He leaned back in his chair and, folding his arms
across his chest, continued to stare at me squarely. It occurred to me
that his clean-shaven, almost swarthy face was really of the very mobile
sort, and that the absolute stillness of it was the acquired habit of
a revolutionist, of a conspirator everlastingly on his guard against
self-betrayal in a world of secret spies.
"But you are an Englishman--a teacher of English literature," he
murmured, in a voice that was no longer issuing from a parched throat.
"I have heard of you. People told me you have lived here for years."
"Quite true. More than twenty years. And I have been assisting Miss
Haldin with her English studies."
"You have been reading English poetry with her," he said, immovable now,
like another man altogether, a complete stranger to the man of the heavy
and uncertain footfalls a little while ago--at my elbow.
"Yes, English poetry," I said. "But the trouble of which I speak was
caused by an English newspaper."
He continued to stare at me. I don't think he was aware that the story
of the midnight arrest had been ferreted out by an English journalist
and given to the world. When I explained this to him he muttered
contemptuously, "It may have been altogether a lie."
"I should think you are the best judge of that," I retorted, a little
disconcerted.
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