“Did anybody see you come here?”
“Not a soul.”
“Good. All the same, you must not stay here an hour longer than we can
help. It would be too dangerous. The police are baffled; but they have
by no means given up the quest, and as likely as not will be here again
to-morrow. You must not sleep here.”
“Where then?”
“At my farm. But first of all you must change your skin.”
As he spoke, my friend in need opened a cupboard, and took therefrom
some garments in which, when I had arrayed myself and had a good wash,
I looked and felt like a new man.
“Is your farm far from here?” I asked, as we sat down to supper.
“About twenty-five versts (fifteen miles), in the depth of the
forest, far from any highway. Hunting parties from Irkoutsk visit us
there sometimes. Your coming will, therefore, be no surprise for the
servants. It is true your hair is just a little short (looking at my
head); but that is nothing. You have had typhoid fever, and are going
to recruit your strength in the forest. You look haggard enough to have
had three fevers.”
An hour later we were _en route_, my friend, who had lived many years
in the country, himself taking the reins, and he contrived matters so
well that nobody in the house knew either of my coming or my going. The
police were thrown completely off the scent.