[Illustration: “MY BACK AGAINST THE DOOR, MY HAND ON MY
                 REVOLVER.”--_Page 94._]




  IN THE CAUSE
  OF FREEDOM

  BY
  ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT

  AUTHOR OF
  “BY WIT OF WOMAN,” “THE QUEEN’S ADVOCATE,”
  “A COURIER OF FORTUNE,” ETC.

  _With a frontispiece in colours by_
  ARCHIE GUNN

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
  PUBLISHERS




  COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
  ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT
  APRIL, 1907

  _All Rights Reserved_




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                    PAGE

       I. A CHANCE MEETING                      3

      II. ON THE DEVIL’S STAIRCASE             14

     III. VOLNA DRAKONA                        25

      IV. A HORSEDEALING TRANSACTION           37

       V. AT PULTA                             49

      VI. VERY SISTERLY                        59

     VII. THE LUCK TURNS                       69

    VIII. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE COTTAGE         82

      IX. A VERY TIGHT CORNER                  93

       X. THE HAG TO THE RESCUE               103

      XI. FATHER AMBROSE                      115

     XII. “SHE IS BETROTHED”                  125

    XIII. VOLNA IS A LITTLE REFRACTORY        135

     XIV. THE ARREST                          145

      XV. A TASTE OF PRISON LIFE              158

     XVI. I GET A BIT OF MY OWN BACK          169

    XVII. “DO YOU LOVE VOLNA DRAKONA?”        181

   XVIII. FOR FRIENDSHIP’S SAKE               190

     XIX. TURNING THE SCREW                   200

      XX. DEFIANCE                            212

     XXI. A BLANK OUTLOOK                     223

    XXII. POLICE METHODS                      234

   XXIII. SPY WORK                            245

    XXIV. BLACK MONDAY IN WARSAW              254

     XXV. NO. 17, THE PLACE OF ST. JOHN       262

    XXVI. THE TABLES TURNED                   271

   XXVII. THE PLAN PROSPERS                   280

  XXVIII. FLIGHT                              289

    XXIX. IN THE STREET OF ST. GREGORY        298

     XXX. AFTER THE STORM                     308




CHAPTER I

A CHANCE MEETING


“Do you mean to take me for a spy?”

I had hard work to prevent myself laughing at the man to his face;
and it is no light matter to laugh at these self-satisfied, bullying
officials in Russian Poland. Some of them have too much power.

“Do I understand that you refuse to answer my questions and shew me
your papers?”

“And what if I do?” He had burst into my room in the little inn at
Bratinsk as I sat reading my paper over a cigar, and without any
preface had fired his questions at me with the peremptory incivility of
the average police agent. My temper had taken the intrusion badly.

He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “I am a police agent
from Warsaw and must know your business in Bratinsk.”

At that I saw light. I recalled a paragraph I had just read in the
Warsaw paper. I pointed to it. “Is this the key to your visit?”

“Ah, you have read it,” he replied with that offensive manner in which
these people always contrive to imply that everything you say or do is
a matter of suspicion.

“I’ll read it again now with more interest,” said I. I did so very
deliberately, to gain time to cool my temper and see how it could
possibly affect me.

“We are in a position to state that a raid was made two nights ago
upon a house in the Kronplatz, which has long been suspected to
be the Warsaw headquarters of a branch of the dangerous patriotic
society known as the ‘P.F.F.’ (Polish Freedom Fraternity). The house
was deserted at the time, but important papers were found which
revealed the existence of a conspiracy of wide and far-reaching
extent. The complete break-up of the powerful organization of the
Freedom Fraternity is likely to be the result of the raid, and several
well-known patriots are said to be implicated by the discoveries. Among
the names rumoured is that of Count Peter Valdemar, once well known as
the ‘Stormy Petrel’ of Polish politics.”

“Do you take me for Count Peter Valdemar?” I asked.

“I did not come here to be fooled,” was the angry reply. “If you will
not comply with my demands, you must accompany me to Warsaw.”

I saw the prudence of not angering him. “I am Robert Anstruther, an
Englishman, and have been here about three weeks, shooting over the
estate of my friend, Count Ladislas Tuleski.”

“Your passport?”

“Here it is. You have a very unpleasant manner,” I could not help
adding, as I took out my pocket book. By a curious chance I had three
passports; my own and that of my chum, Robert Garrett and his sister,
Margaret. They were to have come out with me on their way to Turkey,
but had been prevented at the last moment. I picked mine out and handed
it to him. “It’s properly viséd, you’ll see.”

He assumed a very profound air as he read it. “You speak Polish very
well for an Englishman,” he said.

“I speak also German and French, and some Russian.”

“You have no trace of the vile English accent.”

“Is that meant for a compliment?” I asked lightly. It was no use to get
angry again.

“And you are a friend of Count Ladislas Tuleski? You are, no doubt,
aware that he is a suspect.”

I smiled as I thought of my friend’s airy impulsiveness and almost
butterfly repudiation of responsibility. “I am surprised he should be
suspected of doing anything seriously.”

“He is,” was the snappy reply. “And his friends are naturally objects
of interest just now. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I heard of him last in London.”

“And you are from London? It is at least a coincidence. Do you know
Count Peter Valdemar?”

“I believe I met him once.” I remembered that I had seen him at my
friend’s hotel in London.

“Another coincidence,” he returned drily. There was a pause during
which he regarded me fixedly, pretty much as though I were a criminal.
“You would perhaps, like to shew me all your papers, to satisfy me of
the truth of your story.”

That was what an American would call “the limit.”

I got up and opened the door. “I have told you the truth and I don’t
allow any man to question my word. You’d better go before I lose my
temper.”

I stood six feet without bootheels; I had been the heaviest number five
in my college eight that Corpus had had for years; and was in the pink
of condition. He saw that I meant business and rose.

“I don’t question your word,” he began.

“Are you going?”

He went out into the corridor. “We shall probably require you to come
to Warsaw.”

“If you wish to arrest me do it, and be hanged to you.”

“You mustn’t talk like that, and had better leave Bratinsk. So long
as you stay here you will be under surveillance--” the rest of his
sentence was lost, for I slammed the door in his face.

The attempt at any kind of surveillance over my movements would
drive me out of Bratinsk like a shot; and I should have been much
more annoyed by the incident but for the fact that I had been daily
expecting my visit to be brought to a close by the weather. I had been
very lucky to hit such an open season; but it was late in December, and
the snow was so long overdue that by leaving at once I should miss very
little sport.

I determined to go, therefore. I had a pig-sticking fixed for the
following day; and that should be the last.

It was not at all unlikely, too, that Warsaw would afford me some
excitement. The papers were full of hints about impending troubles
from the strikers and revolutionary party, consequent upon the ominous
unrest in St. Petersburg; and I settled that I might as well go there
for a couple of days to see the fun, and then rush home for Christmas.

With this plan in my thoughts I strolled up to the railway station to
see about trains.

As I reached the building the stationmaster, a very busy little
official, named Blauben, came running up to me.

“Ah, mister, mister,”--he knew this one word of English and thought it
the correct way to address an Englishman--“you can do me a service. I
beg of you. I am in sore perplexity.”

“What is the matter?”

“A country-woman of yours. She sets me at defiance and does not
understand a word I say. The last train for three hours has gone and
the law is that I shut the station. She will not go out.”

“Do you want me to put her out for you?”

“No, no; you can explain to her that the law requires the station to
be shut now; and they are very strict because of this last conspiracy
they have discovered. No one is allowed to remain, mister. Besides, my
wife is waiting for me; and you know her. She is not patient when the
dinner is kept waiting. Ah, mister?”

“Where is she?”

I pictured to myself a typical strong-minded British matron, or
spinster, stern of feature, sturdy of will, Baedeker in hand, insistent
upon her rights, and holding the station grimly against the chattering
officious little Pole; and I looked for some fun. But, instead, he led
me up to a girl, who contradicted in every particular my anticipation.
She was some twenty years of age, well-dressed and as pretty as a
painting; straight, regular features, flaxen hair and blue eyes;
glorious eyes meant for laughter, but now clouded with trouble and
nervous agitation. A picture of pale, shrinking misery that went
straight to my heart.

“Here is an English mister who will explain,” said the stationmaster
with elaborate gesture.

I raised my hat and as she glanced at me, the colour flushed into her
cheeks and her large eyes seemed to dilate with a new fear connected
with my presence. In a moment it flashed into my thoughts that she had
understood him quite well.

“The stationmaster tells me you are a country-woman of mine,” I said in
English; “and has asked me to explain that the station is to be closed
now.”

There was a pause, her look one of blank dismay. She bit her lip and
then stammered slowly with a rich foreign accent, “Zank you, sir; I
cannot go. I wait for ze train and zomeone.”

I accepted this as though it were the purest English and gave a free
translation of it to the station master. But he was bluntness itself.
His wife was waiting for him, and he had the law on his side.

I turned to the girl again and said, trying German this time: “They
have curious laws in this country, and one of them requires the station
to be closed.”

Her face lighted with unmistakable relief and she answered in the same
language: “My servant has gone to make some arrangements, I only wish
to wait for a train.”

I interpreted this also; but the man was obdurate. “She cannot wait
here. No one is allowed--by law.”

“But I _must_ wait,” she broke in, and blushed vividly and trembled at
having given away the fact that she understood him.

“Let me offer a suggestion. I am an Englishman, Robert Anstruther, and
if you will permit, I will wait with you outside until your servant
returns. These officials are obstinate just now because of some plot
that has been discovered; and he will only send for the police if you
do not comply.”

At the mention of the police she rose quickly, all the colour left her
face and her lips quivered.

The stationmaster beamed his thanks upon me as he bowed us out and
turned the key upon us.

“These little officials are very touchy,” I said, when we stood outside
and I saw she was quite undecided what to do.

She paused, and then said impulsively: “I don’t know what you will
think. I--I am so ashamed.”

“I hope not. There is no need.”

“I mean about--I am not English.”

“Are you not? You answered me in English,” I said gravely.

A little blush signalled vexation. “As if you did not know. It is no
subject for laughter.”

“God forbid that I should laugh. You are too evidently in deep trouble.”

“And you know that I understood him all the time.”

I bowed. “I ask no questions.”

“I should like to explain, but I cannot. Oh, how humiliating!” she
cried, and the distress and trouble in her tone touched me deeply.

“I am only a stranger, but if I can help you, I beg you to give me the
opportunity.”

“You cannot. You cannot; oh, I----” She left the sentence unfinished
and turned away to stare along the road leading to the village, her arm
resting upon a gate near. “If he comes back----” I heard her murmur;
but the rest of the sentence was lost.

She was a mystery, and a very fascinating mystery too. Who could she
be? Why travelling alone? What was her trouble? Why pretending to be
English? Why had she started so at the mention of the police? These
and a dozen other questions rushed into my mind in the minute or two
that followed. I cudgelled my wits for something to say; some way of
breaking down the barrier that prevented her making some kind of use of
me.

The visit of the police agent having turned my thoughts to the subject
of the conspiracy, I wondered whether she could be in any way connected
with it. A fugitive, perhaps? But the idea was preposterous. She was
surely the very incarnation of innocence; about as well fitted for a
conspirator as I was for a police agent.

She turned suddenly and broke in upon my thoughts by saying, hurriedly
and nervously, this time in Polish: “Thank you, sir, for what you have
done and also for your offer; but I must not detain you longer.”

I smiled. “You are not detaining me; but I will go, of course, if you
wish.”

She hesitated. I hoped it was from reluctance to dismiss me. Then she
put out her hand impulsively and said with an air of constraint and a
very wistful look: “My secret is safe with you, I know.”

“I should like to make it a condition of silence that you let me help
you further.”

“No, no. That is impossible; impossible,” she cried quickly. “My--my
servant will be back soon.” The fear in her eyes increased as she spoke
of him.

“Well, don’t forget the name--Anstruther. I’m at the _Petersburg Inn_,
should you--or your friends think me likely to be of any use.”

She shook her head. “No, no. Thank you. Thank you.”

I raised my hat and turned away. I would have given a lot to be able
to find some excuse for staying with her; and when I looked after
her, chance found me a reason to go back. She was walking slowly in
the direction of the village, her back towards me, and I saw her
handkerchief fall.

I picked it up and hurried after her. Hearing my step she turned so
quickly as to suggest alarm.

“You have dropped this,” I said, handing her the little dainty lace
trifle. As I held it out the initials “V.D.” embroidered in the corner,
lay uppermost.

She took it hurriedly, glanced from the initials to my face, and then
thanked me.

Just then a man came hastily round a bend in the path some twenty paces
ahead of us. She bit her lip at sight of him and her nervous confusion
increased.

“My--my servant. You must go, please.”

Surprised that she should shew such fear of a servant, I drew aside
with a smile and she walked on.

Then I looked at the servant; and the mystery about her at once became
clearer and yet deeper.

It is one of the freaks of my otherwise treacherous memory, never to
forget a face; and despite his disguise I recognized the man at once.
I knew him by his remarkable eyes--small, piercing and almost black in
hue.

It was Count Peter Valdemar, the “Stormy Petrel” of Polish politics;
the originator of a dozen conspiracies. He was dressed as a servant,
wore a close-cropped red wig, and was clean shaven.

I recalled the police agent’s words instantly; and the danger to the
girl appealed to me. For her sake I resolved to warn him.

They spoke together, and from his glances in my direction, I guessed
she was telling him what I had done. As I approached them, he assumed
the deferential air of a servant.

“A word with you,” I said.

He was full of surprise. “With me, sir?”

I drew him aside. “I have no desire to pry into your affairs, but I
wish to warn you that you are in great danger of discovery here.”

“Danger! Of what? Surely you are mistaken, sir?” He spoke with a
flourish of the hand and a bow, but his piercing eyes were fixed
intently upon mine.

“I am a friend of Count Ladislas Tuleski, and I met you once or twice
in his rooms in London a year ago. You are Count Peter Valdemar. This
morning a police agent from Warsaw visited me, and regarded me as a
suspect because of my friendship with the Count, and because I admitted
that I had known you. Take the warning from me as a friend; and be on
your guard. If I have recognized you, others may.”

It was safer for us both not to be seen together, so I walked off
leaving him a very much surprised Count indeed.




CHAPTER II

ON THE DEVIL’S STAIRCASE


I had not walked three hundred yards towards the village when I met the
police agent hurrying stationwards at a pace which would quickly bring
him face to face with Count Peter and his companion.

This must be prevented at any cost, so I stopped him.

“I wish to speak to you.”

“They told me you had gone to the station.”

This was all right, for it showed he was following me. “Our interview
ended hastily this morning because I thought you doubted my word and I
was angry. I see now that you were doing your duty. Come back with me
to the inn, and let us talk things over.”

“You can say what you have to say here,” he answered. He was a surly
dog: but I dared not let him pass me.

“Scarcely that; because I can adopt your suggestion and prove to you,
by letters and so forth, that I am what I told you; an Englishman and
not a spy.”

“Why do you change like this?” His suspicious tone again.

“The reason is simple. I have decided to leave here to-morrow probably,
and don’t wish to be bothered by your spies meanwhile. It is simpler to
convince you with proofs.” I linked my arm in his. “Come along, we must
understand one another better. I am not the suspicious individual you
think and you are no doubt a better fellow than I deemed.”

He was a little beast, only fit to be kicked; but I thought of the girl
and smothered my natural inclinations.

By the time we reached my rooms I had worked some of his suspicions
loose; and when I laid before him letters from my sister and friends at
home, and showed him such things as my cheque book, letter of credit,
and so on, he was sufficiently satisfied to have a bottle of wine with
me.

Over this his tongue was loosened and we discussed the conspiracy,
which he admitted was widespread and in some respects more dangerous
than any which had threatened the Empire for years. Its especial
danger lay in the skill with which the leaders had attempted to blend
industrial discontent with political intrigue; and so form a union
among vast masses of the population in many industrial cities.

The practical grievances of the workers and the many wrongs of the
rural population were being used by the democratic theorists, the
dreamers and the political agitators to foment discontent; and I knew
enough of Russia to be aware that such highly inflammable materials
as these might easily be heaped together and then fanned into one huge
simultaneous explosion all over the Empire, terrible enough to startle
the world.

In Russian Poland the cause was the old one--national independence; and
it was in this that Count Peter Valdemar had taken a part and that my
friend Ladislas was involved.

I repeated my surprise that my friend should be regarded as dangerous.

“He is a leader; and at such times any man may be a source of danger,”
was the reply.

“And this Count Peter--where is he?” I asked casually.

“He is probably making for the German frontier, with the intention of
flying to England. He was at Warsaw; but disappeared. Your country has
much to answer for in harbouring all these plotters.”

“If it comes to that we have a few anarchists of our own, and they are
harboured on this side of the Channel.”

“Not in Russia. But I don’t think the Count will escape us this time.
He is well known to so many of us.”

“And if you catch him?” A significant smile answered me and a tilt of
the eyebrows.

“You have a wonderful police system,” said I, admiringly.

“We shall catch him on the frontier, sir. Make no mistake. No man can
get through the net we have spread there.”

I emptied my glass. “Well, here’s luck to all who deserve it. And now,
about myself?”

“I will communicate with Warsaw; and meantime go where you will or stay
here if you prefer.”

I had succeeded in detaining him nearly a couple of hours, and by this
time the Count and his companion ought to be out of the place; so I
ordered my horse, resolved to go for a ride to test the truth of the
little beggar’s assurance that I was not to be watched.

I chose the southern road and as the ground was very hard I went at
a leisurely pace. I was not followed; and as soon as I had satisfied
myself of this, my thoughts slipped back to the incident at the railway
station, and a pair of blue eyes that had looked with such desolate
wistfulness into mine. Would the Count get away? Had they gone already?
Would chance ever bring us together again? Could I not do something on
my own account to help chance? That was more my way; and I set to work
thinking how I could use my friendship with Ladislas to accomplish my
end.

I was still following this train of thought when I reached the hill
known locally as the “Devil’s Staircase.” Bratinsk stands on a plateau;
and about five miles to the south, this hill, one of the most dangerous
I have ever seen on account of its fearful gradient and deadly twists
and turns, leads to the plains below. From the top there is a fine view
over the Batak Levels, a stretch of fertile country extending for
miles to the foot-hills beyond. It was a favourite spot of mine and on
reaching it now I dismounted, tethered my horse near and strolled to
smoke a cigar and continue my reverie.

I was inclined to shake hands with myself at the thought of using
Ladislas. He would surely be able to tell me enough of Count Valdemar
to put me on the track; and I was just thinking how to describe the
girl whose initials I believed to be “V. D.” when I caught the grating
of wheels, followed rapidly by the throbbing sound of horses’ feet.

Some one must be in a deuce of a hurry, I thought, as I looked back
along the road. Some one was, surely enough. Not a couple of hundred
yards from the brink of the hill came a light caleche with two
occupants drawn by a pair of horses at full gallop. What was the fool
of a driver about? To dash down the Devil’s Staircase at that mad pace
meant death. No horses ever foaled could make the sharp turns and
twists of that zigzag, treacherous, deadly incline at a gallop.

I shouted a warning at the top of my voice; and then my heart seemed
to leap in my breast and every vein in my body to chill like ice as
the occupants of the caleche looked up, and I recognized Count Peter
Valdemar and the girl who had been in my thoughts all that day.

As the runaways reached me I leapt down on to the road and I made a
spring for the reins of the horse nearest me. I missed them and was
rolled over and over, while the frightened beasts dashed on, the Count
tearing and tugging and straining at the reins in a futile effort to
stop them.

I jumped up and ran down the hill in pursuit. Just below, the road made
an S-shaped curve, and the horses were round this and out of sight like
a flash; and while I was racing after them round the first bend, I
heard a shout in a man’s voice, a girl’s scream, and then the crashing
sound of a smash.

I reached the scene in a few moments. The wreck had come at a point
where the road turned at less than a right angle; and the sight of it
sickened me with fear.

One horse was down, lying against a bank, bleeding profusely and
kicking spasmodically in what I judged to be a death struggle. The
other was on its feet and was plunging and tugging to free itself from
the reins and harness which had got entangled in the wreck of the
caleche. Under the body of the vehicle lay the Count, and as I did not
for the moment see his companion, I guessed that she must be hidden
under the wreckage too.

With a big effort I hoisted the vehicle sufficiently to drag out the
Count; but the girl was not there.

Then I saw her lying behind a bush by the roadside. I ran to her and
laid my finger on her pulse. With intense relief I found the beat;
feeble it is true, but steady; and I poured some brandy into the cup
of my flask and managed to get a little of it between her lips. A
trembling sigh escaped her; and I returned to the Count.

The police agent was right. The Count would never cross the German
frontier--he had crossed the farther one. I knew enough of first aid
work to ascertain the cause. His neck was broken; and I guessed he had
been thrown sideways on to his head, snapping the vertebrae. I drew the
body to the side of the road and threw one of the rugs over it.

Next I freed the sound horse--thinking he might be needed--soothed him
a bit and tethered him to a tree.

By this time the girl was fast recovering and I went back to her. I was
administering another dose of the brandy when she opened her eyes.

“You!” she said.

“Yes, fortunately. Don’t worry about things. May I help you to sit up
and take this, or can you manage it alone? That’s good,” I smiled as
she sat up unaided.

“What has happened? Oh, I remember. The hill and then----” and she put
her hands before her eyes for a moment.

“You have had a wonderful escape.”

The word confused her. “Did we escape then? Is he not following us? My
uncle thought--oh, I understand; I thought you meant--but is he hurt?”

“Yes, badly.”

I had placed her so that her back was towards the wrecked carriage and
the Count’s body; but at my words she turned and looked round. Her eyes
were wide with horror. “Is he dead?” she asked.

“But for a miracle you would have shared his fate.”

She was silent for a moment and lifted her hands and let them fall with
a sigh. “He would rather have had it so than have been captured; and he
feared that this time. He was a hard, desperate man.”

There was no sign of any strong emotion or great personal grief in this
reference to him. It was far better so under the circumstances. But I
did not quite know what to say.

Then she surprised me. “He told me to come to you if anything happened
to him. You recognized him, he said.”

“Yes, as Count Peter Valdemar. I warned him this morning.”

“He told me. You are a friend of--Count Ladislas Tuleski?” She said
this with just a suspicion of hesitation.

“An intimate friend. Do you know him?”

“Yes--I know him,--oh, yes: I----” she hesitated, glanced at me and
stopped.

“He is one of my most intimate friends and one of the best fellows in
the world,” I said enthusiastically.

She made no reply, but glanced swiftly at me again and lowered her head.

“I think I can walk now,” she said presently; and I helped her to rise.
“I am not hurt, you see. It was only fright and shock.”

“Thank God it was no worse,” I cried. She did not seem to hear this.
“Now, what do you wish to do?”

“I don’t know. What ought I to do? My uncle--do you know the Count was
my uncle?--or, rather, not my own uncle, no real blood relation.”

“No, I had no idea.”

“When the trouble came at Warsaw he had to fly, and he was carrying
certain papers with instructions to friends of the Fraternity to
Cracow. A raid is expected there; and there are papers which threaten
us all. Even my own dear mother is in danger. He told me to carry those
papers through to Cracow at any cost; to get your help if need be, and
to say that your friend, Count Ladislas, was also involved. I was to
tell you this, if you showed any reluctance to help me. But now what
can we do?” and she looked the picture of dismay.

“You were travelling as an English girl?”

“Yes, as Miss Mary Smith. He got passports for me in that name and for
himself as Ivan Grubel, my servant.”

“Where are they?”

“He has them and the rest of the papers. They are sewn into his coat.”

“Why did he make all this methodical preparation?”

“He was recognized, I think, in Bratinsk. That was why we were driving
away. He expected to be pursued.”

“If I get the coat, can you find the papers?”

“Yes, but--he is--dead;” and she shuddered.

“We have to think of the living. Yourself, my friend, and your mother.”

It is not a pleasant thing to strip the coat off a dead man; but it
had to be done. So I went and did it as quickly as I could. I took
it back to her and she was hurriedly searching for the papers when
she gave a little gasp of alarm and shrank close to me as a horseman
appeared, picking his way very gingerly down the hill. It was my
friend, the police agent from Warsaw. In a moment he took in the scene.
He recognized me at once, and my companion a moment later.

“Ah, this is better luck than I expected. A smash, eh? So you didn’t
get far away after all? I knew I should catch you, but didn’t hope to
do it so soon. Where’s Count Peter Valdemar?”

“You again, is it?” I said, with a smile. “This young lady, a
country-woman of mine, Miss Mary Smith, has met with an accident and
her servant, named Ivan Grubel, has been killed. The horses ran away.”

“Killed, eh? That’s his coat then. Give that to me.” My companion
caught her breath and clutched my arm.

“You guessed too fast, my friend; you did so this morning, you know, as
I showed you afterwards. This coat is mine;” and with that I slipped my
arms into it and put it on.

“Yes, it’s easy to see it’s yours by the way it fits you,” he sneered.
My arms were some three inches too long for the sleeves and the body
was ridiculously short. “I know you by this time. You must give me that
coat. I saw the woman there searching the pockets for something.”

“If you want it, you’d better come and take it. I shan’t give it up
unless you do.”

“For your own sake don’t mix up any more with this. If you are an
Englishman, go away and leave me to deal with this woman. But give me
that coat. You know to whom it belonged; and I must have it.”

He dismounted and walked toward me.

“You had better keep your distance,” I said quietly.

“You resist? Then I must do my duty. You are my prisoner.”

The threat of arrest seemed to scare the girl badly, but without a
second’s hesitation she tried to shield me by taking everything on her
own shoulders.

“I alone am responsible,” she cried, stepping forward. “Give up the
coat, Mr. Anstruther. It is I who should be the prisoner.”

She acted pluckily, like the little brick she was, and with the best
intentions in the world. But it was a huge mistake. She had practically
given the whole thing away.

The significant leer of triumph on the police agent’s face made it
plain that he appreciated this.




CHAPTER III

VOLNA DRAKONA


I lost no time in undeceiving the police agent. “You are plucking
unshot birds,” I said. “There is not going to be any arrest either of
this lady or myself. You can end the thing anyhow you please, short of
arresting either of us.”

I was glad that that made him lose his temper. “Do you dare to disobey
me?” he cried furiously.

I became personal and heaped fuel on the fire of his anger. “Don’t be
a foolish little person. You don’t know how idiotic you look. You can
do nothing. You are six inches shorter than I am, and I don’t care a
kopeck for your authority as a policeman.”

He swore fluently and stamped his feet with rage. “You will answer for
this,” he shouted, using a very foul epithet. “I thought this morning
you were a spy. Now I know it. You shall not insult me. In the name of
the Czar, I call on you to submit.”

I laughed at him with intentional aggravation. “You are a worse fool
than I thought. I am a British subject; I have done no wrong; and I
care no more for your Czar than I do for you. You have just insulted me
grossly and the best thing you can do is to clear out.”

“You are a revolutionary, in league with this woman and the carrion
there;” and he jerked his thumb toward the dead body.

I took no notice of this coarseness, but untethered the unhurt horse
and led it over to my companion.

“We are going,” I said to him. “I have told you that this is Miss Mary
Smith; I have her passport here in my coat.” I rummaged in the pockets,
found two passports, and handed them to him.

He glanced at them and then pocketed them with a grin of
self-satisfaction at his astuteness.

“Where are you going?”

“That is our own business. I will not let you follow us. Return me
those passports,” I said, threateningly. He did not see my object but
backed away toward his horse. “Come, quick.”

He hesitated a moment and then mounted hurriedly. “As they were in your
coat they will connect you with these people,” he said with a cunning
leer.

I did not care a rap for this now; whether he kept or returned them.
We could not possibly use them again, so I shrugged my shoulders and
turned away. “Go to the devil,” I said.

But he had a surprise for me. As my back was turned a pistol shot rang
out, and the horse I was holding plunged and tore loose from me, limped
down the hill and fell to the ground.

“Now we’ll see about your tall talk, Mr. Englishman. You and the woman
there will just march on ahead of me into Bratinsk; and if either of
you so much as look round, I’ll fire. Mind that. By God.”

His weapon was levelled at my head and my companion again showed the
stuff she was made of. With a little cry she dashed right in front of
me dead in the line of fire.

“You must not shoot,” she said, quite steadily. “This gentleman has
done nothing but help me after the accident.”

“We’ll find out all about that at Bratinsk,” replied the man. “Now
march, you two.”

It was an ugly situation; but I did not take the police agent as
seriously as did “Mary Smith.” They are bullies to the core, so long as
it is safe to bully; and this fellow was a particularly brutal brute of
his brutal class.

There is one thing they are all afraid of, however, the censure of
their superiors; and their superiors hate the investigation which
follows when anything happens to foreigners in general, and Englishmen
and Americans in particular.

I felt quite confident, therefore, that he would not fire, and that
the chief danger we ran was that his weapon might go off by accident.
Moreover, he was probably as bad a shot as they nearly all are. So I
put up a bluff.

I drew my companion to one side and looking the man square in the face
I walked a couple of paces toward him. Instead of shooting he backed
his horse and warned me again. This satisfied me.

“You can fire if you like. You know I am an Englishman and if you shoot
me there’ll be a row.”

“Do as I say,” he shouted with an oath.

I paused and then said very deliberately: “I’ll see you in hell first.
Fire at me if you dare.”

A little gasp of alarm from the girl was lost in a volley of oaths from
the police agent.

Then the luck veered once more to our side. Inadvertently his spur
touched his horse’s flank and the animal, taking his loud tones as
addressed to it, began to fidget and prance so that he could not have
taken aim had he wished. The figure he cut was quite laughable.

But it was my chance and I took it. I picked up a stone and flung it
at the horse. This set it kicking and plunging desperately so that the
none too skilful rider was nearly unhorsed. Choosing my moment I ran
up, seized the hand which held the revolver and wrenched the weapon
away without any trouble at all.

That was the end of the fighting so far as he was concerned; for he
drove his spurs home and clattered away up the hill.

I judged that he was afraid I might now do the shooting which he had
threatened so glibly; and mingled with his fear was the belief that, as
he had shot our horse and had thus destroyed the means of our flight,
he could safely ride off to fetch assistance.

“That’s a good riddance anyhow,” said I with a laugh, when he had
disappeared. “I think you’re the pluckiest girl I ever knew.”

“I was so frightened,” she declared.

“Yes, so frightened that you actually put yourself right in front of
his revolver. That’s the kind of fright I mean; only I call it pluck.”

“It was nothing. But you should not have taken any part in this
miserable affair. You have compromised yourself with the police and may
get into all kinds of trouble.”

“Don’t you think we had better start for Cracow? That fellow won’t be
away longer than he can help, and I have to get a little scheme ready
for him before he returns. The sooner we start the safer.”

“But what can we do about----” and she glanced to where the Count’s
body lay.

“If we are to think of the living, we can do nothing. He has been
recognized and when the police return they will care for the body and
something can be done from Warsaw.”

“It seems heartless to leave him,” she murmured in distressed
perplexity.

“There is no other way; so if you please we will start. I’ll tell you
my plan as we walk. Your mother’s safety is in the balance, remember.”
She yielded then and we set out.

“I think we shall get through without any great trouble. There is a
train from Bratinsk somewhere about eight o’clock, which will put us in
Cracow in a few hours.”

“But I have no passport now, to pass the frontier.”

“Fortunately, I can arrange that. My first plan is to send the police
off on a false scent. There is a peasant family, not a mile from the
top of the hill--where my horse is, by the way--and they will do
anything for me. I helped them out of some trouble when I was here last
year, and they think a lot of it. With this police agent away from
Bratinsk for a few hours, we can get off secretly and safely.”

At the top of the hill I found my horse, put “Miss Smith” on his back
and handed her the coat which had been the first cause of trouble.

“I shall need the coat for my plan; so find the papers which are sewn
into it and be ready to rip them out the moment we reach the cottage.”

“But you?” she protested.

“No protest, please. I am good for more than a mile at fair speed.”

“You do all this for a stranger,” she said, her eyes lighting as she
looked down at me.

“Oh, we shan’t always be strangers. Keep him going. I can’t talk and
run at the same time. Be merciful;” and with that we set off at a good
round trot. I held to the stirrup and so had no difficulty in keeping
up.

In about five minutes we turned off the road and the cottage was soon
in sight. By good fortune the man I sought, Michel, was in the patch
of garden and greeted me with a smile. I came to the point at once.

“Michel, you have often asked for a chance of repaying that little
debt. You can do it now. I want you and your sister, Testa, to help me.
You are to ride my horse and your sister yours, and start at once. Ride
down the Devil’s Staircase, strike out any way you like at the bottom;
ride for four or five hours; you in the name of Ivan Grubel, your
sister as Mary Smith, an English girl. At the end of the ride, which
must be as near a railway station as you can manage, turn my horse
adrift to go where he will; and then make your way home secretly. And
no one must know of your absence. You’ll do this?”

“Why yes, Excellency. Testa, Testa;” and he ran in calling his sister.

“Now for the coat? It will be the best possible thing to create the
false trail with.”

“The papers are here in the lining.”

“Get them out then at once, please. We have no minutes to lose.” I
handed her a knife and she found them.

Michel came round the cottage a minute later leading the horse for his
sister just as Testa herself appeared ready to start.

“Good-evening, Excellency,” she said, her brown eyes dancing at the
thought of an adventure.

“You grow stronger every day, Testa, and prettier,” I said. “Now,
Michel, wear this coat, take care that every one has a full view of
it; and when you get rid of the horse, strap it on his back. Mind, you
two, my liberty may depend upon you. God-speed.”

“Trust me,” replied Michel as he mounted.

I helped Testa to the saddle. “Don’t look scared, child,” I said; for
her face had clouded at my words. “I shall be in no danger if you do
this thing well. Off with you.”

“By the help of the Virgin,” returned Testa; and away they went
helter-skelter towards the Devil’s Staircase.

As soon as they were out of sight we set off for Bratinsk, across the
fields; and I explained the next part of my plan. This was to use the
two passports of Bob Garrett and his sister.

“I have not told you my real name,” said my companion.

“We scarcely seem to have had time to speak of anything yet. We’ve been
pretty busy, you see.”

“It is Volna Drakona. My father is dead; my dear mother is in feeble
health. I have a half-brother and half-sister--Paul and Katinka.”

“The passports will give you another sort of brother till we get to
Cracow. Only for a few hours, however, if all goes well. Volna! I have
never heard that name before.”

“It is my mother’s----” she said simply. Then, “You like it?”

“It is southern in its sweetness.”

“My mother is from the South. Do you think I could write to her and let
her know that all is well with me? She may hear of my uncle’s death,
and the anxiety will almost kill her. We are deeply attached to one
another.”

“There is no reason why you should not. And from Cracow it may be safe
to telegraph.”

“You speak as if we were quite certain of getting through.”

“Why shouldn’t we? I have had another thought. My servant is at
Bratinsk and I shall use him to create another scent for the police. I
shall send him off toward Warsaw in my name while we go to Cracow as
the two Garretts. I look for no trouble in Bratinsk. The police agent
is not likely to think we shall venture to return there. I expect he
will just get the help he needs and rattle back to make the arrest. He
will then follow Michel and his sister; and as this will take up some
hours at least, we ought to be clear away and near Cracow before he
even returns to Bratinsk.”

“You make it seem very simple and easy.”

“So it ought to be; but I shall feel better when we are in the train
speeding west. There is one thing, by-the-by, you had better make some
kind of change in your appearance. I can do it easily by shaving my
beard and changing my clothes. Do you think you could buy something in
Bratinsk? Your description is sure to be telegraphed in all directions.”

We discussed the means of doing this and had scarcely settled matters
when we reached Bratinsk. Having arranged where to meet, I went to the
inn and Volna to procure the change of costume.

The dusk was beginning to fall and deeming it best to be cautious, I
entered the inn by a side door and succeeded in slipping up to my rooms
unnoticed.

My servant, Felsen, was not there; but afraid to lose time in waiting,
and unwilling to risk asking for him, I set to work and shaved off
my beard and moustache. As I changed my clothes, I found the police
agent’s revolver; and took it with me.

As Felsen always looked after my things I did not notice anything
amiss, except that he seemed to keep them very carelessly; but as soon
as I went into the sitting room, which opened from the bedroom, I
scented trouble.

Every drawer and cupboard in the place had been ransacked, and papers
and books were all left in the greatest confusion.

The reason was plain. It was the result of a police visit. My friend
of the Devil’s Staircase had set his comrades to work. Instinctively
I ran back into the bedroom and destroyed the evidences of my shaving
operation, and was in the act of leaving the room when I heard voices
approaching it.

I had barely time to step into a cupboard when the door was opened and
two men entered. One was Felsen, the other a stranger. His curt, sharp
tone and manner suggested the police.

They passed through into the sitting room beyond.

“Your master has not been back then, it seems?”

“I shouldn’t think he’ll come back after what you say.”

“He’ll probably be brought back.” This with a sneer. “We know how to
deal with spies and traitors.”

There was a pause and then Felsen said: “I suppose if he’s caught he
won’t be let out for a long while.”

“Our prison doors only open one way easily,” chuckled the other.

“Then I may as well look after myself, I suppose.”

“Yes. He’s evidently made a fool of you.”

“Well, it’s my turn now. Have a cigar?”

I heard matches struck and smelt my best cigars.

“We can wait downstairs as well as here,” said the police agent. “I’ll
lock the doors this time to make sure.” He came into the bedroom,
locked the door on the inside and then went back. The other door was
then locked and the two men went downstairs.

Fortunately he had left the key in the bedroom door, and the instant
the way was clear, I went out, crept along the corridor and down the
back stairway to the door by which I had entered.

I gained the street safely and walked away toward the railway station,
trusting to the gloom of the evening and my shaven face to save me
from recognition.

By the action of the police and the fact that they were already on the
look-out for me had crumpled up my plan. And there was still worse to
come.




CHAPTER IV

A HORSEDEALING TRANSACTION


As I hurried to the station I tried to think over the position coolly
and carefully.

In the first place, I was now a fugitive from the police; but as I had
done no wrong, the fact had a sort of fascination for me. The scent of
adventure and the prospective excitement attracted me, and the idea of
a trial of wits with the authorities roused every combative instinct in
my nature.

Even had there been no one else involved, I should have gone through
with the thing for its own sake. But there was Volna. Her safety
and that of her mother depended upon me; and that fact was the most
powerful incentive I could have had to urge me to my utmost effort. The
thought of helping such a splendid girl was just a sheer delight.

Those papers had to be got to Cracow. The mother’s safety required
this; and the risk involved in the attempt formed the spice of the
adventure. I had powerful and influential friends both at home and on
the continent who would readily help me to get out of any bother so
far as matters had gone at present; but it might be a very difficult
thing if in the present excited state of the empire, I was caught
helping the “P.F.F.” by carrying seditious documents for revolutionary
purposes. Volna also had run no great risk as yet. The mere fact that
she was travelling with Count Peter Valdemar was not by itself likely
to involve her in any serious consequences. If the papers could have
been destroyed, therefore, we could easily have put an end to the
complication. But this was impossible. Their delivery in Cracow was
imperative.

We stood thus at the dividing line between safety and risk; and there
was nothing for it but to go through with the matter to the end.

My experience at the inn had its lesson. I recognized that I must move
very warily indeed in making any inquiries at the station. The fussy
little stationmaster, Blauben, might recognize me despite the change in
my appearance; and I did not at all relish the prospect of interviewing
him.

But in this one respect the luck was with me. I was surprised to see a
small crowd of people at the generally deserted station, and it was an
easy matter to mingle with them without being observed.

That was all the luck there was, however, as the reason for the crowd
spelt further disaster to my plans of escape. The place was in a hubbub
of excitement; and I soon learnt that there had been a very serious
accident on the line at a place called Pulta, some seven or eight miles
west of Bratinsk.

As a result of this the line to Cracow was blocked. There would be no
train going west that night.

The people in the station were travellers from the opposite direction
who had been put out and told, with the usual courtesy of the railway
authorities, that they must shift for themselves until the line was
clear. They might think themselves lucky, I overheard little Blauben
tell one man, if they got on by noon the following day.

This was check with a vengeance; if not checkmate.

I hung about for some time with the object of ascertaining the chance
of getting a train in the other direction--anything to get out of
Bratinsk--and was pretending to study one of the time bills when I
caught my own name.

“Know the Englishman, Anstruther? Of course I do.” It was Blauben’s
voice. “If he comes here, I’ll stop him.”

“We think he may try and bolt.”

“How’s he going to bolt? There’s no train west and nothing east except
the midnight express. But what’s it all about?” The reply was given in
low tone and escaped me. But part of the stationmaster’s answer was
enough.

“Spy? Rubbish. Why he was here shooting last year. You people would
find spies growing on gooseberry bushes. No. I have already told a
hundred of you that there will be no train”--this to a questioner
in a tone of exasperation; and I saw him hurry off gesticulating
frantically. I could do no good by waiting longer, so I slipped out of
the station, and went back to the village to meet Volna.

