Anastasia Alexandrovna had recovered her self-control as quickly as she had lost it.
“You had better get out of Russia as soon as you can, Mr. Harrington. It’s no place for a foreigner now and it may be that in a few days you won’t be able to.”
Mr. Harrington looked from one to the other.
“O my!” he said. “O my!” It seemed inadequate. “Are you going to tell me that that Russian minister was just making a fool of me?”
Ashenden shrugged his shoulders.
“How can one tell what he was thinking of? He may have a keen sense of humour and perhaps he thought it funny to sign a fifty-million-dollar contract yesterday when there was every chance of his being stood against the wall and shot today. Anastasia Alexandrovna’s right, Mr. Harrington, you’d better take the first train that’ll get you to Sweden.”
“And what about you?”
“There’s nothing for me to do here any more. I’m cabling for instructions and I shall go as soon as I get leave. The Bolsheviks have got in ahead of us and the people I was working with will have their work cut out to save their lives.”
“Boris Petrovich was shot this morning,” said Anastasia Alexandrovna with a frown.
They both looked at Mr. Harrington and he stared at the floor. His pride in this achievement of his was shattered and he sagged like a pricked balloon. But in a minute he looked up. He gave Anastasia Alexandrovna a little smile and for the first time Ashenden noticed how attractive and kindly his smile was. There was something peculiarly disarming about it.
“If the Bolsheviks are after you, Delilah, don’t you think you’d better come with me? I’ll take care of you and if you like to come to America I’m sure Mrs. Harrington would be glad to do anything she could for you.”
“I can see Mrs. Harrington’s face if you arrived in Philadelphia with a Russian refugee,” laughed Anastasia Alexandrovna. “I’m afraid it would need more explaining than you could ever manage. No, I shall stay here.”
“But if you’re in danger?”
“I’m a Russian. My place is here. I will not leave my country when most my country needs me.”
“That is the bunk, Delilah,” said Mr. Harrington very quietly.
Anastasia Alexandrovna had spoken with deep emotion, but now with a little start she shot a sudden quizzical look at him.
“I know it is, Samson,” she answered. “To tell you the truth I think we’re all going to have a hell of a time, God knows what’s going to happen, but I want to see; I wouldn’t miss a minute of it for the world.”
Mr. Harrington shook his head.
“Curiosity is the bane of your sex, Delilah,” he said.
“Go along and do your packing, Mr. Harrington,” said Ashenden, smiling, “and then we’ll take you to the station. The train will be besieged.”
“Very well, I’ll go. And I shan’t be sorry either. I haven’t had a decent meal since I came here and I’ve done a thing I never thought I should have to do in my life, I’ve drunk my coffee without sugar and when I’ve been lucky enough to get a little piece of black bread I’ve had to eat it without butter. Mrs. Harrington will never believe me when I tell her what I’ve gone through. What this country wants is organisation.”
When he left them Ashenden and Anastasia Alexandrovna talked over the situation. Ashenden was depressed because all his careful schemes had come to nothing, but Anastasia Alexandrovna was excited and she hazarded every sort of guess about the outcome of this new revolution. She pretended to be very serious, but in her heart she looked upon it all very much as a thrilling play. She wanted more and more things to happen. Then there was another knock at the door and before Ashenden could answer Mr. Harrington burst in.
“Really the service at this hotel is a scandal,” he cried heatedly. “I’ve been ringing my bell for fifteen minutes and I can’t get anyone to pay the smallest attention to me.”
“Service?” exclaimed Anastasia Alexandrovna. “There is not a servant left in the hotel.”
“But I want my washing. They promised to let me have it back last night.”
“I’m afraid you haven’t got much chance of getting it now,” said Ashenden.
“I’m not going to leave without my washing. Four shirts, two union suits, a pair of pyjamas, and four collars. I wash my handkerchiefs and socks in my room. I want my washing and I’m not going to leave this hotel without it.”
“Don’t be a fool,” cried Ashenden. “What you’ve got to do is to get out of here while the going’s good. If there are no servants to get it you’ll just have to leave your washing behind you.”
“Pardon me, sir, I shall do nothing of the kind. I’ll go and fetch it myself. I’ve suffered enough at the hands of this country and I’m not going to leave four perfectly good shirts to be worn by a lot of dirty Bolsheviks. No, sir. I do not leave Russia till I have my washing.”
Anastasia Alexandrovna stared at the floor for a moment; then with a little smile looked up. It seemed to Ashenden that there was something in her that responded to Mr. Harrington’s futile obstinacy. In her Russian way she understood that Mr. Harrington could not leave Petrograd without his washing. His insistence had given it the value of a symbol.
“I’ll go downstairs and see if I can find anybody about who knows where the laundry is and if I can, I’ll go with you and you can bring your washing away with you.”
Mr. Harrington unbent. He answered with that sweet and disarming smile of his.
“That’s terribly kind of you, Delilah. I don’t mind if it’s ready or not, I’ll take it just as it is.”
Anastasia Alexandrovna left them.
“Well, what do
