Then she came back.
Steinmetz raised his hat in his most fatherly way.
“My dear young lady,” he said in Russian, “if my personal appearance has made so profound an impression as my vanity prompts me to believe, would it not be decorous of you to conceal your feelings beneath a maiden modesty? If, on the other hand, the signals you have been making to me are of profound political importance, let me assure you that I am no Nihilist.”
“Then,” said the girl, beginning to walk by his side, “what are you?”
“What you see—a stout middle-aged man in easy circumstances, happily placed in social obscurity. Which means that I have few enemies and fewer friends.”
The girl looked as if she would like to laugh, had such exercise been in keeping with a professional etiquette.
“Your name is Karl Steinmetz,” she said gravely.
“That is the name by which I am known to a large staff of creditors,” replied he.
“If you will go to No. 4, Passage Kazan, at the back of the cathedral, second-floor back room on the left at the top of the stairs, and go straight into the room, you will find a friend who wishes to see you,” she said, as one repeating a lesson by rote.
“And who are you, my dear young lady!”
“I—I am no one. I am only a paid agent.”
“Ah!”
They walked on in silence a few paces. The bells of St. Isaac’s Church suddenly burst out into a wild carillon, as is their way, effectually preventing further conversation for a few moments.
“Will you go?” asked the girl, when the sound had broken off as suddenly as it had commenced.
“Probably. I am curious and not nervous—except of damp sheets. My anonymous friend does not expect me to stay all night, I presume. Did he—or is it a she, my fatal beauty?—did it not name an hour?”
“Between now and seven o’clock.”
“Thank you.”
“God be with you!” said the girl, suddenly wheeling round and walking away.
Without looking after her Steinmetz walked on, gradually increasing his pace. In a few minutes he reached the large house standing within iron gates at the upper end of the English quay, the house of Prince Pavlo Howard Alexis.
He found Paul alone in his study. In a few words he explained the situation.
“What do you think it means?” asked the prince.
“Heaven only knows!”
“And you will go?”
“Of course,” replied Steinmetz. “I love a mystery, especially in Petersburg. It sounds so like a romance written in the Kennington Road by a lady who has never been nearer to Russia than Margate.”
“I had better go with you,” said Paul.
“Gott! No!” exclaimed Steinmetz; “I must go alone. I will take Parks to drive the sleigh, if I may, though. Parks is a steady man, who loves a rough-and-tumble. A typical British coachman—the brave Parks!”
“Back in time for dinner?” asked Paul.
“I hope so. I have had such mysterious appointments thrust upon me before. It is probably a friend who wants a hundred-ruble note until next Monday.”
The cathedral clock struck six as Karl Steinmetz turned out of the Nevski Prospekt into the large square before the sacred edifice. He soon found the Kazan Passage—a very nest of toyshops—and, following the directions given, he mounted a narrow staircase. He knocked at the door on the left hand at the top of the stairs.
“Come in!” said a voice which caused him to start.
He pushed open the door. The room was a small one, brilliantly lighted by a paraffin lamp. At the table sat an old man with broad benevolent face, high forehead, thin hair, and that smile which savors of the milk of human kindness, and in England suggests Nonconformity.
“You!” ejaculated Steinmetz. “Stépan!”
“Yes. Come in and close the door.”
He laid aside his pen, extended his hand, and, rising, kissed Karl Steinmetz on both cheeks after the manner of Russians.
“Yes, my dear Karl. It seems that the good God has still a little work for Stépan Lanovitch to do. I got away quite easily, in the usual way, through a paid Evasion Agency. I have been forwarded from pillar to post like a prize fowl, and reached Petersburg last night. I have not long to stay. I am going south. I may be able to do some good yet. I hear that Paul is working wonders in Tver.”
“What about money?” asked Steinmetz, who was always practical.
“Catrina sent it, the dear child! That is one of the conditions made by the Agency—a hard one. I am to see no relations. My wife—well, bon Dieu! it does not matter much. She is occupied in keeping herself warm, no doubt. But Catrina! that is a different matter. Tell me—how is she? That is the first thing I want to know.”
“She is well,” answered Steinmetz. “I saw her yesterday.”
“And happy?” The broad-faced man looked into Steinmetz’s face with considerable keenness.
“Yes.”
It was a moment for mental reservations. One wonders whether such are taken account of in heaven.
“And Paul?” asked the Count Stépan Lanovitch at once. “Tell me about him.”
“He is married,” answered Steinmetz.
The Count Lanovitch was looking at the lamp. He continued to look at it as if interested in the mechanism of the burner. Then he turned his eyes to the face of his companion.
“I wonder, my friend,” he said slowly, “how much you know?”
“Nothing,” answered Steinmetz.
The count looked at him enquiringly, heaved a sharp sigh, and abandoned the subject.
“Well,” he said, “let us get to business. I have much to ask and to tell you. I want you to see Catrina and to tell her that I am safe and well, but she must not attempt to see me or correspond with me for some years yet. Of course you heard no account of my trial. I was convicted, on the evidence of paid witnesses, of inciting to rebellion. It was easy enough, of course. I shall live either in the south or in Austria. It is better for you to be in ignorance.”
Steinmetz nodded his head curtly.
“I do not want to