After all, the accident at Pulta might not prove an unmitigated evil.
The few sentences I had overheard showed that the police were watching
the station for me; and an attempt to leave would probably have landed
us right into their hands.

Then it occurred to me that we might even turn the accident to good
account. If we could get to Pulta soon, we could give an excellent
reason for our presence; that we wished to inquire about some friend
supposed to have been in the wrecked train; and, as the line from there
to Cracow would be open, we could do the journey after all by rail.

Pulta by the road was some ten miles, and a rough hilly road it was.
Too far and too rough for Volna to attempt to walk. To hire any kind of
conveyance was of course out of the question; as it would lay a trail
which even a blind policeman could follow. I had a spare horse at the
inn; but for the same reason I dared not attempt to take it out of the
stable.

In that part of Poland, however, one deal can always be made without
exciting any comment or surprise. Any one will trade a horse with
you, and at any time of the day or night. I believe a man would not
be in the least surprised to be called out of bed at midnight for the
purpose; and I am sure he would gladly get up for the sheer pleasure of
the deal. It is the one great pastime, or as near to a pastime, as the
older men of that district care to get.

But to obtain a saddle was another matter; while even to have asked
for such a thing as a side saddle would have stirred enough curiosity
to set the gossips’ tongues click-clacking all over the village. There
was nothing for it therefore except that Volna should ride bare-back;
and as I should have to lead her horse, there was no use in getting one
for myself.

Volna was waiting for me when I reached the appointed place. She had
made a considerable change in her appearance. A long fur cloak covered
her dress, and in place of her former dainty headgear she was wearing a
close fur turban.

Wishing to try the effect of my own altered appearance, I assumed a
sort of slouching walk and made as if to pass her.

“Did you think I should not know you?” she asked.

“I was rather hoping you would not. I am supposed to be disguised.”

She laughed. “I should know you anywhere.”

“Then we must trust that other eyes are not so keen as yours,” said I,
feeling a little crestfallen.

“Or that they are not so interested in recognizing you. What about the
train?”

“None but bad news;” and I told her what had occurred and how I
proposed to manage. She agreed at once, but was for walking.

“I think I can walk ten miles,” she declared readily.

“There is no need. It is a rough, hilly road; and there is a man at
the other end of the village from whom I can buy a horse without any
chance of rousing suspicions.”

“It would not be more hilly for me than for you, would it?”

“I think you had better have the horse.”

“Then I will say no more,” she agreed. “I am afraid my disguise is not
much more successful than yours,” she added, as we walked on.

“It might have been awkward if neither had recognized the other,
mightn’t it?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You would have to hide your face, if you don’t want to be known.”

“I expect I look an awful fright.”

“The more disguised you are the better,” said I. She laughed. “It is
good to hear you laugh in the midst of all--this uncertainty.”

“It cannot be so very dreadful if you can manage to pay such neat
compliments Mr.--Anstruther.”

“You find that name a bit troublesome, eh?”

“Don’t you think you are worth taking some trouble for? But it _is_
hard.”

“Lucky that I’m going to change it while we are together.”

“Change it?”

“We’ll talk that all over on the road to Pulta. Here’s the place where
I hope to get the horse. It may take a little time. Will you wait for
me?”

There is a rough kind of recognized procedure in horsedealing in that
district; but as I had had more than one experience of the kind I knew
how to act.

I crossed to the house and seeing a light in the stable behind, guessed
I should find the man bedding his horses. He did not know me, but I had
heard of him.

“Good-evening, Andreas,” I said in a rather surly tone, as if I had a
grievance against him; and without another word I walked up to the four
horses one after the other and looked them over. He took no notice, but
went on forking the bedding. This was all strictly in accordance with
etiquette.

I came out of the last stall shrugging my shoulders and laughing
contemptuously. “Blauben is a little fool. He said I should find some
horses here. Good-night. There isn’t one worth a couple of roubles.”

The last sentence he understood to mean that I might possibly deal. He
dashed his fork on the ground and came toward me, saying very angrily:
“What’s that? Who are you? Who sent you here?”

“Old Blauben at the station.”

“And do you think you know anything about horses? You don’t know even
how to look at them?”

“I have a chestnut that’s worth the whole string. I thought there
was something to buy here. I suppose he thought I wanted meat for a
bouillon factory. Good-night.”

“Wait, there, wait, you long imp of ignorance. Do you want to make a
match with your chestnut? Where is it?”

I laughed. “If these crocks of yours saw mine they’d learn how to move.
Here, smoke, you old owner of dogs’ meat;” and I handed him a cigar.

“Holy Virgin, what do I hear?” he cried, throwing up his hands, and
putting a lantern near my face. He knew well enough now that I had come
to trade; and was happy. But we kept up the farce a little longer; he
abusing my chestnut and I his four nags.

His next object was to find out which horse I had selected; but I kept
this from him carefully. At length I pointed to one that I would not
have had as a gift.

“I’m going to give my dogs a treat one day, I think they could manage
with that. How much for it, if I give you back the hide and the feet?”

He grinned. “You know a fine horse when you see one, after all,” he
said. “You shall have him--three hundred roubles.” About £30 this.

“Kopecks, you mean. Good-night.”

“Wait, wait. Was there ever such an impatient fool as you? Do you
really want him?”

“No, only I didn’t want this long walk for nothing: and I’m taking some
horses to Noshti Fair.”

“Isn’t there one of the others you’d care for? Don’t be in a hurry.”

“I’m in no hurry. What about these others?”

Then the real bargaining began. He put a price on the horse I wished
to have; and we chaffered and smoked and swore and abused one another
in the way these bargains are made. I dared not hurry the matter too
much. He would boast all over the village the next day of the fool who
had given him the price he asked; and the transaction would become
public property, with the result that the police might get wind of it.

It was safer to waste the time necessary to drive a hard bargain. And
so we wrangled until I had fought the amount down to a fair price, when
we spent another ten minutes squabbling whether he should give me an
old bridle or merely a rope halter.

When I had gained my point and was riding the horse away he swore so
violently that he was a heavy loser by the deal, that I knew he had
made enough profit to boast about. I thought it best to alter his
opinion, therefore.

“Do you know the history of this horse?” I asked knowingly. “No, you
can’t or you’d know that I’ve cheated you. Do you know that he came
from General Kolwich’s stable and was sold for four hundred roubles? I
should have paid that for him, had you pressed me. I shall get five for
him. But you should learn to know a horse when you see one.”

He pushed his cap back and scratched his head, and invoked the name of
the Deity in a despair that was almost pathetic.

I rode off with a chuckle. I knew that I had struck deep into his
pride as a horse trader, and that he would now keep his lips as close
as a rat trap about the whole transaction. He would brood over it, and
wait for the day when he could get even with me; but though the skies
fell, he would never speak of that horse again to any one.

The bargaining had taken nearly an hour, and I feared the sands of
Volna’s patience would be running out fast.

She greeted me with a sigh of relief. “I had begun to fear all sorts of
things.”

“You have never had to buy a horse in these parts. It’s an acquired art
and can only be accomplished with many lies and much time. But we’ll be
off now. You can manage to ride bare-back, I hope?”

She smiled. “I have ridden bare-back ever since I was a child.”

“Then you haven’t had time yet to forget.”

“Is that a reflection on my youth or another compliment?”

“It’s about the truth, that’s all.”

“I’m nearly one and twenty,” she declared with a delightful air of
dignity.

“It is a great age,” I agreed. “I remember how I felt at the time. One
is never so old again, they say, until quite late in life.”

I helped her to mount. “Bare-back riding is a little undignified for
one and twenty, I’m afraid. Now we are really off and in our new
characters. Do you know who you are?”

“Miss Margaret Garrett, an English girl who is very troubled what to do
with the r’s in her name.”

“We can alter that. My friend always calls his sister Peg.”

“Peg! what a woodeny name.”

“Short for Peggy--we think that rather pretty.”

She repeated it several times and laughed.

“Why do you laugh?”

“You have queer notions of what is pretty.”

“Mine’s worse, I’m called Bob.”

“Bob! Yes, that is much worse. Bob. Bob. Bob. It’s very short, and
easy; but it’s very funny.”

“My sister always calls me Bob--every one does, in fact.”

“You have a sister then. What is her name?”

“Sylvia.”

“Now that _is_ a pretty name.”

“Not always. She gets called Silly, sometimes.”

“That’s monstrous. Is she angry?”

“Not a bit. You see these are really pet names.”

“Oh!” She was silent a moment, and then said: “And are we to be Bob and
Peggy to one another?”

“I guess so, except when we quarrel. Then it will be Robert and
Margaret. But it will only be until to-morrow.”

“To-morrow?”

“When we reach Cracow, you know.”

“Shall we get there to-morrow?”

“We ought to.”

“All right--Bob.” She said it with a sly little laugh.

“You’ll soon get used to it, Peggy. And now I’ll get you to carry my
heavy coat, and if you’ll shake him up we’ll trot for a bit. The sooner
we’ve put a mile or two between us and Bratinsk the better.”




CHAPTER V

AT PULTA


We kept up a fair pace for nearly an hour, the horse moving at a slow,
loping canter, with spells of walking for me to recover breath; and in
this way we covered six or seven miles, which brought us to the foot of
the steep rugged hills that divide Bratinsk from Pulta.

“We’ve about a mile and a half climb here, then a stretch of a mile or
so along the top, and after that a tremendous hill down into Pulta,” I
told “Peggy,” as we pulled up.

“Are you not tired?”

“No. I could cover a lot of ground at that jog trot. I’m pretty tough,
you see.”

“Ride up the hill and let me walk.”

“Not a bit of it. We’ll push on as we are, if you don’t mind.” I had no
breath left for talking, so I plodded on in silence. There had been so
much to do in the interval since we had left the Devil’s Staircase that
I seemed to have had no time to think of anything except the pressing
affair of the moment. But I had time now, as I strode up the hill; and
for the first time I seemed to awake to a recognition of the supreme
confidence and unquestioning trust which Volna showed in me.

The night was very dark; we were miles from everywhere; she knew
nothing of me, and had only seen me first some eight or nine hours
before; and yet she rode by my side as contentedly as though we had
been friends for life, and were just out for a sort of conventional
picnic in conventional hours. The pluck of it appealed to me as much as
anything.

“You are a wonderful girl, Peggy,” I exclaimed involuntarily.

“Peggy? Do you know, I think I begin to like that name. I have been
saying it over and over to myself during the ride. But why am I
wonderful? I wish I could get used to saying Bob. But I have a sort of
something in the throat that seems to jump up and stop me.”

“Ah, that’s a spasm of the naming tissues. One only has it when a name
is fresh. You’ll get over that. The best cure is to say it often.”

“Is it, Bob? But why am I wonderful?”

“You do this unconventional thing as though it were the most ordinary
thing in the world!”

“Do you mean I oughtn’t to trust--my brother Bob? You see, I just can’t
help myself. I had to trust you. Besides, if you knew”--she broke off,
and after a pause added a little eagerly--“you understand, don’t you?”

“I understand that chance has given me a very delightful sister.”

“Why, didn’t you begin by keeping my secret from that
stationmaster--about Mary Smith. I felt like--like nothing I ever felt
before when he brought you up and said you were English.”

“You tried your best to speak English.”

“It was like--like a glorious dream come true when you looked so grave
and answered me in German. I’m not used to having people do kind things
for me, except my dear mother. And when we stood outside the station,
I--well, I’d have given anything just to have unloaded my whole stock
of trouble to you.”

“Poor Peggy!”

“No, not Peggy, she hasn’t any troubles of that sort yet. They
are--Bob’s. But it’s poor Volna; and Peggy will soon be Volna again.”

I did not know how to answer this. There was such a touch of sadness in
it: so I said nothing.

“May I tell you?” she asked presently.

“Sylvia always tells me hers; so I know how to keep a secret.”

“I told you I had a half-sister and brother, didn’t I?”

“Are they like you at all?”

“No, no. They are both members of this terrible
Fraternity--revolutionaries. My father was one and lost his life in the
cause. My uncle, Count Peter--he was the brother of my father’s first
wife--has always dominated our family: even my poor dear mother.”

“Is she involved with the Fraternity, too?”

“No, and yet yes. She has no sympathy with the movement at all; but my
uncle influenced her and she has given large sums of money. She is
rich, you know, and, if it is found out, the government would be glad
to get any pretext for confiscating her fortune. They would throw her
into prison, and it would kill her.”

“But surely your uncle was not so mad as to leave anything implicating
her in existence.”

“I wish I could think that. It may be so; but only this morning he
warned me that if these papers did not get to Cracow and a raid was
made there, things would be found which would place her in danger.”

I thought some things about Count Peter which I did not express. “I
hope he was exaggerating matters,” I said.

“We have not been happy at home because I would never join in any of
these miserable conspiracies. My sister Katinka, and Paul too, always
upbraided me.”

“You put your sister first, I notice.”

“She influences Paul. She is very strong willed, and very--very zealous
for the ‘Fraternity.’”

“I don’t think _you_ would make a very formidable conspirator, you
know.”

“It is not that, exactly. I am too much of a coward, I know. But
mother’s fortune comes to me and--oh, this miserable money; they want
it for the cause.”

“Phew!” I whistled. “I begin to understand.”

“You thought it strange, I expect, that I was so little affected by my
uncle’s fate; but I----”

“Don’t say any more if it worries you,” I said when she paused.

“Oh, I must tell you; only--the fact is, I was always afraid of him and
he brought me away from home this time, saying only that I was to go on
a visit to some friends; but when we were near Bratinsk he told me what
the real object was and--and that mother and he had agreed that I was
to be married.”

“Married!” I exclaimed.

“Married to a man who is high up in the Fraternity, and that I should
not go back home until--until that was done.”

I thought more things about Count Peter--stronger and harsher things
too, this time.

“I had not heard this an hour before you saw me at the station.”

“No wonder you looked troubled.”

“I stayed there hoping to get a train back to Warsaw. I meant to run
away. There is another reason, a terrible entanglement, which made me
so eager to get back.”

“Involving you?”

“Yes, I’ll tell you all about it some time. It closely concerns my
mother’s safety, too.”

“What brought your uncle to Bratinsk?”

“Affairs of the Fraternity; to consult with one of the leaders.”

“Well, I won’t say all I think of your uncle for having involved you in
all this.”

“He is dead. Perhaps if he had not been killed he would have listened
to me.”

“Perhaps!” But I had my own opinion. “You are right. Volna has had her
troubles.”

“I could not feel so sorry for him as I should, if--if things had been
different. I am glad I have told you. It’s such a relief to have told
some one. And now you know all about me.”

“Did you manage to write to your mother from Bratinsk?”

“Yes, just a short note--that all was well with me.”

“We must try to keep it so, too. Here we are at the top of the hill.
Now we’ll push along again: and then, the first train for Cracow.”

We soon covered the flat along the top and I pointed out to her the
twinkling lights of Pulta below us.

“How quickly we’ve come,” she cried.

“We must have a straight story to tell. I shall say we are driving in
from Vashtic--a place on the other side of Pulta--and that our carriage
broke down and we had to continue the journey in this fashion. I shall
ask whether Mr. Trevor, a tall fair man, was in the train at the time
of the wreck. But you’ll leave the lies for Bob to tell of course.”

“How bluntly you put it.”

“Oh, we can’t help telling some. But it’s in a good cause; so we must
hope they’ll pass as white ones.”

I began to understand that night that artistic lying is really a
very difficult accomplishment, when inquisitive officials have to be
satisfied.

I found the railway station at Pulta in the hands of the police. It had
been taken into custody so to speak. When anything happens in Russian
Poland, it immediately becomes an object of suspicion; and any one
seeking information is at once suspected of complicity. An officer
stopped us and asked in a peremptory manner: “Who are you and what do
you want?”

“There has been an accident, I believe.”

“Who are you and what do you want? Answer.” A little more sharpness in
the tone.

“I am an Englishman, Robert Garrett, and this is my sister. We wish to
know whether a friend, Mr. James Trevor, of London, has been hurt in
the accident!”

“What accident?”

“The accident to the Cracow express!”

“Who told you there had been an accident?”

“I heard it at Vashtic.”

“Who told you there had been an accident?” he repeated.

“It seemed to be generally known. The servants in the house where I was
staying heard it somewhere.”

“What are the servants’ names?”

“I don’t know. I think the man who told me was called Paul. But what I
want to know----”

“Where were you staying at Vashtic?” he interrupted.

“What can that matter. Mr. Trevor of London----”

“Ah! You refuse to answer?” He turned away and beckoned to a companion,
with whom he conferred, nodding toward us. Then turned to me again.
“How did you get here?”

“I started in a caleche but the wheel came off and we had to finish the
journey in this fashion.”

“Which wheel?”

“The left hind wheel.”

“Whose carriage was it?”

“I hired it from Gorlas Malstrom.” My inventive faculty for names was
getting strained.

“Where does he live?”

“At Vashtic close to the hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

“The Imperial.” I remembered the name of a place where I once had lunch.

“Are you staying there?”

“I am not going back.”

“How long were you there?”

“Not more than an hour or two.”

“Where were you before?”

My local geography not being strong enough to stand a fusillade of this
kind, I threw up an earthwork of anger.

“Look here, do you want me to give you a history of my tour with all
particulars of my hotel bills since I left London?”

“Ah, you refuse to answer,” he said again, stolidly regarding me with a
gloomy stare of suspicion.

“Oh, no; but I’ve had enough of your impertinent curiosity. I am an
Englishman, let me see your superior officer.”

“Go away,” he said curtly.

“I demand to see----”

“Go away; or you will be arrested.”

Then I had an inspiration. I said, with a show of great indignation:
“Very well. I’ll go, and what’s more I’ll go by the first train to
Cracow and lay the matter before the British Consul. When is the first
train? You’ll see whether you can smash up English travellers in your
infernal trains and then refuse their friends any information.”

This appeared to make an impression. He hesitated, spoke to his
companion, and then said: “Come back in the morning. There is no train
until eleven o’clock.”

I had gained the information I needed; but I kept up my pretence of
anger, muttering and grumbling and mumbling about what the British
Consul would do, and so on, as I turned the horse’s head and moved off.

“Bad luck again,” I whispered to Volna. “No train to-night. You may as
well try to get a night’s rest.”

“It’s a dark wood that has no clearing,” she said cheerily. “You need
rest too, I am sure.”

We went off to find a hotel: and presently Volna whispered: “One of the
men is following us.”

“The best thing we can do is to make use of him, then,” said I; and I
halted to let him come up. It was the companion of the man who had
questioned me, and I resolved to try a different method with him.

I took out a gold piece and let him see it. “You have been told off to
follow me, I suppose?”

He glanced at the money and thought I was going to bribe him. “I have
only my duty to do,” he said.

“If you’ll be guide instead of follower and show me where my sister and
I can get rooms, I’ll give you this.”

He was my man instantly. “There will be no difficulty about that. The
accident on the line has filled up the place, but I can manage it for
you. You are English?” he said, as we walked.

“I only wanted to see if my poor friend, Trevor, was in that smash. But
you heard what passed?”

He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “You did not ask in the right
way;” and he glanced at the money I had given him. “To-morrow it will
be all right. There is a train to Cracow at eleven o’clock. I shall be
there. No Englishman was hurt in the accident. You may feel quite at
ease.”

“I am glad to hear that,” I said. I was; but not for the reasons he
thought.

He earned his gold piece; for he soon found accommodation for us and
for the horse; and bade us good-night, repeating his assurances that
all would be well in the morning.




CHAPTER VI

VERY SISTERLY


Volna was down before me the next morning waiting in a little room
where we had had supper.

“I guessed Bob would be tired so I would not have him called,” she
said. “I have been up an hour or more.”

“And Peggy, how is she?”

“Hungry. And breakfast is ready.”

“You slept well?”

“When I had stopped thinking. I couldn’t help it,” she said in answer
to my shake of the head. “I was saying my lesson over and over, lest I
should forget it. Do you know it?”

“Lesson?”

“All the names you mentioned so glibly last night at the station.”

I laughed. “Oh, we shan’t need to remember. We shan’t have any more
bother. That man’s hint as to how to ask questions will carry us
through. You’ll see.”

“Well, we must be quick, it’s nearly ten o’clock.”

“We’ve half an hour. And we’re developing a knack of doing a good deal
in half an hour.”

“I think I shall be a little afraid of you.”

“Why?”

“You tell them so readily.”

“Ah, that’s Bob Garrett. Don’t worry about him. He won’t tell them to
you.”

“I know that.”

“I think that for a pair of dangerous conspirators we keep up our
spirits capitally.”

“I shouldn’t be able to without you. I don’t know what I should have
done, indeed, nor how to thank you.”

“Wouldn’t a man be a brute who didn’t do his best to look after his
sister?”

“You make light of everything.”

“Well, you can thank me at about six or seven o’clock this evening. We
shall be in Cracow then, and the papers will be out of our hands and
off our minds.”

“And after that?”

“By Jove. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about that. One thing at a
time and--Cracow first. We must go.”

We walked up to the station and found a most welcome change in the
attitude of the police. Our friend of the preceding night was looking
out for us, and he had evidently let it be known that there were gold
pieces to be earned. Everybody received us with smiles. Even the man
who had acted the inquisitor’s part overnight came up and was almost
profuse in his apologies.

He had not known that I was an English milord; my appearance at that
time and in such a way had aroused curiosity; duty compelled them all
to be suspicious; there were dangerous people about; I had probably
heard of the discovered plot; and so on.

I understood. I took out some gold coins and fingered them carelessly.
His eyes lighted with greed as he gazed at them.

“About the accident?” I asked.

“There has been a bad accident; but no one of the name of Trevor,
no Englishman at all, was in the train. I have made a special
investigation,” he added insinuatingly.

“I’m sorry to have given you the trouble; but thank you.”

“It is no trouble, only a pleasure to be of some small service to an
English milord.”

“I am greatly relieved,” I said. “You will probably have had to pay
some one for the work. Permit me to repay you;” and I gave him a fifty
rouble note. His good will was cheap at a five pound note; but he
seemed amazed at so generous a tip. His face beamed as he pocketed it.

“Really it is not necessary,” he said. “If I can be of any further
assistance, pray tell me.”

“My sister and I were thinking of going to Cracow,” I said
indifferently. “Is the line safe, do you think?”

“You still wish to see the British Consul there?” This with just a
shade of anxiety.

“Oh, dear no--unless it is to express my high opinion of the courtesy
shown me here. Last night is forgotten. I quite understand.”

“The train will start at eleven. It is usual--a mere form of course
in your case--to ask for passports when issuing tickets for stations
beyond the frontier.”

“Here they are;” and I took them out of my pocket book making sure that
he should see there was plenty of money in it. “Robert Garrett and
Margaret Garrett, my sister.”

He just glanced at them and with a bow to Volna, returned them.

“Shall I show you where to get your tickets?” He was making everything
delightfully smooth for us.

“I suppose we shall reach Cracow by about four?” I asked casually, as I
took out my cigar case.

“Scarcely that, I fear. The traffic is disorganized and the direct
line has been closed. You will travel by way of Bratinsk and change
there; and then go round by the loop which joins the main line again at
Solden.”

The ill news was so unexpected that it caught me right off my guard. To
go to Bratinsk meant walking right into the hands of the men who were
hunting for us.

To cover my sudden confusion, I let my cigar case fall, and as the
official stooped to pick it up, I caught Volna’s look of dire dismay,
and shot her a warning glance.

“You smoke of course,” I said to him, and as we lit our cigars, I was
thinking how on earth to get out of the difficulty.

Then Volna gave another proof of her quick-wittedness. “Ought you to
smoke just yet, Bob?” she asked in a snappy sisterly tone. “You know
what the doctor said about your heart.”

I took the cue. “You’re always interfering, Peggy,” I said, very
testily. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

The police official affected not to hear this little interchange of
family amenities and discreetly looked away.

“I only do it for your good,” she rapped back, with a great air of
superiority. “You complained of that feeling, you know. But please
yourself. You always do.”

“Rubbish. It’s only because you know I want to go and you want to
stay.” She shrugged her shoulders and turned away.

“If you are going, the time is close,” said the official.

“Of course I am going;” and I scowled at Volna and took out some money.
“Where do we get the tickets?”

He was turning to show me when I let the coins fall and the cigar drop
from my lips as I pressed one hand to my heart--which, by the way, was
as sound as a bell--and clutched him with the other for support.

“I knew it by the look about your eyes. I saw it coming,” said Volna,
unsympathetically, as she stooped to pick up the money, and the man
helped me to a seat. “You _will_ do these things. Please lay him
straight down and get him some water, or better, a drop of brandy.”
She took off my hat and fanned me with her handkerchief. “It’s nothing
serious,” she said to the others who came round. “He’ll be better in
a moment. Thank you,” this to the man who came back with the brandy.
“Give him air, please.” She was most business-like and sisterly--as
though I had been in the habit of fainting daily and she of restoring
me.

I came round, of course; but not until the train had left and the
question of our return to Bratinsk was settled.

“Perhaps you are satisfied now,” I said to Volna most ungraciously, as
I sat up.

“How absurd you are, Bob. I didn’t give you the cigar.”

“When is the next train?” I asked the official.

“Not until to-night.”

“There you are,” I said to Volna with a brotherly readiness to put all
the blame on her. “What now?”

“This gentleman said there was some fine scenery here; and a ride or
drive would do you good.”

“Scenery!” I cried with a fine contempt. “Well, I suppose we can’t sit
about the station all day. But do as you please;” and she walked out
of the station. I could have laughed at the excellent affectation of
sisterly discontent.

The police official sympathized with me--it was I who had tipped
him--and expressed his feeling with a deprecating smile and shrug and a
lifting of the brows.

“I suppose it’s the only thing to do,” I murmured as I rose.

“It is perhaps for the best after all that you did not catch the train.
There is you baggage,” he said.

“Baggage?”

“Remembering what you said last night about the accident to your
carriage on the way from Vashtic, and thinking you might need the
baggage in it, I sent out this morning to have it brought here.”

“Did you? That’s really very friendly and obliging,” I managed to
answer quite cordially, while wishing him at the devil for his
interference.

“What shall we do with it?”

“Oh, just keep it at the station here till I come back for that evening
train. You’ll know it easily. Two leather portmanteaus; one marked ‘R.
G.’ and one ‘M. G.,’ London. I’ll go and tell my sister. She’ll be as
delighted as I am at your thoughtfulness. It was only that which made
her wish to remain here for the day.”

I went after Volna, who was walking toward the little town.

“That’s a nice thoughtful fellow. He has sent out some one to find our
luggage in the broken-down trap and bring it in. I told him how glad
you’d be.”

“Should I go back and thank him?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary, you can do that when we get back this
evening. We are going for a ride now--and the sooner we’re off the
better.” I went to the stable where my horse was, thinking how to get
over the rather awkward difficulty of securing a second animal.

I did not intend to return to Pulta; and if I hired the horse I should
not be able to return it. To buy it might create suspicion, as a
man does not purchase a horse merely to go for a ride--even in that
horse-bartering region; and I had no wish to turn horse-thief.

I put a bold face on the matter and went into the stable whistling. An
ostler was grooming my horse and the owner of the place looking on.

“That’s a nice looking animal of yours,” he said.

“Yes; and as good as he looks.”

“No doubt. Andreas knows a good horse.”

“Andreas? Who’s he?”

“At Bratinsk. Where you got him, I suppose.”

I scented danger and fenced. “I suppose you know most of the horses
round about here. Will you smoke?” And I gave him a cigar.

“I know this one. I sold him to Andreas.”

“Did you? Well, I don’t care anything about Andreas, but I know he’s a
good horse and I want to hire one as good for my sister to ride to-day.”

“I can find you one. There he stands.” I had a look at him. A good
horse I saw at a glance. “I like his looks,” I said.

The ostler took him out and ran him up and down. Then an idea occurred
to me, involving some of the white lies of necessity however. I
expressed a very exaggerated admiration.

“Carry a lady?”

“Carry a baby,” was the reply.

“Then I tell you what I’ll do if you’ll agree. We’re going to Cracow
for a couple of days and coming back; and when we come back we shall
want two horses. I’ll buy him from you if you can find me a couple of
saddles, and if we can come to terms for your taking care of both the
horses while we stay here.”

It did not take very long to conclude the bargain, and Volna and I were
soon mounted.

Just as we were starting my friend of the police came up.

“Going for the ride then?” he asked knowingly.

“Oh, yes. By the way, has that luggage of mine come in yet?”

“No. They ought to have been back long before now.”

“That’s a nuisance. My sister has to do without her habit.”

“She looks very charming,” he replied, with a bow.

“What time must we be back for that train?”

“Six o’clock. But why not ride to Solden, it’s not more than twenty
miles or so. You could take the train there.”

“Oh, no. We’re going the other way.”

“Are you ever coming, Bob?” asked Volna, sharply.

He stepped aside with another significant shrug of the shoulders and
with a laugh I rode off.

“You do the vinegary sister to the life,” I said.

“There was cause then. I caught sight of that police agent from
Bratinsk in the distance.”

“By Jove!” I exclaimed; and we clattered off through the narrow streets
and as soon as we were clear of the town gave our horses their heads.




CHAPTER VII

THE LUCK TURNS


Volna was thoroughly at home in the saddle, and it was easy to see that
she had been accustomed to horses all her life. She had a perfect seat;
and that firm hand and control which bring out the best there is in a
horse and make him understand that the master is up.

It was delightful to watch her; and as we kept at it in that first
rattling stretch, I believe that in the sheer exhilaration of the ride,
we forgot everything, even the unwelcome appearance of the police agent
from Bratinsk.

But neither the pace nor the oblivion could last for ever, and when we
drew rein at the foot of a hill we came back to a recollection of the
load of our worries.

“Wasn’t that glorious?” she cried, her cheeks glowing, and her eyes
shining, as she stretched forward and patted her horse’s neck.

“You ride magnificently. How you would enjoy a run with the hounds in
England!”

“I have read about it. I love horses. I can keep in the saddle all day.
I have done it at home.” Then her face clouded. “How selfish! I had
almost forgotten,” she added.

“We are doing all we can,” I replied. “Are you sure that the man you
saw was that police agent?”

“Could I forget him?”

“You don’t think he saw us?”

“No. He was talking very earnestly to some one. But I recognized him
instantly.”

“I’d give something to know what brought him to Pulta.”

“He was following us, surely.”

“We must hope not. If Michel did his work properly, my horse with your
uncle’s coat will have been found a good many miles on the other side
of Bratinsk; and his men should be hunting for us there. But I can’t
say I like the look of the thing.”

“What shall we do?”

“We’d better try and think what he’ll do. I had intended to take the
hint which the man at Pulta dropped, to ride to Solden, and take the
train from there. But if the other man picks up our trail there, he’ll
set the wires going and we shall find some one waiting for us at
Solden.”

“How far is it to Cracow? Could we ride all the way? I could ride all
day and all night too, if necessary, as long as the horses will last
out.”

“We don’t know the road. I don’t even know where we are now. When you
saw that man, I just rattled off at hazard. I know Cracow is pretty
well west of Pulta, a little bit south too, and I guess we are on the
right road. I am accustomed to take long rides and besides having a
fairly good bump of location, always carry this;” and I showed her a
small compass on my watch chain.

“I always ride by the sun, but then I know the country round Warsaw for
ever so many miles.”

“We should be in a pretty pickle if we were lost,” said I.

“The pickle would be much hotter if it was a police preserve.”

“By Jove, it would. And the worst of it is that if that fellow hears of
us at Pulta, he’ll know the names we’ve taken.”

“Poor Bob, I’m getting him into very troubled waters.”

“It’s not Bob or Peggy I’m thinking of, it’s Volna, and Volna’s mother.
Cracow seems a mighty hard place to reach; but I’m going to get there
somehow.”

I was silent for a while thinking over the problem. Volna’s suggestion
was the best if we could do it--to ride all the way to Cracow. But it
was no light undertaking. If I had known the way, I should not have
hesitated; but the days were short and although the sun was shining
brightly enough then, the weather looked as though it were going
to change. It was warmer; and when a spell of frost breaks in that
country, it generally indicates that rain or snow is coming. To be lost
in a rain or snow storm would be a very ugly development indeed.

There was moreover the awkward question whether we were likely to be
pursued. On the other hand to stop at Solden appeared to be even more
risky.

Seeing me thus thoughtful, Volna broke in. “You are not going to keep
anything from me, are you. Don’t do that, please? Do you think that man
is likely to ride after us from Pulta?”

“That was just in my mind. I should say it will depend upon how soon he
learns anything about us. He is more likely to trust to the wires.”

“It’s getting very exciting. He may telegraph ahead and have people
sent out to stop us. I suppose I ought not to say so, but I am
beginning to feel a sort of keen enjoyment.”

“I have made up my mind. We’ll stick to the horses and avoid the
trains. But we’ll try and mislead any one who may follow us.”

We had already passed several people on the road. I stopped the next
comer.

“Is this the road to Solden?” I asked the man, evidently a farmer.

“Yes, one of them.”

“Straight road?”

“As straight as roads are in these parts,” he replied, with a grin.

“I mean do I have to turn to the left or right?”

“You’ll be turning most of the time. You’re from Pulta, aren’t you?”

“It’s not where I’m from but where I’m going that concerns me.”

“All right. I know the lady’s horse;” and on he drove without any more.

“Everybody seems to know everybody else’s horse about here,” I said.
“If it weren’t awkward it would be comical. We’ll ride on and try the
next man.”

The next was another farmer. A surly Russian who understood Polish with
difficulty and spoke it unintelligibly. So I thanked him and rode on no
wiser.

Three or four miles later brought us to a village.

“Had we not better get some food here?” asked Volna. “I will go and buy
it, and perhaps can find out at the same time what road we ought to
take.” So we dismounted, and I waited with the horses.

Presently a priest came by, and bade me good-day with a smile.

“You have a picturesque place here, Father,” I said. “What is it
called?”

“Kervatje,” he answered, and we began to talk. I learnt that his
name was Father Ambrose, and after some while he asked, “You are a
foreigner?”

“An Englishman. My sister is with me. We were going to Solden, but I
fear have lost the way.”

“Oh, no. Solden lies across the hills there. A rough road but fairly
direct. The only point of difficulty is just over the brow of the hill
where the road forks. Take that to the right or you will go astray and
might find yourselves in Cracow, after some forty miles or so, that
is----” and he smiled pleasantly.

“I’ll remember what you said,” I replied, “and am much obliged to you.”

“It is a pleasure. I have been in England; and speak English a little.
But I read much.” We then chatted about London and the incidents of his
visit until Volna came up.

“My sister,” I said. As he greeted her I saw him start and look very
closely at her.

“How do you do?” he said in English, to her complete discomfiture,
holding out his hand. I read her signals of distress and sailed in to
the rescue.

“My sister is unfortunately dumb,” I said.

“How sad,” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. Then he looked puzzled.
“She bears a remarkable resemblance to a very beautiful woman whom I
knew in the long ago. Twenty years and more. She is a Pole, and is now
the Countess Drakona. How very strange.”

“Yes, these chance likenesses are very extraordinary,” I said, gravely.
“Come, Peggy, we must get on,” I added to Volna, in English, and put
her in the saddle again.

“How very sad,” he repeated, mournfully. “And yet how clever of her to
be able to make herself understood in buying things.”

“The education of the dumb in England is almost perfect. Signs are
their language, you know,” I replied, as I shook hands with him and
mounted.

He looked after us very thoughtfully, and when presently I turned, he
waved his hand to me and I saw him walk a few paces and then enter the
shop where Volna had made her purchases.

“I think we’ll rattle on again for a bit. He’s going to find out that
yours is a singular form of aphasia, and only affects your knowledge of
English. Perhaps he’ll class it as a case for the scientists; but more
likely as one of suspicious ignorance.”

“Who can he be?” asked Volna.

“He gave me his name as Father Ambrose.”

“I have heard my mother speak of him.”

“He spoke of her as a very beautiful woman.”

“And she is still beautiful.”

“And he said how closely you resembled her.”

Volna laughed. “Bob mustn’t be conventional. That’s a sort of ball-room
dandy’s speech. And no brother talks like it.”

“Brothers don’t always say all they think.”

“But they keep their thoughts to themselves.”

“I know what I think about my sister,” said I.

She smiled again, and glanced at me. “Don’t you think I bought a huge
parcel, Bob?”

“If we eat all that, it will last us farther than Cracow. But I know
what it means generally, when a girl goes shopping.”

“Yes, she thinks of things that are necessary. There are loaves in
there for the horses.”

“I never thought of them,” I admitted.

“One of us must think sensibly,” she retorted.

“True for you. But did you find out anything about the road to Solden?”

“No. A woman served me, and she knew nothing.”

“Well, I found out from the priest. At the top of the hill yonder the
road forks and that to the left will take us to Cracow, forty miles.”

“I wonder what he is thinking now he knows I am no mute.”

“Men make all sorts of mistakes, and I shouldn’t be in the least
surprised if he believes we are just--running away together.”

“Bob! How ridiculous!” she cried, with a merry laugh, her cheeks
aflush. “Let us get on;” and she shook the reins, and dashed on ahead
from me.

When we reached the forked roads at the top of the hill I glanced at
my watch. It was nearly half-past three, and we had still forty miles
to cover on an unknown road; it had taken us some three hours to do
about twenty miles in daylight with the horses fresh--how long would
they take to finish the journey mostly in the dark? I shook my head
dubiously over the sum.

“We’ll ride on a couple of miles or so and then find a spot for our
picnic; but we can’t spare more than half an hour at the outside.”

Black bread, sausage, and village cheese do not make an epicurean
lunch; but Volna and I had rich hunger sauce, and were more than
satisfied. We fed the horses while we were eating, to save time, and
in half an hour we were ready for the road again. There was no longer
any doubt that the weather was going to change. As we mounted there
were very ominous banks of dark sullen clouds. Rain or snow would fall
within a few hours: but I could only hope it would be rain.

“I fancy we’ve shaken off any pursuit even if any one started out to
follow us,” I said.

“We are going to have some weather, too, that will help us. I hope Bob
doesn’t mind riding in the wet.”

“You guessed the thought in my mind, eh?”

“No. I’m used to reading weather signs. The rain never hurts me. I’ve
been out for hours in it. But we shan’t have much for an hour or two,
you’ll find.”

“We’d better make the most of our time then.”

We rode as fast as we dared push the horses in view of the distance to
be covered. I eased my animal up the hills, and now and again took a
spell of half a mile or so on foot; but despite this, I was concerned
to find that before we had covered another twenty miles he began to
show signs of fatigue.

Then the storm burst upon us. It was rain, not snow; but rain in almost
tropical force. It would not have been so bad, had we known the road;
but we had already had to stop several times to make sure we were going
right.

For two hours we plodded through a pelting storm until I was drenched
and feared that Volna must be in the same condition.

“I wouldn’t care if I could see,” she said once. It was pitch dark, and
we could only go at a walking pace.

“I shouldn’t care if you were not wet,” I answered, “though I confess
I’d like to know where we are.”

“I am not very wet,” she said. “My fur cloak protects me. We shall get
somewhere in the end.”

“In England we have a civilized habit of putting up sign posts,” I
grumbled, as we came to another forked road and I was at a loss which
to choose. “All the roads seem to be twins in this place.”

Which way to choose I could not even guess. I tried to judge which was
the better road; but both appeared equally bad.

“Let the horses decide,” said Volna.

“Yours is the fresher of the two, and better able to use his instinct.”

“Yours is much keener to get to a stable,” she laughed.

I walked mine back a little distance and then gave him his head. He
walked deliberately to the side of the road, and began to crop the
grass.

Volna tried hers then; and he went as far as the fork where he waited
for the other to join him. Then they both moved on to the left.

“So be it,” said I, and we let them go as they would.

“It’s not raining so fast,” declared Volna, presently. “Shall we draw
up under a tree and give them the rest of the bread?”

“It’ll be nice soft food,” I laughed.

“I can wring my cloak, too, and ease the weight from my horse a
little.”

We pulled up under a tree and gave the horses the bread, munching a
crust ourselves, and making the best of things. Volna’s pluck was
inextinguishable; and she laughed and joked over her plight as she
wrung out the wet.

I struck a match and looked at my watch, and was startled to find it
was nearly ten o’clock.

I told Volna and we started again. The rain was much less and the
darkness had lifted somewhat; but I led my horse now instead of riding.

Presently I felt the road getting suspiciously soft and grassy, and
some minutes afterwards I stumbled up against a gate which blocked the
way and led into a wood.

There was nothing for it but to go back to the forked road. To make
matters worse, the rain started again and came pouring down even more
violently than before.

Nor was that the worst. We got off the road again, and once more were
brought to a standstill by a gate.

“It looks as though we were lost,” I said.

“We’ve about reached the bottom of our troubles, I should think,”
replied Volna, still cheery. “But if the chance offered, I should like
to put off the rest of the ride till daylight. And look, there’s a
light.” She pointed to it gleefully, away to our left.

We made our way to it with trouble, and found that it came from the
lower window of a small house.

I rapped at the door; and the light was instantly extinguished.

