rassed both the girl and himself exceedingly. Behind her veil she bit her lip and cast down her eyes; oh, the delicious smoothness of her face, oh, what small hands and how extraordinarily excited! Suddenly she raised her eyes and Prokop held his breath with ecstasy, so beautiful did she seem to him.
“Mr. Thomas isn’t at home?” asked the girl.
“Thomas has gone away,” said Prokop, with some hesitation. “Last night.”
“Where?”
“To Tynice, to his father.”
“And he returns?”
Prokop shrugged his shoulders.
The girl bent her head down, her hands pulling at something. “And did he tell you why . . . why?”
“THe did.”
“And you think that . . . that he will do it?”
“What?”
“That he will shoot himself.”
In a flash Prokop remembered that he had seen Thomas put a revolver into his suitcase. “To-morrow, perhaps, we’ll make an explosion,” he again heard him mutter through his teeth. He did not wish to say anything. He looked very serious.
“Oh my God!” said the girl, “but this is terrible. Tell me . . .”
“What?”
“If only somebody could follow him! If only somebody could say—could give him—you understand, don’t you, that he mustn’t do it! If only somebody could go after him today”
