I knew that the Baron desired my death, and that therefore I
could not be too wary of pitfalls. That fatal chair so cunningly
prepared for me in Lambeth was still vividly within my memory.
As we passed Lanskaya, and ran through the outer suburbs of Petersburg,
my fellow-traveler became inquisitive as to where I was going, but I was
somewhat unresponsive, and busied myself with my bag until we entered
the great echoing terminus whence I could see the Neva gleaming in the
pale sunlight and the city beyond. The fellow made no attempt to follow
me--he was too clever a secret agent for that. He merely wished me
"_sdravstvuite_" raised his hat politely and disappeared.
A porter carried my bag out of the station, and I drove across the
bridge to the large hotel where I had stopped before, the Europe, on the
corner of the Nevski Prospect and the Michael Street. There I engaged a
front room looking down into the broad Nevski, had a wash, and then
watched at the window for the appearance of the spy.
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