I had to knock again twice, and then a window above was opened, and a
woman put her head out.

“Who are you, and what do you want? Are you the police?”

“Police? No. We have lost our way, and want shelter.”

“There’s no one in the house but me. How many are you?”

“Two. Myself and my sister. We can pay you well.”

She drew her head in for a minute, and then looked out again and said.
“Are you sure you’re only two? Let’s see you.” We stood back that she
could do so. “I’ll come down,” she said.

When she opened the door the light she held revealed to me one of the
most forbidding faces I have ever seen on a woman’s shoulders.

“You’ve got horses, have you? You must stall them in the shed.”

She handed me a lantern, and Volna came with me. When we had fumbled
our way to the shed, and tied the horses up, giving them some hay we
found in the place, we went back to the house.

She admitted us without more delay and as soon as we were inside,
locked and bolted the door. “A lone woman needs to be careful,” she
said in explanation, as she led us into a room at the side where a fire
was burning.

Two glasses and a spirit bottle were on the table, and a smell of rank
tobacco smoke hung about the place.

Volna went in first, and the woman, having placed the light upon the
table, stood holding the door for us to pass.

“We are much obliged to you,” I said, and as I turned to her I caught
sight of a man’s face peering through the half closed door of a dark
room across the passage.

“I’ll do my best for you,” she answered. “Dry yourselves by the fire.
I’ll be back in a moment.” With that she went out, and I heard her turn
the key softly upon us.

It might mean nothing; but--well, I did not tell Volna.




CHAPTER VIII

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE COTTAGE


Volna walked up to the wood fire, took off her fur turban, shook it,
and laughed.

“Were you ever as wet before? I never was.”

“I wonder if the woman can find you something to put on while the
clothes are dried. What do you make of her?”

“She about fits the place,” she replied, glancing round the room.

A wooden bench, a couple of wooden armchairs, a square table and a
black oak chest of drawers with some unpainted shelving over it for
crockery, pots, and pans, constituted the furniture; and for decoration
a couple of crude coloured prints, scriptural in subject and grimy with
age, hung over the fireplace with a piece of broken looking glass on a
string between them.

“Rough,” I said, in answer to her look.

“It might be dirtier. It is always a good sign when a woman’s care can
be traced.”

“She said she was a lone woman, so she can’t have much else to do
except look after the place.”

Volna smiled. “Didn’t you see those?” and she pointed to a pair of
men’s boots by the chest of drawers. “Probably wood cutter or charcoal
burner or something of that sort; often very honest people.”

I thought of the man’s face I had seen and said nothing.

“Have you your flask?” I took it out. “Good, then I shall warm some
water and you must have a hot drink;” and in a minute she had cleaned a
small saucepan and had the water on the fire.

“I wish the woman would come back,” I grumbled. “I want you to get your
wet clothes off.”

“I shouldn’t call her,” replied Volna.

“Why not?”

“I shouldn’t let her know that we know she locked the door.”

“Did you notice that?”

“That’s deliciously man-like, Bob. Of course we’re in a very queer
place; but we may as well pretend we see nothing odd and suspect
nothing. We’re not really blind, however.”

“I begin to think Peggy’s more wonderful than ever,” said I with a
chuckle.

The woman came in then with a bundle of clothes on her arm; and her
manner was very different. She was a hideous creature truly; the upper
part of her face seamed with what might have been two knife slashes,
and one cheek quite disfigured with marks like those which vitriol
leaves. When she spoke or smiled her mouth drew up to the side,
disclosing long yellow fangs of teeth.

“Ah, that’s right; a hot drink you’re making. You’re both wet to the
skin, aren’t you? I’ve rummaged up some clothes for you. I’ll make you
as comfortable as I can; but I’m only a poor woman----”

“You’re a very kind one,” said Volna, looking at the clothes she had
brought.

“They are only rough, you know; but the best I can manage.”

“Water’s hot, Bob,” cried Volna. “Get me a cloth to wipe these
glasses,” she said to the woman; and the moment her back was turned
Volna slipped the papers from her dress and handed them to me. We mixed
some brandy and water and I insisted upon her drinking some.

“I’ve set a candle in the room opposite for you,” said the woman.

“Call me when you’re ready, Peggy;” and I went off with the clothes she
had brought for me.

I had just completed the change when I heard a stealthy step in
the passage. I was listening for it, indeed, and had not shut the
door. Some one tried to shut it for me. I stopped that and pulled it
wide open. It was the man whose face I had seen before--long, thin,
cadaverous and cunning, with close set, ferrety eyes.

“Come in,” I said, cheerfully.

He started very uneasily and then mumbled: “I thought you didn’t know
it was open.”

“All right. I suppose these are your things. I’m much obliged to you.”

“They’re my best,” he answered. “You’re welcome.”

Now he was some four inches shorter than I, whereas the clothes were
quite long enough for me; and the discrepancy did not escape me, nor
tend to lessen my suspicions.

He stood watching me silently as I finished the change and took out the
contents of my pockets. But I was careful not to let him see that I had
a weapon.

In the silence I could hear the rain streaming down.

“It’s a fearful night,” I said; “your wife said you weren’t at home.”

“Just come in.”

“You managed to keep dry.”

He pretended not to hear me. “It won’t last much longer. How did you
come here?”

“We got off the road in the dark and saw a light in your window.”

“Strangers here, maybe?” I caught a quick furtive glance with a gleam
of considerable interest in the shifty eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in this particular spot before; but I
shall know better when I see it by daylight. Anybody can get lost in
the dark.”

“Going far?”

“Out for a ride and got caught in the storm. Will you see to the horses
for me?”

“I have. Couple of good ones. One of them is nearly done up. You’ve
come far?”

At that moment Volna opened the door of the other room and called me.
She burst into a merry laugh at the sight of me and I grinned back at
her.

“You look as if you were made up as a peasant for theatricals,” I said.

“I don’t know what you’re like. But I’m dry. Think of it, Bob, dry once
more.”

I carried in my wet things and they were soon steaming by the fire with
hers. The woman hustled about and put some black bread and vile cheese
on the table; while the man stood fidgetting about sheepishly by the
door.

“It’s all I’ve got to eat; but I can make you some coffee.”

“The very thing,” said Volna.

“Fetch the coffee, Ivan,” said the woman. The man hesitated, glanced at
her, and then shuffled away.

“Come on, Bob, I’m famished,” cried Volna, sitting down and cutting
some bread.

“Ivan says your horse is done up,” said the woman. “You must be a long
way from home.”

“Further than you think,” replied Volna. “We’re English.”

“You didn’t ride from England?” she asked stupidly.

“You dear soul, there’s the sea between England and here.”

“But you’re strangers?”

“Some more bread, Bob?” and as she bent down to cut it she whispered in
French to me: “She’s asked that question a dozen times, trying to pump
me all the time.”

“Strangers?” I said to the woman. “Of course we are. Tourists. Don’t
know a soul for many a mile about here and not a soul knows us. But you
needn’t be afraid. We can pay you;” and I took out a handful of money
and tossed a gold piece across to her.

It was worth the money to see the greedy avaricious light that leapt in
her eyes. But Volna looked puzzled and a little alarmed at this act of
mine.

“What a time that man is getting the coffee,” the woman said. “I
suppose he can’t find it;” and she went out of the room.

“Why did you do that?” asked Volna.

“Why not? It was the answer she wanted, and it’s quite a relief to be
able to tell the truth.”

“Do you suspect anything?”

“I think the man is a long time finding such a thing as coffee and I
wonder they don’t keep it here with the rest of their eatables;” and
Volna shewed that she understood me.

The two came back wrangling: she scolding him for his delay; he
protesting he didn’t know where she kept things. They were clumsy
actors, however.

The woman made some coffee then and set it on the table. “I’m thinking
where I’ll put you to sleep,” she said. “You can have our bed and
welcome,” she added to Volna; “but for your brother, I’ll have to make
one up somehow. You see we’re only poor folks. But we’ll manage. Come,
Ivan.”

I was stirring my coffee and put it to my lips as they went out; and
the woman turned and saw me. This time instead of locking the door upon
us, they left it ajar.

It was becoming as plain as print.

I set down the cup, untasted, of course, and talked in a fairly loud
tone about the kindness of the two and how good the coffee tasted; and
Volna taking her cue from me agreed.

Then we all but emptied the two cups into a jug and hid it away, and
went on talking unconcernedly. Presently I stole to the door and
listened. The two were in the upper part of the house.

Volna, I could see now, was beginning to grow nervous.

“It’s all right. We can act much better than they, and there isn’t a
thing to fear.”

Her brow wrinkled. “I think Peggy doesn’t want to be left alone, Bob,”
she said.

“You’ll have to make shift with that wooden settle; but you may go to
sleep without a thought.”

“What do you think they mean to do?”

“They’ve half done what they meant and we shall soon know the rest. The
coffee is drugged of course, and they think we’ve drunk it. Now, lie
down and just go off to sleep. I’ve dried my last three cigars and am
going to smoke one of them.”

I settled her on the wooden bench and having lighted my cigar, rummaged
about and found an oily rag with which I cleaned my revolver very
carefully, reloaded it and kept it at hand.

I then sat down by the fire smoking and thinking and waiting. It
was evident enough that we had got into the hands of some very ugly
customers. I recalled several strange tales of dark deeds done in these
wild and lonely parts of the country; and the circumstances now lent
themselves readily to villainy.

They had got from us the fact that we were strangers, and I had
purposely made no hesitation in shewing that we had plenty of money.
That they had tried in their clumsy way to drug us, I had no doubt
whatever; and the only question was what they meant to do next.

The fear in the woman’s first question whether we were the police, and
her statement that the man was not in the house, gave a clue to their
character; and the change in manner, the assumption of friendliness,
the suggestiveness of sending the man to find the coffee; indeed all
these circumstances fitted together too well to leave any doubt that
some devilment was on foot.

I did not feel the least alarmed, however. I felt myself more than
a match for the two in any rough and tumble that was to come; I was
thoroughly on my guard; and had a weapon and knew well enough how to
use it. As a matter of fact it was we rather than they who were laying
the snare.

Somewhere between half an hour and an hour passed without a sound in
the house. I had finished my cigar and tossed it away and was gazing
into the flickering embers of the fire, when I heard the stairs creak
slightly. A glance shewed me that Volna was asleep; a tribute this,
indeed, to her trust in me.

I dropped my head as though I, too, were asleep and breathed heavily. I
was very curious to know what was to happen.

In a short while the door was pushed open noiselessly and the woman put
her head in. I had already set her down for the head of the firm, as
the more courageous of the pair of rascals.

She looked at us both for some moments and then entered and crept
towards Volna. Not daring to let her go too near, I shifted my position
and grunted, as if uneasy in my sleep. This drew her attention to me,
as I intended, and she stopped and stared at me.

Next she moved to the table and took up the two cups one after another;
glanced from them to us in turn; and concluding that we had drunk the
contents, set them down with a slight grunt of satisfaction.

The logs slipped in the fire at that moment with a shower of sparks.
She started and took a quick step towards the door.

Thinking she was going I moved, breathed very heavily and blinked at
her as though almost overcome with sleep.

“I came for the light,” she said in a low voice. “Our candle’s out.”

For answer I nodded, waved my hand clumsily to signify she could take
it, attempted to rise and fell back in my chair, huddled together as if
completely overcome with stupor.

She stood with the lamp in her hand as if planning what to do next; a
look of diabolical evil on her hideous face. Then slowly and cautiously
she came towards me. Having satisfied myself that she had no knife or
weapon I shut my eyes and let her hold the light close to my face. I
could feel her breath as she bent forward to listen to my breathing.

After a moment she moved away and crossed to Volna, whom she examined
with the same scrutiny. A low sigh of satisfaction escaped her, as she
turned away and went out of the room, carrying the lamp with her. I
heard the stairs creak as she crept up them.

Then I woke Volna. “Don’t be frightened. Pretend to be asleep.
Something is going to happen; the woman has been in to make sure that
we are asleep; and will no doubt be back in a moment.”

I went back to my chair and waited, ready to resume my extremely
uncomfortable position at a moment’s notice.

Shortly afterwards the stairs creaked again, more noisily this time;
probably under the heavier weight of them both; but instead of entering
the room the steps went along the passage. Then I heard sounds in the
distance; just muffled confused noises of knocking and stamping. What
caused them I could not conjecture.

Soon after they had ceased, the footsteps came again into the passage,
and a moving streak of light shewed through the door of our room. This
time something weighty was set down with a heavy bump just outside
the door; a most unaccountable rustling followed; and then the two
whispered together. In the pause a pungent odour of paraffin came from
the lamp they had.

All sorts of weird conjectures crowded into my thoughts as to the
possible meaning of this development. Volna had heard it all and looked
at me in bewilderment. I motioned her to keep silence.

Another journey was made up the creaky staircase. It was the man who
went, and while he was away the woman looked in upon us. I saw to my
surprise this time that she wore her bonnet.

As the man’s tread was on the stairs again she drew back and in a
whisper loud enough to reach us, she said: “It’s all right, you coward.
They’re both off fast enough. You can do it safely now. The man first,
mind.”

The next moment the door was pushed wide open and they both entered
stealthily.




CHAPTER IX

A VERY TIGHT CORNER


The suspense of the two or three moments which followed the entrance of
the pair constituted an ordeal not to be forgotten. That Volna mastered
herself sufficiently to pass through it without a sign or sound, was
the greatest proof of her courage she could have given.

It was less trying for me. I had witnessed the woman’s former visit,
and, despite her ominous whisper to her husband, had come to the
conclusion that no attempt was to be made on our lives. Moreover I was
armed. But Volna knew nothing of this. I had only been able to whisper
a hurried and very indefinite warning to her, calculated, despite my
assurance, to work up her fears to a high strain.

They stood still for some moments; the man slightly in front of his
wife, who set a candle she was carrying down behind her. The faces of
both then caught the red gleam from the embers of the fire; and so evil
looking a couple I hope never to see again.

The man’s long, thin, cunning face was strained and intense, and his
narrow treacherous eyes glanced from me to Volna and back from Volna
to me, as if in doubt which to attack first. Just behind him stood the
tall, gaunt, and angular form of the woman inciting him; her eyes
gleaming with excitement, her lips parted and drawn in a snarl to one
side, and every line, cicatrice and seam of her scarred repulsive
features brought into strong relief by the ruddy gleam of the log fire.
She looked a veritable hag of evil, utterly detestable, deadly, and
loathsome.

“The man first,” she whispered, jogging her accomplice.

He glanced half round to her, irritable, and then I saw that he was
carrying a length of cord.

He began to creep slowly toward me until Volna, as she confessed
afterwards, could endure it no longer. She sprang up and called me.

In another moment I was on my feet; and before the two could recover
from their astonishment, I sprang past them, slammed the door, and set
my back against it, my hand on my revolver.

“Now perhaps you’ll tell me what this means?”

The woman was for fighting and stood at bay like a beast, just robbed
of its intended victim. But the man was of poorer stuff, and cowered
ashen white and speechless.

“Mayn’t we move about our own house?” asked the woman. “Ivan, if you’re
a man, you won’t stand this.”

But Ivan had no sort of fight in him. He clapped his hands to his face
and sank into my chair by the fire. The hag looked his way and swore at
him with a snarl of contempt.

“Come now, what does this mean?”

“It means that if you don’t like it, you can clear out, the pair of
you;” and she turned fiercely on Volna. “Coming here with your lies
about being lost, and wanting to rob poor and honest folk, and then
trumping up a lying accusation. Who are you, I’d like to know.”

Her assurance was as brazen as her courage was unquestionable; I own I
was at a loss what to do.

“That won’t do with me. Your one chance is to tell the truth,” I said.

“You’re a man, aren’t you, to call a woman a liar? Do you hear that,
Ivan?” and she went to him and shook him. “Get up, pig: don’t sit
shaking there when you hear me abused by this thief of the night.” She
hauled him to his feet; and Volna took the opportunity of crossing to
my side.

“You mustn’t talk like that here,” he said with a sort of hang-dog
manner.

“I’d rather talk to you than to the woman there. Now you----”

“You hear that, Ivan. Strike him for that. You deal with him and I’ll
look after the wench.” She pushed him toward me and seemed for the
moment to infect him with some of her own desperate courage.

“If you don’t like it, go,” he said.

“No, they shan’t go now,” interrupted the fury. “We daren’t let them go
now, you fool. You know. Go on.”

He still hung back, however, and then she suddenly wrenched open a
drawer and took out a formidable looking chopper.

“Here, Ivan, now will you do it? Down with the man and leave the wench
to me. It will be death if we don’t do it and get away.”

The remnants of his courage awoke when he felt the weapon in his hand;
and I heard Volna catch her breath at the look which gradually stole
into his beady, cruel eyes, as he looked at me.

Goaded by the woman’s taunts and the fear-thoughts which her words had
started, he took a couple of stealthy steps toward me while the woman
went round the table to reach Volna.

Just as he was raising his weapon to rush at me, I whipped my revolver
out and covered him.

“Drop that; you murderous devil,” I cried, in a ringing tone.

With a cry of fear he started back and let the chopper fall on the
brick floor. In a moment I had possession of it, and handed my pistol
to Volna.

“If she moves, use it,” I said.

But the sudden turning of the tables had knocked the fight even out of
the virago of a woman. The man no longer counted. He stumbled back and
cowered against the wall, getting as far away from me as possible, and
just stared at me beside himself with fright.

“Now we can talk,” I said.

“We didn’t mean anything,” declared the woman. “We were only trying to
frighten you so that we might get safely out of the room. I’m sure I
tried to do all I could for you; giving you food and----”

“That’ll do. Go to that end of the room.” She obeyed me. “Now answer
my questions. Why did you come stealing into the room just now--before
this time?”

“I only wanted to see you were all right and to fetch the lamp. I’ve
done my best for you,” she murmured in a whining, canting, fawning tone.

“You won’t answer, eh? Well, I’ll give your man a chance. Now you, tell
me what was that rope for that you brought in?”

The woman tried to reply, but I silenced her. The man glared at me
speechless and helpless.

“Your only chance is to tell the truth. You were going to tie me up
with it? Confess.”

“No, no, no,” he gasped through his pallid lips.

“You had two ropes; one for me and one for my sister here.”

“No, no, no,” he repeated.

“You know I speak the truth. But if you won’t confess that, tell me why
you drugged that coffee you gave me.”

The woman broke out again declaring by all the saints that I must
be mad to ask such a question. The man only gazed stupidly at me in
silence.

“Let him drink it then,” said Volna; and the woman’s start at the
shrewd suggestion told me that it had struck home.

“Yes, that’s the test,” I agreed readily. “Will you get that jug?”

Volna took out the jug and poured the coffee back into the cups.

They both watched her intently as she did this, turning now and then
from her to me, with swift glances of speculative fear.

“Now if this is not drugged or poisoned, drink it;” and I took one of
the cups and held it toward the man; “Quick,” I cried, so sternly that
he trembled. His eyes were everywhere except on my face, and his lips
moved convulsively.

“Drink it, fool,” said the woman with a sneer.

He stretched out his hand toward the cup, and then with a swift gesture
struck at it and dashed it to the ground.

“I knew it. I need no more proof,” I declared.

“I’ll drink it,” cried the woman, making a snatch at the cup on the
table. But I caught her hand, and Volna took away the cup.

“No, no, that is for the police,” I said.

At the mention of the police an angry oath leapt from her lips and she
strove desperately to wrench her hand from my grip to get the cup. I
had to use some violence to thrust her back.

Foiled in the effort to destroy the traces of the drug, her rage
completely mastered her; and being unable to vent it upon us, she
turned upon the man. With a running accompaniment of abuse and
reproaches as the cause of the trouble she seized him and shook him
till his teeth rattled like castanets, and then clouted and kicked him
and tore at him with her nails like a fiend incarnate until he fell
huddled up on the floor howling to her to stop.

Volna opened the door and went out to escape the din and repulsive
sight and then called me hurriedly.

In a moment the whole infernal scheme of the two was made clear. The
heavy burden which we had heard set down outside the door and which had
so puzzled me was explained, as well as the mysterious rustling which
had set me wondering.

The one was a cask half full of petroleum; the other a huge heap of
shavings, chips and hay, ready saturated with petroleum.

“They meant to bind us in our sleep and fire the house. I did not think
there could be such fiends,” said Volna, trembling.

It was too obvious to question. The heap of shavings laid ready for
lighting told its own story; and with the petroleum thrown into the
room where we were to have been left bound and unconscious, nothing
could have saved us.

Volna clung to my arm faint and cold with the horror of it. “Let us
go,” she whispered.

“That is why the woman was dressed to go out. I see it now. That fear
of hers of the police, the noise we heard outside; they were expecting
the police and meant to fly on our horses. Such devils ought not to be
allowed to escape.”

But it was obvious that we dared not run the risk of denouncing them.

“Let us go,” said Volna again. “The very air of the place makes me
faint and ill.”

I went back into the room.

“I have found out all your infernal scheme. Get out of here, and keep
out of sight, lest I take the law in my own hands;” and I drew the
revolver again to emphasize my words.

The man was seemingly afraid to move; so I dragged him to his feet,
hauled him to the door and flung him down in the passage. “Upstairs
with you and if I catch so much as a glimpse of you I’ll shoot you like
the murderous skunk you are.”

He crawled away from my feet and slunk up the creaking staircase
shaking in every limb and casting frightened glances behind him.

“What are you going to do?” asked the woman, coming to the door.

“Hold your tongue,” I thundered. “Go to the villain you egged on to do
this thing. Quick, or----” She was scared by my rage and went without
another word.

“Shall I change?” asked Volna.

I nodded. “And bring me my things. I’ll stop on guard here.”

I heard the two muttering and wrangling in the room above; but neither
made any attempt to come down; and in some few minutes we were ready.

“We’ll go together and get the horses,” I said to Volna; and was in the
act of opening the door when I started involuntarily as some one beat
a loud peremptory summons on the panel.

“Open the door there, open,” called a voice.

Volna started and clutched my arm. “What shall we do?”

If it was the police, we were caught like rats in a trap.

“We must brazen it out,” I said.

“The papers?” she whispered. The knocking was repeated more loudly and
insistently than before. “Open there, at once. I say.”

“See if there’s fire enough to burn them.”

She ran back into the room.

“Who is there?” I called.

“The police. Open or we shall break in.”

To shew hesitation would be fatal. So I unfastened the door and threw
it open.

At that moment, Volna came back and shook her head.

Two men entered. “You are our prisoners,” cried the first comer. “If
you resist the consequences will be on your heads.”

“We don’t resist. I’m glad you’ve come.”

They seized and held us both; the man who took me snatching the
revolver which was still in my hand.

“Ah, a police weapon,” he said, significantly, and shewed it to his
companion, who appeared to be in command.

“Search them both for any more weapons,” came the order, sharp and
ringing.

“Wait a moment. There is a mistake here,” I said.

“You’ve made it then, in letting us net you here so easily;” and they
both laughed.

“What is the charge against us?” I asked.

It was about as tight a corner as fate in an ill-natured mood could
have devised for us.




CHAPTER X

THE HAG TO THE RESCUE


I knew enough of the methods of the police not to lay too much emphasis
at the outset upon the fact that they had blundered. The police are
pretty much the same all the world over. Charge them with blundering,
and they will exhaust every resource to disprove the charge; and in the
meantime, you who have made it are getting badly squeezed.

Moreover, I was not certain that it was a blunder. I hoped they were
after the villainous couple who lived in the house, and that in the
haste and confusion of the moment we had been mistaken for them. But it
was quite possible Volna and I had been tracked, and were really the
prisoners they sought.

In any case it was highly dangerous for us to be in their hands, and
we should need to keep cool heads to get out again, without the fact
becoming known that we were fugitives.

As it was, only an accident prevented the incriminating papers from
being immediately found. Just the luck that I had told Volna to try and
burn them and had not taken them back from her. The search to which she
was subjected was little more than formal; but my pockets were all
overhauled, and my papers taken out and examined.

I was not so foolish as to resist; but I began to feel pretty indignant
when papers, money, and all, were retained by the leader.

“How did you get this?” he asked, holding up the police revolver.
He appeared to attach great importance to my possession of it. This
interested me greatly. That I had taken it from the police agent on the
Devil’s Staircase would certainly be known; and if he was in search of
us, it was a sufficient proof that we were the persons wanted. I had to
get at that indirectly.

“If you will permit me I will give you an exact report of what has
happened here, and that will account for everything.”

“All I want is a plain answer to my question. No long round-about,
lying story.”

There was no help for it. I must lie. So I did it boldly. “Most
fortunately I got the revolver here,” I said.

“You’re a cool hand,” was the sneering reply. “But it won’t do you any
good to lie to me.”

“Fortunately, I mean, because it saved my life and that of my sister
here. We were attacked----”

“Do you mean there are any others in the house?” he broke in.

“Certainly I do. The two wretches who appear to have been living here
are in a room above.”

Both the man and his wife had kept as quiet as mutes all this time.
But they had evidently been listening, for at that moment the door
above was opened, and the two came out.

“Is that the police? Is that the police?” cried the woman. “Heaven, and
the blessed Virgin above be praised. We’ve been nearly murdered by the
two villains there. You’ll protect us now, won’t you? Praise to the
Holy Saints for having sent you to our assistance.”

“What’s all this?”

The couple came running down the stairs and threw themselves on their
knees; the woman pouring out a voluble account of how they had been
attacked by us and their lives threatened, mingled with thanks for
their deliverance, entreaties to protect them, and an urgent warning to
pay special attention to me as a dangerous and murderous villain.

I foresaw a very awkward complication. When two parties accuse each
other, the police rule is to arrest both.

The leader was obviously perplexed. “What is your name?” he said to me;
and before I could reply the woman burst in.

“Ivan Krempel, and that’s Nita, his wife,” she cried. “They’ve been
using the house for days and days past.”

I attempted to deny this; but he silenced me. “And your names,” he
asked the woman.

“This is my husband, Peter Vranowski, the woodcutter; I am Anna his
wife. We came last week from Potzden in Silesia, and have been lodging
here with these Krempels. We thought they were honest folks like
ourselves.”

“You are the man I am searching for,” he said, turning to me. “Ivan
Krempel, and his wife, Nita.”

This was good news in a way. He was not after the Garretts, and I could
safely use that name.

“I can understand your perplexity,” I said calmly. “But this woman is
lying. We are English; Robert Garrett and Margaret Garrett, brother and
sister. Caught by the storm to-night, we came here for shelter, and
narrowly escaped death at the hands of these two.”

“But these people say you are the Krempels.”

“So they are. So they are. The holy Virgin knows I speak the truth,”
protested the old hag.

“The proof is in your hands. Our passports are among the papers which
you have taken from me.”

“Go into the room there, all of you,” he answered, after a pause. I led
the way with Volna and the rest followed. “Get a light,” he said to
Volna, the candle having been extinguished in the former scrimmage.

“I don’t know where to look for one. There was a lamp here, but the
woman took it away.”

“Listen to her. Listen to her. Oh, the liar, when she carried it
upstairs with her own hands,” cried the hag.

“Go upstairs and see if it’s there,” he told his man, who went and
returned carrying it.

“The woman was right in that,” said the officer significantly.

“She would very naturally know where she herself took it,” I exclaimed;
but he was as pig-headed as his class, and repeated his statements,
adding to my concern, “I don’t see how I can decide this. It’s beyond
me.”

“There are my papers,” I reminded him. “But surely you have only to
look at that man and his wife, and contrast them with my sister and
myself to see the difference. You must have some description of them.”

He mumbled to himself and began to finger my papers. “I don’t see
anything here to guide me.”

“Those are the passports;” and I pointed to them.

He unfolded them. “I don’t read English,” he said.

“You can read the names at any rate and, of course, as a responsible
official so near the frontier you know a passport by sight.”

“He stole that from an Englishman. He boasted of it to us,” interjected
the woman, who had been watching closely.

“How am I to know this is yours?” he asked immediately, taking the cue
suggested.

“There are twenty proofs in those papers, that I am an Englishman; as
well as on myself. See, the pocket book there has the address of a
London maker. Here, the tab on my coat has my tailor’s name in London.
Don’t you hear that I speak with a foreign accent?”

He examined the pocket book, and the tab on my coat; and appeared to
be impressed. “They seem right; but you may have stolen them,” he said
grudgingly.

I pressed the advantage. Picking out a couple of Sylvia’s letters I
shewed him they were in English, and addressed to me.

“That is not Robert--that is B-o-b,” he said suspiciously.

“Robert in England is shortened into Bob,” I explained; but he shook
his head.

“Here is one on the same paper, Wyrley Court, Great Malverton. It is
from my mother, ‘My dear son Robert.’ You can read that?” and I stuck
at him until I had deepened the impression. Then I told him briefly
what had happened in the cottage, pointed to the heap of soaked
shavings, the two ropes and a cask of petroleum.

This was not done without many interruptions from the woman, who
vociferously denied the whole story.

“You say you were to be drugged? How do you know?” I told him of the
attempt to make the man drink a cup of the coffee. This appealed to
him; and he smiled grimly.

“Have you still the cup you saved?”

Volna got it and handed it to him.

“The woman shall drink it now,” he declared. But the old hag swore that
it was we who had made the coffee, not she; and that we had tried to
rob her.

“Why should we wish to rob a woodcutter,” I asked. I had his ear now
and he began to have a glimmer of reason. “Besides, our horses are
outside in the shed.”

“They are our horses,” asserted the woman.

“Go and look at them. See if a woodcutter, just a week here from
Silesia, as she says, would possess two such animals and saddles. One
is a side saddle, too.”

He sent his man out; and sat silent. Matters were going better, so I
left him to absorb the points I had made.

“Will you drink that coffee?” he asked the woman suddenly, very sternly.

“Why should I drink the poison we refused before?” she cried, and
pointing her scraggy finger at Volna added: “She made it, let her drink
it.”

“You see,” I said; and he nodded in agreement.

Then his man came back and reported that the horses were two good ones
and that the saddles were soaked as if they had been exposed to the
fury of the storm; thus bearing out my story.

But at that point I made a serious blunder. As he turned to listen to
his man’s report I picked up the passports. He saw me, and snatched at
the rest of the papers.

“You mustn’t touch those,” he said angrily. “Return me those two you
have taken.”

Instead, I put them back in my pocket. “They are our passports,” I
answered; “I am an Englishman, and have a right to retain them.”

“Give them to me,” he repeated.

“They are necessary to me, and I must keep them. I am doing no more
than is my right.”

Just then his man bent, and whispered in his ear. “I had forgotten,” he
said. “My man here reads English well. Let him see them.”

“They have already been examined, and I must keep them.”

“We shall see,” he exclaimed very angrily. With that he gave the rest
of the papers to the man who went through them carefully.

“I am inclined to believe your story, but your conduct is in some ways
very suspicious. Will you return me those papers?”

“No. I have shown them. That is enough.”

Then the man drew his attention to a paper.

“Ah! What do you say your name is?”

“Robert Garrett, an Englishman.”

“Then who is Robert Anstruther?”

In a moment my heart fell. I knew what was coming.

“I don’t understand you.”

“Here is a letter of credit for a large sum of money, the name on it is
Robert Anstruther. Explain your possession of it.”

I tried to affect indifference. “Oh, that!” I exclaimed. “Robert
Anstruther is my cousin, and I am taking it to him to Cracow.”

But he didn’t believe me.

“You say you are English, and this lady your sister?”

“You have seen our passports proving that.”

“Now you can speak to her,” he said to his man. I saw the scheme of
course, instantly.

“You are Miss Garrett?” the man asked in excellent English.

Lies, like curses, have a nasty habit of coming home to roost; and for
the moment I was at the end of my wits. The game was nearly up.

“Yes,” said Volna, very nervously.

“My superior doubts that you are English; just tell me anything you
please that I may hear you speak English!”

“Don’t bother with him, Peggy,” I declared in English, putting up a
last bluff of indignation. “I’m not going to have my sister bullied.
Put your questions to me.”

“It is a very simple test.”

“Hang your simple tests. We’ve had more than enough of your tomfoolery.”

“You refuse to speak?” he asked her again.

“Yes. At all events I refuse to allow you or any one else to browbeat
her. We have nearly lost our lives here; and now, when she is all to
pieces, you not only take us for a couple of murderous ruffians and
want to arrest us, but you try this sort of infernal nonsense.”

I left him in no doubt that I was English, and voluble enough, too. He
shrugged his shoulders, and told his chief the result of the test; and
they whispered together.

“You are Robert Garrett of Wyrley Hall, Great Malverton?” he asked me
then in English.

“I’ve told you who I am.”

“Then how is it that Robert Anstruther in the letter of credit, is
described as of that address?”

“Can’t one relative live with another?” I laughed.

“Permit me to see the address on the passport.”

“There is none. You ought to know that;” and with a scoff I unfolded it
and shewed him.

“I don’t mean there. I mean on the outside, where the name and address
are both written.”

“I am going to be baited no longer,” I rattled back sharply, and was
putting the papers away again when he snatched them from me. A glance
was enough to prove the inconsistency of my statement; and he reported
this to his chief, who put my papers away and rose.

“We shall take you all four to the police office at Schirmskad,” he
decided.

I had not the least intention of letting him do anything of the kind;
but my unwillingness was as smoke to fire compared with that of the
woman and her husband. She broke out into a violent tirade swearing she
was innocent and would not go.

“Resist at your peril,” cried the chief in a loud ringing tone; and he
and his man drew their revolvers.

There was a moment of dead silence. My eyes were on the chief, and I
saw a shadow of perplexity cloud his face. I read it to mean that he
had his doubts how to get us all four away if we resisted.

It was a queer turn of the wheel that Volna and I should have to make
common cause with the wretches who had attempted our lives. I did not
wish them to escape; but our own escape was much more to us than their
capture at that moment; and like the chief I was thinking intently what
to do.

Glancing round the room his eye fell on the two ropes.

“Hand me those cords,” he said to me, curtly.

“I am no police agent,” I shot back.

“I call on you to help me.”

“You forget; you have arrested me. You must do your own work.”

The old hag’s eyes were on us as she drank in every word; and she
nudged her husband and whispered to him.

“Don’t you mean to charge them with attempting your lives?” asked the
chief.

“You have arrested me,” I returned, shortly.

“Tie those two together,” he said, turning to his assistant.

To get the cords the man had either to pass the woman or drive her
before him to the end of the room. He tried the latter course and
pushed her violently. She fell to the ground, and, letting out a yell
shrill enough to wake a cataleptic, clasped his legs, and pulled him
down; and in a moment, a noisy rough and tumble scuffle was set going
between the three.

The chief ran to help his man, and I took advantage of the moment to
open the door and put Volna outside.

“Stop there,” cried the chief, holding me up with his levelled revolver.

“I am merely putting my sister out of the way of trouble.”

“Move an inch and I shall fire,” he shouted.

But the words scarcely passed his lips before he came staggering wildly
toward me; his arms went up and his pistol was fired in the air. The
woman had in some way extricated herself from the struggle on the
floor, and his back being turned to her as she rose, she pushed him
violently toward me. I caught him and helped myself to his revolver.

We were struggling together when the woman, who had seized hold of the
lamp, passed us and dashed it violently into the heap of saturated hay
and shavings.

The effect was instantaneous. A blinding flare of flame burst out,
almost like an explosion, and a volume of pungent suffocating smoke
filled the place.

Volna, quick-witted as ever, wrenched the door open, and I staggered
out after her into the night, dragging the chief with me.




CHAPTER XI

FATHER AMBROSE


The pendulum of luck had swung over again to our side and I lost no
time in taking advantage of it. I pushed the man away from me at
random, and chanced to send him staggering up against the two police
horses which were tied up close to the door. They were already snorting
with fear at the fire, and they now began to plunge and kick and rear
until they had dragged themselves free and dashed off into the darkness.

Nor was this all the luck.

“Come,” I cried to Volna. We ran to the shed and found our own animals
standing ready saddled outside. “They were going to bolt on our
horses,” I said, as I put her in the saddle and then mounted. “Which is
the way?”

“Any way. We’re in luck; let us trust to it,” I answered; and guided
by the light of the fire which was now consuming the whole house, we
pushed along at random as quickly as we could. Fortune was with us
still. We gained the road, and in a few minutes were rattling back at a
brisk pace along the road we had travelled so laboriously in the storm
some hours before.

“I had given everything up,” said Volna, when we were breathing the
horses and were able to talk. “I had the papers in my hand ready to
throw them into the blaze.”

“I am glad you didn’t. We’ll get them through yet; but just how to do
it is the question. We’ve escaped by sheer luck and that old hag’s
devilment in firing the house; but they’ve got the passports, all my
papers and what’s almost as bad, nearly all my money.”

“I have a little money. But do you think we could get across the
frontier?”

“We shall have to do it at night, because we must manage to sneak over
somewhere unseen. If we knew the district it would be easier; but even
then we should have to lie low somewhere all through the day. We may
bet on it that when that fellow gets back from the fire he’ll spread
out a pretty wide search party for us.”

“Does Sylvia ever offer you suggestions?” she asked.

I smiled. “Has Peggy one?”

She nodded. “She’s a little bit afraid to offer it.”

“That’s rather rough on Bob, isn’t it?”

“Paul always ridicules anything I say--never thinks any woman, but
Katinka, can have a sensible idea.”

“Why shouldn’t Bob think as much of Peggy’s notions as Paul does of
Katinka’s?”

“I like that,” she said, answering my smile. “But it’s rather a wild
suggestion.”

“Let’s have it.”

“Couldn’t we go back to that village, Kervatje, and get Father Ambrose
to help us? He was mother’s friend.”

“Humph! It _is_ rather a wild one, as you say.”

“I believe we could trust him.”

“And suppose he said no?”

“We could have shelter for the day at least and could try any other
plan that offered.”

“He might give us away.”

“His eyes didn’t look like that when he spoke of mother.”

“We’d have to confess we fooled him.”

“Leave me to do that.”

“Your instinct is to trust him?”

“Yes. I feel as sure of him as I did of--of Bob that morning.”

“That settles it. I can’t mistrust that instinct. Come on;” and off we
rattled again at a pace we relished a deal better than the scarcely
rested horse under me.

“I wonder what has happened at the cottage,” said Volna when we eased
up later.

“I have a sort of sneaking hope that the woman got away despite her
villainous attempt on us.”

“What a fiend of a woman!”

“Her fiendishness it was that saved us from heaven knows what trouble.
I was cudgelling my wits to know how to get out of the mess. She was a
cunning devil, too, in her way.”

“And the man, too. A man!”

“She was the man in that house. Say what you will, it was awfully smart
to spring that accusation against us.”

“I hope she’ll be punished,” said Volna.

“Oh, she’ll get there some day--if not now. But you are the wonder to
me. To go through all you have in the last few hours and yet be as
fresh as--as paint. Sylvia has pluck and all that; but she’d go to bed
after a rough and tumble of this sort.”

“That’s the first thing I shall ask the priest to let me do.”

“He’ll be a bit surprised when we walk in, I expect,” I laughed. “It’s
a pretty cool thing you’re letting us into.”

“Do you think there’s any chance of our being followed?”

“Not yet. I fancy they’ll have their hands full enough with the other
couple. We shall be miles on our way before they could start after us;
and it’s too early for any one to be about to tell them which way we’ve
gone.”

This proved to be the case. We did not meet a soul until we had ridden
many miles and were nearing the forked road at the top of the hill
which the priest had mentioned to me. There we passed two or three
peasants dressed in their best.

“That explains it,” I said.

“What explains what?”

“Why we have seen no one about. It’s Sunday morning and those people
are going in to mass. Your friend the priest is evidently popular.”

“Can we reach the village before mass time?”

“No. We had better finish the journey on foot. My idea is to turn off
somewhere at the bottom of the hill and just leave the horses. We can’t
very well quarter them on the priest as well as ourselves. Besides, it
would cause much more gossip than if we were to arrive on foot. And
gossip is dangerous.”

On reaching the bottom of the hill, we turned off and rode a mile or
so, when I saw a shed in a very lonely spot on a hill side. I slipped
the saddles off and led the horses through a couple of fields and shut
them into the barn.

“No one is likely to be there till to-morrow, so we may get them again
this afternoon if necessary,” I said as I returned to Volna with the
bridles. “There’s a bit of feed on the place and that’ll keep them
quiet. Now we’ll hide these things in the wood yonder; and leave the
rest to chance.”

I buried the saddles under a heap of brushwood, and we made our way
back to the main road and soon reached the village.

“I feel disgracefully dirty,” said Volna, as one or two of the
villagers eyed us curiously.

“They’ll only think we’ve come some distance to mass; and they are
accustomed to the sight of dirty people about here.”

Volna laughed. “Thank you. But even here the people wash themselves on
Sunday.”

“Here’s the priest’s house, next the church,” I answered irrelevantly.
We walked up to it and just as we reached the door it was opened by a
woman, bonnetted and prayer book in hand.

I stepped inside without shewing any hesitation; as if we were
expected. “Good-morning. Is Father Ambrose in his study or already at
church?”

