He was a
doctor--an amateur. He was a Caius man.
Steinmetz looked down at him with a little laugh. He noticed the
tenderness of the touch, the deft fingering which had something of
respect in it. Paul Alexis was visibly one of those men who take mankind
seriously, and have that in their hearts which for want of a better word
we call sympathy.
"Mind you do not catch some infectious disease," said Steinmetz gruffly.
"I should not care to handle any stray moujik one finds dead about the
roadside; unless, of course, you think there is more money about him. It
would be a pity to leave that for the police."
Paul did not answer. He was examining the limp, dirty hands of the dead
man. The fingers were covered with soil, the nails were broken. He had
evidently clutched at the earth and at every tuft of grass, after his
fall from the saddle.
"Look here, at these hands," said Paul suddenly. "This is an Englishman.
You never see fingers this shape in Russia."
Steinmetz stooped down. He held out his own square-tipped fingers in
comparison. Paul rubbed the dead hand with his sleeve as if it were a
piece of statuary.
"Look here," he continued, "the dirt rubs off and leaves the hand quite
a gentlemanly color. This"--he paused and lifted Steinmetz's
handkerchief, dropping it again hurriedly over the mutilated face--"this
thing was once a gentleman.
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