had no time, for Miss Haldin withdrew her hand immediately from Peter Ivanovitch and before I was ready for her was moving to the door.  A disregarded Westerner, I threw it open hurriedly and followed her out, my last glance leaving them all motionless in their varied poses:  Peter Ivanovitch alone standing up, with his dark glasses like an enormous blind teacher, and behind him the vivid patch of light on the coloured map, pored over by the diminutive Laspara.

Later on, much later on, at the time of the newspaper rumours (they were vague and soon died out) of an abortive military conspiracy in Russia, I remembered the glimpse I had of that motionless group with its central figure.  No details ever came out, but it was known that the revolutionary parties abroad had given their assistance, had sent emissaries in advance, that even money was found to dispatch a steamer with a cargo of arms and conspirators to invade the Baltic provinces.  And while my eyes scanned the imperfect disclosures (in which the world was not much interested) I thought that the old, settled Europe had been given in my person attending that Russian girl something like a glimpse behind the scenes.  A short, strange glimpse on the top floor of a great hotel of all places in the world:  the great man himself; the motionless great bulk in the corner of the slayer of spies and gendarmes; Yakovlitch, the veteran of ancient terrorist campaigns; the woman, with her hair as white as mine and the lively black eyes, all in a mysterious half-light, with the strongly lighted map of Russia on the table.  The woman I had the opportunity to see again.  As we were waiting for the lift she came hurrying along the corridor, with her eyes fastened on Miss Haldin’s face, and drew her aside as if for a confidential communication.  It was not long.  A few words only.

Going down in the lift, Natalia Haldin did not break the silence.  It was only when out of the hotel and as we moved along the quay in the fresh darkness spangled by the quay lights, reflected in the black water of the little port on our left hand, and with lofty piles of hotels on our right, that she spoke.

“That was Sophia Antonovna—­you know the woman?...”

“Yes, I know—­the famous...”

“The same.  It appears that after we went out Peter Ivanovitch told them why I had come.  That was the reason she ran out after us.  She named herself to me, and then she said, ’You are the sister of a brave man who shall be remembered.  You may see better times.’  I told her I hoped to see the time when all this would be forgotten, even if the name of my brother were to be forgotten too.  Something moved me to say that, but you understand?”

“Yes,” I said.  “You think of the era of concord and justice.”

“Yes.  There is too much hate and revenge in that work.  It must be done.  It is a sacrifice—­and so let it be all the greater.  Destruction is the work of anger.  Let the tyrants and the slayers be forgotten together, and only the reconstructors be remembered.’’