vehicle finally reached a wooden bridge, across a murky creek.  As the day commenced to fade colorlessly, Rouletabille jumped off onto the shore and his rustic equipage crossed to the Sestroriesk side.  It was a corner of land black and somber as his thoughts that he surveyed now.  “Watch the Bay of Lachtka!” The reporter knew that this desolate plain, this impenetrable marsh, this sea which offered the fugitive refuge in innumerable fords, had always been a useful retreat for Nihilistic adventurers.  A hundred legends circulated in St. Petersburg about the mysteries of Lachtka marshes.  And that gave him his last hope.  Maybe he would be able to run across some revolutionaries to whom he could explain about Natacha, as prudently as possible; he might even see Natacha herself.  Gounsovski could not have spoken vain words to him.

Between the Lachtkrinsky marsh and the strand he perceived on the edge of the forests which run as far as Sestroriesk a little wooden house whose walls were painted a reddish-brown, and its roof green.  It was not the Russian isba, but the Finnish touba.  However, a Russian sign announced it to be a restaurant.  The young man had to take only a few steps to enter it.  He was the only customer there.  An old man, with glasses and a long gray beard, evidently the proprietor of the establishment, stood behind the counter, presiding over the zakouskis.  Rouletabille chose some little sandwiches which he placed on a plate.  He took a bottle of pivo and made the man understand that later, if it were possible, he would like a good hot supper.  The other made a sign that he understood and showed him into an adjoining room which was used for diners.  Rouletabille was quite ready enough to die in the face of his failures, but he did not wish to perish from hunger.

A table was placed beside a window looking out over the sea and over the entrance to the bay.  It could not have been better and, with his eye now on the horizon, now on the estuary near-by, he commenced to eat with gloomy avidity.  He was inclined to feel sorry for himself, to indulge in self-pity.  “Just the same, two and two always make four,” he said to himself; “but in my calculations perhaps I have forgotten the surd.  Ah, there was a time when I would not have overlooked anything.  And even now I haven’t overlooked anything, if Natacha is innocent!” Having literally scoured the plate, he struck the table a great blow with his fist and said:  “She is!”

Just then the door opened.  Rouletabille supposed the proprietor of the place was entering.

It was Koupriane.

He rose, startled.  He could not imagine by what mystery the Prefect of Police had made his way there, but he rejoiced from the bottom of his heart, for if he was trying to rescue Natacha from the hands of the revolutionaries Koupriane would be a valuable ally.  He clapped the Prefect on the shoulder.

“Well, well!” he said, almost joyfully.  “I certainly did not expect you here.  How is your wound?”