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Updated: April 30, 2025
It was all very disturbing to a man of Pobloff's equable disposition. He thought of Luga, his little wife, his dove; but not long. She did not appeal to his heart of hearts; she was a coquette. Pobloff sighed. He was midway in his mortal life, a dangerous period for susceptible manhood. He lifted moist eyes to the stars; the night was delicious. He rested upon a cushioned couch of stone.
Every cranny of his being was flooded with overmastering light and the faint sound of footsteps marking sinister time to his music, drew closer, closer. Shaking off an insane desire to join his voice in the immortal choiring of the Cherubim, Pobloff dashed into the passionate storm-scream of the music, and like a pack of phantom bloodhounds the footsteps pressed him in the race.
If Pobloff tries interfering with us, the best thing we can do is to get the British Foreign Office after him. They ought to be big enough for him!" "It's not a matter of bigness. He won't fight that way. He would never fight in the open. He knows his chances, and the country, and just where to turn, and just how far to go and where to hide, if he has to!" "That's true enough, I suppose.
Pobloff was not a coward. After his adventure in Balak, he feared neither man nor devil, and he insolently returned the black fellow's gaze. They stood about a buffet and drank coffee. The young woman her outlines were girlish did not touch anything; she turned her face in Pobloff's direction, so he fancied, and spoke at intervals to her attendant.
It was six o'clock of a fine morning, and the train was toiling up a precipitous grade to the spine of the mountain, where the down-slope would begin and air-brakes rule. Pobloff looked about him. He scratched his long nose, a characteristic gesture, and began wondering when coffee would be ready. He pressed the bell. The guard entered, a miserable bandit who bravely wore his peaked hat with green plumes
A wide, shallow river was crossed, the Oxal; Pobloff knew by his pocket map that Nirgiz was nigh. And for the first time in twenty-four hours he sorrowed. Despite his broad invitations and unmistakable hints, he could not trap his travelling companion into an avowal of her identity, of her destination.
So, on the other hand, Pobloff has concluded Keenan and I are fellow-conspirators, for he let me go to the lift alone, just to keep his eye on Keenan, who told me he had business at the steamship agency." "But why should we be afraid of Pobloff, then?" "It's a choice of two evils, I should venture to say. But that's not all.
He had misfortune in America, and he's afraid of it. As I said before, Pobloff and Keenan are the acid and the alkali that ought to make the neutral salts. I mean, instead of trying to save them from each other, we ought to fling them together, in some way. Let Pobloff do the hunting for us then let us hunt Pobloff!" "But Keenan is wary, and shrewd, and far-seeing.
"Do as I say," he repeated curtly. Frank, remembering, drew the yellow manila envelope from her bosom, and with out-stretched arm handed it to Pobloff. The Russian took it in silence. Then with a few quick strides he advanced to the alcohol lamp. As he did so both Keenan and Frank noticed for the first time the blunt little gun-metal revolver he held in his right hand.
Pobloff, with a little inarticulate cry that was almost a grunt, buckled and pitched forward. "That settles you!" the stooping man said, heartlessly, as he watched him relax and half roll on his side. Frank watched him, too, but with no sense of triumph or success, with no emotion but slowly awakening disgust, against which she found it useless to struggle.
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