wn. When he uncovered his
lips they were smiling faintly.

"Pardon me. This has been a long conversation, and I have not had much
sleep the last two nights."

This unexpected, somewhat insolent sort of apology had the merit of
being perfectly true. He had had no nightly rest to speak of since that
day when, in the grounds of the Chateau Borel, the sister of Victor
Haldin had appeared before him. The perplexities and the complex
terrors--I may say--of this sleeplessness are recorded in the document
I was to see later--the document which is the main source of this
narrative. At the moment he looked to me convincingly tired, gone slack
all over, like a man who has passed through some sort of crisis.

"I have had a lot of urgent writing to do," he added.

I rose from my chair at once, and he followed my example, without haste,
a little heavily.

"I must apologize for detaining you so long," I said.

"Why apologize? One can't very well go to bed before night. And you did
not detain me. I could have left you at any time."

I had not stayed with him to be offended.

"I am glad you have been sufficiently interested," I said calmly. "No
merit of mine, though--the commonest sort of regard for the mother of
your friend was enough.... As to Miss Haldin herself, she at one time
was disposed to think that her brother had been betrayed to the police
in some way."

To my great surprise Mr. Razumov sat down again suddenly. I stared at
him, and I must say that he returned my stare without winking for quite
a considerable time.

"In some way," he mumbled, as if he had not understood or could not
believe his ears.

"Some unforeseen event, a sheer accident might have done that," I went
on. "Or, as she characteristically put it to me, the folly or weakness
of some unhappy fellow-revolutionist."

"Folly or weakness," he repeated bitterly.

"She is a very generous creature," I observed after a time. The man
admired by Victor Haldin fixed his eyes on the ground. I turned away and
moved off, apparently unnoticed by him. I nourished no resentment of
the moody brusqueness with which he had treated me. The sentiment I was
carrying away from that conversation was that of hopelessness. Before
I had got fairly clear of the raft of chairs and tables he had rejoined
me.

"H'm, yes!" I heard him at my elbow again. "But what do you think?"

I did not look round even.

"I think that you people are under a curse."

He made no sound. I