“The Father is in church, sir. You can’t come in, please,” she replied,
resenting our intrusion.

“I was afraid we should be just too late and too early,” I said lightly
to Volna. “He said before ten or after half-past twelve. But we
couldn’t manage it.”

“Is the Father expecting you, sir?”

“Well, not exactly at this moment evidently, or he would have told you
to be ready for us. But we can wait, and my sister will be greatly
obliged to you if you can let her just wash her face and hands.”

“I am on my way to mass, sir; the Father said nothing to me of your
coming.”

“So I see, my good soul. But did he not tell you we were likely to come
for breakfast?”

“The Father fasts until mass on Sunday, sir.”

“Yes, of course, but I am not a priest: nor is my sister.”

She hesitated and then led us into the study.

Volna threw herself with a sigh of fatigue on to one of the hard wooden
chairs; took off her hat and with a smile exclaimed in the most natural
way in the world: “Dear Father Ambrose. He is one of my mother’s
dearest friends.”

It was such apparently ingenuous evidence of sincerity that the good
woman was instantly and most favourably impressed.

“Excuse me a minute,” she said, and went out.

“How readily you tell them, Bob,” said Volna, smiling.

“It was your acting that carried us through, young lady. Dear Father
Ambrose, indeed. As if you had known him all your life.”

“I think she’s going to let us stay.”

She came in again then, having taken off her bonnet. “Will you come
with me?” she said to Volna, who rose. “The Father’s dressing room is
through there, sir,” she added to me, pointing to a door.

I made use of it promptly; washed and shaved and did what I could to
make myself look less like a tramp, before I returned to the good man’s
study.

I must confess that the prospect of meeting him was vastly less to my
taste now than it had appeared when we were twenty miles away; and I
paced the floor considerably ill at ease.

Presently Volna came in, looking as neat and natty as if all the events
of the past day and a half were a dream.

“How on earth have you managed it?” I cried, gazing at her in sheer
admiration.

“That is the dearest old soul in whom nature ever planted the curiosity
of a woman. She just fussed over me as though she was a hen and I her
one chicken.”

“You look as though you hadn’t had anything to make you turn a hair
for the last fortnight. The way you girls manage these renovations
always beats me. Twenty miles away you said you wanted to go to bed;
and here you are as fresh as paint.”

“You said that before; but it isn’t paint,” she answered. “I’ve another
feeling now than a desire to sleep.”

“So have I--disinclination to meet the priest. Is that what you mean?”

She laughed and shook her head. “No, indeed, I mean a desire to eat. I
was never so hungry in my life.”

“It’s a very human feeling; but I wish you hadn’t said anything about
it,” I replied.

“I’m a very human individual, if it comes to that. I declare I could
even relish some of that awful woman’s black bread.”

Most aptly the housekeeper came to tell us she had prepared some
breakfast for us in the opposite room. “The good Father would have
wished this,” she said. “It is the best I can do for the moment.”

Eggs, ham, potted meats, good white wheaten bread, butter and
delicious coffee needed no sort of apology. It was like a feast for
the gods in our famished eyes; and down we sat at once. We had nearly
finished and were lingering over the coffee and laughing carelessly
together at something which Volna had said--I had my cup in my hand,
I remember--when the door was opened all unexpectedly and the priest
entered.

I don’t think I ever felt so foolish and confused in my life. I set
the cup down, flushed to the roots of my hair, and rose with a most
shame-faced, down-at-heel manner, stammering some kind of apology, as I
met his grave, protesting, surprised look.

But Volna came to the rescue with magnificent self-possession. Girls
have these inspirations and beat us hollow in such cases. Without a
sign of awkwardness or self-consciousness she rose and went up to him,
smiling winsomely.

“Father Ambrose, I am in sore trouble and have come to ask my dear
mother’s old friend to help me.”

It was an inspiration. Nothing less. All the protest died out of his
eyes in the softened look of puzzled inquiry he bent on her.

“Your mother?” he repeated, so gently.

“I am Volna Drakona.” He turned toward me. “That was not the truth
we told you yesterday. Before you condemn us, hear all our story. My
mother’s peril was the reason. You will listen to me?”

“I do not understand, but your mother’s child could never appeal to me
for a hearing in vain. And this gentleman?”

“He is Mr. Robert Anstruther, an Englishman, who has risked his liberty
and his life to help me.”

I saw that this partial explanation only added to the good man’s utter
bewilderment. He stood looking from one to the other of us and then
passed his hand slowly across his brow. Next he laid it gently on
Volna’s head and smoothed her hair while he gazed into her face.

“Yes, you must be her daughter. Come to my study and just tell me
everything.”

He opened the door for her and I was following when he turned and said
courteously but with unmistakable significance: “I will speak with you
afterwards, sir.”

Then the door closed on them.




CHAPTER XII

“SHE IS BETROTHED”


I was by no means sorry that Father Ambrose preferred to see Volna
alone. It was her influence, not mine, which would have any effect
upon him; and it was certain she would be able to exert that influence
better alone than if I were present at the interview.

I judged, too, that the priest was shrewd enough to see the wisdom
of hearing our story from us separately. I had already told him one
falsehood and Volna had acquiesced in it; so that we could not blame
him for using any caution which his suspicions might prompt.

That she would win him round to her side, I had little doubt. My faith
in her made me very confident. But what would he do then? What could
he do? How could he, a mere parish priest, help us to turn our failure
into success and get those papers to Cracow?

I had ample time to meditate upon this, for it was more than an hour
before he came back to me. He looked exceedingly grave and troubled,
and asked me to go to his study. Volna was not there. He took his seat
at his writing-table and waved me to one opposite to him; and for a
moment or two he said nothing.

I felt very uncomfortable. Somewhat as I used to feel in the old Corpus
days when carpeted by the Head. He pressed his finger tips together,
and when he spoke there was a mixture of censure and kindness in his
tone.

“Mr. Anstruther, I don’t know how you regard the falsehood you told me
yesterday and induced my friend’s child to act?”

“It was on the impulse of the moment, and I am compelled to admit it
was only one of many I have had to tell in the last two days. But don’t
think it is my habit to lie.”

“Your name is really Robert Anstruther.”

“Yes. But I can give you no proof. My papers were taken----”

He interrupted with a wave of the hand. “I know. I am aware that I must
take your word.”

“I have perhaps deserved that word ‘must,’ but it rankles. If you feel
that my action yesterday prevents your believing what I tell you, we
may as well close this conversation at once.”

“Spoken hastily, like a young man, but not unnatural, perhaps, in
the circumstances. That you should have deceived me with such ready
speciousness is scarcely calculated, however, to convince me of your
good faith. Perhaps you can appreciate that.”

His cold tone and calm clear glance emphasized this, and it hurt. I
made no reply and dropped my eyes.

“Can you see that?”

“You are quite entitled to take your own view of it, of course. But if
the conditions were repeated, I should probably do it again.”

“Then you would do very wrong, Mr. Anstruther,” he said, with some
warmth. “A falsehood is not only a sin in the eyes of the church, but
wrong in every way.”

“I daresay you are quite right. I have never tried it as a policy
before, and it has landed us in a pretty bad mess. But if you can show
me how we could have got out of the hands of the police without lying,
I’ll listen readily. And if we had got into them, the mess would have
been much worse than it is.”

“If you had been candid with me yesterday, all the troubles since then
would have been avoided.”

“They would also have been avoided if the storm had not overtaken us
and we had not lost our way. But can we do any good by dissecting
causes? I am man enough I hope not to shirk responsibility for my
acts. I take all these lies on my own shoulders. They appeared to be
necessary. The necessity no longer exists, and I shall tell you none.
If you can’t believe me, there is an end of things. That’s all.”

He sat for perhaps a minute frowning in thoughtful silence. “Will you
tell me exactly all that has occurred?”

“Has Volna told you?” I asked.

“Yes; but I wish to hear it from you also.”

“A natural precaution,” I admitted; and then told him as succinctly as
I could everything from the moment of the meeting at Bratinsk station.

He listened very closely, interposing some questions now and then, and
when I finished lapsed into thought again.

Presently, with a smile, he said: “You have left some things
unmentioned.”

“Not intentionally.”

“Descriptive of your own acts in places--at least, as told to me.”

“I have said all that need be said. Volna may take an exaggerated view
of some things.”

“I think I have done you an injustice, Mr. Anstruther.”

“That is of no consequence.”

“Tell me, why did you plunge into this hazardous matter?”

“I don’t think that matters. Put it that I liked the prospect of an
adventure. That is quite true.”

“Is it all the truth?”

“There is no falsehood in it, Father. We’ll leave it there, please.”

He looked at me very earnestly indeed and then held out his hand. “Will
you let me beg your pardon?” he asked.

I grasped the hand cordially and shook my head. “No, I will not. If I
had been in your place I should have been much more suspicious. You
hurt me when you thought I might lie to you. But you see now that I
shall not. And that’s all.”

“The child is very dear to me for her mother’s sake, and I see that
you had absolutely nothing to expect in helping her except the risk and
danger that you ran.”

“I ran no risk. I have powerful and very influential friends who will
see me through all right.”

“That I did not understand,” he said quickly. “It makes a difference.
It will be easier.” He spoke rather to himself than to me it seemed.
“You are sure you can rely upon your friends?” he asked presently.

“My father carried through some large financial matters for the German
Government from time to time, and I myself have had evidence of the
good will of several men high in office in Berlin.”

“But this is Russia, Mr. Anstruther.”

“True, but their influence would not stop at the frontier. You may take
it from me, I am in no sort of danger.”

“What are your plans?”

“To get those papers through to Cracow. How, may depend upon you in
some measure.”

He paused and then said slowly: “They are on their way already.”

I sat up in intense surprise. “On their way? Why, has----”

He understood the unfinished question and smiled. “No, she has not
taken them. But they will be in Cracow to-night. A day has been
lost--precious hours, perhaps--by your action yesterday.”

I drew a deep breath of bewilderment.

“You do not understand the wide-reaching influence of the Fraternity,
Mr. Anstruther, and had better ask no questions. But now that the
papers are gone, what are your plans?”

“I had not got as far as that. I have none.”

“You will wish to return to England?”

I hesitated. There was something behind his question I could not read.
“I suppose so--yes, of course I shall return there. My home is there.”

He bent a kind but searching look on me. “I hope you think I am your
friend as well as----” he said after a pause, leaving the sentence
unfinished.

“Oh, yes indeed. I should be sorry not to think so. Is--is Volna going
home to Warsaw?”

“Have you been quite frank with me? I don’t mean that unkindly,” he
hastened to add in reply to a start from me. “As to your motive in all
this? It will be best to be quite frank. Young folks are young folks
all the world over.”

“I should be sorry to misunderstand you,” I said.

“You entered into this thing from love--of adventure only?”

“As it is over, does my motive matter?”

He shook his head slowly. “It may. It may. I don’t know. It may. I am
so afraid of appearing impertinent, or of making a mistake. We old
people fall so readily into mistakes,” he said with a deprecating smile.

“Don’t you think the best way to avoid them is to speak plainly?”

He picked up a sheet of paper and played with it with a suggestion of
nervousness. “I am tempted to tell you a story, a chapter of my life,
Mr. Anstruther. I was not originally intended for the priesthood;
but was to have married. I was betrothed, in fact. Then something
happened--the result of misunderstanding--I knew afterwards how easily
it could have been avoided, but it was not avoided; other influences
intervened, and--and so the marriage which took place was not mine;
and I am now a priest with just a memory. Does that incline you to any
special frankness with me as to your motives in this?”

“You mean with regard to Volna?”

He looked at me again very intently. “You know that she is betrothed?”
he asked.

“Oh, yes. She told me her uncle’s plans.”

His look now was more sympathetic and kind than searching; and he
sighed. “Ah, you do not know, I see.”

“I am not a child, Father Ambrose.”

“I can say no more. I ought not, perhaps, to have said so much. I am
going to deal with you as a man, Mr. Anstruther. Of course all that has
occurred in these two days must never be mentioned. The dear child’s
future must not be compromised.”

“It will not pass my lips.”

“You and I together can secure her safety; I am going to ask your help.
She will remain here until I can get her back safely to Warsaw.”

“I will do anything to secure her safety.”

“The one thing you can do is to put yourself in the hands of the
police.”

“The police?”

“You say your friends will help you in any explanation.”

“I don’t follow you yet.”

“The police have tracked you here from Bratinsk. They were in the
village yesterday evening. They are coming to me again this afternoon.
It happens that my housekeeper’s niece was to have come here to-day--in
a village like this all private matters are public, you know. She is
not coming, but Volna can take her place for the time without any
suspicion being aroused. What you have to do is to cause the police to
believe that Volna has crossed the frontier with you and that you have
returned alone.”

“How cause them to believe this?”

“Go and get your horse and ride through the village this afternoon and
call here.”

“Here!” I cried in astonishment.

“Yes. I shall then send for the police agents and hand you over to
them, as the man who told me the falsehoods yesterday. This will clear
this house of the danger of any suspicion.”

I could not restrain a smile, remembering how he had emphasized the
heinousness of falsehoods. “It will at least be in a good cause,” I
said.

“God forgive me--but the child must be saved, Mr. Anstruther. You’ll do
this?”

“Why, of course.”

“And when your trouble is over, you will go to England?”

“One thing at a time. They might send me to Siberia.”

“It will be best so,” he said earnestly.

“What? Siberia for me?” I laughed.

“No, no. God forbid. England--England as soon as you can.”

“And Volna? Does she--know of this?”

“Indeed, no. Her one thought is of the trouble she may already have
brought upon you. She would never agree to it.”

I believed that. “Should I--see her to--to say good-bye?”

This perplexed him. “It would be better not, but”--his eyes wandered
all round the room before he finished--“I suppose she would wish it.
And you won’t meet again and--and you’ll tell her you are going home to
England?”

“I’m afraid you must leave it to me what to say,” I replied, with a
smile. “I think you may trust my discretion. And you must do your part
afterwards carefully. Keep her out of the way when we play the comedy
of that arrest later, or she may cast herself for a part in it. She’s
plucky enough to avow herself, and that would mix things up a good deal
for us all, you know.”

He frowned, threw up his hands in troubled perplexity and pushed his
chair back.

“We had better get it over,” he exclaimed resignedly. “I’ll go and tell
her you are leaving.”

He walked toward the door, paused, and turned as if to say something
more, then tossed up his hands again and went out of the room.

I stared out of the window into the small, but carefully tended garden,
a prey to the very mixed thoughts which the good Father had succeeded
in rousing.

Then the door opened and Volna came in alone.




CHAPTER XIII

VOLNA IS A LITTLE REFRACTORY


She was dressed for her new character of the housekeeper’s niece, and
wore a white apron and a peasant girl’s picturesque head-dress.

She closed the door behind her, dropped me a little curtsey and said
with the demurest of glances: “Did you please to send for me, sir?”
Then she burst out laughing and ran to me, both hands outstretched, as
though we had not met for a long time. “Now, wasn’t my instinct right?”

I held her hands apart while I surveyed her costume. “Who was ever so
foolish as to question it?”

“And isn’t the Father just the dearest old man in the world?”

“The world is a big place and there are lots of old men in it,” I
answered. “But I knew you would win him round. He had no chance against
you.”

She laughed gaily. “He lectured me, however.”

“So he did me.”

“And to think that if we had only known, he would have taken care of
those papers yesterday.”

“And have saved us from all the horrors of last night.”

She shot a glance at me. “And have freed you from the encumbrance of a
very troublesome sister twenty-four hours ago.”

“Yes, indeed; if we had only known.”

“You’re in a very agreeing mood.”

“I am no longer a brother and must be polite.”

“Do you call that politeness?”

“Politeness or--policy.”

“Well, whichever it is, it’s not a bit nice. Not a bit like--Bob.”

“You forget. Bob is my own name, as well as my friend Garrett’s.”

“How formal you are. What is the matter? You can’t be annoyed about
anything Father Ambrose has said to you? Nor about his having helped
us? What is it?”

“I didn’t even know I was formal.”

She turned away to the priest’s table and sat in his chair turning over
the books on the desk. I sat facing her as I had faced the priest. Once
she sighed, and once shrugged her shoulders, and twice glanced across
at me in perplexity.

She was very pretty; very bewitching; more pretty and bewitching than
ever, in my eyes; but I was conscious of a new restraint--a something
like a barrier between us which had not been there before. I couldn’t
speak with the old freedom; in fact, I could think of nothing to say.

“Father Ambrose tells me you are going away,” she said at length, her
fingers still busy with the books.

“Yes, I am going away. I--I thought you’d like me just to say good-bye.”

“Well, I should hope so, indeed. After what you’ve done for me.”

“Never mind about that, please. I think I must be off.”

I rose; but she paid no heed, just sitting on at the table, her face
averted and her fingers moving the books restlessly. I looked out of
the window, fidgetted a moment, and then turned again.

“Yes, I think it’s time.”

“Of course I won’t keep you,” she said then; very stiffly and without
looking at me.

“Good-bye then.”

She rose and held out her hand. “Good-bye.” She turned her face to me
and her lip quivered as she bit it. I recalled the priest’s words about
her betrothal; and clamped down my feelings as I took her hand and
pressed it.

“I wish you God-speed with all my heart,” I said.

She lowered her eyes again and her hand fell listlessly as I released
it and turned to the door. I had nearly reached it when I heard the
rustle of her cotton dress and turned to find her at my elbow.

“But you’re not going to part like this?”

I should have liked to part in a very different fashion could I have
had my way. But I could not.

“Father Ambrose thinks that I had better go; and of course he is
right.”

“But Bob and Peggy haven’t said good-bye. Oh, think of all we’ve gone
through together. Don’t go away angry with me like this.”

“Angry! God forbid. Why you’re just the bravest little soul I ever
met in all my life. And some day I hope Sylvia and you will meet,
and--and----” I scarcely knew what I was saying and ended in partial
incoherence.

“That’s more like you. I mean it’s more natural, except that you
generally know exactly what you want to say and say it. Are you going
to--to England?”

“I don’t think I _have_ any definite plans. I----”

Her laughter stopped me. She shook her forefinger with laughing
assumption of gravity. “If I had not ceased to be Peggy, I should
say you were hiding something from me. And you know how true Peggy’s
instincts are?”

“What should I have to hide?” I asked with a smile.

“What a mask of a smile,” she cried, with a lifting of the hands.
“Father Ambrose is a wonderful man; he has changed you completely in an
hour.” She turned back to the table and sat down again. “I suppose it
couldn’t be helped,” she added half to herself with a sigh.

“What could not be helped?”

She did not reply at once but looked up at me from under her long
lashes, while her feet tapped the floor quickly and irritably. “Of
course you are doing this with a purpose,” she said after the pause.
“Why? Oh, don’t pretend to misunderstand me. You know as well as I do
that you’re entirely changed. It’s so unjust. What have I done? You
know that after all you’ve done for me I wouldn’t do anything to anger
you for all the world.”

“Don’t persist about my being angry.”

“Well, offended, then, only it’s such a stupid word. Estranged,
alienated, changed; any word you like. Something has happened--something
has come between us. Do you treat Sylvia like this? It’s maddening.”

“There is no change in me,” I protested.

She laughed. “It’s in me, then, you mean. That’s almost cowardly--at
least it would be if any one but you said it.” Then with a start her
eyes opened wide; she rose and stared at me with parted lips; and a
vivid blush spread all over her face. “I believe I understand. You
think in your English way, that I have been too forward, unwomanly,
too,--oh!” and she covered her crimson cheeks with her white strenuous
fingers.

“Don’t say that, please. Why the time we’ve been together has been the
brightest thing in the world to me.”

She took her hands from her face and sat down again staring at the
table while the flush died out of her cheeks slowly. “I’ve gone all
over that sentence. That ‘has been’ is the clue. Now I see. It’s all
over and we are conventional again.” With an exaggerated affectation of
a society manner she rose very slowly, held out her hand and simpered:
“I hope you will have a pleasant journey, Mr. Anstruther. The weather
is still open enough to be excellent for travelling. Will you make my
compliments to your sister, and say I hope to see her some day?”

I could not restrain a smile, but not a muscle of her face moved; she
kept up the vapid simper. “I will give your message,” I said, and tried
to take her hand; but she just let me touch her finger tips and then
bowed.

“I am so pleased to have met you; and thank you _so_ much for all you
have done. I hope you’ll not take cold from the rain. Colds are _such_
distressing afflictions.” Then another sudden change. With a stamp of
her foot she threw her head back and her rich blue eyes sparkled. “Is
that better?”

I bowed. “I am sorry you so misunderstand.”

“Misunderstand!” she repeated, quickly. “I don’t misunderstand that if
you were the kind of masculine formality you have been acting here this
morning you would never have done what you have for me in the last two
days. I am only a woman, of course--wait, you will wish to see Father
Ambrose again before you go. I’ll tell him;” and she crossed to the
door.

“Good-bye,” I said, but she paid no heed and went out of the room.
It was not the kind of parting I had looked for, but I smothered my
regrets. It was better so.

We could not go on being Bob and Peggy to one another of course; and
yet we had been too closely associated to drop back into mere formal
friendliness again without a wrench. She couldn’t see this in a moment;
but she would understand it later; and--well, the sooner I was away,
the better for my peace of mind.

Then she came back bringing the priest with her. He was very plastic
clay in her white young hands. He wore a look of deep and almost
comical perplexity, and was obviously very ill at ease.

“Now, Father, please. What have you said or done to Mr. Anstruther to
change him in this short time?”

He glanced half appealingly at me; but I was as little at ease as he
was. “My dear child, I--I--er----”

“You have lectured me already on the wisdom and necessity of complete
frankness, Father,” she interposed significantly.

“It is very difficult to gather----” he got no farther, for she held up
a warning finger and shook it at him with a laugh and then placed it on
his lips.

“There shall not be any difficulty,” she declared. “For two days Mr.
Anstruther has been just like a brother to me; treating me perfectly
frankly and saying as candidly as any brother whatever was in his
thoughts. We made a compact that he should do that, and he kept it
honestly. I left him in that mood when I first saw you. You then had a
long talk with him and I found him entirely changed; keeping something
from me; formal in manner; saying things he didn’t mean and meaning
others he didn’t say. Instead of a brother, he was an acquaintance. You
caused this by something you said. Now tell me, please.”

The good man was helpless; so I went to the rescue. “It is time for me
to go. You can discuss this when I have left.”

“Wait a moment. Two things I am certain of. You two have arranged to do
something that affects me and you won’t tell me; and you, Father, have
said something about me which has changed Mr. Anstruther. I won’t stand
that. I won’t let him go as if we were just how-d’ye-do--and--good-bye
acquaintances. He has saved me from prison, and I just can’t do it.”

The embarrassment was becoming almost painful. “I should never think of
you as a mere acquaintance; but please let me go,” I said.

“Yes. You may go. Good-bye--but don’t attempt to help me any more if
you _do_ go in that way. I will not let either of you help me, if you
mean to deceive me;” and with fingers that trembled she took off the
head-dress and laid aside her apron. “If you will not tell me, I will
go by myself and take my chance.”

“My dear child,” protested the priest.

“I will. I will. My mind is made up.”

“You had better tell her,” I said to the priest then.

She smiled, but through the promise of tears. “You know me, don’t you?”

Father Ambrose then told her the scheme in regard to my arrest and we
both enlarged upon the absence of risk to me. She neither acquiesced
nor vetoed it. “That’s number one. What is number two? What have you
told Mr. Anstruther?”

“You want to rule with a pretty strong iron rod, don’t you?” I said.
“But there is nothing to tell that need be told.”

“Tell me,” she cried to Father Ambrose. “I will know, or----”

“I only told him such facts about you as you had told me,” complied the
priest, taking refuge in generalities.

She stood thinking, shooting quick inquiring glances at us in turn.

“I ask you not to insist on anything more than that,” I urged.

A gleam of understanding was in her eyes and a semi-mischievous smile
hovering about her lips as she returned: “Who asked that?”

“Bob Garrett,” I declared promptly.

The smile deepened. “What will the police do with him?” she asked
Father Ambrose. “Take him to Cracow?”

“More probably to Warsaw,” was the reply; “but as we told you, his
friends will see he comes to no harm of any sort. You are quite sure of
that, are you not, Mr. Anstruther?”

“I haven’t the faintest doubt of it;” and at this Volna looked quite
her happy self.

“I may as well put these on again, then,” she said, and she slipped on
the apron and arranged the quaint head-dress. When she looked next at
me her face was almost preternaturally grave, except her expressionful
eyes.

“You see now what a lot of time would have been saved if you had been
frank like Bob, and not tried to deceive me like Mr. Anstruther. I can
say good-bye, just as formally as you please, now I know why you are
going.”

I took her hand and pressed it. “You’ll stay here and let this thing go
through all right?”

“Yes. Father Ambrose wishes it. Good-bye, Mr. Anstruther, and
good-bye--Bob.”

“Good-bye--Peggy. I may say that for the last time.”

“Yes, for the last time, of course. I am Volna, after to-day.” She
looked into my eyes with an odd inscrutable expression in hers and
smiled. “You’ll be all right, or else I shouldn’t agree. But I know
you, and I am sure.”

Then I hurried out of the room followed by the priest.




CHAPTER XIV

THE ARREST


As it was desirable for the success of our plan that I should not be
seen when I fetched my horse, the priest pointed out a way across the
fields; and then gave me one of the greatest surprises of that time.

“Considering what you are doing I must trust you with a dangerous
secret. You will give me your honour never to reveal it?”

I gave him the pledge readily.

“The owner of the shed where you left the horses is named Jacob Posen;
and he may have found them, and raise difficulties. In that case you
will say to him; ‘I am a peasant farmer, friend.’ He will probably
reply; ‘You seem in a hurry?’ and you will answer: ‘Immediate.’ His
next question if he asks it, will be: ‘Your name?’ In reply you will
raise your left hand with the forefinger extended, the tip to be level
with your eyes, and the back of the hand toward him, and say: ‘In the
eye of God.’ He will then offer to shake hands with you; but you will
refuse and look steadily at him. He will then be ready to help you.” He
illustrated the peculiar gesture.

The inner significance of this was not difficult to see. “Peasant
farmer, friend,” clearly stood for “P. F. F.”--the Polish Freedom
Fraternity. The word “Immediate” was for one with a similar
initial--probably Independence; while the gesture was for recognition
purposes with a subtle reference to the righteousness of the cause and
the far-reaching extent of the movement.

I was profoundly impressed by the incident. Here I was in a little
village of nowhere, far removed from the busy cities where revolution
has its birth and conspiracy is cradled; and yet the ramifications were
so widespread, the arrangements so perfected, and the secret means so
ready to hand, that Father Ambrose--as mild a mannered man as ever
wore a priest’s stole--was able in a few minutes to find one agent to
carry the dangerous papers to Cracow, and then another to help me in my
scheme.

Until then I had never regarded the Fraternity as a serious national
force; my opinion being influenced by the fact that my friend, Count
Ladislas, was one of the leaders.

I knew him for a man whose habit of mind led him to shirk
responsibility, to act on impulse, to be swayed by the last word,
and to veer this way and that when a decision had to be made. It was
impossible to think of him as leading a movement which called for
practical, earnest and sustained effort, for the resolute overcoming
of innumerable difficulties, the persistent, steady, battling against
odds, and the uninterrupted, unceasing educative work needed here.

He was a man of dreams, ideas, theories, and principles; and here were
the results of steady action, hard work, stern realities and tireless
practice.

I seemed to realize for the first time how real was the danger from
which Volna had to be saved and how grave the risk to which her friends
in Warsaw had so thoughtlessly exposed her.

Even if our little scheme now were successful and I managed to lead
the police off her track, there was serious reason to fear that fresh
danger might await her in Warsaw; and at that moment a thought occurred
to me and, despite the seriousness of things, I laughed aloud.

In our last interview she had shewn a dozen moods in as many sentences,
to my infinite bewilderment; but I thought now of something which had
escaped me at the moment. Her cheerfulness had returned when she knew I
was likely to be taken to Warsaw.

Will any one blame me if in my egoism I interpreted this as a sign that
she hoped we should meet again there? We had parted for always and said
a last good-bye; but she had taken the parting lightly, because the
“always” would last only until we were both in Warsaw. That was why I
laughed.

The laughter had a short life, however. It died suddenly as I
remembered how Father Ambrose had spoken of Volna’s betrothal. There
was something more than I knew of in that; Volna herself had spoken of
an entanglement; and I was worrying over the puzzle when I reached the
top of a sloping meadow and saw below me the shed I was seeking.

There was no one about as I hurried down the hill. I was glad, as I had
no mind for indulgence in cabalistic signs, and all the rest of it.

But I had been seen; and as I was unfastening the door a man came round
the end of the shed.

“Well?” A very blunt but significant monosyllable.

“Are you Jacob Posen?” He nodded. He was a big, heavy, black-bearded,
powerful man.

“I have come for my horse.”

“What do you mean? This is my barn. I have no horse of yours.”

“I am a peasant farmer, friend.”

He laughed, giving no sign that he understood; but he was only acting,
for he said with a sneer: “You seem in a hurry?”

“Immediate.”

His laugh changed to a scowl and he growled in a tone of almost savage
anger, “Your name?” I was almost surprised an oath did not follow.

I made the sign and answered, “In the eye of God.”

His face changed suddenly and affecting an air of good fellowship he
thrust out his hand. I refused it and just looked him in the face.

His taciturn expression returned and he opened the door of the barn.

“I saw you put them both in and wondered,” he said. “Shall I fetch the
saddle or will you?”

“Better you; I don’t wish to be seen.”

“Both?”

“No, mine only. Hide the other and the horse.”

He went off at once leaving me marvelling more than ever. He was soon
back and himself slipped on the saddle and bridle. Nothing more was
said until I was ready to mount.

“You bought him in Bratinsk and this in Pulta. What shall I do with it?”

“It mustn’t be found twenty miles west of here; and this revolver must
be hidden,” I added, as I gave him the weapon I had taken at Schirmskad.

“I understand. God keep us all.”

“God keep us all,” I repeated, assuming that to be another secret sign.
As I rode off, I saw him return to the coppice where the other saddle
was and carry it back to the barn.

I rode leisurely in the direction of the village, on the look-out for
some sign of the police and running over in my mind the story I should
tell.

Such of the villagers as were about gaped at me and two or three
children followed. As I was playing a part and did not know whose eyes
might be upon me, I thought it best to play thoroughly.

“Which is the priest’s house?” I asked one of the women; and she
pointed it out. I beckoned to the children and throwing them some
kopecks bade them tell the Father I wished to speak to him.

He came out and I raised my hat and said in a voice loud enough for
others to hear: “I am the Englishman who passed through the village
yesterday and spoke with you, Father. I have had all my money taken
from me and have thought it best to come to you.”

“Come into the house,” he said gravely. As I dismounted and fastened my
horse to the railing, he drew a woman aside and whispered to her; then
led the way to the door. “I have sent for the police agents,” he told
me. “They have been some half hour in the village.”

“I am quite ready;” and as we sat waiting I told him hurriedly what had
passed with Jacob Posen, and that I thought Volna’s horse should be
hidden.

“Do you really need any money?” he asked.

“No, I think not. I shall get back my letter of credit.”

Soon we heard footsteps outside.

“They are here. I almost regret this,” he said hurriedly.

“I think it splendid. Now for the play.” Then I raised my voice, and
spoke excitedly. “The men took my letter of credit, and if you do not
help me what am I to do? Some one shall pay for this.” I got up and
held the door partly open. “If you can’t do it, you can’t of course;
but I daren’t stay here.”

“You cannot go,” said the Father. “I have sent for the police.”

“Not go, I’ll see about that,” I cried angrily, and rushed out to be
instantly seized by my friend of the Devil’s Staircase and a companion.

“No, no. We’ll see about your going,” sneered the fellow. “You’re
right, Father Ambrose, this is the man we seek. Thank you for keeping
him here and sending for us.”

“Ah, so it’s you again, eh?” I said.

“Yes; and you won’t get away this time.”

I turned on the priest viciously. “And this is your idea of
Christianity, eh? To get me inside your house in order to betray me to
the hounds. I wish you joy of your creed.”

“Don’t insult the Father. He has only done his duty.” The irony of the
praise for the falsehood we had acted together, struck the good man and
I saw him wince.

“I have done what I have done,” he murmured.

“See if he’s armed,” ordered the agent. “He stole my revolver.”

“Your comrades took it from me in their turn. You’ll find it at
Schirmskad. I’m not armed. I don’t need any weapons any longer.”

He looked up with a scowl, and a start. “Schirmskad?”

I laughed significantly. “On my way to the frontier. You’re too late,
my friend; and within the next few hours I am going to show you what a
fool you’ve made of yourself.”

“Where’s the woman?”

“Wire to Schirmskad and ask who escaped when the cottage of woodcutter
Krempel was burned down last night. You know how near that is to the
frontier.” I did not, but I bluffed him.

“Did he ride up alone?” he asked Father Ambrose.

“Yes, at the moment I sent for you.”

“You’ll answer for this,” he cried angrily.

“That’s exactly what I’ve ridden back for. Your fellows at that cottage
took my money and papers; so, as soon as I had done what I set out to
do, I rode back. On my way I came to this priest here; as he knows I am
an Englishman; and instead of helping me, he arranged for my arrest.
You Russian Poles are a nice friendly Christian people, the whole lot
of you.”

“Where were you going?”

“Why to Bratinsk, of course--where the rest of my things are and I am
well enough known to borrow money until I can get some from England.”

“A likely story,” he sneered.

“You needn’t believe it. Your sneers don’t affect me a kopeck. This
particular episode being closed I am going back to my hunting at
Bratinsk.”

“You’ll find the episode, as you call it, isn’t closed. You’ll have to
answer for it and must come with me.”

“I haven’t the least objection now.”

He thanked Father Ambrose again and we left the house. They walked one
on each side of me, and one of the villagers led my horse. In this way
I was marched to the police quarters of the village--just a cottage,
pretty much like that of an ordinary county policeman at home.

There he wanted to catechize me afresh about Volna; but I stopped him.
“I shall say nothing about that and nothing more about myself. I am
ready to go wherever you please to take me, and having no longer any
reason to resist, will do what you wish. You know who I am, because you
saw my papers at Bratinsk before any of this fuss occurred. Take me to
your superiors and I’ll convince them in half an hour that the sooner I
am at liberty again, the better for all concerned.”

“I am in charge of this,” he cried, bristling with authority. “You have
aided the escape of a revolutionary and must answer for it.”

“I am an Englishman. Take me to your superiors,” I said; and to that
phrase I stuck, repeating it doggedly to his every question, until I
had tired out his patience and worn his temper to shreds.

I was then left in a room with a man to guard me while a carriage was
got ready; when I was handcuffed and bundled into it pretty roughly. I
knew the road of course and soon saw they were taking me to Solden.

I was carried to the police quarters there and shut up in a cell;
still with a man to guard me. Meanwhile they communicated with the
police at Schirmskad; and after some time I was taken from the cell and
confronted with the chief of the men who had nearly captured me at the
woodcutter’s cottage.

“I am glad to see you,” I told him. “You have my passport, papers, and
letter of credit. I demand their return.”

“Where is your companion and who is she?”

“Who is the chief here?” I asked.

“Answer me, you dog,” he cried with an oath, raising his hand.

“I am an Englishman with very powerful friends; no mere peasant to be
kicked and hounded by you. Lay a finger on me, if you dare.” The two
conferred together; my papers were taken out and examined; and a third
man called to the conference.

“Where is your companion and who is she?” demanded the man again.

“Take me to your superiors,” I said; and from that reply I would not be
moved. At last I was sent back to the cell with the guard to watch me
as before.

I was getting on better than I had even hoped. My insistent repetition
of the fact that I was an Englishman had had its effect.

The Warsaw agent who had seen me first at Bratinsk had no doubt
satisfied himself on the point; and from what I had seen in the recent
conference, he had made this clear to the others.

My chief anxiety was about food. It was now late in the afternoon and
having had nothing since the breakfast at the priest’s house I was
egregiously hungry. I recalled my experience at Pulta station and began
to speculate what effect a gold coin would have upon my guard. He was a
heavy stupid-looking fellow; but the biggest fool in Russia knows the
difference between a gold piece and a kopeck.

The coins in my pocket had not been taken from me and although I was
still handcuffed I was able to wriggle my hand into my pocket and get
some out. The man watched me sullenly.

“I am hungry,” I said.

“Prisoners mustn’t talk.”

“I have had no food for hours. Wouldn’t this buy some?” and I held up a
couple of roubles.

“Silence,” he growled, with a surly frown.

I substituted a gold piece for the two silver ones. “Food is perhaps
dear in Solden.”

He fidgetted uneasily, his eyes on the gold. I put the three coins
together. “The silver for the food, and gold for the waiter,” I said.

He sighed regretfully. “Impossible,” he murmured.

“Mayn’t you buy food for yourself? Have you had supper?”

His eyes gleamed. A slow smile of cunning spread over his face. He
stretched out his hand. I put the two silver coins into it. “One pays
the waiter at the end of dinner.”

He was disappointed, and stood glancing from the coins in the palm of
his hand to me and back from me to the coins. Then he decided to earn
the gold.

He knocked on the door of the cell and a comrade came. They whispered
together; the coins jingled; and the comrade departed.

In half an hour he returned with some food: a cold chicken, some bread
and tea. The cost was probably under a rouble and the comrade had thus
paid himself in advance.

There was no knife; so I had to eat the fowl as best I could; pulling
the joints asunder and gnawing the flesh. But I was too hungry to
bother about that. When I had finished I gave the man the gold piece.

“I must give him something,” he grumbled.

“Give him what you like out of that,” I answered, getting a very black
look from him.

After the food, sleep became insistent. I had not slept since Pulta,
and had done a good deal in the meantime. I was as tired as a hound
after a long day, and had scarcely settled myself on the bench against
the corner of the wall before I was off.

Not for long, however. I dreamed that some huge monster animal was
suffocating me and woke to find it was my guard’s heavy coat sleeve
pressing against my face as he leaned across to get at the pocket where
my money was.

“Helping yourself, are you?”

He got up hurriedly and a couple of coins fell from his hand to the
floor.

“I only wanted to see you were comfortable,” he mumbled.

“You thought the money might make too big a lump for comfort, eh? Very
nice of you. Your officer counted it, so you can tell him how much
you’ve taken. It’ll be all right.”

He swore--perhaps at the feebleness of the sarcasm; but he thrust the
money back and sat down in his chair again glowering at me.

I settled myself in my corner once more and slept this time until
somebody shook me violently.

It was my friend of the Devil’s Staircase; and he bade me get up at
once and go with him.

I yawned. “Where to?”

“To my superiors,” he answered with a grin; thinking it a joke no doubt
to throw my own words back at me.




CHAPTER XV

A TASTE OF PRISON LIFE


Outside in the corridor the man from Schirmskad was waiting, and the
two drove me to the railway station and hustled me into a railway
carriage. They would not say where I was being taken, but I did not
care much, and five minutes after I entered the train, I was fast
asleep.

When I awoke it was daylight. A bleak, desolate, grey morning, for the
snow had come at last, and was falling heavily. I was cold and stiff
from the cramped position, and sore from the jolting of the train--one
never understands how a train can jolt until after an experience in
what they call a fast train in Russian Poland--and as I sat up, yawned,
and rubbed my eyes, every bone in my body seemed to ache.

My guards were both asleep. Had I been minded I could have taken their
weapons and shot them both as they rolled in their corners, snoring
loudly enough to have drowned the sound of the shots.

I roused them both, and with a great shew of politeness told them what
I could have done. They both swore at me.

“It’s really very wrong of you to go to sleep in such a case,” I said
amiably. “You had no right to subject a prisoner to such a temptation.
I fear I shall be compelled to report you.”

“You’re a cool hand,” growled the Schirmskad man.

“Not nearly so cold as _you_ would soon have been if I had done it,” I
retorted, and the grimness of the joke seemed to appeal to them. “But
Englishmen don’t do that kind of thing.”

“To hell with the English,” he said.

“That’s not pretty, but it’s nothing to what you’ll feel like saying
before you are through with me. One of you took me for a spy, or a
conspirator, and the other for a thief or a murderer. It was brilliant.”

“Who are you, then?” growled the Warsaw man. They were both sleepy and
ill-tempered, and thus very easy to bait.

“If I had been either spy or murderer, I suppose even you can see that
I should have shot you just now instead of going on contentedly to
explain things.” The train ran through a station then, and I caught
sight of the name Tischnov. I knew the place to be some twenty miles
from Warsaw. I began to chuckle, and presently burst into a loud laugh.

“What is it now?”

“I am thinking of your promotion,” I grinned. “They tell me that the
man who makes the biggest mistakes gets promoted instantly for fear the
blunder should be known and police prestige suffer. I expect you’ll be
heads of departments by to-morrow, you two, with decorations.”

“We’ve had enough of your insolence.”

