“I’m sorry, Dorothy.  I’m a silly fool, and to-day, when I saw the snow—­ well, I got all wrought up.”

“I think neither of the men are in the snow, and now I am going to say something else, and then never speak of the subject again.  You say I didn’t care, and of course you are quite right, for I confessed to you that I didn’t.  But just imagine—­ imagine—­ that I cared.  The Russian Government can let the Prince go at any moment, and there’s nothing more to be said.  He has no redress, and must take the consequences of his nationality.  But if the Russian Government have arrested the Englishman; if they have put him in the prison of ’St. Peter and St. Paul,’ they dare not release him, unless they are willing to face war.  The Russian Government can do nothing in his case but deny, demand proof, and obliterate all chance of the truth ever being known.  Alan Drummond is doomed:  they dare not release him.  Now think for a moment how much worse my case would be than yours, if—­ if—­” her voice quivered and broke for the moment, then with tightly clenched fists she recovered control of herself, and finished:  “if I cared.”

“Oh, Dorothy, Dorothy, Dorothy!” gasped Katherine, springing to her feet.

“No, no, don’t jump at any false conclusion.  We are both nervous wrecks this afternoon.  Don’t misunderstand me.  I don’t care—­ I don’t care, except that I hate tyranny, and am sorry for the victims of it.”

“Dorothy, Dorothy!”

“We need a sane man in the house, Kate.  Telegraph for your father to come down and talk to us both.  I must finish my letter to the Nihilist.”

“Dorothy!” said Katherine, kissing her.

CHAPTER XII

 The dreaded Trogzmondoff

The Nihilist was shown into the dainty drawing room of the flat, and found Dorothy Amhurst alone, as he had stipulated, waiting for him.  He was dressed in a sort of naval uniform and held a peaked cap in his hand, standing awkwardly there as one unused to luxurious surroundings.  His face was bronzed with exposure to sun and storm, and although he appeared to be little more than thirty years of age his closely cropped hair was white.  His eyes were light blue, and if ever the expression of a man’s countenance betokened stalwart honesty, it was the face of this sailor.  He was not in the least Dorothy’s idea of a dangerous plotter.

“Sit down,” she said, and he did so like a man ill at ease.

“I suppose Johnson is not your real name,” she began.

“It is the name I bear in America, Madam.”

“Do you mind my asking you some questions?”

“No, Madam, but if you ask me anything I am not allowed to answer I shall not reply.”

“How long have you been in the United States?”

“Only a few months, Madam.”

“How come you to speak English so well?”

“In my young days I shipped aboard a bark plying between Helsingfors and New York.”