"I have called on behalf of Mademoiselle Elma Heath, to give this letter
to Madame Stassulevitch, or if she is absent to place it in the hands of
the Red Priest," I explained in my best Russian.
"Very well, sir," the old man responded in quite good English. "I am the
person you seek," and taking the letter he opened it and read it
through.
I saw by the expression on his furrowed face that its contents caused
him the utmost consternation. His countenance, already pale, blanched to
the lips, while in his eyes there shot a fire of quick apprehension. The
thin, almost transparent hand holding the letter trembled visibly.
"You know Mademoiselle--eh?" he asked in a hoarse, strained voice as he
turned to me. "You will help her to escape?"
"I will risk my own life in order to save hers," I declared.
"And your devotion to her is prompted by what?" he inquired
suspiciously.
I was silent for a moment. Then I confessed the truth.
"My affection."
"Ah!" he sighed deeply. "Poor young lady! She, who has enemies on every
hand, sadly needs a friend.
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