“You’re a brave little man, Mr. Harrington. You’re absurd but magnificent,” she sobbed.
Mr. Harrington was less surprised than Ashenden would have expected him to be. He looked at Anastasia with a thin, quizzical smile and gently patted her.
“Come, come, Delilah, pull yourself together. It gave you a nasty turn, didn’t it? You’re quite upset. I shall have terrible rheumatism in my shoulder if you go on weeping all over it.”
The scene was ridiculous and touching. Ashenden laughed, but he had the beginnings of a lump in his throat.
When Anastasia Alexandrovna had left them Mr. Harrington sat in a brown study.
“They’re very queer, these Russians. Do you know what Delilah did?” he said, suddenly. “She stood up in the cab, in the middle of the street, with people passing on both sides, and took her pants off. She tore them in two and gave me one to hold while she made a bandage of the other. I was never so embarrassed in my life.”
“Tell me what gave you the idea of calling her Delilah?” smiled Ashenden.
Mr. Harrington reddened a little.
“She’s a very fascinating woman, Mr. Ashenden. She’s been deeply wronged by her husband and I naturally felt a great deal of sympathy for her. These Russians are very emotional people and I did not want her to mistake my sympathy for anything else. I told her I was very much attached to Mrs. Harrington.”
“You’re not under the impression that Delilah was Potiphar’s wife?” asked Ashenden.
“I don’t know what you mean by that, Mr. Ashenden,” replied Mr. Harrington. “Mrs. Harrington has always given me to understand that I’m very fascinating to women, and I thought if I called our little friend Delilah it would make my position quite clear.”
“I don’t think Russia’s any place for you, Mr. Harrington,” said Ashenden smiling. “If I were you I’d get out of it as quick as I could.”
“I can’t go now. I’ve got them to agree to my terms at last and we’re going to sign next week. Then I shall pack my grip and go.”
“I wonder if your signatures will be worth the paper they’re written on,” said Ashenden.
He had at length devised a plan of campaign. It took him twenty-four hours’ hard work to code a telegram in which he put his scheme before the persons who had sent him to Petrograd. It was accepted and he was promised all the money he needed. Ashenden knew he could do nothing unless the Provisional Government remained in power for another three months; but winter was at hand and food was getting scarcer every day. The army was mutinous. The people clamoured for peace. Every evening at the Europe Ashenden drank a cup of chocolate with Professor Z. and discussed with him how best to make use of his devoted Czechs. Anastasia Alexandrovna had a flat in a retired spot and here he had meetings with all manner of persons. Plans were drawn up. Measures were taken. Ashenden argued, persuaded, promised. He had to overcome the vacillation of one and wrestle with the fatalism of another. He had to judge who was resolute and who was self-sufficient, who was honest and who was infirm of purpose. He had to curb his impatience with the Russian verbosity; he had to be good-tempered with people who were willing to talk of everything but the matter in hand; he had to listen sympathetically to ranting and rhodomontade. He had to beware of treachery. He had to humour the vanity of fools and elude the greed of the ambitious. Time was pressing. The rumours grew hot and many of the activities of the Bolsheviks. Kerensky ran hither and thither like a frightened hen.
Then the blow fell. On the night of November 7th, 1917, the Bolsheviks rose, Kerensky’s ministers were arrested and the Winter Palace was sacked by the mob; the reins of power were seized by Lenin and Trotsky.
Anastasia Alexandrovna came to Ashenden’s room at the hotel early in the morning. Ashenden was coding a telegram. He had been up all night, first at the Smolny, and then at the Winter Palace. He was tired out. Her face was white and her shining brown eyes were tragic.
“Have you heard?” she asked Ashenden.
He nodded.
“It’s all over then. They say Kerensky has fled. They never even showed fight.” Rage seized her. “The buffoon!” she screamed.
At that moment there was a knock at the door and Anastasia Alexandrovna looked at it with sudden apprehension.
“You know the Bolsheviks have got a list of people they’ve decided to execute. My name is on it, and it may be that yours is too.”
“If it’s they and they want to come in they only have to turn the handle,” said Ashenden, smiling, but with ever so slightly odd a feeling at the pit of his stomach. “Come in.”
The door was opened and Mr. Harrington stepped into the room. He was as dapper as ever, in his short black coat and striped trousers, his shoes neatly polished and a derby on his bald head. He took it off when he saw Anastasia Alexandrovna.
“Oh, fancy finding you here so early. I looked in on my way out, I wanted to tell you my news. I tried to find you yesterday evening, but couldn’t. You didn’t come in to dinner.”
“No, I was at a meeting,” said Ashenden.
“You must both congratulate me, I got my signatures yesterday, and my business is done.”
Mr. Harrington beamed on them, the picture of self-satisfaction, and he arched himself like a bantam-cock who has chased away all rivals. Anastasia Alexandrovna burst into a sudden shriek of hysterical laughter. He stared at her in perplexity.
“Why, Delilah, what is the matter?” he said.
Anastasia laughed till the tears ran from her eyes and then began to sob in earnest. Ashenden explained.
“The Bolsheviks have overthrown the Government. Kerensky’s ministers are in prison. The Bolsheviks are out to kill. Delilah says her name is on the list. Your minister signed your documents yesterday
