ahead
ahead
[Illustration: AHEAD, ASTERN, ABOVE, AND BELOW, THE SHELLS BURST]
[Illustration: AHEAD, ASTERN, ABOVE, AND BELOW, THE SHELLS BURST]
As she did so, she lurched violently and began a dizzy tail-dive. Twisting and turning in erratic spirals she dropped seawards. Loud cheers from R19's crew greeted her descent, but their jubilation was premature.
The tail-spin was a "blind" to enable the Hun to avoid a particularly unhealthy "air-patch". When within five hundred feet of the surface of the sea, the air-craft described a semi-loop in a vertical plane, and, flattening out, sped rapidly away until lost in the faint mist that was banking from the nor'west.
"She's bitten off more than she can chew," declared Macquare. "Now, lads, overboard with that lumber for'ard."
Half a dozen hands, led by the Lieutenant and Fordyce, plunged knee-deep in the water that surged over the forepart of the submarine. It was bitterly cold. Even at that time of the year the temperature of the Baltic was far below the average.
With handspikes and crowbars the men strove to lever the huge projectile over the side, "sword-mats" being placed in its path to protect the exposed edge of the deck plating. All went well until the shell was rolled to within a few inches of the edge. Then came a check. Something, unnoticed owing to its being under water, prevented further progress.
"Slue her round and let her roll for'ard a bit, sir," suggested a petty officer. "Plenty of beef out to do the trick."
Lieutenant Macquare considered the suggestion. It was one thing for an object weighing a ton to fall through several fathoms of water and alight upon the submarine's deck without starting the steel plates, another to roll the same object when its weight in air was enormously greater than when immersed in water.
"Round with her, then!" he exclaimed.
"Destroyer broad on the starboard beam, sir," reported a signalman.
The Hon. Derek, standing on the platform in the wake of the conning-tower, was quick to take in the situation. With a thirty-knot destroyer bearing down at top speed delay would be fatal.
"Diving-stations!" he roared. "Look alive, men!"
Down the sole available hatchway the crew poured, the Lieutenant-Commander, Macquare, Fordyce, and the Russian officer standing by until the last of the "lower-deck ratings" had left the deck. To dive was R19's only chance if she were to escape the attentions of the destroyer. Badly trimmed, it was a difficult matter to speculate as to how the submarine would behave—whether she would dive too steeply and ram the mud or roll completely over.
The destroyer had evidently sighted the submarine, for she had altered course and was bearing straight down towards her. As the Hon. Derek leapt below and closed the water-tight lid of the hatchway the approaching craft was less than two miles off.
With the water pouring into her ballast-tanks, and her motors running full speed ahead, R19 plunged rather than glided beneath the waves. Never before had the indicator pointed to such an excessive dip. The lighting dynamo short-circuited, plunging the interior of the vessel into profound darkness, while various articles of gear, breaking loose, careered noisily across the confined space.
Clutching the hand-rail of one of the ladders, Fordyce felt his feet slip from under him. There he hung, his weight supported solely by his hands, awaiting what fate had in store for him.
He was surprised at his own calmness. He found himself reasoning that, after all, one cannot expect to have things all one's own way. Whatever happened, R19 had had more than an ordinary run of good luck, and, should she be "knocked out", there was some satisfaction in the knowledge that she had already acquitted herself in a manner worthy of the traditions of the Royal Navy.
Above the turmoil of inanimate objects on board—for amongst the crew strict silence and discipline were maintained—could be heard the rapid threshing of the destroyer's propellers as the long, lean craft passed almost directly above the diving submarine. Had the destroyer made use of depth charges, nothing could have saved R19 from swift destruction. Why she did not was a mystery to every man of the submarine's complement.
Suddenly, to the accompaniment of a disconcerting, rasping clamour, R19 jerked violently until she hung on an even keel. For some seconds she remained thus; then, rolling excessively from side to side, she bobbed up to the surface in spite of the weight of water in the ballast-tanks and the action of the depressed diving-rudders.
Groping in the pitch darkness, the Lieutenant-Commander found the lever actuating the hydroplanes. These he brought to a neutral position, since they were useless for the purpose of submersion. R19, unable to dive, was forging ahead blindly and erratically upon the surface, an easy prey to the vigilant destroyer.
