He had forbidden her to go near it. She
turned and looked at him.
"Found you out! How?" she asked, with a queer smile.
"Saw through my disguise."
"Yes--she would do that!" said Etta aloud to herself.
"What is this door?" she asked, after a pause.
"It leads to an inner room," replied Paul, "where Steinmetz usually
works."
He passed in front of her and opened the door. As he was doing so Etta
went on in the train of her thoughts:
"So Catrina knows?"
"Yes."
"And no one else?"
Paul made no answer; for he had passed on into the smaller room, where
Steinmetz was seated at a writing-table.
"Except, of course, Herr Steinmetz?" Etta went on interrogatively.
"Madame," said the German, looking up with his pleasant smile, "I know
_every thing_."
And he went on writing.
CHAPTER XXVI
BLOODHOUNDS
The table d'hote of the Hotel de Moscou at Tver had just begun. The soup
had been removed; the diners were engaged in igniting their first
cigarette at the candles placed between each pair of them for that
purpose. By nature the modern Russian is a dignified and somewhat
reserved gentleman. By circumstance he has been schooled into a state of
guarded unsociability. If there is a seat at a public table conveniently
removed from those occupied by earlier arrivals the new-comer invariably
takes it.
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