And as a matter of fact, just as he got to the bottom
of the stairs, it was opened for him by some people of the house coming
home late--two men and a woman. He slipped out through them into the
street, swept then by a fitful gust of wind. They were, of course, very
much startled. A flash of lightning enabled them to observe him walking
away quickly. One of the men shouted, and was starting in pursuit, but
the woman had recognized him. "It's all right. It's only that young
Russian from the third floor." The darkness returned with a single clap
of thunder, like a gun fired for a warning of his escape from the prison
of lies.
He must have heard at some time or other and now remembered
unconsciously that there was to be a gathering of revolutionists at the
house of Julius Laspara that evening. At any rate, he made straight for
the Laspara house, and found himself without surprise ringing at its
street door, which, of course, was closed. By that time the thunderstorm
had attacked in earnest. The steep incline of the street ran with water,
the thick fall of rain enveloped him like a luminous veil in the play
of lightning. He was perfectly calm, and, between the crashes, listened
attentively to the delicate tinkling of the doorbell somewhere within
the house.
There was some difficulty before he was admitted.
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