"Up, every mother's son of you!" roared the Hon. Derek. "We'll fight her while there's a gun left fit for action or a man jack of us remaining to face a Hun."
With a cheer the undaunted seamen followed their gallant captain, ready to face death with the grim determination that is ever the enviable possession of every true Briton when up against desperate odds.
Hard on the heels of the Russian officer, Naval Lieutenant Rodsky, the Sub made his way through the narrow hatchway. The sudden transition from the darkness of the interior of the hull to the brightness of the open air left him blinking in the watery sunlight.
Already the two after guns, which in the haste had been left "unhoused", were being manned by the crews. Other guns' crews were rushing for'ard to serve the bow quick-firers, for by this time R19 was floating on a perfectly even keel and showing an abnormal amount of freeboard. The Hon. Derek and Lieutenant Macquare were standing by the Quartermaster on the navigation-platform, since, owing to the jamming of the conning-tower hatch, it was impossible to steer the vessel except by means of the hand-wheel on the exposed raised platform.
The destroyer was now less than a mile away. She had ported helm, and was circling, with the evident intention of closing with the submarine. Up to the present she made no attempt to use her guns. If the destruction of R19 was her object, she apparently meant to use her knife-like stem as the weapon of annihilation.
In strict silence the gun-layers trained the weapons, while the captains of the guns awaited orders to open fire.
The stillness was broken by Lieutenant Rodsky suddenly leaping in the air and waving his cap over his head, alighting heavily upon the toes of the astonished Fordyce.
"Good!" shouted the Russian in his own language, forgetting to make use of French in his excitement. "All is well. It is a Russian destroyer, theZabiyaka. I am certain on that point."
The Sub hastened to his commanding officer and translated the Russian's words.
"Let's hope Ivan won't make a mistake then," remarked the Hon. Derek. He glanced upwards at the White Ensign. In spite of the fact that it was saturated with moisture, the bunting was streaming proudly on the breeze.
Almost at the same time the destroyer's colours fluttered athwart her course. There was no mistaking the blue St. Andrew's Cross on a white field—the naval ensign of Russia. Notwithstanding changes ashore, where a Republican flag had superseded that of the Emperor of all the Russias, the fleet still retained the blue diagonal cross.
Even then the thought that the oncoming vessel might be displaying false colours flashed through the Hon. Derek's mind. Russian-built she might be, but there was no telling what changes had recently taken place. She might have been captured by the Huns during the operations in the Gulf of Riga or in the subsequent battle of Moon Sound, and, as a prize, used against her former masters and their allies. So the order was given for the guns' crews to stand fast and await further orders.
Slowing down, theZabiyakadrew within hailing distance. She was cleared for action, while a couple of jagged holes through her foremost funnel and a dismounted quick-firer flung across her deck were evidences that she had participated in a recent "scrap".
Her officers still wore the uniform of the Imperial Russian Navy; her crew, alert, blonde-featured men, were quick to obey the orders given by their superiors. It was pleasing to find that in this destroyer the blighting canker of red revolution had not done its ruinous work.
A lively exchange of greetings passed between Rodsky and the Captain-Lieutenant of the Russian vessel, from which the British officers gathered that the destroyer had engaged and brought down the Hun sea-plane that had vainly endeavoured to strafe the partly-crippled R19. They also learnt that the Russian battleships and cruisers had contrived to escape the trap in Moon Sound, sustaining comparatively trivial losses; while the German High Seas Fleet, shaken by submarine attack, had not ventured in pursuit, but had drawn off, making, it was supposed, for Kiel.
TheZabiyaka'scommanding officer, hearing of the plight of the British submarine, offered to escort her to within the limits of the port of Cronstadt, where, it was to be hoped, sufficient repairs could be effected to enable R19 to resume her aggressive rôle.
Examination showed that the submarine had sustained considerable damage. In diving she had shaken off the enormous projectile that lay across her deck, but as the missile rolled over the side it had bent one of the diving-rudders hard over against the hull. At the same time a considerable portion of the false keel had become detached, although what caused the automatic fastenings to release themselves remained a mystery. It was the sudden release of both the keel and deadweight of the projectile that had caused R19 to shoot up to the surface. Combined with the fact that both periscopes were out of action, and that the submarine could only dive erratically under the influence of the remaining hydroplane, it was plain to all on board that the sooner she made Cronstadt the better.
