enevieve," his
voice fading away on a half syllable as he encounters IVANOFF'S gaze.
They stare at each other, LADY CREECH observing unseen.]

[IVANOFF is a thin, very fragile-looking man of thirty-eight. His
disordered hair is prematurely gray, his beard is a grizzled four days'
stubble. He is exceedingly haggard and worn, but has the face and look
of a man of refinement and cultivation. He has lost his hat; his shoes
and trousers are splashed with dried mud, and brambles cling to him here
and there. He wears a soiled white shirt and collar, and a torn black
tie, black waistcoat and trousers. He is covered with dust from head to
foot; one sleeve of his shirt has been torn off at the elbow. He wears
no coat.]

IVANOFF [in a voice tremulous with tragic appeal]. Et ce que vous etes
un homme de bon coeur? Je ne suis pas coupable--

PIKE [very gravely]. There ain't any use in the world your talkin' to me
like that!

IVANOFF [panting]. You are an Englishman?

PIKE [quietly, rising and stepping back]. That'll do for _that._ You
come down from there!

IVANOFF [in a voice that lifts, almost cracks, with sudden hope]. An
American?

PIKE. They haven't made me anything else yet.

IVANOFF [swinging himself down to the ground]. Thank God for that!

[He leans against the car, exhausted.]

PIKE. I do. What makes _you_ so glad about it?

IVANOFF. Because I have suffered in the cause your own forefathers gave
their lives for. I am a Russian political fugitive, and I can go no
farther. If you give me up I shall not be taken alive. I have no weapon,
but I can find a way to cut my throat.

PIKE [with humorous incredulity]. Are _you_ the bandit they're lookin'
for?

IVANOFF. They call me that. Do I look like a bandit?

PIKE. How close are they?

IVANOFF [with despairing gesture]. There!

PIKE. Did they see you climb that wall?

IVANOFF. I think not.

[There comes a loud ringing at the gates. At the sound IVANOFF starts
violently, throwing one arm up as if to shield his face from a blow.]

IVANOFF. Oh, my God! it is they!

[He staggers back against the machine.]

PIKE [hastily stripping off his working blouse]. Do you know anything
about gear-box plugs?

[The ringing continues.]

IVANOFF. Nothing in the world.

PIKE. Then you're a chauffeur. [Puts blouse on him.] Take a look at this
one. [With emphatic significance.] It's _underneath_ the machine.

[Quickly sets his hands on IVANOFF'S shoulders, having force