And while my eyes scanned the imperfect disclosures (in which the world
was not much interested) I thought that the old, settled Europe had been
given in my person attending that Russian girl something like a glimpse
behind the scenes. A short, strange glimpse on the top floor of a great
hotel of all places in the world: the great man himself; the motionless
great bulk in the corner of the slayer of spies and gendarmes;
Yakovlitch, the veteran of ancient terrorist campaigns; the woman, with
her hair as white as mine and the lively black eyes, all in a mysterious
half-light, with the strongly lighted map of Russia on the table. The
woman I had the opportunity to see again. As we were waiting for the
lift she came hurrying along the corridor, with her eyes fastened
on Miss Haldin's face, and drew her aside as if for a confidential
communication. It was not long. A few words only.
Going down in the lift, Natalia Haldin did not break the silence. It was
only when out of the hotel and as we moved along the quay in the fresh
darkness spangled by the quay lights, reflected in the black water of
the little port on our left hand, and with lofty piles of hotels on our
right, that she spoke.
"That was Sophia Antonovna--you know the woman?..."
"Yes, I know--the famous..
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