During the following morning the Captain-Lieutenant of theZabiyakapaid a visit to the Lieutenant-Commander of R19, and in the course of the conversation the British officers became better acquainted with the chaotic state of affairs in and around Petrograd. A section of the Russian fleet had mutinied, murdering several of their officers and subjecting them to unnameable indignities. Rioting was taking place in the capital, while the soaring increase in wages was met with more than a corresponding rise in the prices of the necessaries of life. Countless revolutionary and Extremist "committees" were being formed, to increase still further the difficulties of the unhappy country. Already the deluded peasantry found that there were stupendous defects in the clap-trap theory of social democratic equality. It was doubtless an easy matter to seize and distribute the possessions of the rich landowners; but it was quite another matter to manage with any degree of efficiency their newly-acquired land. Reports, too, of increasing cases of fraternization between the German and the Russian troops in the trenches showed that the wily Hun, a typical wolf in sheep's clothing, was content to play a waiting game so far as the Eastern Front was concerned, knowing that the anarchy-torn country could be left to itself until the masses of German troops, released for sterner work elsewhere, could return to complete the destruction of the vast but already-tottering new republic.
The Russian officer had barely taken his departure when R19's yeoman of signals reported the receipt of a wireless message sent from the British Embassy at Petrograd. It was in cipher, but when decoded its meaning was bluntly emphatic:
"The state of affairs here renders it necessary for H.M. Submarine R19 to return to her base. Co-operation on the part of the Russian Government can no longer be guaranteed. Admiralty orders to this effect have been communicated to all British forces engaged in operations in the Baltic and on the Eastern Front."
The Hon. Derek read the decoded message and glanced enquiringly at his brother officer.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "we're in a pretty fix! Now what would you suggest, Macquare?"
The Lieutenant solemnly closed one eye.
"Since you ask me, sir," he replied, "I'd carry on to execute repairs. In our present condition we could no more get out of the Baltic than fly. Refitted we could have a fair chance of having another slap at the Huns."
"But in the face of these orders?" asked the Lieutenant-Commander.
"Take Nelson's example at Copenhagen as a precedent, sir," rejoined the Lieutenant.
"I'll risk it, Macquare," decided the Hon. Derek. "The responsibility's mine. If we are able to effect repairs and get away before the Baltic is closed by the ice we'll be able to do a little strafing on our own account. In that case I don't suppose I'll be rapped over the knuckles if we get home. If we don't, well—we shan't be alive, and official reprimand won't worry us then."
"I agree, sir," said the Lieutenant. "Obeying orders is all very well in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. In the present instance the Admiralty hasn't taken into consideration our defects. The instructions were issued, I presume, on the assumption that we are in working trim."
"Yes," concurred the Hon. Derek. "And, knocked about as we are, it wouldn't be fair on the men to attempt to run the gauntlet of the Sound. They'd go like a shot, I'm absolutely convinced, but I'm hanged if I'll sacrifice them needlessly. So, all being well, Cronstadt is our next port of call."
Dawn was breaking when R19, piloted by the Russian destroyerZabiyaka, came within sight of the supposedly-impregnable island fortress. Everywhere the numerous fort-batteries were displaying the flag of the Republic, while to show that watch and ward were still being kept a couple of shots were fired wide of the destroyer.
Presently an armed launch put out and a brisk exchange of words took place between the port officials and the Captain-Lieutenant of theZabiyaka, which ended in the latter rather reluctantly ordering the Blue Cross Ensign to be struck and replaced by the emblem of Red Republicanism.
This done, the destroyer was ordered to proceed to a certain anchorage, while R19, under the charge of a Russian pilot, entered the naval arsenal.
Here lay the bulk of the Russian Baltic Fleet, many of the ships bearing evidences of German gun-fire. A large proportion of the crews had gone to Petrograd to take part in a demonstration; others had deserted in order to return to their homes and join in the general policy of grab; while those who remained were promenading the streets and quays, singing revolutionary songs and drinking deeply of vodka.
