The Forbidden Territory Read Online Free PDF

impertinence.
    Later, at the buffet, Madame Karkoff consumed two large plates of some incredible confection, the principal ingredient of which seemed to be cream, with the gusto of a wicked child, and Simon ate some
foie gras
sandwiches. They both drank more champagne, she lashing hers with Benedictine, because she considered it “dry-thin” and much inferior to the sweet, sparkling Caucasian wine to which she was accustomed; but theamount which she drank seemed in no way to affect her.
    At length Simon suggested that he might see her home. She looked round the crowded room with half-closed eyes, then she shrugged eloquently, and smiled. “Why not? Nicolai Alexis will be furious, but what does it matter?—’E is drunk—let us go!”
    With a magnificent gesture she seemed to sweep her garments about her, and the crowd gave passage as she sailed towards the door, the narrow-shouldered Simon following.
    They both assured the tired and still anxious Miriam that it had been a “marvellous party”, and reached the hall.
    “Mr. Aron’s car? Yes, sir.” The hired butler nodded. “One moment, sir.”
    He gave a shout and beckoned, and a moment later a great silver Rolls was standing before the door; Simon had not telephoned in vain. He had a garage with whom he had an understanding that, at any hour of the day or night, a luxury car was always at Mr. Aron’s disposal, and he paid handsomely.
    “Where—er—shall I tell him?” Simon asked.
    “Ze Berkeley,” she said, quickly. “Come, get in.”
    Simon gave instructions and did as he was bid. Almost immediately they were speeding down the gradients towards the West End.
    She talked quickly and vividly of the party and the people whom they had just left. The car had reached Baker Street before Simon had a chance to get in the question which he’d been meaning to ask; he said quickly: “What about a little lunch one day?”
    Her shoulders moved slightly under her ermine cloak. “My frien’, it would be nice—but it is impossible. Tomorrow I ave a ’undred things to do, an’ the next day I go back to Russia.”
    The car slid through Grosvenor Square, and into Carlos Place. Simon considered for a moment, then he said, seriously: “Are you doing anything for lunch today week?”
    She put her head back, and her magnificent laughter filled the car. “Foolish one, I shall be in Moskawa—you are an absurd.”
    “Ner,” Simon shook his head quickly. “Tell me—are you booked for lunch next Thursday?”
    The car sped through the eastern side of Berkeley Square, and up Berkeley Street. She pressed his hand. “Silly boy—of course not, but I’ave told you—I shall be in Moskawa once more!”
    “All right,” said Simon, decisively. “Then you will meet me for lunch at one o’clock at the Hotel Metropole in Moscow—Thursday, a week today.”
    The car had stopped before the entrance to the hotel, the commissionaire stepped forward and opened the door.
    “You make a joke! You do not mean this?” she asked, in her melodious, husky voice, leaning forward to peer into his face.
    “I do,” nodded Simon, earnestly.
    She laughed suddenly, and drew her hand quickly down his cheek with a caressing gesture. “All right—I will be there!”

Chapter IV
Cigars and Pistols for Two—
    At twelve o’clock precisely on the 7th of February, a very cold and miserable little figure stood ostensibly admiring the ancient Ilyinka Gate in Moscow.
    It was Mr. Simon Aron, clad in his ordinary London clothes. A smart blue overcoat buttoned tightly across his narrow chest, black shoes, gloves and stick, a soft hat pulled well down over his arc of nose.
    Somehow, Mr. Aron, for all his foresightedness in the realms of commerce and finance, had failed to bargain for the rigours of a Russian winter. The cold wind cut through his cloth coat, his feet were wet through with the slush of the streets, and the glare of the snow upon the open “prospekts” was already beginning to hurt his