"They found my letter about the Jews," I replied. "What letter? Oh, my dear, what did you say?" "I forget. But everything I saw or heard, I think." We began to laugh again. "Will they send our telegrams?"--"Will Peter come on?"--"What shall we do for money?" The room was pitch-dark except for the electric light from the street. We heard the creak and rattle of the empty commissariat wagons returning from the barracks. We fell silent, feeling suddenly very tired and lethargic. "Where is Janchu? It's time for his supper," Marie said, without moving. I started out of the room to call him, and fell across a dark figure sitting in front of the door. He grunted and pushed me back into the room. "I want Janchu," I said in perfectly good English, while he closed the door in my face. "There's a spy outside our door," I whispered to Marie. Panna Lolla came in with Janchu and turned on the light. "There's a man outside our door, and two secret-service men at the _pension_ door and two soldiers downstairs," she whispered excitedly in one breath. "No one can leave the _pension_, and they take the name and address of every one who comes here. And that woman _was_ a spy. Antosha saw the chief go into her room and heard them talking together. And she left when they did." I lay all night, half asleep, half awake, hearing the street noises clearly through the open windows. I cried a little from exhaustion and nerves, and then controlled myself, for my head began to ache, and who knew what would happen the next day? I had to keep strength to meet something that was coming. I had no idea what it was, but the uncertainty of the future only made it more ominous and threatening. That letter--In the darkness I saw the chief's watchful, narrow eyes, and the horn-rimmed spectacles of the friendly spy, and the stuffed portfolio. _Later._ Nothing has happened yet. We have our meals brought to us by Antosha, who tries to comfort us with extra large pickled cucumbers and portions of sour cream. We are allowed to send Panna Lolla downtown for cigarettes and books from the circulating library. Thank Heaven for books! With our nerves stretched to the snapping-point and a pinwheel of thoughts everlastingly spinning round in our heads, I think we should go mad except for books. It is very hot, but my body is always cool and damp, because I can't eat much, I suppose, and lie on a _chaise longue_ motionless all day long. I can feel myself growing weak, and there is nothing to do but sit and wait.