“You asked me why I smiled. Why, when your Minister of the Interior
hears from my dear old friend, General von Eckerstein--he used to
represent Germany at Petersburg, you know--how you’ve treated me,
you’ll get such a sweet message from him.”

The Schirmskad man swore, but his companion looked serious. I continued
to chaff them with much enjoyment for ten miles; and the Warsaw agent
grew more and more uneasy at every word I dropped relative to my having
well-known friends.

“What do you know about General von Eckerstein?” he asked at length.

“That he doesn’t like his friends to wear this kind of ornament;” and I
held up my handcuffs.

“If you’ll give me your word not to escape, I’ll take them off,” he
replied, very sheepishly.

“Not for the world, now. I shall be able to tell the General how it
feels to be dragged through the streets of Warsaw manacled like a
felon.”

The two whispered together for some minutes, and then the Warsaw man
said: “We’re not afraid of your escaping. I’ll take them off.”

I let him do it, of course. “A bit uncomfortable about it all, eh?
It’s beginning to dawn on you at last that I’m not a dangerous
revolutionary?” I said, as I rubbed my chafed wrists. “You’re only at
the beginning of your lesson, though.”

“I have done no more than my duty,” he muttered.

“We shall see about that before the day’s over, my friend,” I answered
sharply.

When we reached Warsaw I was driven to the police headquarters. I was
expected, and after a few minutes I was taken to a room where some half
dozen men were awaiting me, among them being the two who had brought me
to Warsaw. The chief was sitting at a heavily bepapered table.

“Stand there,” he said, pointing to a spot opposite to him.

Two things were evident. The chief was a man high in authority--the
deferential manner of the rest shewed this--and the proceedings
were stage-managed with a view to impress me with the solemnity and
seriousness of the occasion. I took my cue accordingly, and was as
nonchalant as I could be. “Why stand?” I asked.

“You are a prisoner,” he rapped out, with a frown.

“On what charge?”

“Don’t question me. Your name?”

I looked at him steadily and kept silent. The frown deepened and he
repeated “Your name; do you hear?”

“Of course I hear you; but if I am a prisoner I decline to answer any
questions until I know the charge against me.”

“Don’t trifle with me. Refuse to answer and you go to the cells.”

“That as you please. Your agent there knows my name perfectly well and
that I am a British subject. I claim my rights as one.”

The reply only served to increase his anger. The flesh about his nose
and mouth began to grow white as it will with some men in passion.
He was a bully, and probably hated the English like so many of his
countrymen.

“Answer me, you----” The epithet was lost in the loud cough of a man
near him.

“You have the only answer I shall give until I know the charge.”

“Take him away,” he ordered, with a wave of the hand.

“I demand to communicate with the British Consul,” I said, “and with my
friend, General von Eckerstein.”

“Take him away,” he repeated; and I was led off and placed in a cell.
If he thought to frighten me, the effort had failed. He had put himself
in the wrong, and I knew that my turn would come.

It was a filthy, foul-smelling place they put me in, and they kept me
in it all day without food or even water.

In the evening I was taken again before the man, and the scene of the
morning was repeated in pretty much the same terms and with the same
result. But my back was up, and I vowed I’d rather starve than give in.

I passed a miserable night, famished with hunger, parched with thirst,
and half stifled with the reeking foulness of the place.

In the morning an official came to the cell to try a different method.
He was less of a ruffian than his superior, and sought to convince me
of the uselessness of contumacity.

I let him talk without once replying to his questions until he was
in the act of leaving. “I am a British subject,” I said then, “and I
have demanded no more than my rights. I have been treated like a dog
and shut up in this filthy place to be starved into submission to that
ruffianly bully. Go through with it if you dare. I can keep my end up,
and be hanged to you all. But if I’m left to rot here, there’ll be
questions which somebody will find it difficult to answer. You can’t
murder Englishmen with impunity. You know that.”

He shrugged his shoulders, hesitated whether to answer, then decided
not to and went away.

A couple of hours later I was taken again to be examined, and the man
who had visited me was with the bully.

“Is your name Robert Anstruther?” asked the latter.

“You knew that before you sentenced me to twenty-four hours’
starvation.”

“Are you prepared now to explain your part in this business?”

“What business? What do you charge me with?”

His colleague bent and whispered to him; and a short but very heated
altercation followed, which resulted in the bully ordering the other
man out of the room.

Then he turned to me. “You’ll have to answer me.”

“We shall see about that,” I returned with a grin.

“I shall gaol you till you do.”

“Then we shall both be a good deal older when we meet again,” I
retorted.

“You have a fancy to try a change of prisons?”

“I demand to see the British Consul and to be allowed to communicate
with my friends.”

“Your friends, now. Who are they?” he sneered.

“One will do to start with. His Excellency General von Eckerstein of
the German Legation at Petersburg. I wish him to know that you have
tried to starve me to submit to your infernal bullying.”

“Insolent English beast,” he roared, completely losing his head in his
fury. “Take the liar away.”

“I shan’t always be a prisoner,” I cried, as the man seized me. “But I
shall remember that insult until I’ve made you swallow your words.” I
was nearly as furious as he; but I had no time to say more, for the men
took their cue from him and hustled me violently out of the room.

They passed on word that I might be ill treated with impunity; and I
had a very rough and tumble time indeed while being carried to one of
the gaols.

With the minor police and gaol officials in Russian Poland, the
ill-treatment of prisoners is a carefully studied art; and they amused
themselves congenially with me. Twenty times on that short journey I
had to put the greatest restraint on myself to resist the temptation to
do what they strove to goad me to do--to commit some act of violence
which would have given them the excuse they sought to half batter me to
death.

As it was I was hustled, struck and kicked; my clothes were nearly
torn off my back, and every foul epithet which Russian and Polish
malice could think of was spat at me with official brutality and
contemptuousness.

I kept my head, however. I was tough enough to bear a good deal of
ill-treatment; I had often taken much worse punishment in the boxing
ring, and I had played football in America; so I held my temper back
for the man who was the real cause of it all.

They flung me at length into a cell and locked the door upon me with a
last gibe that the English were dirty cowards, and I the meanest skunk
of them all.

I understood that day how men are made murderers. I brooded over my
wrongs and nursed my rage against the bully who was responsible for
this treatment, until if we had stood face to face I know I should have
found delight in dragging him down and choking the life out of him. A
fierce desire to fight him and punish him took possession of me; and
for an hour or two hunger, thirst, injustice, everything was forgotten
in that all but insane craving for revenge.

But rage cannot last for ever and when some rough prison food--gruel,
black bread, and a pannikin of water--was thrust into my cell an hour
or two later, the sight of it re-roused my hunger and blanketed my
passion. So famished was I by that time that I had to clamp down the
desperate impulse to cram it into my mouth with the unbridled voracity
of a starving beast.

It was excellent self-discipline to eat it slowly. But I succeeded. I
took it, just a mouthful at a time, with long intervals between, thus
spreading out the meal over perhaps two hours or more. And at the end
of the time I was myself once more, had regained my self-restraint, and
was able to think.

What they meant to do with me, I could not see; but what I would do
was clear enough. I would conform to every rule of the prison life and
wait for the chance of communicating with my friend or with the British
Consul. Let that bully break down my resolve, I would not, if I had to
stay in the prison till I was grey. And when my time came, I would have
a reckoning with him, even if the immediate result was only to bring me
back to the prison with a real crime for the reason.

On entering the gaol I had been searched, and my watch and money,
everything, indeed, taken from me. I could not, therefore, try the
bribery trick again, even if the chance had offered. So I made the
best of a very bad job, arranged my torn clothes in such fashion as I
could, rubbed the bruises where the brutes had kicked or struck me, and
got all the sleep that was possible.

The attempt to starve me was abandoned, and later in the day another
meal, black bread and water this time, was served. I was left to myself
that day and the whole of the next, except when the food was brought,
or when I was ordered roughly to clean the cell, or when a warder in
the corridor would open the grill in the door and after grinning at me
would utter some vile epithet. They were a genial pleasant set of men.

On the third day, however, a fresh course was attempted. A man I
had not seen before entered my cell, and after very little preface
hinted that if I would pay him, he would carry some communication to
my friends. Suspicious that it was a trick, I declined; and then he
urged me to make a full confession of all I knew and submit to the
authorities.

“What do you call this but submitting?” I retorted. “I don’t see what
other course is left to me. But I have done nothing, and have no
confession to make therefore.”

“By submission I mean answer the questions of Colonel Bremenhof.”

“Is that the man who interrogated me?”

“Yes. Will you not confess to----”

“I have no confession to make,” I cut in. “But I’m glad to know his
name. I shan’t forget it.”

He tried to work on my fears, then. This was not England, the times
were troubled, military laws prevailed, and suspects who would not
account for themselves might be treated very harshly.

“I have had ample proof of that myself, thank you,” said I, drily; “and
as soon as I am free, I shall see that some others learn to spell the
word.”

He gave me up then and left with a curt warning. “You will not be free
until you have submitted.”

It began to look as though it was to be trial of staying power; and I
had all that day and half the next to ponder his warning.

Then something happened.

I had had my midday meal and was trying to sleep when I heard the
shuffling of steps and the murmur of voices in the corridor.

There was a pause, the key was thrust into the lock, the door thrown
open and two warders entered followed by the bully and, of all people
in the world, the least expected--Volna.




CHAPTER XVI

I GET A BIT OF MY OWN BACK


At the sight of the man who had used his official power to give me the
lie and then have me treated like a felon my rage flashed at once into
a flame.

But for that, my astonishment at seeing Volna would have drawn some
sign of recognition before my instinctive caution could have prevented
it. As it was, however, my gaze fastened on Colonel Bremenhof.

“It’s you, is it?” I said, and I jumped up and stepped toward him.

He retreated, and the two warders interposed quickly and pushed me
back. But the incident had served a purpose. It prevented the bully’s
noticing Volna’s start of dismay on recognising me.

“That’s right,” I sneered. “Keep your bulldogs about you. It’s not safe
to come near me without some one to take care of you.”

His anger and chagrin were intense. I knew afterwards what he had hoped
to gain by bringing Volna to my cell; and the failure of the plan
galled him.

“This is the fellow, Volna, who was found with your uncle----” he
began, when I broke in.

“Have you communicated with my friend General von Eckerstein?”

“Silence, prisoner,” he cried, angrily. “Now, Volna, I want you----”

“Am I a show for all Warsaw to see? I have suffered your brutality----”

“Silence, I say. Disobedient scoundrels get the lash here.”

I sneered and shrugged my shoulders. “You miserable coward; a mere cur
in office, barking only when you think it safe.”

This had the infuriating effect I wished. He lost control of himself,
and, pushing the two warders aside, he rushed forward with hand raised
to strike me.

I let him come quite close, and then hit him full on his insolent
mouth, putting all my weight and strength behind the blow. He went down
like a ninepin, and so far as he was concerned, the interview was over.

A pretty considerable row followed. The two warders threw themselves on
me and shouted lustily for help. Others rushed to the cell in a ferment
of excitement and clustered between me and the bully, much as though I
were a wild beast. He was carried off, and Volna, in a maze of distress
and consternation, was taken away at the same time.

I was now considered to be a desperate and dangerous prisoner.
Handcuffs were placed on my wrists and irons on my legs, neither of the
operations being gently performed.

But I did not care. I had got back a little of my own from the brute,
and they might do what they pleased with me now. What that would be, I
was soon to learn.

I was huddled up on my pallet in the exceedingly uncomfortable position
which the irons permitted when the governor of the gaol and a couple of
other officials entered with some warders.

He read me a short lecture upon the heinousness of my awful offence,
told me that men had been killed who had done less, and then announced
that my punishment would be the knout. Three hundred lashes to be
administered at intervals of a week, a hundred lashes each time.

“I am an Englishman, and claim the right to communicate with the
British Consul, and also my friend, General von Eckerstein.”

“You don’t dare to deny that you struck Colonel Bremenhof?”

“My quarrel is personal with him. He sent me here in the first instance
without any cause and was going to strike me just now when I hit him.”

“Enough,” was the stern reply. “You have admitted your infamous act.
The first portion of your punishment will be administered to-morrow;”
and with that he turned on his heel and left me to my own reflections.

They were gloomy enough. I had once seen a man knouted, and had winced
as the lash tore the flesh from the poor devil’s back. I would rather
have been sentenced to be shot at once; and for a few mad moments I
indulged in wild thoughts of self-destruction or of attempting a fierce
attack on some one in the prison which would bring a capital sentence.

Sanity returned presently, however, and after a time the extraordinary
circumstances of Volna’s visit began to claim my thoughts.

What baffled me as much as anything was that Colonel Bremenhof had
addressed her by her Christian name. What could he be to her, or she
to him? He had evidently brought her to the prison to identify me; but
what could be his motive? Could she have fallen under suspicion? What
did he know, and how had he guessed that she and I had been together?
Had she been confronted with the police agent of the Devil’s Staircase
incident? Was she to be charged? That did not seem possible in view of
the fact that she was apparently free and he had spoken to her as to a
friend.

I raked my wits over and over again in repeated attempts to answer
these questions, only to give up the puzzle as hopeless.

No one came near me again all that afternoon and evening, and as the
hours passed, the thought of what was in store for me on the morrow
became more and more oppressive. And when, at length, I heard the
warders going their night rounds, I am free to confess I was very close
to despair.

I dreaded the lash as fully as any poor devil who was ever sentenced to
it deservedly; and I found myself speculating, with a coward’s fear,
upon the gruesome ordeal.

I could not sleep for the shuddering horror of the thing. In vain I
told myself that men had gone through it before, and that what they had
endured, I could probably endure. There was no consolation in that. The
one thought that did afford me a gleam of grim comfort was that if I
did get through it and was ever free, Colonel Bremenhof should taste
something of the horrors he had caused me to endure before I would call
my account with him square.

There was a great deal of the brute in me in those lingering hours of
despair.

I was still in this mood of self-torturing apprehension, trying vainly
to get to sleep and shake off the horrors of it when my cell door was
opened and two warders entered. By the lantern which one carried I saw
two other figures in the gloom beyond, and I jumped to the conclusion
that the time for my knouting had been put forward.

“This is the prisoner.” I recognized the governor’s voice.

The warder’s lantern flashed to my face, and out of the gloom came a
sonorous “Good God!” Then some one rushed forward and took my hands.
“My dear boy, what in the name of heaven and earth does all this mean?”

It was my old friend, General von Eckerstein; and as I felt the grasp
of his hands I closed my eyes with a deep, deep sigh of intense
thankfulness.

“There has been a bad mistake, that’s all,” I said, scarcely knowing
what I said or did for the moment. The sense of relief was so intense
as to be almost overpowering. I found myself laughing fatuously.

“This is your friend, General?” asked the governor.

“Why, of course it is. It’s the most extraordinary thing in the world.
Why on earth didn’t you send for me before?”

“I tried to, but--I had better explain everything.”

“He has proved himself a very dangerous and desperate man, General,”
said the governor. “Will you answer for him?”

“Answer for him? Yes; with my life, man. Can you let me see him
privately? I’m lost in amazement.”

“Take off his irons,” ordered the governor.

“Fettered, too. Heavens! what would your father have said?”

The irons were taken off and I was allowed to go with the General to
one of the governor’s rooms where we were left alone. This gave me time
to regain my self-control.

“Now perhaps you’ll tell me all about it,” said my friend.

“Two things first. Give me a cigar, and tell me how you have come from
Petersburg just in the nick of time.”

“From Petersburg? I have not come from Petersburg; I am in Warsaw for a
time. But what do you mean? You knew that when you sent me this.”

He handed me a letter as follows:

  “DEAR OLD FRIEND,--

  “Come to me at once to the Kreuzstadt fortress. I am a prisoner. For
  God’s sake.

                                                    “ROBERT ANSTRUTHER.”

  “I cannot write this myself, but do not fail me.”

His shrewd eyes were fixed upon me as I looked up. “Umph! Who’s the
woman?” he asked. I hesitated and smiled as I laid the letter down,
and, to fill the pause, lighted my cigar. “Don’t,” he jerked. I
started; for the warning came so pat on my thoughts of the best tale to
make.

I looked across and met his keen, penetrating gaze.

“Young Bob Anstruther, if you try and lie to me I’ll throw up the whole
thing. Trust me with the truth, and I’ll do for you what your father’s
friend should.”

“The secret is not mine and----”

“Devil take the boy,” he burst in vehemently. “Don’t I love John
Anstruther’s son like my own child, or do you think an old diplomat
gabs and blabs like a washerwoman? Confound you, do you want to make me
give you my word of honour, you young idiot?”

I hesitated no longer, but told him the whole story from the meeting
with Volna at Bratinsk railway station down to that moment, omitting
only the part which referred to Father Ambrose and the Fraternity
signals.

“The portion I don’t tell you doesn’t affect my case, General; and I am
under my pledged word not to reveal it.”

“You’ve told me about enough,” he retorted grimly; and for a while we
sat and smoked and looked at one another in silence.

Presently, with a short laugh, he took his cigar from his lips. “You’re
a hot-headed young fool, Bob, just that and nothing more. But”--he
paused, brushed back his grey hair, sighed, and then smiled--“I suppose
at your age I should have done pretty much the same, and I’m cock-sure
your father would.”

“I’ll take my gruelling, sir, if it comes to it.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, boy. Do you think I’ll let ’em touch you? But we
must move very warily. Will you apologize to Colonel Bremenhof?”

“I’ll see him hanged first,” I cried.

He grinned and nodded. “You mean to make it as stiff for me as you can.
That’s always the way with young folk.”

“Would you have me apologize to him?”

His face stiffened and his eyelids came together till they were mere
slits through which his pupils gleamed. “I’m glad you hit him; although
that blow is just the toughest nut to crack. But we must get to work.
Thank Heaven, he put himself in the wrong as usual.”

He rang the bell and sent for the governor. His manner became suddenly
as stern as with me it had been kind.

“There has been a very serious miscarriage of justice here, Major
Pruladoff. This is Mr. Robert Anstruther, the son of a man who was the
intimate friend of half the Berlin Court and trusted by the Emperor.
His imprisonment is nothing short of an outrage, and what makes it
really serious is that his demand, made as his right, to see the
British Consul and to communicate with me, was refused.”

“I know nothing of that, of course, General. He was brought here on the
order of Colonel Bremenhof.”

“Oblige me by calling him up on the telephone, and let me speak with
him.”

Some minutes passed before the governor announced that the Colonel was
waiting. My old friend went to the instrument.

“Is that Colonel Bremenhof? This is General von Eckerstein. I wish to
know why, when the young Englishman, Robert Anstruther, was brought
before you, you refused to allow him to communicate with the British
Consul and with me, his friend? What’s that? That does not answer my
question. By what right did you refuse? What’s that? I can’t hear you.
Oh, your mouth is swollen and you can only speak with difficulty?”

This was for my benefit, I knew, and I would have smiled if Major
Pruladoff hadn’t been frowning grimly at me.

“You can give me a direct answer all the same,” continued the General
at the instrument. There was a pause, filled by the insistent buzz
of the voice replying. “That is no reason. You know that, sir. What?
Well, you can’t treat Englishmen like that. It will be my countryman’s
turn next. But you had his papers. Very well, then, I am going now to
the governor. Yes, of course I will, as for my own countryman, as my
own son, in fact. Nonsense. What your men thought doesn’t touch the
point of your refusal. You know that. Well, if you don’t think the
thing had better be hushed up, there’s an end of it. Mr. Anstruther
will communicate with the Consul here and wire to the Ambassador at
Petersburg. What do you mean? Do you dare to try and make me a party
to your illegal act? Then you shouldn’t suggest it. Certainly. If you
don’t send down an order for his release I shall not exert any further
influence to restrain Mr. Anstruther from using his unquestionable
rights, and shall myself wire to the Minister of the Interior. An
hour. No, sir, not five minutes. At once!” and the General hung up the
receiver.

The telephone bell rang furiously.

“Just write a short note to Mr. Hardy, the Consul, Robert, and I’ll
take it to him myself. He will at once communicate with Petersburg and
in the meantime I’ll wire to the Minister. You’ll permit the letter to
be written, Major?”

The bell was going all the time.

“I am in a difficult position, General,” replied the governor. “That
is probably Colonel Bremenhof. Won’t you answer?”

“Certainly not. You’d better ask him if he persists in his refusal; and
you may add it doesn’t matter, because I shall see Mr. Hardy.”

“The Colonel wishes to speak to you again, General,” said the Major
from the instrument.

“I have no more time to waste over the telephone;” and my friend put on
his overcoat. “You must go back to your cell, Robert; but Mr. Hardy is
a prompt man, and before morning we shall have word of some kind from
Petersburg. Good-night, boy;” and as he shook my hand he winked.

“General von Eckerstein is going, Colonel,” said the governor through
the telephone. “The Colonel wishes to know where you are going,
General.”

“Tell him to mind to his own business and I’ll mind mine,” was the
angry reply, and it was repeated over the wire.

The General walked to the door and opened it.

“The Colonel urgently begs you to speak with him, General.”

“Am I to wait for that letter to be written or not, sir?” His face
might have been a stone mask in its sternness.

“Please wait a moment, General. As a personal favour to me. I really
don’t know what to do.”

“I have no more time to waste, I say. I demand a reply now.”

“Mr. Anstruther, will you ask the General? It may be of the highest
moment to you.”

A very different sort of governor this from the one who had lectured me
so sternly in my cell, and then glibly sentenced me to the knout.

“No. I have been treated too infamously. I prefer to put the matter in
the hands of the British authorities,” I answered. “All Europe shall
know how foreigners are treated in Warsaw.”

A glance from the General approved my reply.

“You can write to your Consul, then.” We both understood that this was
merely intended to gain delay, and we wasted some time in pretended
difficulty about phrasing the letter, while a conversation continued
over the wire which clearly showed the man at the other end was in
trouble.

“That’s enough, Bob,” said the General presently. “You can tell him all
when he comes.”

“Thank Heaven,” breathed the governor with a sigh of relief as the
receiver was hung up again. “One moment, General. The Colonel is
sending an order for Mr. Anstruther’s release upon your giving me your
assurance to be responsible for him.”

“Just in time,” exclaimed my old friend, curtly and ungraciously, as he
tore up the paper, on which, by-the-bye, I had not written a line. “And
about that infernal knouting?”

“The affair is now out of my hands;” and the governor gave another sigh
of relief.

Half an hour later the order arrived, and we left the prison together.




CHAPTER XVII

“DO YOU LOVE VOLNA DRAKONA?”


The next day I did nothing except fit myself out with some new clothes,
and speculate about my future course.

I could not decide anything until I saw the General; and before I rose
he had gone out and had left word for me to wait in the house for him.

After the harrassing uncertainty of my spell in prison, the scene with
Bremenhof on the previous day, and the disturbing ordeal of the crisis
it had produced, the mere rest and sense of security were indescribably
welcome.

I had plenty to think about, of course, but it was more like
floundering speculation than consecutive thought. How Volna had
returned to Warsaw? What was behind her visit to the prison? What the
connection was between her and Colonel Bremenhof? What his motive
could be in bringing her to the prison? Whether she had fallen under
suspicion? How was I to set about ascertaining the truth? How to find
means of seeing her again? With no facts to guide me, I could not
answer the puzzling questions which suggested themselves thus readily.

“I have settled your matter,” said the General when we were closeted
together in the evening. “Here are your papers, passport, and letter
of credit; and I have succeeded in making Colonel Bremenhof understand
that the affair with him had better be regarded as a personal quarrel.
I have pledged my word for you--that you are no more a revolutionary
than I am; that in anything you may have done, you were just a tool in
others’ hands.”

“That’s rather rough on the ‘others,’” I protested.

“There will be an opportunity given to you, the day after to-morrow, to
say all you know about the partner of your flight from Bratinsk.”

“It will be devilish awkward,” I murmured.

“Better than three hundred lashes, isn’t it?” he returned drily. “But
you don’t see the point. The day after to-morrow.”

“One day is just as awkward as another.”

“You’re not as sharp as your father, Bob.”

“Sons never are,” I agreed, with a grin.

“He’d have known what to do with a day and a half’s grace, and a
passport put back in his hands.”

“Oh! You mean I should bolt?”

“Are you going to make an egregious young ass of yourself again?”

“It looks like it to you, no doubt,” I said, a little sheepishly.

“Umph. There’s a train west at midnight.”

There was a long pause. “Do you think my father would have bolted?” I
asked.

He pursed his lips and frowned. “Is she so much to you?”

“She is the one woman in the world to me.”

He appeared to expect the answer and yet to regret it. “Then, of
course, you’ll stay. You see what it means?”

“I don’t care what it means.”

“I’ve got you out of this mess, but if you give Bremenhof another
chance against you, you’ll have to shift for yourself. I shall be
powerless to help you. I can’t tell you official secrets, but I may
warn you that we are face to face with events the results of which no
man can foresee. It may spell revolution and bloodshed; and to be even
a suspect then will be full of hazard and peril.”

“The more reason for me to stop.”

“Bremenhof has already great power, and if a crisis comes, he will have
a free hand. He hates you,--not only for what you have done to him, but
for another reason. Volna Drakona is betrothed to him.”

“To that brutal bully? I can’t believe it.”

“I know what I say. If he gets half a chance at you, you’ll feel his
hand. Take my advice and go.” He was very earnest.

“Not for fifty infernal Bremenhofs,” I cried passionately.

He flung the end of his cigar away and rose. “That’s your last word? It
may prove a serious mistake for the girl’s sake.”

“My last word--absolutely.”

A half-quizzical smile relieved the earnestness of his look for a
moment. “I believe you’ll make an awful mess of things, Bob; but it’s
glorious to be young. If I can help you, I will; but----” a shrug of
the shoulders and a toss of the hands finished the sentence, as he
turned away to his desk.

I bade him good-night a few minutes later and thanked him again for his
help.

“Sleep over it all; perhaps it will look different in the morning and
you may be able to see how your staying can help the girl. I can’t.”
Then with the same kindly, half-quizzical smile he added: “But then I’m
only a thin-blooded old cynic and you’re a pulseful young fellow in
love. A tremendous difference, Bob. Eh? Tremendous.”

Sleep over it I did not, at least for some hours; but worry over it
I did certainly, tossing and turning restlessly until near the dawn;
striving to understand this new complication of Volna’s betrothal to
Bremenhof.

If he knew or suspected that I had helped her at Bratinsk, I could
understand his treatment of me. A beast by nature and a bully by
official opportunity, if his jealousy had been roused it was quite
likely to render him the brute he had shewn himself to me. It would
explain his having brought her to my cell. He had probably wished to
confirm or dissipate his suspicion that Volna had been my companion in
the flight. Yet he could have done that in a moment by confronting her
with either of the police agents. Why had he not done that?

Puzzling over this question I stumbled on what might possibly be the
key. He might wish for private reasons to convince himself and yet be
unwilling to do this officially. If the police agents recognised her,
he might be unable to shield her from the consequences of her act.

This gave me another idea. If he was afraid to have Volna publicly and
officially identified, I saw how to bluff him. I could demand to have
my examination a strictly official one; and so outplay him.

His object was now to frighten me away from Warsaw by threatening to
have me examined as to my part; but if I could convince him that I
meant that examination to end in the public identification of Volna, he
would be as loath to hold it as I was to face it.

But I must first satisfy myself of the facts behind this betrothal. I
recalled her reference to an entanglement; but I laughed at the notion
that she cared for him. Yet how could I get at the truth?

This question was still unsettled when I rose the next morning; and
then Fortune did me a good turn and put the answer in my reach.

The General looked a little troubled when he met me. “I have had a
telephone message about you, Bob. From Count Ladislas Tuleski.”

I beamed. He was the very man to tell me all I wished to know. “He’s
one of my best friends, General. He saved my life a couple of years ago
in the Alps at the risk of his own. It’s a stroke of luck if he’s in
the city.”

“There are two kinds of luck, so that may be true. He had heard you
were here and wants to see you.”

“Not half so badly as I want to see him.”

“You know he is one of the Fraternity leaders?”

“He’s the gentlest soul in the world and wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“If you go to his house under the circumstances, it will be looked upon
as suspicious; to-day of all days in the year. I warn you.”

“Why to-day?”

“I forgot you had been in prison for nearly a week and don’t know the
news. Every eye in Russia to-day is waiting on events in Petersburg.
The strikers are going to the Winter Palace to petition the Czar, and
if bloodshed follows, as seems inevitable, it may spread over the whole
Empire.”

“What has that to do with my seeing my friend?”

“You are playing with words, boy,” he answered sternly. “He is a leader
of this movement; you are half suspect now; and if the trouble we fear
comes, you will give Bremenhof the chance he seeks against you.”

“I am not afraid of Colonel Bremenhof. I have some questions to ask
Ladislas that cannot wait.”

“I can only warn you, of course, but if you were my son, I declare to
God I’d put you under lock and key to stop this madness,” he burst out
almost fiercely.

His vehemence seemed to me quite unwarranted and all out of
perspective. “I shall come to no harm, sir.”

“You don’t see what you are doing, boy. It is madness--nothing short of
it. Remember my warning when the trouble comes, as it certainly will,”
and he turned away.

“I am sorry to anger you, sir; but I fear I haven’t made you understand
all that this means to me. I value your friendship and, believe me,
I would take your advice now if I could. But all I care about in the
world is concerned in this, and I must find out the truth.”

He turned, paused, appeared to hesitate, and then shook his head. “No,
I will be no party to foolishness of this kind. I must not. You are
taking a risk you don’t or won’t understand;” and he left me.

I knew that real solicitude for me was at the bottom of my old friend’s
anger and I was genuinely sorry for the misunderstanding which had
arisen; but I could not listen to his counsel. Find out the truth about
Volna’s betrothal I must and would; and short of going to Volna herself
for it--an obviously impossible course--to see Ladislas was the only
thing to do.

As I hastened to his house I perceived one thing, however. I could no
longer remain under the General’s roof. That might compromise him: and
I resolved to write him from Ladislas’ house that I should not return.

I found my friend in a condition of excitement unusual even with
him. He was always impulsive and a slave to the mood of the moment,
and I had long ceased to be surprised by his neurotic impetuosity and
feverish unrest. It was this very self-regardless impetuosity, indeed,
which had led him to offer his life for mine when he had dashed to my
rescue in the mountaineering incident which had bound us together in
bonds of close and affectionate friendship.

“I had no idea you were in Warsaw, Ladislas,” I said, as I gripped his
hand, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”

He held my hand and wheeled me round to the light as he stared into my
eyes. “Let me look at you. Do you come as a friend?”

I should have smiled, but for his careworn, harrassed, eager expression
as he put the strange question. “I hope I shall never come to you as
anything but a friend.”

His black eyes shone for the second he continued to stare at me. Then
he dropped my hand, and exclaimed. “My God, I hope so. My God, I hope
so; but there are things which turn even friends into enemies;” and
he sighed as he thrust his fingers through his hair--he had the head
of a poet or musician and wore his fair hair quite long--and began to
pace up and down the room. It was difficult for him to keep still at
any time; and in moments of unusual excitement he was as volatile as
quicksilver.

“It will have to be something serious to turn us into enemies,
Ladislas,” I replied. “But tell me what it is you think might do it. I
shan’t shirk a test, I promise you.”

“Ah, you know there is something, then, Robert,” he cried, wheeling
round abruptly and with quite a suggestion of fierceness. He was the
only intimate I had who refused to call me Bob. He considered it
undignified, he had once said.

“I only know that you sent for me, my dear fellow, and I can see for
myself that you are upset. Tell me.”

He started on his walk again and in the pause I lighted a cigar. Five
or six times he crossed and recrossed the room, his hands in his hair,
in his pockets, and tugging at the lapels of his coat in turn. Then he
came and stood over me and fixed his great eyes on mine.

“Do you love Volna Drakona? Answer me; on your solemn word of honour,
for the love of God.”




CHAPTER XVIII

FOR FRIENDSHIP’S SAKE


My friend’s question came like a clap of thunder in the clear blue of a
summer sky, so absolutely startling was its surprise.

In the second’s pause before I replied, many of the complicating
possibilities involved in it flashed upon me as his burning almost
passionate gaze was bent upon me.

I pushed my chair back, rose and gripped his hand. “We must talk this
over, Ladislas, as friends.”

“Answer me. Answer me,” he cried, trying to release his hand. “I must
know, before we talk of friendship.”

“I will answer you. I give you my honour you shall have nothing but the
truth from me; but I must first know all that lies behind the question
and all that depends upon it. Come, man, speak out. Don’t try to drag
your hand away. We are men as well as dear friends; and whatever has to
be said or done, must not and shall not break our friendship.” I placed
my other hand on his shoulder. “Can’t you agree to this?”

“Not if you have come between me and her.”

“You are unbalanced in your excitement, or you would never say that to
me. Understand what I say. Nothing--mark, nothing shall ever make me
other than your friend.”

I felt him trembling under my hand; and again he tried to free himself.

“No, Ladislas; I do not let you go until you agree in that. You saved
my life once. Do you think I forget? I told you then that if the day
ever came for me to pay the debt, I should be glad. Now, what is this
girl to you?”

“More than my life. My God, much more. More than even my honour, I
believe, God help me.”

I steadied myself and spoke firmly. “What is it you ask of me?”

His large expressive eyes lighted with eagerness. “Can you do this for
me? Can you give her to me?”

I clenched my hands until the nails dug into the palms with the
intensity of my effort for composure. It was the crisis of my life.

“My God, you cannot? You will not? And you pledged your oath. I saved
your life; and you are false to your word.” He said this rapidly,
vehemently, fiercely. Then with a sudden change he flung himself into
a chair and covered his face with his hands, crying: “God, God, what a
coward I am!”

I resumed my seat and as I faced the sacrifice that was now demanded of
me, the old scene flashed vividly into my thoughts.

On a treacherous slope of crumbling rubble not thirty feet from the
edge of an Alpine abyss, dropping a thousand feet sheer to the rocks
below, a young fellow lay on his back, sweat-stained and staring, heels
and hands dug desperately into the yielding surface as he measured the
inches and reckoned the moments between him and the death yawning just
below him. Slip, slip, slip, an inch or two at a time, he slid. Clutch
as he would with his bleeding fingers and strain as he did, he could
not prevent himself from being carried down, down, down with slow but
heart-sickening certainty.

Death seemed inevitable; and as it is better to die quickly than to
linger with nerve-racking hopelessness, he had made up his mind to let
himself go and get it over, when a cheery call came from above, and the
light of hope was kindled once again in his beating heart.

At the hazard of his life another man launched himself on that death
slide and, with a courage equalled only by his mountaineering skill,
carried a rope to his friend and saved his life just as his feet
reached the very brink of the abyss.

I was the clumsy fool who had stupidly jeopardized my life and Ladislas
the friend who offered his to save me.

And now Volna was to be the price! He had called for it: had thrown in
my teeth the pledge I had given; and had chided me for my unreadiness
to redeem it. This the friend whom I had always deemed the type of
honour and chivalry! Bargaining for the body of the woman he loved!

In the first bitter moment my soul rose in passionate rebellion
against the sacrifice. Nothing in all my life had ever moved me so
deeply. To make myself a party to the bargain was to do dishonour to
Volna herself. What right had we to take this thing into our hands and
settle her life for her? It was for her, not for us, to make a decision
so vital to her happiness.

Such a price as this had never been in contemplation. He knew this as
well as I. And at that point my memory played me a curious trick. My
thoughts flashed back to the moment of cold despair when death lay
gaping just below me on that mountain slide; to the dazzling change to
hope at the sound of Ladislas’ cheery call of encouragement. I saw him
again working his way toward me, death the certain penalty of a single
unskilful step; and once again the warm glow of gratitude for the
dauntless courage and devotion which had prompted my pledge then, came
back in all its force now.

It ended the struggle. I would pay the price, let the cost be what it
might.

I sighed heavily and turned to find him leaning forward watching me
intently and waiting, as though he divined the struggle that was
rending me.

I smiled. “I won’t pretend that it hasn’t cost me a struggle, Ladislas;
but it’s over: and we can still be friends.”

“How strong you are!” he exclaimed.

“You wouldn’t think there was much strength in me if you knew the
bitter things I was thinking just now of you.”

“You love her, then?”

“I can’t help that--but I can trust myself for the rest. Would to
Heaven I had known before this had happened at Bratinsk! So little did
I suspect, I came to-day to ask you the meaning of her betrothal to
Colonel Bremenhof.”

“It is an awful mess!” he exclaimed, and began pacing the room again.
“Count Peter arranged that. It was a blind to keep the Drakonas from
being suspected. Volna consented for her mother’s sake; but she was
candid, telling the man she did not care for him. She is as true as a
crystal. Her sister and brother--do you know them? No?--they fed him
with lies and blinded him; all at the Count’s instigation.”

“Well?”

“Bremenhof is a devil for cunning. He was not deceived; and he saw
at once that his hold over Volna was her fear for her mother. So he
wormed and moled and got a case against the mother; and now he swears
that if the marriage does not take place at once--to-day or at latest
to-morrow--he will have the mother arrested, and Volna, too.”

“You know of my affair with him?”

“Volna told me you struck him. He took her there to satisfy himself
privately that she had been at Bratinsk; and have that to hold over
her.”

“Why have you let her stay at Warsaw?”

“Count Peter was bringing her to Cracow to be married to me.”

“Married to you! I don’t understand. Were you secretly betrothed?”

“No, no. She had no thought of it, until Count Peter told her at
Bratinsk. But she knows how I love her; and we should have won her to
consent.”

I remembered her statement to me at Bratinsk; that she had meant to
escape and return to Warsaw. But I kept this to myself.

“And now?”

“She is changed. It is you who have changed her. She can scarcely be
kept from breaking with Bremenhof. I don’t know what to do. My God, I
don’t know what to do.”

“It’s plain enough. Take her and her mother away from Warsaw.”

“How can I go, man? In Heaven’s name, how can I go? We are on the eve
of the most glorious crisis in our country’s history; and we leaders
dare not leave our posts.”

“Send them away then in some one else’s care.”

“Why? This city is the safest place in all the Empire for them.
To-day the great demonstration at Petersburg will show the Czar and
those about him and all the world that the people’s just demands can
no longer be resisted. The power of these tyrants will be shattered
against the greater might of the people’s will. You know my dreams of
old. They are coming true. We are on the eve of the greatest revolution
the world has ever seen: greatest in purpose, widest in area, most
beneficial in results--and what is greatest of all--to be achieved
without the shedding of a drop of blood.”

“A bloodless revolution will be a new thing in history, Ladislas,
especially under Russian methods.”

“You do not understand and so you doubt. But we know. The army is with
us almost to a man. They are of the people, blood of blood and bone
of bone in close-knit kinship; and when the hour strikes, the people
will rise in every city, town, and hamlet, rise as one man; and at that
rising the musket of every soldier will be grounded and not a sword
will leave its scabbard. Peace is our watch-word; peace our method;
peace and brotherhood our end.”

“It is not only Polish independence then?”

“Poland will be free. Poland will lift her head again, a nation among
the nations: but all Russia will be free in the gigantic upheaval.”

His eyes gleamed with excitement as he strode up and down flinging his
arms about; his enthusiasm fired by his own rhapsody. He was very much
the dreamer; and he gave the reins to his dream with voluble energy.

“Have you any practical men among you?” I asked, when at length he
paused.

“We are all practical. My dear friend, you do not know us.”

“True; but suppose you are wrong and that in some places the troops
stand by the Government, what will you do?”

“Should we legislate for the impossible?” and he went on with a hundred
and fifty unconvincing and inconsequent reasons why nothing of the
kind could occur. “We are offering liberty--liberty, the grandest
gift on God’s green earth--not only to the people, but to the soldiers
themselves. They are not fools, or blind, or idiots to refuse it.”

“But your troops here are not Poles, but Russians hating the Poles; and
the disposition of the regiments all over the Empire is on the same
principle. Do you tell me that national and tribal hatreds are going
to be smothered just because a few good fellows like you hold up your
hands and cry ‘Liberty’? To put it in a nutshell, if you believe this,
why are you afraid of what Bremenhof can do in regard to Volna?”

To my surprise and concern he collapsed entirely. He threw himself
into a chair and pressed his hand to his face. “Don’t, don’t,” he
cried. “You give life and form to the one deadly fear that chills me
when I can’t suppress it; that haunts me at night like a spectre, and
paralyzes me with the agony of its hideous possibilities. I dare not
think of it, my friend; I dare not. God, God, I dare not.”

I said no more. He was curious material for revolutionary work; but if
there were many like him, the Fraternity was a much less formidable
body than I had deemed, despite the evidence I had had of its
widespread organization.

Presently he roused himself, stood up and apparently with only the
slightest effort shook off his depression.

“I didn’t mean to inflict this on you,” he said, with a smile,
charming but almost pathetically weary.

My patience was nearly exhausted, however. “What are you going to do to
save her?” I asked bluntly.

He shook back his long hair, and smiled. “To-morrow there will be no
more thought or talk of danger.”

Just then he was called out, and when he returned a few minutes later,
his face was grey and drawn and haggard with anxiety.

“You must take her away from Warsaw,” he said.

