"
"Now," Mikhalovsky continued, lowering his voice, "Misha has
disappeared. He is not in the office. He has never come home since the
morning he told me all of that. When I asked his chief whether he knew
anything about Misha--I got an answer that he was looking for him
all over the city and could find neither Misha nor a dossier which
he needs more than Misha himself! I feel,--I know, Misha is dead. And
surely, all that in connection....
"Look here, Boris Platonovich," I said, "You must not feel so terribly
depressed about that story. Nothing happened to Misha ..." and I
continued in that tone of consolation, though I knew how weak the
words sounded.
Mikhalovsky shook his head. "Anyhow I won't let it pass so easily.
I'll try to know, and I'll try to clear it out...."
I left him with his head down on his hands, in an agony of sorrow for
Misha, and in an agony of fears for his own sake.
At about twenty to eight I entered the restaurant, having decided to
keep silent, to give no chance to the man to understand me not only by
questions, but even by the association of ideas: I decided to be like
stone. He was talking to a chap in the hall, a tall, pimply young man
of twenty-five, in the French style of blue khaki and with aviation
insignia on his sleeve. Frank left his friend and we both went to the
dining room.
When we were through with our soup, Frank said:
"I have touched today upon the case of the Baroness.
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