Paul's theory that this was an Englishman had not been received with enthusiasm by Steinmetz; but that philosopher had stooped to inspect the narrow, tell-tale fingers.

Steinmetz, be it noted, had an infinite capacity for holding his tongue.
They mounted their horses and rode away without looking back.

But they did not speak, as if each were deep in his own thoughts.

Material had indeed been afforded them, for who could tell who this featureless man might be?
They were left in a state of hopeless curiosity, as who, having picked up a page with "Finis" written upon it, falls to wondering what the story may have been.
Steinmetz had thrown the bridle of the straying horse over his arm, and the animal trotted obediently by the side of the fidgety little Cossacks.
"That was bad luck," exclaimed the elder man at length, "d--d bad luck! In this country the less you find, the less you see, the less you understand, the simpler is your existence.

Those Nihilists, with their mysterious ways and their reprehensible love of explosives, have made honest men's lives a burden to them." "Their motives were originally good," put in Paul.
"That is possible; but a good motive is no excuse for a bad means.