briskly, and crossed to the opposite wall. “Here,” he said and tapped the boarding.
“What is it?”
“A spy-hole. Some one came here.”
“And who shot at him?”
“Well, I did. If you had crept through the window the same way a fortnight ago some one . . . would have let fly at you.”
“Who?”
“That’s all the same, this or that state. A good many foreign powers, my friends, have been knocking at this door. And meanwhile you were somewhere, aha! catching fish, eh? Marvellous fellow! But listen, my dear sir,” he said with sudden seriousness, “kindly give up coming here. Never, do you understand?”
“Rubbish!”
“Wait. You won't find a grenadier waiting for you. Very unpretentious-looking people. Nowadays this sort of thing . . . is done very discreetly.” Mr. Carson stopped near the window and drummed with his fingers on the glass. “You can’t believe how many letters I got in answer to my advertisement. About six Prokops introduced themselves. . . . Come and look, quick!”
Prokop came over to the window. “What is it?”
Mr. Carson silently pointed at the road with his short finger. On it a young man was twisting about on a bicycle in a desperate attempt to maintain his equilibrium, each wheel exhibiting a strong inclination to go in a different direction. Mr. Carson looked at Prokop inquiringly.