“I? Ladislas! What do you mean?”

He held up a paper in his trembling hand. “News from Petersburg. The
soldiers are drawn up in thousands all over the city there. Guns are
posted in all directions; God knows what is going to happen. If there
is bloodshed there, hell will break loose here. You alone can save her.”

“But, Ladislas, you forget. For me to do anything now----”

He caught both my hands in his agitation. “You’ll do this, Robert? For
our old friendship’s sake? For her sake? If she stays here, God alone
knows what may happen. You must do it. You must. You must.” He was
almost hysterical.

“But after what I have told you about her and you have implied to me,
my position----”

“What is all that compared to her safety? Do you think I would not
trust you? Come to the house with me at once--this instant. Would you
leave her in Bremenhof’s power?”

“No, no, I cannot go with you. You ask too much. For her sake, no less
than mine, you must find some other means,” I protested.

“There is no other way,” he cried, impetuously and vehemently. “She
shall know the truth. I will tell her that you renounce--that--you know
what I mean. For God’s sake, don’t hesitate or it may be too late. At
any cost she must be saved; and her family can do nothing. She shall
know that you are acting for me. I will explain everything. It is no
time for mere scruples or personal feeling. If I trust you, surely you
can trust yourself.”

I was dead set against the plan: every impulse and instinct protesting,
except the desire to help Volna. But that she would be in grievous
danger, should there be a rising in the city, was a fact nothing could
explain away; and that Ladislas was about the last man in the world
to be able to save her in such a crisis appeared no less certain. If
anything was to be done, some one capable of taking a practical view
of things must do it; and her friends appeared to be a set of most
unpractical theorists.

But if I was to do anything, it must be made absolutely plain to Volna
that I was acting for Ladislas--to save her for him. Surely a most
awkward situation to explain. But he continued to urge me and declared
he would leave no doubt in her mind; and at length I yielded, and we
started for the Drakonas’ house.




CHAPTER XIX

TURNING THE SCREW


Embarrassing as my position must have been in any case, it was made
much worse by the manner of my reception at the Drakonas’.

Volna’s half-sister, Katinka, received us; and the moment my name
was mentioned, she left me no room to doubt that so far as she was
concerned I was a most unwelcome visitor.

She was a complete contrast in appearance to Volna. A slight, wiry,
straight-backed, acid-faced, little woman of about thirty, with a pair
of lustrous dark eyes so disproportionately large that the rest of the
features, except her thin straight lips, seemed to pass unnoticed. She
gave me a very frigid bow. “We have of course heard of you from Volna,
Mr. Anstruther,” she said; her tone implying that what she had heard
was by no means to my credit; and before I could reply, she turned to
Ladislas. “Has anything happened that you are here?”

It was plain to see that he was not at ease with her. “Where is Volna?”
he asked.

“She is out. You have not brought Mr. Anstruther to see her?” That he
would be mad to think of such a thing was her meaning.

“I have decided that she cannot safely remain in the city.”

“Indeed. Why? Or perhaps I should ask this gentleman. You had no such
thought when I saw you last.”

“I have had grave news from Petersburg this morning, Katinka.”

“Oh, are you going to run away?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how can Volna go?” She was a past master in the art of
insinuation.

“I have induced my friend here to consent to take her.”

Her large eyes opened as if in profound astonishment as she looked
first at him and then turned them slowly upon me, and coughed most
suggestively. “_You_ have done this?” Had she put the thought in blunt
words she could not have expressed more plainly her conviction that I
had concocted the plan for my own ends and that Ladislas must be blind
and mad to consent to it.

“Yes, I have; Mr. Anstruther understands precisely the relationship
that exists between Volna and me.”

“You mean which should but does not exist between you,” she corrected,
significantly.

“Anstruther is my loyal friend, Katinka.”

“Have I expressed any doubt on that point?”

“Miss Drakona is prejudiced against the English, Robert,” said
Ladislas, turning to me. He flushed with vexation and appeared anxious
to apologize for my reception.

“That is surely my country’s misfortune,” said I.

“That is insincere; but being English you of course cannot help it,”
was the reply, very unpleasantly spoken.

Ladislas very foolishly took this up. “Anstruther is my friend,
Katinka,” he said warmly.

“I don’t see that that affects the sincerity or insincerity of what he
says. Mr. Anstruther may as well know that he has caused a great deal
of trouble in our family, and that so far as my brother and myself are
concerned, we do not thank him for it.”

“My remark just now was merely intended as one of common politeness,
madam,” I said. “I am not glad when I find any one prejudiced against
my countrymen. And I am quite sincere in expressing regret if I have
caused trouble to any of your family.”

Her large eyes were fixed coldly upon me while I spoke and at the end
she paused and said--“Indeed!” with a most disconcerting effect.

An awkward pause followed, broken by the entrance of the brother, to
whom she introduced me in these terms. “This is Mr. Anstruther, Paul,
who has come with Ladislas to induce Volna to run away from Warsaw at a
moment when the flight of any one from this house would be a disgrace
to the cause of the Fraternity.”

As might be expected, the introduction did not please him. “I am not
aware that we need the interference of any outsiders, sir.”

“That is the word--interference,” agreed the sister.

“It is nothing of the sort, Katinka,” declared Ladislas, brusquely.
“I have brought my friend, Paul, to help in getting your mother and
Volna into some place of safety until the troubles here are over. He
knows all about the Bremenhof entanglement and all about--er--Volna and
myself. He acts entirely at my suggestion and on my behalf as my friend
in this matter. You know that if any violence breaks out, the city will
be no safe place for Volna or her mother--or any woman.”

“I am not going to run away,” said Katinka, with placid malice. “But
of course Volna will jump at such a chance. Until this last deplorable
affair, she was accustomed to listen to _our_ advice.”

“I see no necessity for it, Ladislas,” was Paul’s verdict.

“We are of _no_ account, Paul. It is not what _we_ think, of course.”

“Where is your mother?” asked Ladislas.

The question was answered by the entrance of one of the sweetest old
ladies I have ever seen. Just Volna, thirty-five or forty years older;
but Volna without the spirit and capacity and plucky resource I had
seen her shew.

“You are Mr. Anstruther, I am sure,” she said, as she gave me her hand
with a sweet gracious smile. “I know you by my Volna’s description; and
thank you from my heart for all you did.”

The brother and sister exchanged looks and shrugs.

“I did no more, madame, than any one would have done in a similar case.”

“You saved my dearest child, sir; and a mother’s heart knows how to be
grateful.”

“He wishes to do more now, Madame Drakona; and take you and Volna away
from the city until these troubles have blown over,” said Ladislas.

An expression of perplexity clouded her face and she glanced doubtfully
and nervously toward the other two. “I don’t think I understand,” she
said, weakly. “I should like to go, but----” she stopped, and it struck
me she was looking for Katinka’s sanction.

“These things are to be settled without regard to what we Drakonas
think,” said Katinka. “Of course I regard it as indecorous,
impracticable, unnecessary and cowardly. But my opinion is not even
asked;” and she folded her hands and tapped her foot and assumed the
air of an injured martyr.

“It is not my suggestion, madame, but that of my friend, Ladislas
here,” I said to the old lady.

“I am sure I don’t know what to do. I wish Volna were here. Could
we go?” she replied; and then a long and at times bitter discussion
followed in which I took no part. The dear old soul was swayed first
one way by Ladislas and then another by Katinka. Paul’s part was
chiefly that of echo to his sister, who, I noticed, first settled
things for herself and then put the responsibility upon him; and held
up his opinion as final and decisive.

How long the discussion would have lasted and how many bitter
insinuations Katinka would have thrown out about me it is impossible to
say; but the end came in a fashion that was both dramatic and startling.

Paul was called away to the telephone and when he returned to the room
he was ashen pale and intensely agitated.

“There has been a massacre at Petersburg. The troops have fired on the
people and thousands have been killed.”

A dead silence fell on us all, broken only by a groan of anguish from
Ladislas. We looked at one another in silent horror as the realization
of what it might mean to all in Warsaw began to force itself upon us.

Even Katinka was awe-stricken and aghast.

We were still under the spell of this strained silence when a maid
servant scared and white of face rushed in.

“The police are here, madame, and ask for you,” she cried.

An officer followed the girl, and out in the hallway I saw a file of
men drawn up.

“Madame Drakona?” he asked.

“I am Madame Drakona. What do you want with me?” asked the old lady,
rising.

I noticed that Paul instead of stepping forward to the mother’s side
remained by his sister.

“I have to ask you to accompany me to the offices of the Department,
madame,” said the agent.

“To ask me? I don’t understand,” she replied feebly. “Katinka, Paul,
what can this mean? When do you wish me to go, sir?”

“My instructions are that you accompany me immediately.”

“But there must be a mistake. I am sure there must be. I cannot go
until I have seen my daughter. She is out. Can I not wait until she
returns?”

“Are you sure there is no mistake?” asked Paul; as Katinka crossed to
Madame Drakona.

“My instructions are too precise to admit of that.”

“By whose instructions do you act?” I asked.

“I cannot answer that,” was the reply.

“Do you mean that any charge is preferred against this lady?”

“I have only to do my duty, sir.”

I turned to Paul. “Could you not telephone to Colonel Bremenhof?”

Katinka took this to herself. “You hear your orders, Paul,” she
snapped. Even in that moment her spite predominated.

“I do not need your advice, sir,” he said; and this perfectly obvious
step was not taken, for no reason apparently except that I had
suggested it.

“Can I wait for my daughter to return, sir?” asked Madame Drakona.

“Volna can do nothing,” declared Katinka.

“I regret, madame, that I have no power to permit that.”

“Can you tell us nothing about the reasons for this?” asked Paul.

“Nothing whatever. I know no more than yourself. I wish indeed that the
unpleasant duty had been given to some one else to perform.”

“I do not blame you, sir,” said Madame Drakona, very graciously,
despite her agitation. “I will get ready.”

“I must ask you not to be longer than five minutes.”

He held the door open for her to leave. Katinka went with her and at
a sign from the leader, one of the men followed them up the stairs
and remained at the door of the room into which they went. The leader
stayed with the rest in the hall.

“What can this mean?” asked Ladislas, aghast.

“A good thing that no one else is on the list,” said Paul.

“You must find that a great consolation,” I could not help saying. Paul
turned on me angrily, and Ladislas held up his hand.

“It will do no good to quarrel,” he said. “What is to be done? Do let
us try to be practical.”

“The man who can tell you what it means is Bremenhof.”

“Of course you will go with your mother, Paul?” said Ladislas.

“I see no object to be gained.”

“Better ask Miss Drakona,” I suggested, drily.

“Your tone is very singular, sir,” declared Paul angrily.

“Far less singular than your unreasoning hostility to me, in which you
appear to echo your sister’s prejudice.”

“Robert!” protested Ladislas.

“You are not here by our wish,” cried Paul.

Madame Drakona came in then, and I saw that Katinka had made no
preparations to go with the mother.

“Ladislas, you and Mr. Anstruther will stay to see Volna, won’t
you?” asked the old lady, who was much less distressed than I had
anticipated. “She will be so troubled; and she thinks so much of your
advice, Mr. Anstruther. You will stay?”

“Certainly at your wish,” I agreed.

“I don’t see that this gentleman can do any good,” murmured the sister.

“We will both stay, if possible--but one of us certainly,” said
Ladislas.

“Tell her you don’t think this is a serious thing; it can’t be really;
and I daresay I shall be back again almost before she is home.”

“I will tell her,” replied my friend.

She kissed Paul and Katinka--both of whom were as unmoved as though she
had been going for an afternoon drive--and then shook hands with us.
“Volna will rely on you, I know, Mr. Anstruther. Now, sir, I am ready.
Be sure and make Volna understand I am not in the least frightened,
Ladislas.”

That was her last word spoken with a brave smile as she drove away.

As soon as we re-entered the house Katinka opened fire at me. “I think
we can do what has to be done alone, Paul.”

“Madame Drakona asked us to remain, Katinka,” said Ladislas.

“I wish you could believe, madam, that I have no desire except for the
good of you all,” I put in.

She fixed her eyes upon me and replied slowly, “I wish I could, sir;
but you have influenced my sister so much against us that I find it
impossible.”

“How can you think of such pettiness, Katinka, in face of that awful
news from Petersburg,” cried Ladislas. “Great God, it passes my
comprehension.”

“Are you going, sir?” asked Paul.

“No. I am not. I promised Madame Drakona to remain until her daughter
returned, and shall do so.”

“Of course,” agreed Ladislas, pausing a second as he strode up and
down the room in great distress. His excitement mounted fast, and his
fears of coming trouble in the city, caused by the ill news from St.
Petersburg and brought close home by the arrest of Madame Drakona,
oppressed him till the burden became almost unbearable.

An hour and more passed in this way. Now and again he would break into
fitful heated discussion with Paul and his sister; sometimes he turned
to me with feverish speculations about what would happen; anything in
the effort to relieve the weight of his trouble-laden thoughts.

Two or three times the telephone bell summoned Paul; and each time he
returned the three would hold whispered counsel together; to end in the
same way, by Ladislas resuming his anxious pacing of the room from end
to end.

At last some message more disturbing than the rest came.

“Paul and I must go. I dare not stay,” he declared. “You will do what
must be done here, Robert. They are waiting for us, and God knows
what may happen if we do not go;” and paying no heed to my protests,
scarcely hearing them, indeed, he and Paul hurried away.

Katinka and I sat on in grim silence.

I had caught some of the infection of Ladislas’ alarm at coming
trouble; and my one concern now was for Volna’s safety. Even the
embarrassment at the thought of meeting her again was dominated by my
fear for her; and I waited a prey to very gloomy doubt and anxiety.

She came in not knowing that I was there. She saw only Katinka as she
entered with the question, “Where is mother?”

Then she saw me and started back in sheer astonishment. Her eyes
lighted, she paled slightly and then the colour rushed to her face and
with both hands outstretched she came to me as a week before at the
priest’s house in Kervatje. “Is it really you?”

I took her hands. “It is really I.”

Then Katinka got up and coughed. “Of course I am not surprised; but it
is none the less scandalous, sir, considering Volna’s mother has just
been taken to prison.”

The piteous look of pain and alarm on Volna’s face as her hands fell
from mine made me wish for the moment that Katinka had been a man. I
could then have told her plainly some of the things I thought about
her.




CHAPTER XX

DEFIANCE


“To prison? Do you mean that, Katinka?” asked Volna; her tone low and
tense.

“Do I usually say one thing and mean another?”

Volna turned swiftly to me as if seeking a contradiction.

“Where is my mother, Mr. Anstruther?”

Katinka’s large eyes flashed angrily. “Do you wish to insult me, Volna,
by appealing from me to this new English friend of yours?”

Volna ignored her save for a gesture. “Mr. Anstruther?”

“I stayed at your mother’s request to assure you that she does not
think it serious.”

“My dear, dearest mother!” A piteous cry of sorrow and pity; and then
a change to indignant reproach. “This is your doing, Katinka, yours
and Paul’s and uncle’s; with your miserable plots and schemings and
intrigues! And having done the mischief, you were such a coward as to
leave her to face the consequences alone. Shame on you! If I had no
other cause to hate your conspiracy, your cowardice in this would make
me do it.”

“Don’t be theatrical, Volna.”

“If it comforts you to cover your cowardice with a sneer, do so. I do
not envy you the consolation. I should have thought even you would be
ashamed.”

“I shall not remain to be insulted before a stranger.”

“When the truth bites like an insult, I can understand how it hurts to
hear it. I shall go to my mother, of course. You will help me find her,
won’t you, Mr. Anstruther?”

“Of course he will--for Ladislas’ sake,” said Katinka, turning to
deliver her last shot as she went out.

“What does she mean?” asked Volna with a start. “She has so many barbs
in her speeches. But it doesn’t matter--nothing matters until we find
mother. Where do you think they have taken her? How can we find out?
Oh, I feel half distracted.”

“I think Colonel Bremenhof holds the key,” I said, very quietly.

She was bending over a small table and looked up instantly and sharply,
hesitated and then replied: “This must be explained. They have told
you--about him?”

There was just a suggestion of a challenge in her tone; but the
question gave me an opening to make the explanation of my position,
which had to be made somehow.

“Oh, yes. Ladislas told me.”

“Ladislas?” Surprise and a dash of indignation in the tone.

“No one could have a truer friend than you have in Ladislas.”

To my consternation she broke in with a laugh: “Why do you tell me
this?”

“He is my friend also, one of my closest friends. I am under a deep
obligation to him. He saved my life--I think I told you--at the peril
of his own; and to-day he told me not only about Colonel Bremenhof
but--but everything.”

“Everything?” There was no smile now, but just a steady look.

“You are making me speak rather bluntly. He told me, I mean, how deeply
he cared for you and he asked me to remain in Warsaw and come here to
try and be of some help to you--as your sister said--for his sake.”

A pause of considerable embarrassment for me followed. Then she said
merely: “Well?”

I felt very awkward. “I think that’s all,” I stumbled.

“I suppose I ought to be very much obliged to Ladislas,” she said, and
dropped her gaze upon the table.

“His idea was that I could have helped your mother and you to get away
from the city.”

“On your way to England, of course?” she asked, without looking up.

I hesitated. “Yes, on my way to England. Father Ambrose urged me to
go to England, you know, as soon as possible; and General Eckerstein
also.”

“I hope you will have a pleasant journey. Warsaw is just now a very
questionable pleasure resort.”

“Is that my dismissal?”

She looked up and dropped the formal tone which had hurt me. “I thought
you wished to go.”

“That is harder still,” I said.

She gave me her hand impulsively. “But you don’t really think I wish to
say things that hurt you. After what you have done for me and what you
have had to suffer? Don’t go away with that thought, please.”

“I don’t wish to go away at all, until I have been of some help to you.
I wish only to make things plain.”

“Oh, then we are not saying good-bye,” she explained, drawing her
hand from mine again, and smiling; only to change the next moment to
earnestness. “Why surely you know there is no one whose help I would
rather have than yours.”

“For Ladislas’ sake,” I said.

Her eyes took a half wistful, half smiling expression. “No matter for
whose sake. We seem fated to be always on a sort of half false footing
to one another. Strangers one hour, English the next, then fellow
conspirators, and then after that brother and sister, and now----” She
paused, as if at a loss for a word.

“Friends,” I prompted.

“Oh, yes, always friends, I trust.”

“Then let us try to think what can be done for your mother.”

“My dear mother. I must see Colonel Bremenhof, of course. Even with you
to help me, the way is very hard to see.”

“Shall I go to him with you?”

At that moment the door was opened quickly and Colonel Bremenhof
entered.

He was intensely surprised to find me in the room and I think quite as
angry. It was Katinka’s doing.

“Your sister told me I should find you here, Volna,” he said; “but not
that any one was with you. Least of all, Mr. Anstruther.”

Volna drew herself up and without taking his outstretched hand asked:
“Where is my mother, Colonel Bremenhof?”

“I have come to speak to you about her.”

“They tell me you have had her arrested. Can that be true?”

“I wish to see you alone.”

“Until my question is answered, I will not speak to you alone; and if
her arrest is your work, I will never see you again.”

“There are many things to explain. Will you be good enough to leave the
room, sir?”

“Will you please stay, Mr. Anstruther?” said Volna quickly.

“Volna, I must see you in private. For your mother’s sake. Now, sir.”

“If Mr. Anstruther goes, I go,” she declared.

His face grew as dark as a thundercloud. “You forget yourself, Volna.
Does this gentleman know----”

“That we have been betrothed? Oh, yes. It was Mr. Anstruther who saved
me from the police at Bratinsk and afterwards. He naturally has my
entire confidence. I know him for a friend, and he was about to start
with me now to see you and get the truth from you about my mother’s
arrest.”

“You are making a very unfortunate admission which may very greatly
affect him.”

I couldn’t stand this. “Be good enough to leave me out of the question
for the moment, Colonel Bremenhof,” I said. “I think I have shewn you
that I know how to take care of myself.”

“Have you dared to arrest my mother?” asked Volna again.

“Madame Drakona is not arrested at all. Those who are concerned in the
matter of this national trouble wish to ask her certain questions which
she will, I hope, be able to answer quite satisfactorily.”

“What do you mean by you ‘hope’ she will be able to answer?” was
Volna’s prompt retort. “I hope that even you would not stoop to the
baseness I can read under your words.”

“In the absence of certain evidence, Madame Drakona has nothing to
fear. That is all,” he said, doggedly. “Let us speak of this alone,
Volna.”

“No!” she cried, with indignant emphasis. “Are you so ashamed of your
act that you dare not discuss it? I know what you mean by what you call
the evidence against my mother. You used your opportunities here and
set your spies to scrape it together and you keep it in your own hands,
holding it over me to force me to comply with your wishes. You are
that kind of man. Now, what is your price?”

It was as easy to see that she was right as that her scorn and contempt
struck right home. He changed colour, twisted his beard nervously,
glanced at her, and from her to me; and stood baffled, disconcerted,
scowling and silent.

“What is your price? Are you ashamed to name it before Mr. Anstruther?”
she went on, in the same bitter tone. “On what terms will you consent
to put that evidence in my hands? Can you do it? If I should consent to
pay the price, what guarantee should I have, not only that you could,
but that you would, keep any bargain you made? I should surely need
some. I am ready to save my mother. Now, what is your price?” Her face
flushed, her eyes shining, her manner eloquent of her contempt for him,
she presented a magnificent picture of angry scorn.

He cut a pitiful figure in contrast, as he winced and cowered under
her words as under the lash of a knout. He cared for her. There was no
doubt of that. But it was this very love which made him suffer then.
Hard, callous, cruel, indifferent to the suffering he made others
endure, he cringed now under the mental torture she inflicted.

It galled him the more that of all men I should be the witness of his
humiliation; nor was I at any pains to conceal my pleasure at his
discomfiture.

When she spoke next, her tone was cold, quiet, and biting. “You are
still ashamed to name it? You would do the thing itself, mean and
dastardly as it is; but the mention of it harrows your delicate sense
of honour. You are a Russian, and worthy of your country. You have
thrown my mother into prison in order to force me to marry you at once.
That is the price you will not name aloud; and that is a price I will
not pay.”

The frown on his face deepened ominously as he muttered. “You are
betrothed to me.”

“The one thing in my life I am ashamed of. It was a sham betrothal, and
you are welcome to the truth now. I was at least honest with you. I
told you there was on my side none of that feeling which a girl should
have at such a time, and that I was heart free. What I did not tell you
was that the betrothal was intended to save those about me from danger
at your hand. It served its purpose until to-day, when you have struck
this coward’s blow. Now, thank God, the truth can be told.”

Chancing to glance into a mirror at this moment, I caught sight of
Katinka listening, white-faced, in the doorway. At this avowal of
Volna’s she threw up her hands and hurried away.

“You admit you tricked me?” said Bremenhof between his clenched teeth.

“Call it what you will, I have told you now the truth.”

“You understand what this means?”

“I am not afraid of you. Say what you will and do what you will. I will
save my mother in spite of you. Unless she is set free, your part in
this shall be made known. How you have constantly held over me the
threat of my mother’s arrest; how at my instance you have failed to do
your duty--if it was your duty to arrest me--and how you have abused
your official power to serve your personal ends with me. You have done
your worst now; and have failed. And if justice is not really dead in
Russia and we Poles are aught but your serfs, I will see that if we are
to be punished, you, our accomplice, shall not escape your share of
that punishment.”

“My God!” he exclaimed under his breath, abashed for the moment by
her magnificent boldness. Then anger rallied him. “We will see,” he
muttered, and turned to leave.

I stepped between him and the door.

“Let him go, if you please, Mr. Anstruther. Let him do what he dare.”

Without even another glance at her he went out.

“Thank Heaven the truth is out at last,” she said.

“I wonder you had the courage. What will he do?”

Before she answered, Katinka came in dressed for the street and looking
very angry and alarmed.

“You are mad, Volna. I heard you. At such a time as this to speak so.
You have placed us all in peril. You should be ashamed. Much you care
for your mother!”

“I don’t think you can even guess how much, Katinka,” answered Volna
very quietly. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere rather than stay here after that. You had no thought for Paul
or for me, of course. We are not safe another minute. Paul is with
Ladislas; I have warned him by the telephone. I congratulate you, Mr.
Anstruther, upon the disastrous result of your interference.”

“You must not say that, Katinka. This is not Mr. Anstruther’s doing; it
is my own act, and mine only. But by all means save yourself.”

“The police may be here at any moment to arrest us all.”

“Then why waste time in staying to reproach me?”

Katinka’s great eyes flashed angrily. “Have you taken leave of your
senses?” she cried. “You have never been like this before. It is sheer
folly and madness.”

“I told him no more than the truth,” replied Volna; adding after a
slight pause: “One of the really delicious moments of my life.”

“You purchased your pleasure with the safety of us all. Perhaps that
will add to your enjoyment,” retorted Katinka, as she hurried out of
the room.

“Katinka is eager for national independence, but she does not like it
in the family.”

“What do you suppose Bremenhof will do?” I asked.

“I don’t feel as if I cared at this moment. I am just revelling in my
emancipation.” She threw herself into a chair and leaned back clasping
her hands behind her head. “I suppose I did not know myself; certainly
I never realized before what a capacity for deep feeling I have. I seem
to be waking up. Oh, how I hate that man!”

“I think we should be doing something practical,” I suggested.

She sighed impatiently and sat up. “You are shocked because I tell you
I can hate?”

“I mean merely that he may send to arrest you; and you should be
prepared.”

She rose. “If he does I must fall back upon Ladislas.”

“Ladislas?”

She crossed to the door, turned, and with a slow smile I had learnt to
know well, answered: “Did he not get a promise from you to help me? I
should never have dared to do what I have done to-day if you had not
been here. But influence like that has its responsibilities, also, you
know, and you----” The sentence was interrupted by the servant who
rushed in then.

“The police are here again, Miss.”

The loud summons at the house door confirmed her ill news. Bremenhof
had not left us long in doubt as to what he meant to do.




CHAPTER XXI

A BLANK OUTLOOK


Volna appealed to me. “What shall I do?”

“Let us get away if we can,” I said.

“Come then. We can leave the house by the garden. But suppose they do
not seek me?”

“We can’t risk waiting to find out If not, your maid can call to us.”

We hurried to the door leading to the garden, and as we closed it the
servant admitted the police at the front.

It was quite dusk and the heavy snow covered the sound of our footsteps
as we hurried through the shrubbery to a small door in the high wall
which bounded the garden at the end.

As we paused a few seconds on the chance of the servant recalling us,
I whispered a warning to Volna. “There may be some one posted on the
outside. Let me open it.”

She gave me the key and I turned it as softly as the stiff lock would
permit. I was opening the door gently when it was pushed quickly, and a
man entered and seized Volna by the arm.

“We thought you might----”

Before he could finish the sentence I grabbed him by the throat.
Fortunately for us he was a small man and like a child in my hands. I
gave him a pretty rough shaking and then pitched him backwards into
the middle of a wide laurel bush where he lay kicking helplessly,
struggling to extricate himself, and gasping for breath to call for
help.

Before he succeeded in getting out his first loud cry we were out of
the garden, had locked the door upon him, and turned the first corner.
We had to run for it, and by good luck there was no one about to notice
us in the first two or three streets.

When we reached the main thoroughfare we slackened our pace to a quick
walk until we got a sleigh which carried us out of the chance of
immediate pursuit.

“Almost like a moment of Bratinsk,” said Volna.

“I wish we were there, or anywhere out of the city. We’ll change
sleighs in a minute.” I stopped the sleigh soon afterwards at the door
of an hotel, and held the porter in talk while the driver whipped up
and left. Then we hurried away in the opposite direction.

“Now where are we going?” asked Volna.

“An old nurse of mine lives in the Place of St. John, No. 17; I shall
be safe there until we decide what to do.”

“Is it far?”

“Not too far to walk if you think that safer.”

“I do, because a sleigh driver can always be found and questioned.”

During the walk, evidence of the popular unrest was to be seen on all
sides.

“The city is not like itself,” said Volna, as we crossed the great
Square of St. Paul. The place was half filled with groups of workmen
engaged in sullen discussion, while numbers of police stood at hand
watching. “Sunday evening usually finds every one holiday making.”

We paused a moment near one or two of the groups. Everywhere the
subject of talk was the same--the massacre at St. Petersburg.

Whenever we paused near any group I noticed one or two men leave it,
saunter up to us and scrutinize us curiously. Whether they were police
or workmen it was impossible to say.

“You are interested in these matters, friend?” asked one of them.

“All are interested,” I answered.

“You were listening?” he returned suspiciously.

“Yes, I was listening.”

“There are only two kinds of listeners in Warsaw, sympathizers and
spies. Those who sympathize draw close; those who spy had better move
away.”

“I am a foreigner.”

“There are spies of all nationalities.”

“I am no spy, but I’ll take your advice;” and we moved on.

Almost every street corner had its cluster of men, and always the talk
was the same. If the workmen of St. Petersburg were massacred, what
could those of Warsaw expect? Were they to go on suffering like sheep?
Which was the better, to be slaves for the master’s gain, or to be men
and resist?

Two or three times the anger of the strikers took violent form. Men
were caught making notes of the names of the talkers, the cry of “spy”
was raised, and in a moment fifty hands were outstretched, fifty oaths
leapt from wrathful lips, and the victims were hustled, battered,
kicked, and sent sprawling into the gutters.

“And Ladislas believed there would be no violence,” I said to Volna as
we hurried on after one of these episodes.

“Poor Ladislas! But I am frightened for what will happen to-morrow.
I have never seen this temper among the people before. How will it
affect my mother’s case? If there should be any popular outbreak, the
difficulty of helping her will be infinitely increased. The friends on
whom we could rely at any other time will then be helpless. They are
all Poles.”

“There is another way to look at it. Bremenhof’s powers will be much
greater and he can more safely hold back the evidence against your
mother which you said he had. Is he really such a brute?”

“He boasted to me one day, when my mother and I were at his house, that
he had it in a private safe, and that it rested with me whether it
should ever leave there.”

“Umph! A courteous gentleman. Will he use it now?”

“If I know him, he will not until he has given up every hope of
carrying his purpose with me.”

“Even after your splendid defiance of him to-day?”

She smiled. “He has that quality which so often wins--patience. I
believe he suspected from the first what the object of the betrothal
was, and just set himself to rivet the chain until I should not dare to
break it. While I was away he threatened my mother that if I did not
return at once, her arrest would be used to force me back.”

“Well, look at it as we will, he has us tied up in a tangle bad enough
to satisfy even him.”

“It is not so bad as if his men had caught me just now. He would have
been much nearer his end. So long as I am free, I can fight him; but
he knows what his power would be if he had both mother and me in his
hands.”

It was in truth a devil of a tangle. With Madame Drakona in prison,
Bremenhof had his hand on the lever which controlled everything; and to
get her out seemed hopeless.

“This is the Place of St. John,” said Volna, presently. “That is the
house, No. 17, across there. I will leave you here. What will you do?”

“I shall go to Ladislas and let him know what has occurred.”

“Poor Ladislas! What do you think he can do? You will find him with his
hands full of more serious matters than even my troubles.”

“Nothing could be more serious in his eyes,” I said. “And you, what
will you do?”

“Wait until to-morrow, that is all.” She spoke with a rather weary
smile.

“That is not the courage that defied Bremenhof. The people may win in
the impending struggle, and then everything will be changed.”

“They may,” she agreed, but with no hope in her voice.

“You don’t believe it?”

“There is always hope.”

“We may find another way. Nothing is impossible for such courage as you
have shewn.”

“There is always one way open to me in the last resort.”

“You mean?”

She looked up steadily. “What should I mean but surrender?”

“Not that, for God’s sake,” I cried impetuously.

“Don’t think me a coward for naming it. It would take all the courage
you think I have. But he knows how I love my mother, and that it would
kill her to remain in prison. To-morrow she must be freed at any cost.”

“No, no, don’t think of that. Think of your own brave words in defying
him.”

She smiled again. “That is just it. Brave _words_, nothing else. He
knows they were but words.”

“I’ll find some other way. You’ll think differently to-morrow.”

She paused and then gave me her hand. “I’ll try. If any one can give me
confidence you can.”

“How shall I see you to-morrow? Is there any risk in my coming to the
house?”

“It will be better not. One never knows. I will be in the Square of
St. Paul--where the strikers’ meetings were--at eleven o’clock. But,
remember, my mother must be freed to-morrow at any cost.”

“Then I know what I have to do,” I answered, confidently, “and I
repeat, I’ll do it somehow.”

As I turned away, having watched her enter the house she had indicated,
I could not resist applying the phrase--“brave words, nothing else”--to
my own resolve to find some means of bringing Bremenhof to terms. I
could see no way to make it good, to make it more than mere words
intended to encourage her. It looked a sheer impossibility.

Short of calling the man and shooting him for the old insult to me or
forcing a fresh quarrel upon him, there was nothing I could do, and the
utter futility of any such crude plan was too patent to do more than
increase my impotent anger.

I was hurrying to Ladislas’ house when I remembered that I had had no
food for some hours and had nowhere to sleep. So I went to the big
hotel, the _Vladimir_, and had dinner and engaged a room, lest Ladislas
should deem it imprudent for me to stay with him.

As I sat over my dinner brooding, it appeared to me that the only
hope for Volna lay in the success of the popular movement; and after
dinner I lingered some time in the streets, intensely interested in the
progress of affairs.

The excitement and general unrest were certainly increasing fast,
and the temper of the people was rising. The groups of strikers were
growing larger. In some places crowds had gathered, and were openly
cheering speakers who no longer took pains to lower their voices. In
many places the agents of the Fraternity were busily distributing
leaflets embodying the workers’ demands. There were many proofs of this
growing confidence.

More than once the police and the people came into open conflict; and
each time the police were worsted, to the great delight and manifest
encouragement of the crowd. Then, as men moved from one spot to
another, the idea of a procession was generated; bands were formed and
united, and began to parade the streets. And in all places at all times
men appeared ready primed to take the lead, all acting together as
though the whole work had been carefully prepared and rehearsed.

A blind man could have seen that grave trouble was in the making, and
I saw abundant proof that, although such leaders as my friend might
counsel peaceful methods, the populace were in that ugly mood which
would lead them to laugh at peaceful counsels and to rely on force and
violence.

It was a night of such crisis for the city that I was surprised to find
the authorities apparently heedless of the rapidly growing peril.

At Ladislas’ house, however, I had a glimpse of their plans. There were
lights in some of the windows and everything was apparently as usual.
A servant admitted me and when I asked for my friend, he ushered me
into the library, saying his master would come to me directly.

Instead of Ladislas, however, a stranger came--a young man,
well-dressed, courteous, and politely insinuating.

“The leaders of the Fraternity are now in conference and the Count
cannot leave them for the moment. Will you join them or can I carry any
message?”

He referred to the Fraternity with a sort of secretive suggestiveness;
but it nevertheless surprised me that the subject should be mentioned
so openly.

“I can wait,” I said. “I merely wish to see him privately.”

“Let me carry a message. He may be some time. On such a night as this
the meeting must necessarily be lengthy. I am in his confidence, his
private secretary, in fact,” he added, when I made no reply. “And of
course, in full sympathy with him in all.”

“I didn’t know he had a secretary, but you will probably know my name,
Robert Anstruther.”

“Oh, are you Mr. Anstruther? Yes, indeed. I am glad to meet you, if you
will allow me to say so. You have probably come to see him about----?”
He paused as if inviting me to finish the sentence.

“Well?”

He laughed pleasantly. “You will think it very stupid of me, but in the
multiplicity of things which in this crisis in the city have crowded
upon me, I have lost the clue. Let me think;” and he put his hand to
his forehead as if in perplexity.

He was evidently a very sharp, clever fellow, but it struck me that his
sudden forgetfulness was a little overacted.

“I am not surprised you can’t remember it,” I said with a smile
intended to be as frank and pleasant as his.

A quick glance from his keen eyes, not intended for me to notice, put
me further upon my guard. “That is very good of you. But I take it what
you have to say is for the Count’s own ears?”

I looked steadily at him a moment. “I am thinking where I have seen you
before,” I said, preparing to make a shot.

“I have not had the pleasure, I am sure,” he replied, with another
smile; deprecating this time. He had as many different smiles as a
woman. “I do not forget faces and should instantly recognize such a
friend of the Count as Mr. Anstruther, if we had met before.”

“I have it,” I exclaimed, banging my hand on the table. “You were
in the Police Headquarters when I was arrested and taken there from
Solden.”

It was a good guess, and his surprise unmasked him for an instant.
“What do you mean, sir?”

“That you are an agent of the Department. Your people arrested me as a
conspirator and imprisoned me until my friend, General von Eckerstein,
explained the mistake. Count Ladislas Tuleski and I are old friends,
and as the General has advised me to leave Warsaw, I did not wish to
go away without bidding my friend good-bye. But I suppose you have
raided the house, and made it a trap for any one you think you should
suspect. Not a nice trick perhaps, but then our English methods differ
from yours. Now, how do I stand? Do you wish to repeat the farce of
arresting me?”

In view of the ugly incident with the police agent when helping Volna
to escape, I was a great deal more anxious about his reply than my easy
smile may have led him to believe.




CHAPTER XXII

POLICE METHODS


We dallied with the question and I thought he was going to repudiate my
suggestion; but after a slight pause his manner became official.

“If you recognize me, there is no reason for further concealment. We
are in possession of the house and my object was to learn the purpose
of your visit. I invite you to tell it me plainly.”

“It is merely personal and private. If I leave Warsaw to-morrow, I
shall not have another opportunity to see my friend.”

“A mere friendly call? At such an hour as this? On one of the leaders
of the conspiracy which is threatening the whole city?”

“It is no novel experience for me to make a statement which at the time
is not believed by the agents of your Department and to have the truth
proved later.”

“Where have you come from?”

“I dined at the _Hotel Vladimir_ about a couple of hours ago; since
then I have been in the streets.”

“Also for private and personal purposes?”

“I am an Englishman and always interested in watching the results of
misgovernment. A mere personal interest, of course.”

He liked this no better than I intended. “Your visit here to-night
is full of suspicion, sir, and the account of your movements very
difficult to believe.”

“In England such a remark would be treated as an impertinence; but
there we manage matters differently, and even police officials speak
the language of courtesy.”

“This is not England,” he said with a sneer.

“Thank God that at least is true. But all the same, need we ruffle one
another’s tempers? I am ready to do what you wish, I can’t help myself,
of course.”

“What is your address?”

“The night before last I was a guest of your Department in the fortress
of Kreuzstadt. Last night I stayed at the house of my friend, General
von Eckerstein. To-night I meant to ask Ladislas to put me up; and
to-morrow I might be on my way to God’s country once more. As it is,
I shall return to the _Hotel Vladimir_, unless of course you have
any----” and I waved my hand to indicate that he might like to finish
the sentence.

“My instructions are to send all who come to this house to the
Department. One of my men will accompany you.”

“I am ready,” I answered, curtly. “It is a pity you did not act on your
instructions before and save time, instead of trying to trick me into
admissions.”

“You can make your explanations there, sir, and lodge any complaint
you please,” he replied; and in a few minutes I was on my way to the
Department in charge of one of his subordinates.

“You are an Englishman?” he said, after he had been eyeing me very
curiously for some time.

“Yes, with no great opinion of your methods of government.”

“From London?”

“Yes, from London.”

“I have been in London,” he answered in excellent English.

“I wonder you ever came back here, then.”

“I was some time there, in Soho. It was in London, I suppose, you met
Count Ladislas Tuleski?”

“There and in other places. Has he been arrested to-night?”

“No. He would have been, but some one gave him notice that his house
was to be raided; and of course he fled.” He laughed as though this
were a joke.

“Strange how these official secrets get tapped?” I said.

“The Fraternity has friends in many quarters.”

“Has it?”

He laughed again, rather drily, this time, and answered with a shrewd
glance. “Of course you don’t know. Any one calling at the Count’s house
at such a time would not.”

What was he driving at? His manner suggested more than a mere desire to
pump me. I made no reply, waiting for him to develop the thing.

“My name is Christian Burski. You may know it,” he said next.

“How should I, an Englishman, know the names of the Warsaw police?”

He laughed at this first and then said meaningly, “Not of all the
police, of course. But mine is well known.”

“Is it? I don’t envy you your reputation, all the same.”

“Ah, you have no sympathy with the police.”

“A kind of sport in which I’d rather be hunted than hunter.”

He smiled. “That’s good. I like your way,” he replied; and then
lowering his voice and speaking earnestly, he added: “Is this visit to
Headquarters likely to be serious for you? Are you suspect?”

“One would scarcely go to such a place on a night like this from
choice, I suppose?” I answered lightly.

“There’s a lot of trouble brewing in the streets and it would be easy
for a man to get away from a single guard.”

After a bribe, I concluded. “Will you smoke?” I asked him and handed
him a cigar. We stood to light up and as the match flared between us
our eyes met. “Why do you say this?”

“As a peasant farmer, friend,” he laughed.

