imself with them.

I tried to tell him what we all knew; that the old Russia was gone,
that Vornikoff and his crowd were rapacious and bloodthirsty, that
their real motives were as far removed from his idealism as one pole
from the other. But it was no use. And I left when I saw the light in
his eyes. It seemed to me then that Paul Stravoinski had driven his
splendid brain a bit beyond its breaking point.

* * * * *

Another year--and Paris, in 1939, with the dreaded First of May
drawing near. There had been rumors of demonstrations in every land,
but the French were prepared to cope with them--or so they
believed.... Who could have coped with the menace of the north that
was gathering itself for a spring?

I saw Paul there. It lacked two days of the First of May, and he was
seated with a group of industrious talkers at a secluded table in a
cafe. He crossed over when he saw me, and drew me aside. And I noticed
that a quiet man at a table nearby never let us out of his sight. Paul
and his companions, I judged, were under observation.

"What are you doing here _now_?" he asked. His manner was casual
enough to anyone watching, but the tense voice and the look in his
eyes that bored into me were anything but casual.

My resentment was only natural. "And why shouldn't I be here attending
to my own affairs? Do you realize that you are being rather absurd?"

He didn't bother to answer me directly. "I can't control them," he
said. "If they would only wait--a few weeks--another month! God, how I
prayed to them at--"

He broke off short. His eyes never moved, yet I sensed a furtiveness
as marked as if he had peered suspiciously about.

Suddenly he laughed aloud, as if at some joking remark of mine; I
knew it was for the benefit of those he had left and not for the quiet
man from the _Surete_. And now his tone was quietly conversational.

"Smile!" he said. "Smile, Bob!--we're just having a friendly talk. I
won't live another two hours if they think anything else. But, Bob, my
friend--for God's sake, Bob, leave Paris to-night. I am taking the
midnight plane on the Transatlantic Line. Come with me--"

One of the group at the table had risen; he was sauntering in our
direction. I played up to Paul's lead.

"Glad I ran across you," I told him, and shook his extended hand that
gripped mine in an agony of pleading. "I'll be seeing you in New York
one of these days; I am going back soon."