One of the men following him hurried on and caught him up.
“Excellency,” he gasped, breathless with his haste, “you must not come here alone any longer. I am afraid of them—I have no control.”
Paul paused, and suited his pace to the shorter legs of his companion.
“Starosta!” he said. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Excellency. I saw you go into the kabak, so I waited outside and watched. I did not dare to go inside. They will not allow me there. They are afraid that I should give information.”
“How long have these meetings been going on?”
“The last three nights, Excellency, in Osterno; but it is the same all over the estate.”
“Only on the estate?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
Paul walked on in silence for some paces. The third man followed them without catching them up.
“I do not understand, Excellency,” said the starosta anxiously. “It is not the Nihilists.”
“No; it is not the Nihilists.”
“And they do not want money, Excellency; that seems strange.”
“Very!” admitted Paul ironically.
“And they give vodka.”
This seemed to be the chief stumbling-block in the starosta’s road to a solution of the mystery.
“Find out for me,” said Paul, after a pause, “who this man is, where he comes from, and how much he is paid to open his mouth. We will pay him more to shut it. Find out as much as you can, and let me know tomorrow.”
“I will try, Excellency; but I have little hope of succeeding. They distrust me. They send the children to my shop for what they want, and the little ones have evidently been told not to chatter. The muzhiks avoid me when they meet me. What can I do?”
“You can show them that you are not afraid of them,” answered Paul. “That goes a long way with the muzhik.”
They walked on together through the lane of cottages, where furtive forms lurked in doorways and behind curtains. And Paul had only one word of advice to give, upon which he harped continually: “Be thou very courageous—be thou very courageous.” Nothing new, for so it was written in the oldest book of all. The starosta was a timorous man, needing such strong support as his master gave him from time to time.
At the great gates of the park they paused, and Paul gave the mayor of Osterno a few last words of advice. While they were standing there the other man who had been following joined them.
“Is that you, Steinmetz?” asked Paul, his hand thrust with suspicious speed into his jacket pocket.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Watching you,” answered Karl Steinmetz, in his mild way. “It is no longer safe for either of us to go about alone. It was mere foolery your going to that kabak.”
XXXVI
À Trois
Of all the rooms in the great castle Etta liked the morning-room best. Persons of a troubled mind usually love to look upon a wide prospect. The mind, no doubt, fears the unseen approach of detection or danger, and transmits this dread to the eye, which likes to command a wide view all around.
The great drawing-room was only used after dinner. Until that time the ladies spent the day either in their own boudoirs or in the morning-room looking over the cliff. Here, while the cold weather lasted, Etta had tea served, and thither the gentlemen usually repaired at the hour set apart for the homely meal. They had come regularly the last few evenings. Paul and Steinmetz had suddenly given up their long drives to distant parts of the estate.
Here the whole party was assembled on the Sunday afternoon following Paul’s visit to the village kabak, and to them came an unexpected guest. The door was thrown open, and Claude de Chauxville, pale, but self-possessed and quiet, came into the room. The perfect ease of his manner bespoke a practised familiarity with the position difficult. His last parting with Paul and Steinmetz had been, to say the least of it, strained. Maggie, he knew, disliked and distrusted him. Etta hated and feared him.
He was in riding costume—a short fur jacket, fur gloves, a cap in his hand, and a silver-mounted crop. A fine figure of a man—smart, well turned out, well-groomed—a gentleman.
“Prince,” he said frankly, “I have come to throw myself upon your generosity. Will you lend me a horse? I was riding in the forest when my horse fell over a root and lamed himself. I found I was only three miles from Osterno, so I came. My misfortune must be my excuse for this—intrusion.”
Paul performed graciously enough that which charity and politeness demanded of him. There are plenty of people who trade unscrupulously upon these demands, but it is probable that they mostly have their reward. Love and friendship are stronger than charity and politeness, and those who trade upon the latter are rarely accorded the former.
So Paul ignored the probability that De Chauxville had lamed his horse on purpose, and offered him refreshment while his saddle was being transferred to the back of a fresh mount. Farther than that he did not go. He did not consider himself called upon to offer a night’s hospitality to the man who had attempted to murder him a week before.
With engaging frankness De Chauxville accepted everything. It is an art soon acquired and soon abused. There is something honest in an ungracious acceptance of favors. Steinmetz suggested that perhaps M. de Chauxville had lunched sparsely, and the Frenchman admitted that such was the case,