I held the match to his cigar and he pulled at it, keeping his eyes the
while on me. “You seem in a hurry,” I answered, laughing in my turn.

“Immediate,” came the due response.

“Your name?”

Up went his left hand as he gave me the sign. “In the eye of God.”

I thrust out my hand.

He looked at me steadily and would not take it. It was proof enough.

“Did you give notice of the raid?”

He nodded. “Yes. If you don’t wish to go to the Department, we’ll get
into one of these crowds; you can knock me over and get away.”

I thought quickly. “I don’t think it matters. But you can help me in
a much more important affair. Have we a friend in Colonel Bremenhof’s
house--his private house?”

“I am there myself,” he answered, with his dry smile.

“Could you get me admittance?”

“No, impossible.”

“If I were once inside could you help me?”

“At the risk of both our lives.”

“When will you be there?”

“To-morrow, I expect. To-night, the raids on the Fraternity leaders
have brought every special among us on duty. To-morrow, the military
will be called out.”

“If I am not detained at the Department to-night, could you bring me a
police uniform to the _Hotel Vladimir_?”

“Yes. One of mine. We are pretty much the same height. By whose
orders?”

“To serve Count Tuleski. There are certain papers in Colonel
Bremenhof’s safe which we must have.”

“Impossible,” he said, with a shake of the head. “He carries the key
always; and when he is absent a man is always posted in the room.”

“Which room is it?”

“The library. The room at the back of the house on your left as you
enter. But there are usually half a dozen men on guard in the house.”

“At what time after dusk does the Colonel return home?”

“At six--he dines with his mother and sister.”

“If you see me in the house to-morrow you will contrive to be on hand,
should any one be called by him. That is all. God keep us all,” I said,
remembering Jacob Posen’s parting salutation at Kervatje.

“God keep us all,” he repeated.

We reached the Department soon afterwards and after a short delay I
was taken in to Bremenhof, who received me with a half-suppressed,
malicious chuckle. My guard, Burski, reported that I had called at
Ladislas’ house and the explanation I had given.

Bremenhof sent him out of the room. “I scarcely expected to see you
here again so soon,” he said, when we were alone. “We have another
charge waiting for you.”

“I can answer any charge.”

“Do you wish to communicate with your friends this time?” he sneered.
“Scarcely so, I imagine. General von Eckerstein pledged himself that
you were no revolutionary. Why then did I find you at the Drakonas’
house this afternoon; why did you aid the escape of a suspect; and
follow it with this night visit to the house of a Fraternity leader?”

I smiled. “You are not alarming me, Colonel Bremenhof. I am no
revolutionary. I went to the Drakonas’ house because my friend Count
Ladislas Tuleski urged me to help him in protecting from you the woman
he hopes to marry--Volna Drakona; I helped her to escape when you sent
to arrest her; and I went to my friend’s house to tell him what I had
done.”

“The woman _he_ is to marry?” he exclaimed with a scowl. Then with a
vicious curl of the lip: “So you admit that you helped in this escape?”

“Why should I deny it? You have the proofs. Your man would identify
me. You can charge me with the offence, but of course in that case the
reasons for the suspect’s arrest must be gone into fully. And you see I
know them thoroughly.”

He saw his dilemma. “I did not say I should charge you, only that
you have now committed an act which at such a time of crisis carries
serious consequences.”

It was my turn to chuckle; but I had more to gain than merely turn the
tables on him.

“I have done nothing which I am not perfectly willing to make known
publicly anywhere. When I learned my friend’s sentiments and hopes in
regard to Miss Drakona, my own object was instantly changed. But for
his persistence, I should probably have left Warsaw to-day.”

This drew a long, keen, searching look on me. “Does Miss Drakona know
this?”

“Of course.”

“Are you aware of the charges against Count Tuleski? That if made good,
they may involve a life sentence, or at least, Siberia?”

“Why do you tell me this?”

“You are shrewd enough to understand, Mr. Anstruther.”

“I will not discuss such a question.”

“If this matter against you is not pressed, will you leave Warsaw?”

“How can I? I have agreed to be examined to-morrow about the Bratinsk
matter.”

He waved an impatient hand. “I can arrange that, of course.”

“I will go on condition that Madame Drakona is at once set at liberty
and the evidence you are holding back is placed in my hands, and that
Miss Volna Drakona is absolved from all responsibility for the affair
at Bratinsk.”

I looked for an outburst of anger at this; but he listened closely and
then sat thinking, a heavy frown on his dark face.

“What is behind that?” he asked after the pause.

“That Miss Drakona must be a free agent to become the wife of my friend
if she will.”

“Free to go to Siberia?” he sneered; “or perhaps you mean to England?”

“There is an end of the thing. I have no use for a man who doubts my
word.”

“You forget how grossly I have been deceived already.”

I made no reply, but leant back in my chair, crossed my legs, and
shoved my hands into my pockets with a great show of unconcern.

“Where is Miss Drakona?” I took no notice. “Can you communicate with
her?” I took a paper from my pocket and began to read it. “If I agree,
when will you leave Warsaw?” I made a pencil note on the paper, folded
it up and put it away with a sigh of weariness.

“I did not mean to doubt your word. I retract what I said.”

“That’s another matter. We can resume. Provided you keep faith with me
throughout. Then, as soon as Madame Drakona is free and you have handed
me the evidence against her and satisfied me that the charge against
her daughter is settled, I will go by the next train?”

“On your word of honour?”

“On my word of honour.”

He thought for a moment. “You can arrange to leave to-morrow night.
There will be certain formalities to settle of course. I will see to
them to-morrow. Come to my private house to-morrow at six o’clock and
I shall be prepared with everything. Are you still with General von
Eckerstein?”

“No. I shall stay to-night at the _Hotel Vladimir_.”

“You can go. Oh, by the way,” he added in a tone of indifference; “your
manservant has been brought here with your luggage from Bratinsk.”

Something in his manner struck me. His indifference seemed forced. “Is
he a prisoner?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Not now.”

“Let him bring my things to the _Vladimir_.”

He struck his table bell. “This gentleman has been brought here
needlessly,” he said to the man who came. “He has certain instructions
to give about his manservant. See that they are carried out.
Good-night, Mr. Anstruther.”

I left the message for Felsen, and as I was passing out I saw Burski.
He gave me a quick glance of congratulation.

“I am going, you see,” I said.

“I did no more than my duty,” he answered, for those about us to hear.

“I have no grudge against you. I hope you will always do no less than
your duty.”

He noticed the equivocal phrase. “I think I can be depended upon,” was
his equally ambiguous reply.

“Good-night. I am going to the _Hotel Vladimir_.”

“It is nothing to me. Good-night.”

I moved off; and just then some one called out--“Burski, the chief
wants you.”

I turned my head at the call; and was just in time to catch his eyes
fixed upon me with an expression which set me thinking as I stepped
into the street and started for the hotel.

It was a look which suggested that the mask was off in that moment.

Had he been just fooling me?




CHAPTER XXIII

SPY WORK


It is never pleasant to have to admit even in the secrecy of one’s own
private thoughts that one has been fooled; nor does the cleverness of
the fooler afford any but the coldest consolation.

Yet when I sat down to think things over calmly, I could come to only
one conclusion--that in my trial of wits against Bremenhof and his
agents I had been wofully worsted.

A little thing will suffice to start suspicion; and in this case it was
that strange look which I had surprised on Burski’s face.

Once started, however, my suspicions gathered like snow flakes in a
drift, and quickly hardened into certainty. Everything seemed to be as
highly charged with doubt, as a bomb with dynamite. I could see how I
had just played into their hands, like a countryman in the care of a
gang of sharpers.

Why should Bremenhof give in about Madame Drakona; and to me of all
men? He had cunningly led me to believe that it was because of my
changed relations in regard to Volna. But mine were little more than
blank cartridges; yet he had waved the white flag the instant I fired
one at him.

I could see now how unreal the whole interview had been. He had read my
purpose and had just played with me, keeping his own plan cunningly
concealed. He meant to use me for that plan. What was it? And how did
he mean me to help him?

There was the matter of Felsen, too. Why had Bremenhof been at the
pains to render me a service? I had not been so dense as not to notice
that his indifference in mentioning Felsen was feigned. What object had
he in sending the man back to me at such a moment?

I recalled the interview I had overheard between Felsen and the police
agent at Bratinsk. The police had brought him to Warsaw now. What had
been the relations between them in the interval? Were they going to use
him as a spy? It looked very much like it.

Then I thought of Burski and grew hot with shame at the easy manner
in which I had let the fellow trick me with his use of the Fraternity
signal and pass words, and his offer to let me escape. He had been
fooling me of course; and had succeeded with his subtler effort after
his superior at Ladislas’ house had failed. It was all part of the
system of spy work: and by this time Bremenhof knew everything and was
no doubt laughing at me and setting the snare which was to complete my
overthrow.

Sackcloth and ashes may be hard wearing apparel; but they don’t hurt
as much as the stings of such humiliation as I felt in realizing my
self-satisfied stupidity and the ease with which I had been gulled.

The one redeeming point was that my eyes had been opened before it was
too late; and the question was whether I could still get out of the
mess into which I had blundered.

I soon guessed the drift of Bremenhof’s scheme. It was to ruin me by
convicting me of complicity in the Fraternity conspiracy; and in the
meanwhile to use me to enable him to find Volna. Felsen was no doubt
the chosen spy for the latter part; and Burski for the former.

My first step was obvious. I must not let either man know that I
suspected him.

With Felsen this was easy. When he arrived I talked over matters with
him; listened to the story of his sufferings on my account; promised
him a liberal reward for what he had endured; and did my best to make
him feel that he still had my confidence.

With the police agent, Burski, I had to be much more wary. I had
already had proofs of his shrewdness; and I found him prepared with an
explanation of his call to Bremenhof as I was leaving the Department.

He sent up his name openly, and as the hotel servant was leaving the
room he said, with official curtness: “A letter from Colonel Bremenhof.”

It was a formal notice that my examination had been postponed.

“We are alone?” he asked in a low voice.

I nodded. “I have only this room.”

He drew a chair close to mine. “We are in luck. You noticed that the
chief sent for me?”

“Yes; and was a little surprised.”

“A rare stroke of fortune. He suspects you and questioned me closely as
to what I had got out of you on the way to police quarters. You know we
agents are supposed to trick a prisoner into admissions.”

“An infernal system it is, too; but they can’t get at me. They had me
for nearly a week; but I have friends, and they were forced to let me
go.”

“You must be careful, friend. You are to be watched and----” Here he
smiled very slyly--“The chief has picked me out for the work. Is not
that luck?”

He was evidently pretty sure of me. “I can’t quite understand that,”
I said, as if in doubt. “As a matter of fact I found the Colonel
willing to do all I asked.” Then I became apparently confidential;
that is, I told him just as much as I surmised Bremenhof would have
told him already; and referring to the visit to Bremenhof’s house,
I laid special stress on the fact that Ladislas, as a leader of the
Fraternity, had assigned the task to me.

He pledged himself to help and questioned me as to my object.

“Is that all?” he exclaimed, with a shrug of the shoulders when I said
my object was merely to get the papers. “He is so hated and feared
that I hoped----” here he dropped his voice to a whisper and looked
intently and meaningly at me--“that your orders went farther.”

I understood him. “I am an Englishman, friend, and no assassin,” I said
firmly.

He made as if to conceal a natural disappointment. “And this uniform.”

“A disguise to enable me to get the Count’s friends away under the
pretence of an arrest. But I doubt now if I shall need it.”

He paused. “A shrewd plan indeed; but not so far-reaching as I had
looked for and hoped. It is best for friends to be frank.”

“The Count himself as you know is dead against all violence.”

“The time is past for mere talk; we must act,” he exclaimed, with an
excellent suggestion of suppressed excitement; and he sought to lead me
to discuss the affairs of the Fraternity.

“I am not a leader and have only to do the task assigned to me,” I
said. “Let others do as they will.”

“You believe our freedom can be won without violence?”

“I have only to do the task assigned to me,” I repeated; and would not
be drawn any farther.

As he was going he referred to Felsen. “You trust your servant? You
know he is also suspect.”

“I know he is a good servant.”

“Do not trust him too far. He talks too freely. Be on your guard; and
don’t let him see this uniform. He will know that I have brought it;
and the knowledge might be dangerous to both of us.”

It was a clever stroke for one spy to put me on my guard against the
other; but my eyes were no longer blinded; and his warning did not
mislead me.

I was fully alive to the personal risk I was running, and I spent a
couple of hours in very anxious thought, recasting my plans for the
next day. In the end I resolved to act as though implicitly believing
in Bremenhof’s sincerity, and saw how to use one of his own spies to
let him know my intention.

In the morning I wrote a note to Volna.

  “DEAR MISS DRAKONA,--I am glad to tell you that in an interview I
  had with Colonel Bremenhof last night he agreed to hand over to me
  the evidence against your mother and also to place it on record that
  there is no charge of any kind against you. He imposed one condition;
  and I shall comply with it by leaving Warsaw to-night. I think it
  better not to call upon you this morning. Therefore I send this by my
  servant, Jacob Felsen, who is to be trusted.

  “I wish you earnestly, God-speed, and shall always be

                                   “Your Friend,

                                                    “ROBERT ANSTRUTHER.”

I addressed this openly to Volna and gave it to my servant.

“I am going to trust you with a very important secret, Felsen,” I said
as impressively and earnestly as I could. “The safety of the person to
whom this is addressed may depend upon your good faith. I cannot go to
the place myself, but I feel I can rely upon your doing all I look for
from you in the matter.”

He answered with a hundred protestations of fidelity; and was so
over-insistent that I was quite sure he meant to take the letter
straight to Bremenhof, who would either hurry to the house himself or
send to have Volna brought to him. He would thus find that I had given
the right address and was apparently acting, as my letter implied, in
reliance upon his word.

But as I was careful that Felsen did not leave my hotel until it was
impossible for Bremenhof or his men to get to the Place of St. John
before Volna had left to keep her appointment with me, I was risking
nothing in giving away her real address.

As soon as he was gone I started to meet her. I found Burski in the
hall of the hotel smoking a cigar and chatting with some other men.

I concluded that I was to be shadowed and that he was there to point me
out to whoever might be detailed for the work.

“Ah, good-morning, Mr. Anstruther,” he said, coming up to me.

I stopped and returned his greeting. “What is the news? Is the trouble
over?”

“No, indeed. It is going to begin. The men in almost every factory and
workshop in the city have struck work: every policeman is on duty, and
the soldiers are being held in readiness. It will be a black day for
Warsaw.”

“There will be violence, you mean?”

“Do men get together in thousands and tens of thousands just to shake
hands with one another? You are not going out?”

“Indeed I am. I have a free day--my last possibly in Warsaw--and I wish
to see matters for myself. Where are the strikers in force?”

At this moment a man who was sitting near the door rose and sauntered
out, followed soon afterwards by a second. I marked them well; for I
guessed they might be told off to shadow me.

“They are in force everywhere,” he replied. “Shall you be long away?”

“Come with me and show me things? One direction is as good as another
for me.”

He drew me aside and lowered his voice to a whisper: “I am supposed to
be following you, you know. But if you tell me when you’ll get back
here, it will do.” Such a clever assumption of sincerity.

“Frankly, I don’t know.” I did not; but not for the reason I wished
him to infer. “I may soon have had enough of it.” And with that I went
to the door, glanced up and down the street, and then strolled off as
though I had no purpose beyond the merest curiosity.

I soon perceived that I was being followed by the two men I had seen
leave the hotel; and a well trained Russian sleuthhound can be very
difficult to shake off. But I had a plan for doing this; and luck soon
favoured me.

In one of the side streets off Noviswiat Street, the great business
thoroughfare, a crowd of strikers stood listening to a very excited
speaker. I got into the middle of them and just when he was abusing
the employers and cursing the police for taking their side against
the workers, I pointed out the two sleuths to the men close to me and
whispered that they were police spies. The news spread like burning oil
on water; and when I slipped away, the two men were the centre of a
fierce, threatening mob and far too much concerned for their own safety
to care what became of me.

The incident had delayed me seriously, however, and a glance at my
watch showed me it was already a quarter past eleven, the hour for my
appointment with Volna.

I had at least a mile to go and after a sharp walk for a couple of
hundred yards, I hailed a sleigh.

Then the unexpected happened. “The Church of St. Paul as fast as you
can,” I called to the man as he pulled up; and I was stepping quickly
into the vehicle when some one laid a hand on my shoulder.

I turned quickly; and to my infinite chagrin I found it was the agent,
Burski, a little out of breath, but smiling and evidently on excellent
terms with himself.




CHAPTER XXIV

BLACK MONDAY IN WARSAW


“I was almost afraid I shouldn’t catch you up,” said Burski.

“I thought you couldn’t get away?” I growled.

“Oh, I managed it all right. I thought it would be a pity for you to
miss anything I could shew you on your last day in the city; and such
a day; so I hurried after you. Nearly lost you in that crowd, though.
Going to the Church of St. Paul, are you? That’ll make a capital
starting point. Jump in.”

But it was not in my programme to take him to meet Volna. “No, I think
as you’re with me, we shall see more if we walk,” I replied, and I
tossed the driver a rouble and dismissed him.

Burski laughed. “That illustrates one of my pet theories,” he said;
“that you English are sometimes a most changeable and impulsive people.”

“I am not interested in your theories about my countrymen.”

“Oh, I won’t force them on you. I hate a man who is always cramming his
views down your throat. He’s a bore--the poorest sort of creature in
the world. Which way shall we walk?”

“All ways are the same to me.”

“Let us stroll on then. It will take us to the Church of St. Paul.”

I was so angry, so perplexed how to shake him off, and at the same
time so anxious to get to Volna that I would not trust myself to
speak. Every minute of delay increased the risk that she might tire
of waiting--or jump to the conclusion that I could not keep the
appointment--and go back to the house where I knew Bremenhof’s men
might already be waiting for her.

Burski acted as though he saw nothing of my uneasiness. He chatted away
quite unconcernedly, calling my attention now to a church and again to
some public building; and accepting my monosyllabic surly replies with
unruffled complacency.

Once chance offered of getting away. A great crowd of strikers came
marching past, filling the roadway, and as the accompanying mob of
stragglers surged on to the footpath, I was about to plunge into the
midst of their ranks when he slipped his arm into mine and drew me back
into a doorway.

“For Heaven’s sake be careful,” he cried. “The scum of the city is
there, and your very life might be in danger.”

It appeared as though he might well be right; but I could have cursed
him for his forethought all the same.

The strikers themselves looked formidable enough. There were several
hundred of them, stem-faced men all; resolute, silent, determined,
dogged, as though moved by a common deep-set purpose, they maintained
a rough order of march, leaders at the head and on the flank of each
band.

The mob hanging on their skirts were of a very different class,
however; ill-clad, dirty, unkempt tatter-de-malions, the dregs of the
alleys and by-ways of the city, ripe for any mischief or devilment.
Evil men and worse women, they shuffled and scrambled and hustled
along, with occasional cheers for the strikers, hoarse cries and
oaths to one another, and execrations for the government: a towsled,
disorderly rabble, unquestionably dangerous, and high-charged with
thoughts and hopes of violence. It would not be their fault if the day
ended without open resistance, looting and bloodshed.

For many minutes precious to me they filled the streets and made
progress impossible; and before they had passed, a clock near by struck
twelve.

An hour past the time at which I was to have met Volna. She would
surely have given me up and in all probability had already gone back to
the house to which in my fatuous confidence in my own cleverness I had
been reckless enough to send Bremenhof.

“Where have the strikers come from?” I asked Burski, as a sudden
thought chilled me.

“From where we are going, the Square in front of the Church of St.
Paul. They have an ugly look and we shall have Petersburg over again,
if they don’t shake themselves free from the rabble. And it may be even
worse here, for the Fraternity have brought in arms and are prepared to
resist. There will be fighting before night.”

“Spoken very much like a police agent that,” I exclaimed.

He shrugged his shoulders. “One gets the habit, I suppose. I was a
police agent long before I joined the Fraternity; and one judges of
things from that standpoint at times. See, they have swept the Square
clear,” he added, as we reached the Church.

“And at this point we’ll part company, please.”

He assumed great surprise. “Part company? Why we have seen scarcely
anything yet.”

“I mean what I say.”

He paused and then his manner changed. “I am really sorry for this, Mr.
Anstruther.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Of course, I have seen that I was not wanted, but the fact is I myself
am being watched. I am compelled to keep with you for an hour or so.”

“You suggested just now that you came because I had asked you,” I
rapped back.

“Well, you did ask me, didn’t you? And you put it so naturally that I
really thought you were in earnest.”

“I wasn’t. I don’t wish to be seen by our friends to-day in the company
of so well known a police agent as yourself.”

“Let us see then how we can manage it? The simplest way will be for
me to drop behind. The friends won’t know we are together, and my
superiors will see I am obeying orders.”

“But I don’t wish to be shadowed either.”

He spread out his hands with an air of bewilderment. “For the sake of
the Fraternity I must not lose my position in the Police. You see that?”

“I see one thing which is enough for me. I am not going to be shadowed.
You may as well understand that.”

“But we are not going to quarrel, surely.”

“If necessary we are.”

He sighed as though I were most unreasonable. “It has always been one
of my pet theories----”

“Hang your theories. Are you going to persist in following me?”

“No, I am not.”

“Then go your way and leave me to go mine.”

“Yes, I will do that.”

But he kept at my side. “Then go back.”

“Very well. I am sorry I have annoyed you.”

“I shan’t be annoyed if you leave me now.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

“But you are still coming on.”

“I am thinking.”

The Square was nearly deserted and I looked everywhere for Volna. The
clock chimed the quarter past the hour. She was not there.

I pulled up. “I have had enough of this. What are you going to do?”

“I have a suggestion. Let us go to Colonel Bremenhof and tell him. He
is close here.”

“Where?”

“The Place of St. John, No. 17.”

I turned on him so angrily in my surprise that he drew back a pace and
his right hand went to his pocket, where I guessed he had a revolver.
But he forced a look of indifference, and keeping his eyes on mine
jerked his head in the direction.

“It is only a short distance across the Square there.”

It was now quite clear my scheme had gone wrong. Either Volna had been
prevented from coming to meet me; or, having come had been scared away
by the mob, or had given me up. If she had returned home, she was
already in Bremenhof’s power; and the sooner I knew of it the better.
On the other hand, if she was not there, and he or his men were, I
could confront him with the proof of his double dealing.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t adopt the suggestion,” I said,
indifferently. “If Colonel Bremenhof has ordered me to be shadowed, I
may as well know why. We’ll go there.”

“This way then,” he replied, adding after a pause, “I trust you won’t
misunderstand my position, Mr. Anstruther.”

“Why are you so anxious about it?”

“You have been so badly treated by the Department, for one thing; and
of course, as a fellow member of the Fraternity, I am bound to help you
all I can. But you don’t seem to trust me.”

“How did you know Colonel Bremenhof was at this address, the Place of
St. John?”

“He sent me word this morning.” He told the lie very plausibly and
without the slightest hesitation.

“You know his affairs pretty closely--what do you suppose he is doing
there?”

“I should know well enough but, you see, I haven’t been either at
headquarters or at his house since last night, when I left to see you
at the _Hotel Vladimir_.”

“I should find it easier to believe you if I had not myself sent the
address to him this morning at a time which made it impossible for him
to have communicated it to you.”

“He has a hundred secret sources of information. He must have known
this long before.”

“Why?”

He spread out his hand. “How otherwise could he have sent it to me?”

“If he did send it,” I retorted drily.

He stopped abruptly as though an idea had just occurred to him. “Wait.
Wait. How did you send it to him?”

“By my servant, Felsen.”

“Then that is it,” he cried. “I suspected that fellow. It was he who
told me the address, declaring the chief had sent the message by him.
He is a traitor, that servant of yours. The scoundrel.” He was quite
hot in his indignation.

“But you said he was suspect,” I reminded him.

“I wished to warn you. I told you he talked. I wish I had spoken more
plainly. But you are so quick, I thought you would understand.”

“I am beginning to now,” I replied, as we hurried on.

As we reached the Place of St. John the noise of a great tumult reached
us from the direction in which we had seen the strikers marching; the
subdued roar of thousands of hoarse voices, followed first by some
desultory shots and then by the rattle of musketry firing.

The people about us paused, and then began to run in the direction of
the sound.

“It has begun,” said Burski. “The troops are stationed by the
Government Buildings and the strikers have come in conflict with them.”

It was to the accompaniment of this ominous music of revolt that we
approached the house. A small force of police were gathered before it,
and I scanned the windows eagerly for some sign of Volna’s presence. I
saw nothing.

There was a short delay before we were admitted. Burski drew aside two
of the men and during the short discussion, curious looks were cast at
me. In the end way was made for us and we were allowed to pass.

The moment we were inside Burski said: “We must wait here;” and another
man who was in the passage placed himself by my side.

It looked very, very much as though I had walked into a trap and was
once more under arrest.

I glanced at Burski. “What does this mean?”

For answer he shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands as though
he was as perplexed as I. “Simply the orders, that’s all.”




CHAPTER XXV

NO. 17, THE PLACE OF ST. JOHN


We stood silent for perhaps a minute and I strained my ears for the
sound of voices in the rooms near. Not so much as a whisper was to be
heard.

Presently the stairs creaked above, and I saw a woman, tear-stained and
troubled-looking, peering cautiously down at us.

“What are you doing there? Come down,” said Burski, quickly.

I guessed that she was Volna’s old nurse, and that she had been
listening above stairs. She came down, her eyes full of alarm.

“In which room are they?” I asked, sharply.

“The back----” she began, pointing to a door, when Burski stopped her.

“Silence,” he interposed.

But I had the information I needed and sprang past him and ran up the
stairs. “You must not go up, Mr. Anstruther,” he cried.

“Why not? I am no prisoner,” I answered; and before he could prevent
me, I had reached the door and entered the room, Burski at my heels,
to find Volna in a condition of mingled defiance and distress, and
Bremenhof pacing the floor angrily.

“What is the meaning of this?” he cried.

“That is exactly what I have come to see,” said I.

Volna got up. “Is it true, Mr. Anstruther, that you sent this address
to Colonel Bremenhof?”

“Should this man remain to hear what has to be said?” I asked
Bremenhof, pointing to Burski.

He found the question an awkward one. Unwilling to let Burski overhear
the conversation and yet equally unwilling to remain without some
protection, he was at a loss what to do.

“Take the key of the door with you, Burski, and remain within call,” he
said, after a pause.

I waited until we three were alone and then answered Volna’s question.
“It is possible that Colonel Bremenhof obtained the address through me.
How _did_ you get it, sir?”

But Volna did not wait for him to answer. “He has told me more than
once that in consideration of his allowing you to leave the country,
you betrayed my address to him.”

I turned to Bremenhof. “Do you repeat that now in my presence?”

“You have no right to come blustering here,” he said.

“Do you repeat that story of my treachery now in my presence? Come.
Dare you?”

“Don’t think to intimidate me.”

“I thought you would not dare. Now, will you tell Miss Drakona what
really passed last night; or shall I?”

“These matters cannot be gone into now. You must both come to the
Department and the whole thing shall be----” I put my back against the
door and he took alarm instantly. He broke off and said quickly: “My
men are here.”

“You will not call them yet, Colonel Bremenhof,” I said very
deliberately.

“Do you presume to threaten me?”

“This is a personal matter between Miss Drakona, yourself and me. You
have slandered me to her, and your official position cannot and shall
not--understand, shall not--prevent your giving an explanation.”

“I’ll soon see about that.”

“Don’t call your men. I warn you;” and I put my hand to my pocket as
though I had a weapon concealed. I had none; but he was not a difficult
person to bluff; and my look was steady enough to frighten him.

“Mr. Anstruther!” exclaimed Volna, in alarm.

“This matter must be set straight, Miss Drakona.” My tone was as
firm to her as it had been to him; and this served to complete his
discomfiture.

“Now, Colonel Bremenhof, I am waiting.”

He sat down and was as troubled and fidgetty as a schoolboy waiting
for a birching. His eyes were everywhere in the room, his lips moved
nervously, and his fingers played with his beard. But he said nothing.

“I will help you to start. You gave me your word last night that Madame
Drakona should be released to-day; that you would place the evidence
against her in my hands at your house to-night; and that all charges
against this lady should be withdrawn. Is that true?”

“Yes; that is what I have explained,” he muttered.

“The express object, as I told you plainly, was that Miss Drakona
should be a perfectly free agent to marry my friend Count Ladislas
Tuleski or not as she chose.”

“I have said that too, in effect.”

“In effect!” cried Volna contemptuously.

“The one condition you imposed was that I should leave the country, and
to that I agreed.”

“That is only your way of putting it,” he said, beginning to gather
courage as the minutes passed.

“I wrote as much to you this morning, Miss Drakona, and gave the letter
to my servant, Felsen, to bring to you. Have you received it?”

“Colonel Bremenhof has given it to me, Mr. Anstruther.”

“Turned letter carrier, eh?” said I, drily.

“The explanation of my possession of it is perfectly simple. Your
servant was arrested by one of my men this morning; and when he was
searched, the letter was found upon him. I deemed it best to bring it
here myself.”

“And to add that I betrayed the address to you?”

“Your man told me that you had instructed him to bring it to me. Of
course, he may have lied. But how was I to know that?”

His air of blameless innocence, as palpably false as his explanation,
was laughable; but it was my cue at the moment to accept both.

“There is only one thing that really matters,” I declared. “Are you
prepared to keep your word to release Madame Drakona, to give up the
evidence against her, and to certify officially that there is no charge
against Miss Drakona here?”

His start of anger and the vicious look he shot at me showed that he
appreciated the tight corner in which this put him. He was hesitating
how to answer, when unfortunately Volna’s indignation would not be
restrained.

“If you are satisfied with the explanation, Mr. Anstruther, I am
not. Colonel Bremenhof’s charge against you was of deliberate, not
involuntary betrayal. That it was part of your pledge to him.”

I raised my hand in protest; but it was too late. He saw his chance and
took it at once cunningly. He rose and said: “If I am already judged,
nothing more can be done here. Burski!” he called in a loud ringing
voice.

I stepped from the door and Burski and the second man entered.

“You called, Colonel?”

“We are going to the offices of the Department. Let the Englishman be
searched. He has a weapon.”

Burski drew his revolver and turned to me.

“No, you are mistaken. I know what you thought. See!” and I turned my
pocket inside out. “I don’t resist.”

Resistance being useless, it was just as well to make a virtue of
offering none.

“You threatened me,” said Bremenhof.

“Is that the charge against me?”

“The charge will be explained in proper time,” he snapped.

“And I will see that the explanation is proper, too.”

“Silence!” he cried. Now that his men were present, his natural
instincts as an official bully reasserted themselves.

It was an ugly development of the situation; and my chagrin was the
more bitter because only my own blind self-confidence had brought it
about.

Volna blamed herself, however, setting it all down to her last angry
interposition. “I am so sorry,” she said to me. “This is my fault.”

“Not a bit of it. He meant to do it in any case. You only made it a
little easier for him to show his hand. The real blame is mine, as I
will explain to you.”

“The explanation will have to wait,” sneered Bremenhof. “You have many
other things to explain first. See that a carriage is brought, Burski,
for Miss Drakona to go with me. You will take the Englishman. Take him
away now.”

Volna gave a cry of distress, and was coming toward me when Bremenhof
pushed between us.

“You must not speak to the prisoner,” he said, bluntly.

“Come, Mr. Anstruther,” said Burski.

“You need have no fear on my account, Miss Drakona,” I assured her, as
I went out with Burski.

“What is the reason for this?” he asked, as we stood a moment on the
landing, after he had sent his companion for the carriage.

“It means that for the moment you have out-played me--for the moment,
that’s all.”

“Can I help you?”

I looked at him steadily. “Yes, by dropping your pretence.”

“You wrong me, friend. I can still help you to escape. I can get you
out of the city, if you will.”

“Colonel Bremenhof’s orders, eh? No, thank you; not again. I am just as
anxious to be a prisoner now as he is to get me out of the city.”

“He means mischief for you. I told you last night.”

“You told me many lies last night and acted others. And I have had
quite enough of them and of you. Now, go ahead and do as he told you.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “If you get to Headquarters it will be too
late,” he said.

At that moment his comrade came running up. “If the prisoners are to be
taken, Burski, you’d better come. There’s a crowd of the strikers close
by.”

Burski looked at me sharply.

I smiled. “May be a bit awkward for you, eh?”

We went down to the front door.

“Is the carriage there yet?” asked Burski.

“Just driven up,” was the reply.

The clamour of a crowd outside reached our ears. I put out my hand to
open the door and Burski stopped me. He was looking very anxious. “Call
the chief,” he said hurriedly.

The man sprang up the stairs.

Burski and I were left alone.

The clamour outside increased and some one knocked at the door.

“Why don’t you open the door? If you are in earnest about helping me to
escape, let me call in the crowd.”

Instead of replying he drew his revolver.

The knock was repeated, and a voice called: “Burski, Stragoff, either
of you. Quick, man, quick, if you’re coming.”

The noise of the crowd was growing every moment, and my guard’s
perplexity grew with it.

The door of the room above us was opened, and Bremenhof called,
“Burski, Burski. Are you there?”

Attracted by the call his eyes left me a moment. The next I had his
revolver hand in mine, and, having the advantage of the surprise,
wrenched it away from him.

He called out, and Bremenhof and the second man came running down.

The noise without shewed that the crowd were close to the house. I
threw the door wide open.

Two men were on the doorstep and fell back at the sight of the weapon
in my hand.

The crowd were close at hand, streaming past the corner of the Place of
St. John.

I fired two shots in the air. At the sound the crowd turned and faced
towards me.

“The police are here. Rescue! Rescue!” I shouted with all the strength
of my lungs.

A loud roar of angry shouts answered me, and a number of the men
breaking from the crowd came pouring toward the house.

The police agents outside darted away like hares.

At the same instant Burski and the others seized me; and after a short,
fierce struggle I was dragged back inside and the door was slammed just
as the first comers from the mob reached the house.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE TABLES TURNED


The tables were turned now, and as the mob howled and clamoured and
hammered at the door, a braver man than Bremenhof might well have lost
his nerve.

He was pale, and trembled, partly with anger, but more with terror, as
he stared at me in doubt what I would do next.

The chances of the struggle had left me nearest the door; and as I
had retained possession of Burski’s revolver, I had command of the
situation.

“You won’t let them in,” he said, as the hammering at the door
increased in violence, and the crowd yelled for it to be opened.
“They’ll tear us to pieces if you do. For God’s sake.”

“You are willing to keep your word now, I suppose?”

“Yes, yes, in everything. Everything,” he replied eagerly.

Then Burski, who was as cool and collected as his chief was agitated,
made a move the purpose of which I was to see later. He whispered to
his companions, and Bremenhof hurried back up the staircase and the
other man ran away to the back of the house.

“Now, Mr. Anstruther, we must face this out together. What are you
going to do?”

Those outside were battering at the door with a violence that
threatened to break it down every moment. A heavy stone was hurled
through the small glass light above it, and a loud cheer greeted the
smash.

I turned and threw the door open and then his object was made plain.

As I opened it, he sent up a great shout.

“Help! help!” he called, in ringing stentorian tones. “Thank God you
have come, friends. The rest of the cursed police have bolted, but I’ve
kept this one from escaping. My fellow prisoners are upstairs.”

It was a clever ruse; and in an instant a dozen hands shot out eagerly
to grab me. I sprang back and Burski tried to block my retreat; but I
thrust him away and reached the stairs.

“Stop. This is a trick,” I shouted. “That is the police agent. I am an
Englishman. It was I who fired the shots just now and called for help.”

A babel of oaths and confused cries greeted this; and the men in front
halted a moment in hesitation.

Burski saw the hesitation. “He lies, like the police dog he is, to save
his skin,” he called. “Look at the weapon in his hand. Some of you will
know the police pattern.”

A yell of execration followed this cunning stroke, as the crowd
threatened me.

“I took it from him,” I said; but I was not believed and a rush was
made at me again.

To stop this I backed up the narrow stairway and levelled the weapon at
them. Those in front flinched and hung back at the sight of it.

“Do you want any further proof,” cried Burski. “Is there any leader of
the Fraternity here? I can soon convince him.” His cool audacity was
wonderful.

A cry was raised from some one; and a pause followed while a new comer
elbowed his way to Burski. A shout greeted his coming, and all eyes
were upon the two as they interchanged a few words in low tones. What
passed I do not know, probably some secret sign was given; and it
sufficed.

“This man is one of us,” was the verdict; and at the decision a
deafening yell of rage and curses broke out as the mob turned to me
again.

“Police spy. Liar. Dog. Down with him!”

“Hear me,” I shouted; but my voice was drowned in the curses of the mob.

Another rush was made at me, to be stopped again by the levelled
revolver.

Then the new comer held up his hand.

“If you are a friend give up your weapon.”

“Clear the house of all except yourself and one or two more and I will.
I can convince you.”

“Do you want to walk into a police trap, friend?” asked Burski, with a
sneer. He had the crowd with him now and they echoed the sneer with a
laugh.

But the leader was a persistent fellow in his way. “How many are in the
house?” he asked Burski.

The latter shrugged his shoulders. “There were plenty just now; enough
to treat me pretty roughly; and I’m no bantling.”

“There are no police in the house except that man and one other. He
knows that,” I declared.

The leader turned to the crowd and tried to reason with them; but it
was useless. Not a man would leave the house. Some began to murmur and
growl at him for his interference; and the yells and cries against me
redoubled in violence.

Then for a while things went all wrong with me. One of the fellows in
the hallway picked up a mat and with a raucous laugh and an oath flung
it at me. It hit me full in the face; and a burst of laughter and wild
cheering hailed the shot.

Before I knew anything more, another man rushed up the stairs and
caught me by the legs. Down I went backwards, my weapon flew out of
my hand, and in an instant I was hauled down the stairs, feet first
into the seething mass of infuriated men; grabbed here, thrust there,
beaten, kicked and hustled all ways at once, to the accompaniment of
such screeching, oathing and yelling as I hope I may never hear again,
at least under similar conditions.

Matters would have been much worse with me, indeed, but for one stroke
of luck. One of the crowd, a grimy, vile-smelling creature, in his
eagerness to get a kick at my head fell asprawl over me as I lay
against the wall; I grabbed him tight and hung on to him, using his
fat carcass as a shield until his piercing screams for help let his
friends see what was happening.

The attack ceased while they dragged him free. I managed to scramble to
my feet at the same time, and with my back to the wall I used my fists
right and left upon the front rank of hot, straining, sweating, staring
faces in a desperate effort to win a way back to the stairs.

Against such numbers I could gain no more than a moment’s respite,
however. But it proved enough.

A revolver shot rang out from the stairway and drew all eyes that way.

It was Volna.

Running from the room above she had seen my pistol on the stairs and
her quick wits had suggested to her the means of stopping the tumult.
She had discharged it over the heads of the crowd and had thus gained a
hearing.

Her lovely face flushed and her eyes alight with indignation, she used
the moment of astonishment to dash right into the midst of the crowd
and reach my side.

“Shame, men, shame,” she cried. “Would you tear your friends to pieces?
I am one of the prisoners and this is the other.”

The fickleness of a mob is a proverb. Her plucky act succeeded where
all arguments and inducements would have failed. The crowd swung over
to her side and cheered her lustily.

Burski was quick to appreciate the probable results to him; and I saw
him begin to edge his way to the door to escape.

“Stop that man,” I called, pointing to him.

In an instant his path was blocked; and I hoped that he was going to
have a taste of the treatment of which he had secured such a full meal
for me.

He would have had it surely enough but for an interruption from outside.

The luck had turned right in our favour. Three or four men shouldered
their way into the house and in their midst I saw my friend Ladislas.
He was known to many of the crowd, who made way for him with a loud
cheer.

In a few words I made the situation clear to him, and added that
Bremenhof was in the room above, and that if the crowd got wind of it
in their present temper, they would tear him to pieces.

He succeeded ultimately in inducing the people to leave the house; and
putting Burski in charge of three men, Ladislas, Volna and I went up to
Bremenhof.

He was in a condition of desperate terror and, as we entered, started
up and stared at us wide-eyed, trembling and abject.

“You are in no danger, Colonel Bremenhof,” said Ladislas. “They shall
take my life before I will see you harmed.”

“Not quite so fast as that, Ladislas,” I declared. “Colonel Bremenhof
knew what his man, Burski, intended in setting the crowd on me, and I
have a reckoning to settle.”

The hunted expression in his eyes which had been calmed somewhat by my
friend’s words, returned as he asked: “What do you mean?”

“You shall know that in a moment. First understand that the mob are
still outside--their blood is up. They have just been cheated of one
victim, myself, handed over to them in your stead by the cunning of
your man and with your connivance. I have but to open the door and
speak your name to them: and what they did to me will be a trifle to
what they’ll do to you.”

“Anstruther!” protested Ladislas.

