little dolls, skating up and down, and they looked rather desolate
beside the deserted band-stands and the empty seats. On the road outside
our door a cart loaded with wood slowly moved along, the high hoop over
the horse's back gleaming with red and blue.

"Yes, it _is_ a view!" I said. "Splendid!--and all as quiet as though
there'd been no disturbances at all. Have you heard any news?"

"No," said Bohun. "To tell the truth I've been so busy that I haven't
had time to ring up the Embassy. And we've had no one in this morning.
Monday morning, you know," he added; "always very few people on Monday
morning"--as though he didn't wish me to think that the office was
always deserted.

I watched the little doll-like men circling placidly round and round
the rink. One bubble cloud rose and slowly swallowed up the sun.
Suddenly I heard a sharp crack like the breaking of a twig. "What's
that?" I said, stepping forward on to the balcony. "It sounded like a
shot."

"I didn't hear anything," said Bohun. "You get funny echoes up here
sometimes." We stepped back into Bohun's room and, if I had had any
anxieties, they would at once, I think, have been reassured by the
unemotional figure of Bohun's typist, a gay young woman with peroxide
hair, who was typing away as though for her very life.

"Look here, Bohun, can I talk to you alone for a minute?" I asked.

The peroxide lady left us.

"It's just about Markovitch I wanted to ask you," I went on. "I'm
infernally worried, and I want your help. It may seem ridiculous of me
to interfere in another family like this, with people with whom I have,
after all, nothing to do. But there are two reasons why it isn't
ridiculous. One is the deep affection I have for Nina and Vera. I
promised them my friendship, and now I've got to back that promise. And
the other is that you and I are really responsible for bringing Lawrence
into the family. They never would have known him if it hadn't been for
us. There's danger and trouble of every sort brewing, and Semyonov, as
you know, is helping it on wherever he can. Well, now, what I want to
know is, how much have you seen of Markovitch lately, and has he talked
to you?"

Bohun considered. "I've seen very little of him," he said at last. "I
think he avoids me now. He's such a weird bird that it's impossible to
tell of what he's really thinking. I know he was pleased when I asked
him to dine with me at the Bear the other night. He looked _most
awf