“If he got away to Nijni and the Volga, it is probable that he is in Eastern Siberia or in Persia at this moment.  He has not had time to get right across Asia yet.”

De Chauxville moved toward the door.  With his fingers on the handle he paused again.

“I leave early to-morrow morning,” he said.

Vassili nodded, or rather he bowed, in his grand way.

Then De Chauxville went out of the room.  They did not shake hands.  There is sometimes shame among thieves.

CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE WEB

“What I propose is that Catrina takes you for a drive, my dear baron, with her two ponies.”

The countess had taken very good care to refrain from making this proposal to Catrina alone.  She was one of those mothers who rule their daughters by springing surprises upon them in a carefully selected company where the daughter is not free to reply.

De Chauxville bowed with outspread hands.

“If it will not bore mademoiselle,” he replied.

The countess looked at her daughter with an unctuous smile, as if to urge her on to make the most of this opportunity.  It was one of the countess’s chief troubles that she could not by hook or crook involve Catrina in any sort of a love intrigue.  She was the sort of mother who would have preferred to hear scandal about her daughter to hearing nothing.

“If it will not freeze monsieur,” replied Catrina, with uncompromising honesty.

De Chauxville laughed in his frank way.

“I am not afraid of coldness—­of the atmosphere, mademoiselle,” he replied.  “I am most anxious to see your beautiful country.  It was quite dark during the last hour of my journey last night, and I had snow-sleepiness.  I saw nothing.”

“You will see nothing but snow,” said Catrina.

“Which is like the reserve of a young girl,” added the Frenchman.  “It keeps warm that which is beneath it.”

“You need not be afraid with Catrina,” chimed in the countess, nodding and becking in a manner that clearly showed her assumption to herself of some vague compliment.  “She drives beautifully.  She is not nervous in that way.  I have never seen any one drive like her.”

“I have no doubt,” said De Chauxville, “that mademoiselle’s hands are firm, despite their diminutiveness.”

The countess was charmed—­and showed it.  She frowned at Catrina, who remained grave and looked at the clock.

“When would you like to go?” she asked De Chauxville, with that complete absence of affectation which the Russian, of all women of the world, alone have mastered in their conversation with men.

“Am I not at your service—­now and always?” responded the gallant baron.

“I hope not,” replied Catrina quietly.  “There are occasions when I have no use for you.  Shall we say eleven o’clock?”

“With pleasure.  Then I will go and write my letters now,” said the baron, quitting the room.