"See what liberty, equality, and fraternity do for a nation, Fordyce," remarked the Hon. Derek, indicating a group of roysterers gathered round a barrel on the quarter-deck of a large battleship. Utterly indifferent to the presence of their officers, the seamen were already in advanced stages of intoxication. Any attempt to enforce discipline would doubtless result in ghastly butchery, for already the crews of certain ships had risen and murdered their officers.
"A good object-lesson for British pacifists, sir," rejoined Fordyce. "And these fellows don't seem particularly favourably-disposed towards us."
"No, indeed," said the Lieutenant-Commander. "However, we must find out how the land lies. The main point is to get material; we can then execute the work ourselves, for it is a moral cert. that there isn't a Russian workman available."
The Hon. Derek's surmise proved to be correct, for when an appeal for assistance was made to the newly-appointed commandant of the arsenal the request was met with scant consideration. German gold and Hun propaganda had done their work effectively, and already there was a strong anti-British feeling amongst the soldiers, sailors, and workmen.
Enquiries resulted in the information that already the other British submarines had left, while the armoured-car detachments operating on the Eastern Front were under orders for Archangel and home. Until Russia found her feet and her reason the assistance of her allies would be utterly wasted.
Undeterred, R19's crew set to work to make good defects. Since no dry dock was available, the task of removing the bent hydroplane had to be carried out by her own divers. Ashore, a small workshop had been placed at their disposal, and a limited quantity of material was forthcoming. Provided no hitch occurred, the Hon. Derek hoped to have his command ready for sea within a fortnight.
"Look here, Fordyce," he remarked one morning, "I want you to take this dispatch to the Embassy. There's no immediate hurry, so if you care to spend a few days in Petrograd you may. If you do, keep your eyes and ears open."
"Thank you, sir!" replied the Sub. "I may have the chance of calling on Vladimir Klostivitch."
"By Jove, yes!" exclaimed the Lieutenant-Commander. "I'd forgotten all about that consignment of 'diamonds'. It's a dangerous business, I fancy. It was not at all unusual for a man to disappear in Russia during the Imperial regime. Under the republic the opportunities for removing a person would be far greater. What do you propose to do?"
"Carry out the original suggestion, sir," replied Fordyce. "Hand Klostivitch a dummy packet, and then try to bluff him into giving details of the Russian Anarchist Society in London. The chief thing is, I take it, to find out where this nitro-talcite is secretly manufactured. Obviously it is somewhere in England, or there wouldn't be such a fuss made to smuggle the stuff into Russia."
"Quite right," agreed the Hon. Derek. "For my part I wouldn't trouble if they blew themselves to bits. It would be one solution of the difficulty. Of far more importance is the discovery of the place of manufacture, since the explosive would be of considerable use against friend Fritz. But, look here, I don't like the idea of your tackling the business single-handed. If I weren't compelled to remain here, as skipper of this craft, I'd go with you like a shot. How about Macquare?"
"He'd jump at it, sir; only a similar objection holds. As an executive officer he cannot well be spared. Might I take Chalmers?"
"By all means, providing he is willing," agreed the Lieutenant-Commander. "You'd have to introduce him, I take it, as a British sympathizer and delegate. All right; speak to him, and make your own arrangements."
The petty officer accepted the invitation with alacrity, even before Fordyce explained what was required of him.
"It's quite all jonnick, sir," he declared when the Sub outlined his plan. "If needs be I'd trot along rigged up as a chimpanzee or a Hottentot. And if there's a chance of a scrap, I'm on it."
"I don't think there will be, Chalmers," replied the Sub. "Tact and discretion are what is required."
So it was arranged that Fordyce should go as the mouthpiece of the supposed delegate. On the supposition that Klostivitch knew nothing of the English language, there would then be very little chance of the redoubtable petty officer "giving himself away".
The two adventurers journeyed to Petrograd in a Russian steamer that ran regularly between Cronstadt and the capital. With them went Naval-Lieutenant Rodsky, who, his present task completed, was on his way to report at the Flying School.
The Russian was openly despondent at the state of affairs in his country. Like thousands, perhaps millions, of his countrymen, he deeply regretted the revolution, and longed for the return of the Little Father from his exile in far-off Tobolsk. While admitting that there were grave defects in the administration of his country under the rule of the Tsar, he realized that then Russia was a nation. Now it was but a heterogeneous collection of undeveloped races, loosely held by a corrupt, quarrelsome, and incapable body of self-constituted rulers, and fast slipping into the gulf of utter ruin.
