There
you have my history in a nutshell. As you say you will take me with you, I
thought you ought to know."
"Certainly, certainly," answered the Count, vaguely. "I will take you with
me--but not as coachman, I think, Dumnoff. We may find some more
favourable sphere for your great physical strength."
"Anything you like. It is a good joke to dream of such a journey, is it
not? Especially when one is locked up for the night in the
police-station."
"It is certainly a relief to contemplate the prospect of such a change
to-morrow," said the Count, his expression brightening in the gloom.
For a few moments there was silence between the two men. Dumnoff's small
eyes fixed themselves on the shadowy outlines of his companion's face, as
though trying to solve a problem far too complicated for his dull
intellect.
"I wonder whether you are really mad," he said slowly, after a prolonged
mental effort.
The Count started slightly and stared at the ex-coachman with a frightened
look.
"Mad?" he repeated, nervously. "Who says I am mad? Why do you ask the
question?"
"Most people say so," replied the other, evidently without any intention
of giving pain. "Everybody who works with us thinks so."
"Everybody? Everybody? I think you are dreaming, Dumnoff. What do you
mean?"
"I mean that they think so because you have those queer fits of believing
yourself a rich count every week, from Tuesday night till Thursday
morning. Schmidt was saying only yesterday to poor Vjera--"
"Vjera? Does she believe it too?" asked the Count in an unsteady voice,
not heeding the rest of the speech.
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