But--as you know, perhaps--he disappeared."
"Yes," said Steinmetz, scratching his forehead with one finger. "Yes--he
disappeared."
Karl Steinmetz had one great factor of success in this world--an
infinite capacity for holding his cards.
"One more item," said the count, in his businesslike, calm way. "Vassili
paid that woman seven thousand pounds for the papers."
"And probably charged his masters ten," added Steinmetz.
"And now you must go!"
The count rose and looked at his watch--a cheap American article, with a
loud tick. He held it out with his queer washed-out smile, and Steinmetz
smiled.
The two embraced again--and there was nothing funny in the action. It is
a singular thing that the sight of two men kissing is conducive either
to laughter or to tears. There is no medium emotion.
"My dear friend--my very dear friend," said the count, "God be with you
always. We may meet again--or we may not."
Steinmetz walked down the Nevski Prospekt on the left-hand pavement--no
one walks on the other--and the sleigh followed him. He turned into a
large, brilliantly lighted cafe, and loosened his coat.
"Give me beer," he said to the waiter; "a very large quantity of it."
The man smiled obsequiously as he set the foaming mug before him.
"Is it that his Excellency is cold?" he enquired.
"No, it isn't," answered Steinmetz.
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