Having delivered his dispatch, Fordyce was able to obtain quarters for himself and Chalmers at the home of a British resident. In a sense it was fortunate that the hitherto elaborate police system of espionage had been swept away, and consequently the two men had no difficulty in obtaining civilian clothes. Fordyce would have liked to have brought his faithful dog, but in this matter he had been overruled by his sense of caution. A visitor from England would not go to the trouble and expense of bringing a dog with him. So Flirt was left on board under the care of the ship's company in general, and Able Seaman Cassidy in particular.
No. 19 Bobbinsky Prospekt was a three-storied stone house in the Vassili Ostroff quarter of the capital. Adjoining it on the left was a slightly lower building. On the right a frozen stream separated it from a shop, the shuttered windows of which were riddled with bullet-holes. Electric trams were running along the Prospekt, each car carrying a machine-gun and a crew of Red Republican guards. At either end of the roadway were evidences of recent street fighting, for the hastily-constructed barricades were still partly in existence.
"Now for it, Chalmers!" exclaimed Fordyce, as he knocked boldly with the rusty iron knocker.
After considerable delay the door was opened ajar by a diminutive, white-haired old man, who demanded in a quavering voice the names and business of the callers.
"We wish to see M. Vladimir Klostivitch on private affairs," replied the Sub. "It is useless to give one's names, for we are unknown to your master. You can inform him that we are comrades from England."
"I am Vladimir Klostivitch," announced the old man. "Be pleased to enter."
"I am sorry to have made a mistake," said Fordyce apologetically.
"It is nothing," rejoined Klostivitch. "Can I offer you tea? Excuse the fact that I am alone in the house. Please be seated."
The room into which Fordyce and his companion were shown was a large low-ceilinged place, devoid of a fire-place. It was well heated, warmth being obtained by means of a large closed-in stove in the centre of the room, over which was a bed-box, similar to those extensively used by the muzhiks in the smaller towns and villages of central Russia. The furniture consisted of a massive table, two arm-chairs and a few smaller ones, a plain sideboard, and a tall press. The floor was composed of stone flags on which rushes were strewn.
"By Jove," cogitated Fordyce, while his host set about to prepare tea in the Russian style—strongly-brewed beverage with lemon juice instead of milk, "I didn't picture Klostivitch to be such a shrimp of a fellow! If his cunning only equals his bodily size, then we ought to have an easy job. Hanged if I can imagine a white-haired, soft-spoken fellow like that as a dangerous Anarchist or Extremist. After all, there's little to choose between the two names."
Presently the tea was handed round to the accompaniment of an exchange of small talk. Apparently the Russian was seeking to "draw" his visitors, while Fordyce, in the joint role of interpreter and delegate, carefully sounded his ground.
"I understand that you are interested in the cigarette industry," remarked Klostivitch. "Do you bear letters of introduction from the head of our London house?"
"Cigarette industry?" repeated the Sub. "I never said so. We called at the request of a Mr. Mindiggle, of the town of Otherport."
The Russian shook his head.
"I know nothing of a person of that name," he remarked bluntly. "Perhaps you can give further particulars?"
He fixed his visitor with a piercing glance from his deep-set eyes and awaited his reply.
Fordyce made no attempt to answer until he had thought out a new plan of action, occasioned by Klostivitch's disclaimer.
"If you do not know Mr. Mindiggle there is nothing further to be said," he remarked. "We must have made a mistake."
"Quite possibly," rejoined the other dryly.
"However, I might add," continued Fordyce, rising and holding up a small leather bag, "that the gentleman whose identity you disclaim entrusted me with a small parcel—of diamonds, I understand—to be given to you personally."
Without allowing the dummy packet out of his hands, the Sub allowed Klostivitch to read the address.
"Certainly it is for me," admitted the Russian. "But surely, Monsieur, you have handled this precious parcel very carelessly? Are you not aware that diamonds greatly deteriorate if exposed to low temperatures?"
"Hanged if I am," declared Fordyce. "I was certainly not warned to that effect. But, look here——"
Klostivitch held up a warning finger.
"No harm has apparently been done," he remarked. "In any case, a brief examination of the diamonds will confirm my belief. If you will come with me to my testing laboratory we will make a joint investigation."