“This is my matter, man. Leave it to me, please. If you’d been down
under that mob’s feet, you’d feel as I do. Now you,” and Bremenhof
cowered again as I turned to him. “Listen to me. Even when I was in
danger of my life, I kept secret the fact that you were here in the
house; and saved your life. Out of no regard for you, believe me; for I
swear that if you refuse to do exactly what I tell you now, I will drag
you down with my own hands and pitch you into the midst of the rabble.”

“What do you want?”

“But little more than you promised me last night. Madame Drakona’s
release at once, and the delivery of the evidence you hold against her,
an official statement that there is no charge of any kind against her
daughter here; and a definite written admission of the part you have
taken throughout this. You’ll play no more tricks on me.”

“Yes, I agree. I’ll do it the instant I get to the Department.”

“Thank you. I know how you keep such pledges. You will write the order
for Madame Drakona’s release here at once and will send it by Burski,
your trusted servant, with orders to conduct her to a place we’ll
settle.”

“But at such a time difficulties may be raised and----”

“Yes or no, quick. As for the difficulties, you’ll remain in our hands
until you have found how to get over them. Burski was clever enough to
get me into a mess a few minutes since. Now you can use his cleverness
to get you out of one.”

“Yes. Let me see him.”

“One word. You are earning your life; understand that. Attempt any
treachery and----” I left the sentence unfinished.

“I’ll do it,” he agreed. “Anything. Anything.”

Volna fetched some writing materials and while Bremenhof wrote the
order, I conferred with Ladislas and settled the details of the plan.

We dared not stay longer in that house because the police would soon
be back in great force to Bremenhof’s rescue; and Ladislas named a
place to which we could take him. But we could not have Madame Drakona
brought to the same place, because Burski would in that event take the
police with her. We arranged, therefore, that Madame Drakona should be
taken to her own house.

Moreover, as the kernel of everything was to prevent Volna’s arrest,
she could not go home to receive her mother; but that difficulty the
telephone solved for us. We settled to wait at the place to which
Ladislas would take us until a telephone message from the Drakonas’
house assured us that Madame Drakona was there and alone.

When the order was ready I fetched Burski. Bremenhof gave him his
instructions, and I said enough to convince them both that Bremenhof’s
safety depended entirely upon their keeping faith with us.

Ladislas then explained matters to the leaders of the mob. The crowd
had meanwhile decreased in numbers, and those who remained were induced
to disperse.

A carriage was fetched and we four started, leaving Burski in charge of
a couple of the men who had come with Ladislas, to be dispatched on his
errand as soon as our carriage was out of sight.

We had done well so far; but there was still much to do. A slight check
to the plans at any moment might mean the ruin of everything. If the
luck lasted, we should win, and only complete success could justify the
desperate move I had taken.

Would the luck last?




CHAPTER XXVII

THE PLAN PROSPERS


If Bremenhof had been less of a coward such a plan as ours would have
been absolutely impossible. But the sight of the mob’s fury had so
saturated him with fear that it bereft him of the power to make even a
show at resistance.

I did my utmost to play on that terror. During the short ride, I sat
opposite to him, holding in full sight the revolver which had already
done us such conspicuous service; and when we reached our destination I
linked my left arm in his as I walked him into the house, taking care
that he should see I still held the weapon ready for use.

What I should really have done had he made an effort to escape I don’t
know; but I am sure I had convinced him that I should shoot. That fear
of me made him my slave. He watched my every gesture, started nervously
when I looked at him, and flinched whenever I spoke.

As soon as we were in the house I set him to work to write the official
declaration that he had investigated the charges against Volna, and had
found them unfounded; and then the full statement of the part he had
played throughout.

Volna meanwhile called up the servant at their house, and having
ascertained that no police were in possession there, told the girl how
to call us up the instant that Madame Drakona should reach home.

There was nothing more to be done but to wait for that message. I left
Volna and Ladislas together and remained with Bremenhof.

The extent to which he was subject to my influence during the hours in
that house was remarkable. To me quite unaccountable indeed. He was
as docile as though I had possessed hypnotic power and had used it to
subdue him.

With the revolver always carefully in hand I sat and stared at him
steadily, sternly, continuously in one long, tense, dead silence. I
concentrated all my thoughts upon the one essential object, to force
the conviction upon him that death would be the instant penalty of
resistance to my will.

Twice only was the silence broken. Once when he showed me what he had
written and I ordered an alteration; and once at the close when I asked
him how he was going to get for me the evidence against Madame Drakona.

This was the one thing in which I could not see the way. I must have
it before the spell of fear I had cast upon him was broken; and yet
I knew, from what Burski had told me on the previous night, the
difficulties which were in the way. What Bremenhof said now confirmed
this, and he was so panic-saturated that I believed he was past lying.
He professed himself as anxious as I was to solve the difficulty.

The problem was this. The papers were in the safe in his library, and
there was a man on guard over it; Bremenhof had the key with him; and
he had given the most absolute order that no one should even enter the
room in his absence.

If I went to the house myself with the key and a written authority from
him, it was in the highest degree unlikely, that, being unknown, I
should be allowed to get to the safe. It was very likely indeed that,
on such a day of tumult, I should fall under suspicion, and be promptly
placed under arrest.

Volna was known to the servants and was thus less likely to fail; but I
was loath for her to run the risk. Burski might be back at the house,
and he knew enough of the matter now to understand that her arrest
would checkmate our whole scheme.

Bremenhof protested that if I would let him go, he would give up the
papers. “I pledge you my solemn word of honour. I’ll take any oath you
please, do anything you ask.”

“To whom can you give them?”

“Come with me, and I will give them to you.”

“Thank you. I know how you keep faith. I won’t walk open-eyed in
another of your traps.”

“I’ll send them to you, then.”

“Yes; by a strong body of police with orders to take me back with
them. I know the risk I’ve run now in bringing you here, and have no
fancy for a march across the plains. You must find some other means.
Otherwise I shall hand you over to the strikers to be held until we
are out of this cursed country.”

“For God’s sake,” he cried, nerve-racked and abject at the thought;
and after that I resumed the silent watch which he found so trying an
ordeal.

After a time Volna came in.

“My mother is free, Mr. Anstruther. She is at home; the agent, Burski,
took her there and no police are left in the house.”

“You see, I have kept faith,” said Bremenhof eagerly.

“I see that you couldn’t help it, that’s all.”

“On my honour I will do all I have promised.”

“When the devil’s sick he makes an earnest penitent.”

“I renounce all claim to this lady’s hand.”

“What the wolf said when he was in the trap.”

“My God, what do you mean to do then?” he cried, tossing up his hands.

“I mean to have that evidence. I will adopt your own suggestion and go
to your house with you.”

“Mr. Anstruther!” protested Volna.

“Leave this to me, please,” I said.

“I pledge my honour you will run no risk,” declared Bremenhof.

Volna’s lip curled at this mention of his honour. “You will not trust
him? You cannot. You must not.”

“Let me speak to you,” I said. We went outside leaving the door ajar
that I could watch Bremenhof. “I can trust myself in this if not him.
Let your mother leave the house for some place where she will be safe
until you can join her. You must both remain in hiding, prepared to
leave the city the instant we can get you away.”

“But you----” she interposed.

“Please. I shall come to no great harm. We have taken a risk with
Bremenhof to-day; but with the proofs against your mother in our hands
and with the papers he has signed here to-day, my friends can put up a
fight on my account which, even if he dares to face it, will get me out
without much trouble.”

“You must not run this risk,” she protested.

“I have put the worst that can happen even if he breaks faith and
arrests me; but I have him so frightened, I don’t believe he will dare
to attempt any tricks. I have a way to keep him scared, too. Where is
Ladislas? I want him to get a sleigh with a driver who can be relied on
in an emergency.”

“I don’t like it. We have no right to ask anything of this kind of you.”

“You must do what I ask, please.”

“No, no. I would rather run the risk of arrest myself.”

“That would do no good now. He has all this against me just the same.”

“You can leave the city. Besides, if I agree to do what he----”

“We shall quarrel if you say that again. And I hope we are too good
friends for that.”

She placed her hand on my arm and looked earnestly in my eyes. “You
don’t know how this tries me.”

“It is for Ladislas’ sake,” I said steadily.

She bit her lip and dropped her eyes. “I would rather anything
than this,” she murmured hesitatingly. There was a pause full of
embarrassment to me; then, rather to my surprise, she looked up with a
smile: “I had forgotten. I agree,” she said.

Her sudden change of manner puzzled me.

She saw my surprise. “You have convinced me, that is all. I had
forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“It is never too late to----” She paused.

“To what?”

“To remember what I can still do,” she replied cryptically. “I will
tell Ladislas about the sleigh.” And without more she smiled again and
left me.

I returned to Bremenhof.

“I have sent for a sleigh to take us to your house. You have given me
your word that I shall be safe----”

“I swear it,” he cried eagerly.

“I am going to trust to it, but not without taking a precaution on my
own account. My liberty will be in your hands while I am in your house;
and you had better know that I would rather lose my life than be sent
to your cursed mines in Siberia. Get that clearly into your mind.”

“I swear to you----”

“Never mind about any more swearing. You know by this time that I mean
what I say. And I mean this. I know the risk I have run to-day, and
rather than let your men make me a prisoner I will blow my brains out.
Unlike you, I am not afraid of death. Mark this well, then. I shall not
die alone.” I paused, and added with all the tense fierceness I could
put into my tone and manner. “If you give me the slightest cause to
suspect treachery, even to suspect it, mark you, that instant will be
your last in life. From the moment we leave this house together to that
when I leave yours with the papers in my possession, I shall be at your
side, this barrel against your ribs, and my finger on the trigger. Try
to trick me, and by the God that made us both, I swear I’ll shoot you
like a dog.”

He gave a deep sigh, the sweat of fear clustered thick on his
grey-white forehead, and he sank back in his chair.

He was so drunk with fear that he was past speech. He looked up once
or twice as if to speak, and his blanched lips moved; but the moment
his eyes met mine he faltered and trembled and looked down, his tongue
refusing to frame the words.

Presently Ladislas came in.

“I wish to speak to Colonel Bremenhof,” he said.

“Not now, Ladislas,” I said. I would not have the effect of my threat
lessened by any distracting thoughts.

“I wish to make him understand we have done all we can to prevent
violence in the city.”

“Go away, please. I have given him all I want him to understand for
the present. Let me know when we are to start.”

Greatly wondering, my friend yielded and left us alone again.

With intentional ostentation I looked to the loading of my revolver.
Bremenhof watched me furtively; and each time I looked up from the
task, he shrank and drooped his head.

At last Ladislas called that the sleigh was waiting. “The driver has
his orders,” he whispered, “and will bring you to us afterwards.”

“Come,” I said to Bremenhof, as I rose.

“You are wronging me, Mr. Anstruther,” he stammered, as he got up
unsteadily.

“I can apologize afterwards,” said I drily.

As we were leaving the house Volna stood waiting for us, and would have
spoken to me; but I would not leave Bremenhof’s side.

I was wearing a long cloak, and as Bremenhof and I crossed the pavement
to the sleigh, I pressed close to him and let him feel my weapon
against his body.

He started and caught his breath in fear. The strain had told on him.
He staggered in his walk, and his face wore the grey look of one on the
verge of death.

So long as I could keep him in that mood I was safe enough.

We got into the sleigh in silence, and had barely turned out of the
street when a body of troops came in sight riding in our direction.

“This will test your sincerity,” I said. “As well now as later.
Remember my oath.”

At a sign from the leader our driver drew to one side and pulled up.

I thrust the barrel of the pistol hard against Bremenhof’s side. The
officer recognized him, and with a salute halted his men.

“We are in a hurry and cannot delay,” I whispered.

Bremenhof returned the salute and waved his hand for the troops to pass.

The officer ordered his men to make room for the sleigh and we dashed
on at a high speed.

“Good,” I said, suppressing a sigh of relief. “You have learnt your
lesson, I see.”




CHAPTER XXVIII

FLIGHT


The meeting with the troops proved to be an invaluable incident.

There had been a tense moment when the question whether Bremenhof would
attempt treachery still hung in the balance. A moment more thrilling
than any I had ever known in my life.

With his lame and craven submission, however, a change seemed to
come in everything. That I could compel him to cross the city in
broad daylight when hundreds of his police and soldiers were swarming
everywhere, and so frighten him as to prevent him raising an alarm, had
seemed in anticipation little more than the merest forlorn hope.

But when at the first test he had yielded abjectly, my confidence was
so strengthened and my domination over him so confirmed, that the thing
became almost simple and commonplace.

We met other bodies of police and military as we dashed over the snow
to the merry peal of our sleigh bells, but not once was there even the
threat of trouble.

It was rather as though we were making a tour of inspection together,
jointly interested in the police and military preparations for coping
with the excited populace.

We passed many evidences of the popular unrest. But Ladislas had
apparently given the driver very shrewd instructions as to his route,
for not once did we drive through a street where any actual disturbance
was in progress.

More than once we saw conflicts going on between the troops or police
and the mob. But always from a safe distance. More than once, too,
we passed where trouble had broken out. Wrecked houses and workshops
told of the anger of the people, and grim patches of bloodstained snow
testified that the troops were not in the city for nothing.

Here and there we passed strikers whose limping walk, bandaged
limbs, or bleeding faces bore evidence of recent fighting; and we
drove rapidly past more than one small group gathered pale-faced and
sorrowful about a figure stretched at length on the snow. These things
told their own tale.

Twice Bremenhof was recognized, and howls and shouts and bitter curses
were hurled at us. Once we were followed, stones were thrown, and even
a couple of shots fired after us; but the swiftness of our horses
quickly carried us out of danger.

I could not help speculating what the crowd would have said and done
had they known the mission on which we were bent, and the grim cause
which had brought us two together upon that strange ride.

We reached his house in safety, and as the driver reined up his panting
horses I braced myself for the final trial of nerves.

“Remember my oath,” I whispered, as together we mounted the steps side
by side. My fear was that as soon as he found himself once more in the
midst of his men, his courage would return sufficiently for him to at
least put up some show of fight.

Had he done so, he must have beaten me. Despite my oath and all my
fiercely spoken threats, I had no intention of shooting him. It was
all just bluff on my part; but I had acted well enough to prevent his
having any suspicion of this. He was convinced that I was in grim,
deadly earnest, and that his life hung on a thread, and he was poltroon
enough to buy it at any cost.

The proceedings in the house were very brief.

He went straight to the library and sent the man on guard out of the
room. He was as anxious to be relieved from the menacing barrel of my
revolver as I was to get the papers and be off.

In silence he opened the safe and after a hurried search found the
papers and offered them to me. They made a somewhat bulky package.

“Shew me,” I said.

He opened the package and held each while I ran my eye over it; and
then folded them together in the portfolio and handed it to me.

“One thing more. A written authority from you to me in open terms.
Just write ‘The bearer is acting by my authority,’ signed and sealed
officially.”

Without hesitation he obeyed and wrote what I wanted.

“You will accompany me to the sleigh,” I said, as I pocketed the paper.

We left the room together arm in arm just as we had entered it, passed
the men in the hall and down the steps to the sleigh.

Then I saw trouble.

Some distance up the street a patrol of mounted police was riding
toward us at the walk, and in an instant I perceived the danger this
spelt for me.

So did Bremenhof. The sight seemed to rouse his long dormant courage.
He pushed me away from him, jumped back, and called in a loud ringing
tone for help.

The police came running out from his house, the patrol pricked up their
horses; and as I sprang into the sleigh, the street seemed suddenly
alive with men.

My driver knew his business, however. The horses he had were spirited
and full of blood, and in a moment we were rattling along at full
speed, the bells ringing and jingling furiously, the driver shouting
lusty warnings, and the sleigh jumping and jolting so that I had to
grip tight to save myself from being thrown out.

The patrol pulled up to speak with Bremenhof, and, as we dashed round a
corner, I saw him mount one of the horses and come clattering after us,
leading the rest in hot pursuit.

But we had a good start by that time, and my driver, guiding his team
with rare skill and judgment, made a dozen quick turns through short
streets. This prevented our pursuers from spurring their animals to the
gallop, kept them in doubt as to the direction we had taken, and thus
minimized their advantage of saddle over harness.

To that manœuvre was due our success in evading immediate capture.

Doubtful of ultimate success in such a chase, however, I proposed to
the driver to pull up and let me get away on foot.

“The Count is close here,” he replied, to my great surprise; and after
we had raced along in this fashion for some ten minutes, I saw Volna
and Ladislas waiting at a corner. The driver pulled up, and they jumped
in.

“Sergius was to look for us here,” said Ladislas, in explanation. “What
has happened?”

I told him briefly as we continued the flight.

“We shall get away,” he said confidently. “Sergius knows his work. He
has not his equal in Warsaw,” and it looked at that moment as though
his confidence was well grounded.

Volna was very calm, but the glances she kept casting behind bore
witness to her anxiety.

“I hope you are right,” I replied to Ladislas; “but you should not have
come.”

“Were we likely to desert you, Mr. Anstruther?” asked Volna.

“You could do no good, and the risk is too great.”

“We had to know what happened to you. I could not rest.”

I understood then the meaning of her former words. It was never too
late for her last desperate sacrifice should our plan go wrong. “The
risk is too serious,” I repeated.

It was churlish to reproach them for an act which sprang from a
chivalrous regard for my safety; but they had made a grave mistake.
They had rendered my escape much more difficult.

Had I been alone I could have left the sleigh and made off on foot.
The crowd in some of the streets was thick enough for me to have lost
myself among them and so to have got away unnoticed. But with three of
us together the case was different. There was nothing for it but to
remain in the sleigh and trust to the driver’s skill to save us.

Presently the good fortune which had befriended me changed. Turning
into one of the side streets we found the roadway partially blocked by
some heavy drays. We had to pull up, and moments, precious to us beyond
count, were lost as we waited for room to be made for us to squeeze
through.

The street was a long one without a turning, and before we reached the
end of it, Volna, who was looking back, gave a cry of dismay.

“They are in sight,” she said; and we saw Bremenhof and three or four
men spurring after us at full speed.

Ladislas called to Sergius, who lashed his horses and redoubled his
efforts to make up some of the time we had lost.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To Madame Drakona. Three miles out on the Smolna road.”

Sergius began his tactics of sharp turns again, swinging round corner
after corner at a reckless speed. But beyond proving his great skill as
a daring whip, he did little good.

Bremenhof began to gain fast upon us, and at length came within pistol
range.

He called to us to surrender, and when we paid no heed, his men fired
at us. Volna winced and shrank at the shots; but we were not hit and
held on grimly.

It could not last much longer, however; and just when things were
looking bad enough from behind, a big dray heavily laden came lumbering
toward us, blocking the whole street.

“We must give it up,” said Ladislas.

But Sergius saw a desperate chance and took it. The heavy vehicle was
making for a narrow side street. To wait until it had turned would have
brought Bremenhof upon us, and the leading horses of the waggon were
actually turning into the side street when Sergius, with wonderful
skill, and at the risk of all our lives, swung round into the opening.
Our horses and sleigh cannoned against the leaders, the sleigh gave a
dangerous lurch, was thrown on to the one roller, all but toppled over,
and then righted. It was touch and go; but the luck was ours, and on we
went.

We even gained a little by the mishap, for our pursuers being unable
to check their horses in time, were carried past the street opening,
while the heavy dray blocked the road and delayed them.

But the advantage was too slight to hold out hope of escape.

“We must leave the sleigh and take our chance on foot,” I said.

Ladislas called an order to the driver, and when we had traversed half
the length of the street and Bremenhof and his men had just passed the
dray, Sergius pulled his animals on to their haunches at the mouth of
an alley, waited while we jumped to the ground, and then dashed away
again at the same reckless speed.

“We can get through here to the street of St. Gregory, and may find
shelter,” said Ladislas, leading the way through the alley in a last
desperate dash for freedom.

Then again fortune did us an ill turn. Half way through the place Volna
caught her foot and fell. She was up again in a moment, but limped
badly. She had twisted her ankle in the fall.

Ladislas and I put each an arm under hers, and in this way made such
haste as we could.

But the delay served to bring our pursuers close upon us; and they came
running at top speed after us, making three yards to our one.

Again capture seemed inevitable. Then recalling the incident of earlier
in the day at the house in the Place of St. John, I repeated it.

I fired my revolver in the air. “The police! The police!” I shouted. “A
rescue! A rescue!”

It served us in good stead. The noise brought men and women rushing in
alarm and curiosity from the houses on both sides of the alley, while
many others ran in from the street beyond. Seeing our plight they
cheered us and swarmed between Bremenhof’s party and us, blocking and
hampering them so that we reached the end in safety.

The outlet to the alley was a narrow archway. Room was made for us to
pass, and we gained the street while our pursuers were struggling and
fighting to force their way through after us.

But again the respite seemed only to mock us.

We ran out only to find ourselves on the skirts of an ugly tumult. A
short distance to our left down the street of St. Gregory, a fight
was in progress between a considerable body of police and a crowd of
strikers, and just as we emerged from the alley the police were getting
the upper hand and the strikers were beginning to waver.

Some one raised the cry that a large body of police were coming through
the alley, and the crowd, afraid of being caught between two fires,
gave way and came streaming toward us followed by the police.

At that juncture Bremenhof and his men succeeded in reaching the street
and joined the other police in a vigorous attack upon the crowd.

The situation was again critically perilous for us.




CHAPTER XXIX

IN THE STREET OF ST. GREGORY


The luck seemed to be dead against us. Volna could scarcely put her
foot to the ground and, although she struggled gamely to continue the
flight, Ladislas and I were all but carrying her.

The crowd went streaming past us as we could make only the slowest
progress; and as no vehicle of any sort was in sight, capture appeared
inevitable.

Volna perceived this and begged us to leave her. “It will be far better
for me to be arrested alone than for all three to be taken; and you see
it is hopeless now that the three can escape.”

“I am not going,” said Ladislas.

“Mr. Anstruther, you have the proofs that will free my mother. If you
will escape and destroy them, she will be safe. Please go.”

It was a shrewd plea.

I took out the papers and held them toward Ladislas. “You go. I can
trust my friends to get me out of any mess.”

“No; to-day’s business with Bremenhof is too serious for that,” he
answered. “Besides, this is my affair. Go, Robert. It is sheer madness
for you to remain. You can do no good.”

“If my mother is safe, Mr. Anstruther, I do not care. For her sake as
well as your own, get those papers away.”

I glanced round and saw Bremenhof was fast forcing his way to us
through the scattering crowd.

“We may get a sleigh or a carriage at the end of the street there,” I
said; and without more ado, I picked Volna up in my arms and ran up the
street with her.

The crowd cheered us lustily. Some one recognized Ladislas, rallied the
flying crowd and succeeded in reforming them again when we had passed.

Perceiving this, and recognizing that we might in this way escape even
at the last moment, Bremenhof, hoping to awe the crowd, ordered the
police to draw their revolvers. At first the people fell back, but
encouraged by the cries of the man who had constituted himself the
leader they formed again, and answered the order to clear the way with
yells and shouts of defiance.

Losing his head Bremenhof told his men to fire. A ragged volley of
pistol shots followed and two men fell wounded.

For an instant a solemn hush fell; and then rose such a wild fierce
yell of rage and fury from the mob that the police drew back in
suspense.

The two parties stood facing one another for a breathing space. Then
some one threw a heavy stone and struck one of the police in the face.
Two of his comrades near him fired in return. A volley of stones was
hurled by the crowd, and a wild and desperate conflict was waged over
the bodies of the fallen men.

People came running to the scene from all directions. Many of them
were armed with clubs, hatchets, crowbars, and such weapons as could
be snatched up in a hurry. Some carried revolvers; and, as we stood
awhile, unable for the press of the people to get forward, a fierce
hand-to-hand fight was waged. Hard blows were given on either side,
shots were exchanged, and blood flowed freely, until the police were
beaten back in their turn and had to fly.

The mob whooped and yelled and halloed savagely over their victory, and
pressed forward hot and eager to wreak their anger upon the flying men.

The triumph was short-lived, however. Into the street from the end for
which we were making swung a large force of troops to the rescue of the
police.

I drew Volna back into the doorway of a house as they passed at the
double; and the fight broke out again this time with the advantage all
against the strikers.

Men fell fast, and the crowd scattered and made for cover in the houses
on either side of the street.

Escape for us was now impossible for the time, for the fight raged
close to the door of the house where we had sheltered.

In the thick of the fight at some distance from us, I could see
Bremenhof. If he had been a coward while we two had been alone and
he believed death to be close to him, he was no coward now. He was
not like the same man. Passion, or the company of his men, gave him
courage. He was everywhere, directing his men and exposing himself
fearlessly where the fighting was hottest; and always seeking to press
forward as though in pursuit of us.

Fresh tactics were next adopted by the crowd. Men who had fled from
the street appeared at the open windows of the houses and fired on
the police and troops from this vantage. Many shots told; and to save
themselves from this form of attack, the troops began to enter the
houses in their turn and search for the armed men.

And all this time the press and throng of police and strikers made
escape for us impossible.

After a time the training of the troops and police told; the crowds
in the streets lessened; many prisoners were taken, most of them
bloodstained with marks of the conflict; and the noise of the conflict
began to die down. But not for long.

The news that fighting was in progress had spread far and wide, and
a body of strikers who had been parading the main street near were
attracted to the scene.

The police in their turn found themselves caught between two hostile
mobs; and the flame of fight which had almost flickered down flared up
again more luridly and vigorously than ever.

The prisoners were torn from the grasp of their captors in the moment
of surprise, and hurried past us to the rear of the fighters.

The troops were still strong enough, however, to make the fight even;
and after the first moment of surprise, their discipline told. They
formed in lines facing up and down the street, and settled down with
grim resolve for the deadly work before them.

Then came a loud cry of “A barricade! A barricade!”

In little more than a minute a couple of heavy waggons were trundled
out from a side street, and turned over close to where we three were
waiting. Out from the houses were fetched a heterogeneous collection
of furniture--bedsteads, mattresses, couches, chests of drawers, shop
counters, chairs, tables, anything and everything that lay to hand was
seized and brought out. Some were even hurled from windows above. And
behind the impromptu rampart armed men crouched mad with long pent
passion, and eager to wreak vengeance upon their enemies.

Meanwhile Ladislas had viewed the scene with fast mounting distress and
agitation. The deliberateness of these last preparations for the fight
seemed to appal him. The sight of this harvest of violence sprung from
the seeds of his own revolutionary theorizing wrung his heart. Dreaming
of victory by peaceful means, the horror of this bloodshed and carnage
goaded him to despair. His suffering was acute.

Heedless of his own safety he rushed hither and thither among those who
were leading the mob, dissuading them from violence and urging them to
abandon their resistance.

Half a dozen times when he had dashed out to press his plea of
non-resistance, I had had almost to drag him back into safety.

The lull that came when the barricade was forming gave him a fresh
opportunity. In vain I told him that nothing could stay the fight now
that the smouldering wrath of years of wrong had flamed into the mad
fury of the moment, and when the wild passions of both sides had been
roused.

Volna joined her voice to mine and urged him.

But in his frenzy of emotional remorse, he paid no heed to us. “Don’t
you see that all this horror is the result of what I in my blindness
have been doing?” he cried. “The thought of it is torment and the sight
of it hell. Would you have me skulk here to save my skin when an effort
now may stop further bloodshed?”

With that he rushed out.

He went first among the strikers, and we saw him advising, arguing,
urging, pleading, commanding in turn with no effect. Those whom he
addressed listened to him at first with a measure of patience but
afterwards with shrugs, sullen looks, intolerant gestures, and at last
with stubborn, angry resentment at his interference, or jeers and
flouts according to their humour.

And all this time the preparations were not stayed a second but hurried
forward with feverish haste and vengeful lust of fight.

At length, I saw him thrust aside roughly, almost savagely, by one
burly fellow who had been building the barricade and now stood gripping
a heavy iron crowbar and wiping the sweat from his brow.

This act served as a cue for the rest. Ladislas was passed from hand to
hand, and pushed with jibes and oaths, from the centre of the barricade
to the pavement.

For an instant he tried a last appeal to the men about him; but their
only reply was a jeering laugh, half contemptuous, half angry, but
wholly indifferent to every word he uttered.

Just then a loud command from the officer in charge of the troops was
given and the soldiers advanced a few paces and levelled their guns.

In a moment Ladislas had climbed over the barricade and rushed forward
into the space between the troops and the mob. He ran forward with
uplifted hand.

“For the love of God, peace,” he cried to the officer, his voice clear
and strong above the din. “No more blood must be shed.”

For an instant a silence fell upon both sides, and all eyes were fixed
upon him.

The next, a single shot was fired from among the ranks of the troops.

Ladislas’ uplifted hand dropped. He staggered, and turned toward the
mob, so that all saw by the red mark on his white, broad forehead where
the bullet had struck him, and fell huddled up on the road.

It was the signal for the fight to break loose. A wild, deep groan of
execration leapt from every throat behind the barricade, followed by
shouts and cries of defiance. His fall at the hands of the troops had
raised him to the place of martyr; and those who had been quick to jeer
him now shrieked and yelled for vengeance upon his murderers.

Surely an irony of fate that he who had given his life in the cause of
peace should by his death have loosed the wildest passion for blood.

A ghastly scene followed. As the soldiers charged the barricade, the
mob offered a stubborn and desperate resistance. Many of them were shot
down, but there were others ready to take their places. Time after time
the troops reached and mounted the barricade only to be driven back.
Once they carried it, and commenced to charge the crowd behind; but
they were outnumbered many times, and the mob beat them, and hurled
them back and pursued them even across the barricade, inflicting
serious loss.

I seized that moment to run out and recover the body of my poor friend.
I found him; and as I was carrying him out of the press of the tumult,
the troops rallied, and the tide of the fight came surging back past me.

The chances of the struggle brought Bremenhof close up. He saw me, and
with a cry of anger rushed to seize me.

Some of the mob had seen my effort to get Ladislas away. One of them
had stayed to help and he was thus close at hand when the attempt
was made to capture me. Thinking that the intention was to prevent
my carrying Ladislas away, he pressed forward and with a savage oath
thrust his revolver right in Bremenhof’s face and fired.

This act proved the turning point in the fight.

Fierce shouts of exultation went up as Bremenhof was recognized. The
strikers halted, rallied and reformed, and they renewed the attack upon
the troops with irresistible vigour and drove them back helter-skelter
in all directions.

The mob had won; but at a cost which had yet to be counted. Nor did
they stay to count it. The street resounded with whoops and yells of
victory. Flushed and sweated with their exertions, the men were like
children in their delight. They shook hands one with another, and
laughed and sang and shouted and even danced in sheer glee.

They had beaten the troops; had sent them scurrying like frightened
hares to cover; they had carried the cause of the people to triumph;
they had spilt the blood of the oppressor; and the taste of it made
them drunk with the joy of the new found power and strength.

Some one started the Polish national air. The strain was caught up and
echoed by a thousand deep-toned, tuneful voices with an impression to
be remembered to one’s dying hour.

A crowd came round me as I stood by the two dead bodies.

Bremenhof’s corpse was kicked and cursed and spat upon, till I sickened
at the sight.

Ladislas was lifted and borne away, with the care and honour due to a
martyr, to the strains of the national air. The revolution had begun in
terrible earnestness; and that day’s fight was its baptism of blood.

As the men bore Ladislas away, I went back to Volna to tell her the
grim news and get her away to a place of safety.




CHAPTER XXX

AFTER THE STORM


The death of Colonel Bremenhof caused a profound sensation; and the
most varied and contradictory reports were circulated about it.

The authorities branded it assassination, and threatened the most
rigorous punishment of those whom they deemed the murderers.

The members of the Fraternity were charged with responsibility for it;
and were declared to have laid a deep and far-reaching plot to destroy
him as one of the chief executive leaders of the government.

The strikers were jubilant over the event. He had fallen in fair fight,
they alleged, when leading the police and soldiers to attack peaceful
citizens; and his death was hailed as triumph and encouragement to
their cause.

In fact almost every conceivable reason was given--except the truth.

There were a few who looked a little deeper for the cause; and among
these was my old friend General von Eckerstein.

Three days after the outbreak of the riots I called to bid him
good-bye, and I found him deeply impressed and full of interested
speculation about the matter.

“What beats me, Bob, is what business he had to get into the thick
of a street fight,” he said. “He must have been mad. From what I have
heard, his whole conduct that day was more than eccentric.”

“Wasn’t it his duty, then?” I asked casually.

“Duty? What! To go out and fight the mob? What do you suppose the
ordinary police and soldiers are for?”

“He must have had some private motive then.”

He turned on me like a flash. “What do you mean? Do you know anything?”

“No, nothing officially.”

“Good Heavens! where have you been the last few days; since you were
here?”

“I told you just now that I returned to the city this midday, to see
the last of my poor friend Ladislas. He was buried about the same time
as Bremenhof. Ladislas’ funeral was not nearly so imposing a ceremony,
but there was vastly more genuine grief.”

“Oh, nobody liked Bremenhof as a man; but that so high an official
should have fallen in such a way! But you--where were you on Monday?”

“I stayed at the _Vladimir_ on Sunday night and left Warsaw on Monday
evening.”

“And all that day?” he asked with a very sharp look.

“Oh, I was moving about in different parts of the city.”

“Did you see that fight in the street of St. Gregory?”

“Yes, amongst other things.”

“Do you mean you know what took Bremenhof there?”

I nodded. “He was after me as a matter of fact. It’s a pretty bad
tangle, but if you haven’t got your official ears open, I’ll tell you.”
I told him enough to make the matter clear.

“And after that you dare to shew your face in Warsaw? Are you mad, boy?”

“There is no daring about it because there’s no risk. There was only
one man who knew me in the affair--the police spy, Burski; and he has
his own, right enough. He was playing spy at a meeting of the strikers
on Tuesday night; and one of the men who was in the house at the place
of St. John recognized him. He was a fellow of resource and iron nerve,
and tried to brazen it out that he was a Fraternity man. But he failed.”

“You mean?”

“They lynched him then and there.”

“The infernal villains!”

“If it comes to that Bremenhof, who was buried to-day with full
military honours, wasn’t much to boast of.”

“If you’re going to turn revolutionary you’d better get out of the city
and be off home. Luck like yours won’t last, boy.”

“I’m going. I’ve done nothing except checkmate a scoundrel. Given the
same circumstances, I’d try it again.”

He looked at me with a half whimsical smile. “Where is she, Bob?”

“Not so far from Warsaw as I hope she soon will be, General.”

“You got her out of the city then?”

“Oh, yes, without much difficulty. When the crowd got the upper hand
in the street fight it was easy for us to get away. I drove with her
to the place where Madame Drakona had been sent. Then I hurried to the
_Vladimir_ and put on the police uniform which Burski had brought me.
That, coupled with the special authority I got out of Bremenhof and
helped by a blunt discourteous official manner, made things easy. I
could have taken a train load of women out of Warsaw. Two were a mere
detail.”

“Do you understand the fearful risk you’ve run?”

“One doesn’t always stop to consider that. Things have to be done
and one does them first and thinks afterwards. Besides, I had a good
object.”

“What do you mean?” He asked this very curtly.

I smiled. “It was in the cause of freedom.”

“In the cause of fiddlesticks. What’s Poland’s freedom to you, that you
should risk your life for it?”

“Nothing.”

He started and his eyes brightened meaningly. “Oh, I see. The freedom
of the girl, eh?”

“Isn’t it a good enough cause for me?”

“I suppose you think so,” he said drily. “Are you in a fit state now
to take an old diplomat’s advice?”

“Yes; if I agree with it, of course.”

“Oh, of course. Well, it’s this. Get out of Warsaw and out of Russia,
and stay out.”

“Haven’t I come to bid you good-bye? Give me credit for something. I’m
going by the next train.”

“Where?”

I laughed. “I like the rural districts of Poland. I’m going first to
Solden. Do you know the neighbourhood?”

“Solden? What in the name of----oh, is she there?”

I nodded. “At Kervatje, a few miles’ drive from there.”

“But the police of Solden know you both. They brought you here.”

“There is nothing against either of us now. Bremenhof’s death has
made all the difference. The evidence against Madame Drakona has
been destroyed, and the charge against her daughter was never made
officially. There’s no one now to make it.”

“Arrests are being made wholesale, boy, with or without charges, in
consequence of his death. Where are the brother and sister?”

“I don’t know, and I daren’t make any inquiries.”

“Oh, there _is_ something you daren’t do, then? I don’t like the
thing, Bob, and that’s the truth. Look here, I’m going through to
Berlin to-morrow; stay here till then and travel with me. I shall know
you’re out of mischief then.”

“I should like it but--well, the fact is, you see, I shan’t be
travelling alone.”

He laughed drily. “As bad as that, eh?”

“Yes, if you call it bad. I don’t.”

“Are your papers in order? Your passports?”

I shook my head. “My own is, but not the rest.”

“How do you want it worded?” he asked with another grin.

“Oh, the usual way, whatever that is,” I said a little sheepishly.

“Robert Anstruther and----”

“Laugh away. Can you help me?”

“Give it me. Even I don’t know how a man carries his mother-in-law on
his own passport.”

“It is a bit awkward; but I don’t want a hitch now.”

“Look here, boy. I’ll stretch a point for you. I’ll go by way of Cracow
and will pick you up at Solden to-morrow. I’m travelling special,
and you shall all go through in my saloon;” and scarcely waiting to
listen to my thanks he hurried me off to the station, sending his
secretary with me to make sure that no difficulties were raised about
my departure.

At Solden I found Volna in a sleigh waiting for me. Her face lighted
and she welcomed me with a glad smile.

“You wonder to see me; but I was so anxious I could not stay at
Kervatje.”

“I have very little news.”

“Do you think it was only the news?”

“What else?”

“Bob!”

“You’re getting quite pat with that name, now.”

“Peggy had to learn it, you see.”

“And Volna?”

“Volna felt like rushing off to Warsaw when that train was so late,”
she replied earnestly.

“I like that answer; but there was no cause for anxiety, I’m glad to
say. Our troubles are over. To-morrow afternoon we shall be in Cracow.”

“I had a brother once who used to say that,” she said, with a laugh and
a glance.

“Are you sorry you’ve lost him?”

She answered by slipping her hand into my arm and nestling a little
closer to me. We sat for a time in the sympathetic silence of mutual
happiness and perfect understanding, listening to the rhythmic music of
the sleigh bells as the three horses glided rapidly over the snow.

Then I told her of my old friend’s promise to see us safely to Cracow
in his saloon.

“Will there be any one else there?”

“I don’t know. Some of his staff, perhaps.”

“It will be a little trying,” she said, with a show of dismay.

“Why?”

“As if you didn’t know. Think of the ordeal for me.”

“You’ve faced much worse things bravely enough. Besides, you won’t be
alone: You’ll have your----”

“Bob!” she interposed quickly, with a lovely blush.

“Your mother with you. Mayn’t I say that?”

“You were not going to say that.”

“What was I going to say?”

“Volna has all Peggy’s instincts, remember.”

“Well, I challenge you to say what you think I meant.”

“I’m not in a fighting mood to accept challenges.”

“I dare you to say it, then.”

“Don’t be a coward, Bob.”

“I’ll say it then. You’ll have your----”

“Bob.”

“It’s quite true. If you keep your promise of two days ago, and Father
Ambrose does his duty to-morrow. I shall be----”

“There’s the way to Cracow; do you recognize it?” she cried quickly, as
we reached the forked roads of which Father Ambrose had told us.

“That’s the way a brother and sister went; but this one to-morrow a man
and his----”

“How lucky we were not to have the snow that time, weren’t we?” she
broke in again.

“That wasn’t the real luck in my eyes. My luck was when I lost my
sister and found in her place my----”

She held up her hand, laughing and blushing vividly. “If you do,
I’ll----”

“Then I’ll wait until Father Ambrose has said it.”

“I shan’t mind then. Oh, Bob, won’t it be lovely!” and she laughed and
squeezed my arm, and pressed her head against my shoulder.

All of which no doubt sounds very much like foolishness. It goes to
shew that we were very young of course, very really in love, and very
happy after our strenuous time. As happy indeed as any two young people
could wish to be who were to be made man and wife within a few hours.
In those hours a deal of happiness is just so much foolishness.

In one thing Volna was wrong. It was no ordeal that awaited her on the
journey with the General to Cracow.

At her first glance he fell before her; and by the time we reached
Cracow he was almost as much in love with her as I was.

During the journey he shewed such tact, too. He devoted most of his
time to Volna’s mother; and having told her he had learnt that Katinka
and Paul had left Warsaw and gone to Vienna, he kept her talking most
of the time in one corner of the saloon, while Volna and I were alone
in another.

When we parted at Cracow he took Volna’s two hands and pressed them,
and smiled as he said tenderly, and very earnestly: “I can understand
Bob now that I’ve seen you. You were just made to be loved as I know he
loves you, my dear.”

And to me, drawing me aside: “I told you yesterday your luck wouldn’t
last, boy. I take that back. I pray God it may; and that you may always
be worthy of it. Good-bye, boy.”


THE END




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.