"Boris Petrovitch, do not
see this man. He is a German. He looks to me like one of their spies."
"I will look at him first," said Boris, with a smile. "But, Vladimir, I
think your eyes are getting feeble. It is time you were sent to the
place in the Crimea to rest, like the old horses that can no longer do
their share of the work."
Vladimir bridled indignantly. But then a slow smile came over his face.
"Is it Ivan?" he asked.
"It should be," said Boris. "I shall know as soon as I see him."
The newcomer was waiting in the great hall. Boris, with Fred at his
heels, got a glimpse of him; then without ceremony he ran down the
polished staircase.
"So you have come at last!" he cried.
Ivan was a loutish German in appearance, and only his eyes betrayed the
fact that he was not as stupid as he looked. At the sight of Boris he
smiled, and the act changed his whole expression. But Fred thought he
had never dreamed of so splendid a disguise. This man, he guessed, must
have come many miles through Germany, in a country where the closest
possible watch was being kept for spies, and for all, indeed, who might
even be suspected of espionage.
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