style="font-size:15px;"> With an exclamation in Russian which I did not understand, he said, “It is not for you to doubt! Mademoiselle Seroff asked you to bring the diamonds to me. Your commission is ended.”
“I had conceived.” I replied rather warmly, “that Mademoiselle’s friends were mine. Apparently I am mistaken.”
“It matters not – a mere trifle.”
“At least you will give me a receipt to show that my promise has been carried out.”
“She said nothing of any receipt, and I will give none.”
Evidently he was alarmed.
“Then I shall not give up the jewels – ”
“Not another word! You have safely delivered them, and your commission is ended. Go back to Mademoiselle as quickly as possible. She is expecting you, and will explain all. You have rendered her a great service, and she owes you a debt of gratitude.”
Walking to the door, with the sealed jewel-case carefully placed in the pocket of his fashionable dust-coat, he simply paused to add, with a severe air:
“You have been mistaken, m’sieur; you deceived yourself. I wish you adieu and a safe return.” Before I could utter another word he had left the room.
Chapter Ten
The Spider’s Web
I gave myself up to reflection.
Vera was an enigma, it was true, yet somehow I could not bring myself to realise that she had made pretence to love me merely for the purpose of prevailing upon me to undertake the conveyance of the jewels. Loving her as sincerely as I did, I was loth to credit anything base of her, feeling confident she reciprocated my affection.
It must be confessed that I was bitterly disappointed in Volkhovski. He had not welcomed me as I had expected, and his behaviour was so brusque as to leave me no pleasant impression of his character.
The day wore on.
The afternoon I spent smoking in the Café Chinois in the Nevskoi Prospekt, and in the evening strolled through the delightfully artistic Summer Gardens, debating whether I should remain a few days longer, or leave Russia at once.
Sitting alone at dinner about seven o’clock, I chanced to gaze across the Polschad. It was apparent something unusual had taken place, for people were standing in small groups talking and gesticulating together; and as I rose to regard them more closely, Trosciansky, the proprietor of the hotel, entered, with a pale, half-scared expression upon his face.
“What’s the matter outside?” I asked in French. “It seems as if something is wrong.”
“I have heard of nothing, m’sieur,” he replied, with an expression of astonishment which I detected was feigned, at the same time advancing to the window and looking out.
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