him no greeting, but helped him off with his overcoat and then led the way into the tawdrily furnished sitting-room. The electric light was shaded with dirty pink festoons, and it softened, but could not disguise, the girl's face with its mask of crude paint. Could not disguise, either, the broad Mongolian cast of her countenance. There was no doubt of Olga Demiroff's profession, nor of her nationality.
"All is well, little one?"
"All is well, Boris Ivanovitch."
He nodded murmuring: "I do not think I have been followed."
But there was anxiety in his tone. He went to the window, drawing the curtains aside slightly, and peering carefully out. He started away violently.
"There are two men—on the opposite pavement. It looks to me" He broke off and began gnawing at his nails—a habit he had when anxious.
The Russian girl was shaking her head with a slow, reassuring action.
"They were here before you came."
"All the same, it looks to me as though they were watching this house."
"Possibly," she admitted indifferently.
"But then"
"What of it? Even if they know—it will not be you they will follow from here."
A thin, cruel smile came to his lips.
"No," he admitted, "that is true."
He mused for a minute or two and then observed.
"This damned American—he can look after himself as well as anybody."
