lin, would
find its way to the Embassy there, be copied in cypher by somebody
trustworthy, and sent on to its destination, all safe, along with the
diplomatic correspondence. That was the arrangement contrived to cover
up the track of the information from all unfaithful eyes, from all
indiscretions, from all mishaps and treacheries. It was to make him
safe--absolutely safe.

He wandered out of the wretched shop and made for the post office. It
was then that I saw him for the second time that day. He was crossing
the Rue Mont Blanc with every appearance of an aimless stroller. He
did not recognize me, but I made him out at some distance. He was
very good-looking, I thought, this remarkable friend of Miss Haldin's
brother. I watched him go up to the letter-box and then retrace his
steps. Again he passed me very close, but I am certain he did not see
me that time, either. He carried his head well up, but he had the
expression of a somnambulist struggling with the very dream which drives
him forth to wander in dangerous places. My thoughts reverted to Natalia
Haldin, to her mother. He was all that was left to them of their son and
brother.

The westerner in me was discomposed. There was something shocking in
the expression of that face. Had I been myself a conspirator, a Russian
political refugee, I could have perhaps been able to draw some practical
conclusion from this chance glimpse. As it was, it only discomposed me
strongly, even to the extent of awakening an indefinite apprehension in
regard to Natalia Haldin. All this is rather inexplicable, but such
was the origin of the purpose I formed there and then to call on these
ladies in the evening, after my solitary dinner. It was true that I had
met Miss Haldin only a few hours before, but Mrs. Haldin herself I had
not seen for some considerable time. The truth is, I had shirked calling
of late.

Poor Mrs. Haldin! I confess she frightened me a little. She was one
of those natures, rare enough, luckily, in which one cannot help being
interested, because they provoke both terror and pity. One dreads their
contact for oneself, and still more for those one cares for, so clear
it is that they are born to suffer and to make others suffer, too. It is
strange to think that, I won't say liberty, but the mere liberalism of
outlook which for us is a matter of words, of ambitions, of votes (and
if of feeling at all, then of the sort of feeling which leaves our
deepest affections