While I ate they talked, asking me questions, sometimes laughing at my answers.
The kind of interest they seemed to feel was beyond my comprehension. They
did not seem to be the kind of people who would be mixed up even in what they might call a “political” murder. I gave frank expression to my feelings. I said to the man:
“Do you know you’ll excuse my saying so but I’m beginning to wonder if you had anything to do with the awful thing which happened to this man what’s his name?”
“The name of the Prefect of Police was Stepan Korsunsky.”
“You talk as if you knew all about it.”
The pair exchanged glances; then the man said:
“Mr. Beckwith, you are a simple-minded Englishman.”
“And what are you—you’re not Russian?”
“No; as it happens, I’m American. I was born in a small township in Wi
