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. "I must confess that to me it looks to be true in the
main."

"How can you tell truth from lies?" he queried in his new, immovable
manner.

"I don't know how you do it in Russia," I began, rather nettled by his
attitude. He interrupted me.

"In Russia, and in general everywhere--in a newspaper, for instance. The
colour of the ink and the shapes of the letters are the same."

"Well, there are other trifles one can go by. The character of the
publication, the general verisimilitude of the news, the consideration
of the motive, and so on. I don't trust blindly the accuracy of special
correspondents--but why should this one have gone to the trouble of
concocting a circumstantial falsehood on a matter of no importance to
the world?"

"That's what it is," he grumbled. "What's going on with us is of
no importance--a mere sensational story to amuse the readers of the
papers--the superior contemptuous Europe. It is hateful to think of. But
let them wait a bit!"

He broke off on this sort of threat addressed to the western world.
Disregarding the anger in his stare, I pointed out that whether the
journalist was well- or ill-informed, the concern of the friends of
these ladies was with the effect the few lines of print in question had
produced--the effect alone. And surely he must be counted as one of
the friends--if only for the sake of his late comrade and intimate
fellow-revolutionist. At that point I thought he was going to speak
vehemently; but he only astounded me by the convulsive start of his
whole body. He restrained himself, folded his loosened arms tighter
across his chest, and sat back with a smile in which there was a twitch
of scorn and malice.

"Yes, a comrade and an intimate.... Very well," he sai