Each sheet had been carefully
annotated and added by Steinmetz, and as each was finished he handed it
to his companion.
"Is that fool never coming?" asked Paul, with an impatient glance at the
clock.
"Our very dear friend the starosta," replied Steinmetz, "is no slave to
time. He is late."
The room had the appearance of an office. There were two safes--square
chests such as we learn to associate with the name of Griffiths in this
country. There was a huge writing-table--a double table--at which Paul
and Steinmetz were seated. There were sundry stationery cases and an
almanac or so suspended on the walls, which were oaken panels. A large
white stove--common to all Russian rooms--stood against the wall. The
room had no less than three doors, with a handle on no one of them. Each
door opened with a key, like a cupboard.
Steinmetz had apparently finished his work. He was sitting back in his
chair, contemplating his companion with a little smile. It apparently
tickled some obtuse Teutonic sense of humor to see this prince doing
work which is usually assigned to clerks--working out statistics and
abstruse calculations as to how much food is required to keep body and
soul together.
The silence of the room was almost oppressive. A Russian village after
nightfall is the quietest human habitation on earth.
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