the best place for such an enterprising old scoundrel, and as for his daughter, hang it, old chap, ten years in Nerchinsk wouldn’t hurt her. What story has she been telling you this time, eh?” he asked.
“She is lonely without her father, and in order to secure her property, which is about to be seized by her uncle, she is bound to be in St Petersburg within fourteen days.”
“Fourteen days,” repeated my friend, reflectively. “Let’s see, to-day’s the twelfth,” and he made some rapid calculations upon his blotting-pad. “Well, what else?” he inquired, looking up at me keenly.
“Nothing, except that she dare not return under her own name.”
“I should scarcely think she’d better,” he laughed, “unless she wants to spend the remainder of her days in that rather uncomfortable hotel called Schlusselburg, where the beds are not aired, and there are no toilet-glasses. But, tell me,” he added gravely, a moment later, “why do you interest yourself in her welfare? She’s entertaining and rather pretty, I’ve been told, but surely you, who are engaged to that charming girl to whom you introduced me at the Gaiety one evening a few weeks ago, really ought not to associate yourself with Anton Korolénko’s daughter? She’s a criminal.”
“I have an object,” I said briefly.
“Every man says that when a girl has taken his fancy. I know the world, old fellow.”
“But it so happens that I’ve not been captivated by her charms,” I retorted.
“Well, my dear Geoffrey,” he said, in a tone of unusual gravity, “take my advice and keep away from her. Ever since you induced me to secure her her liberty, I have honestly regretted it, knowing as I do the terrible crimes alleged against the gang of which she and her villainous old father were prominent members.”
“What kind of crimes were they?”