enough
for hours and was now deepened by what the other had just said. He
comprehended only one thing, that a man named Priemkof, whom he had
never heard spoken of, as determined as Matiew to destroy the general,
had been entrusted by Koupriane with the guard of the datcha des Iles.
It was necessary to warn Koupriane instantly.

"How is it that you have not done so already, yourself, Monsieur
Gounsovski? Why wait to speak about it to me? It is unimaginable."

"Pardon, pardon," said Gounsovski, smiling softly behind his goggles;
"it is not the same thing."

"No, no, it is not the same thing," seconded the lady with the black
silk, brilliant jewels and flabby chin. "We speak here to a friend in
the course of dinner-talk, to a friend who is not of the police. We
never denounce anybody."

"We must tell you. But sit down now," Gounsovski still insisted,
lighting his cigar. "Be reasonable. They have just tried to poison him,
so they will take time to breathe before they try something else. Then,
too, this poison makes me think they may have given up the idea of
living bombs. Then, after all, what is to be will be."

"Yes, yes," approved the ample dame. "The police never have been able
to prevent what was bound to happen. But, speaking of this Priemkof, it
remains between us, eh? Between just us?"

"Yes, we must tell you now," Gounsovski slipped in softly, "that it will
be much better not to let Koupriane know that you got the information
from me. Because then, you understand, he would not believe you; or,
rather, he would not believe me. That is why we take these precautions
of dining and smoking a cigar. We speak of one thing and another and
you do as you please with what we say. But, to make them useful, it is
absolutely necessary, I repeat, to be silent about their source." (As
he said that, Gounsovski gave Rouletabille a piercing glance through his
goggles, the first time Rouletabille had seen such a look in his eyes.
He never would have suspected him capable of such fire.) "Priemkof,"
continued Gounsovski in a low voice, using his handkerchief vigorously,
"was employed here in my home and we separated on bad terms, through his
fault, it is necessary to say. Then he got into Koupriane's confidence
by saying the worst he could of us, my dear little monsieur."

"But what could he say?--servants' stories! my dear little monsieur,"
repeated the fat dame, and rolled her great magnificent black eyes
furiously. "Stories