Again Fordyce hesitated. He was doubtful whether to tackle the man straight away or to wait until the Russian himself made the discovery that the packet contained nothing but broken glass. The mere fact that the Extremist had finally accepted the statement that the "diamonds" were for him was sufficient proof that he was in league with a dangerous secret society in Great Britain. Cornered and threatened, he would be pretty certain to give the names of his accomplices and the formula of the ingredients from which the deadly nitro-talcite was compounded.
The fellow might raise a terrific commotion afterwards, Fordyce reflected, but the Sub was prepared to risk that. Once he and the petty officer were clear they would discard their disguise and appear in their true characters as members of Submarine R19's complement. In any case, they could take efficient steps to prevent Vladimir Klostivitch raising an alarm until several hours had elapsed.
"All right; lead the way, monsieur," he exclaimed.
The old man opened the door of the stove and thrust a strip of wood into the glowing furnace. With this he lighted a cast-iron oil lamp.
"My laboratory is below the ground," he explained, "and owing to the scarcity of candles, and the failure of the authorities to maintain the supply of electric light, I am compelled to fall back upon this lamp. It will be quite enough for the brief examination I propose to make. Follow me, if you please."
Crossing the stone floor, Klostivitch threw back a thick, faded curtain that hitherto concealed a doorway under the broad staircase. A rush of warm air swept from the gloomy opening. In spite of the otherwise cheerless conditions, the house in Bobbinsky Prospekt was well heated, even the cellars.
"Be careful," cautioned the guide as he preceded his guests and held the lamp low in order that its feeble rays might illuminate the worn stone steps. "It is not often that visitors honour my laboratory with their presence, otherwise I might have devoted a more accessible place to my researches."
"It is quite all right," rejoined Fordyce. "At any rate," he soliloquized, "you are in front of me, so it will go hard with you if you try any low-down tricks."
Full fifteen steps were descended before the three men gained a level passage. Placing his hand on one of the walls the Sub made the discovery that the stonework was warm. On the other side of the wall was, apparently, the large stove used for heating the whole house.
Suddenly the lamp went out.
"A thousand apologies!" exclaimed Klostivitch. "It was the draught. Have you a box of matches by any chance?"
"Yes, I have," replied the Sub, secretly rejoicing that the extinguishing of the lamp was by accident, not design, and that the Russian seemed as anxious as the others to rectify matters.
He unbuttoned his heavy greatcoat, and, removing his gloves, fumbled for his silver match-box.
"Here it is, monsieur," he exclaimed, extending his hand.
He waited a few seconds, under the impression that the Russian was groping for the proffered article. Then he repeated the announcement, adding, in a tone of involuntary impatience: "Where are you?"
"Here," replied a mocking voice above his head, "blundering busybodies that you are! You are securely trapped this time, and you will have good cause to repent of your unwarrantable and interfering curiosity."
Then came the dull thud of a heavy stone slab falling into position, and Fordyce and the petty officer found themselves prisoners in the cellar of the mysterious house.
"'Tain't quite all ship-shape, is it, sir?" enquired Petty Officer Chalmers, who, ignorant of the Russian language, could only base his surmise upon the fact that Klostivitch had suspiciously made himself scarce.
"I'm afraid not, Chalmers," replied Fordyce. "We took too much for granted, and pal Vladimir has sold us a dog. Don't move till I strike a match; there may be boobytraps about."
The glimmer of the lighted match revealed the lamp. Either by accident or design Klostivitch had left it on the floor.
"Proper Tower o' London sort of show," commented Chalmers, examining his surroundings by the feeble glare. "Look, sir, that's where the old rascal shinned up."
He indicated a number of iron rungs clamped into the wall, while immediately above was a square opening in the stone ceiling, over which had been lowered a huge block of granite.
"Come along, sir," continued the petty officer. "Let's get back to the steps. Maybe the slippery reptile hasn't had time to shut the door."
Quickly the two men ascended the flight of steps, only to find their exit barred by a securely bolted door. Vainly the burly petty officer thrust with his shoulder against the firmly-held barrier.
"Hist!" exclaimed Fordyce.
From the other side of the door came the Russian's mirthless laugh. Then, finding that his captives had at least temporarily desisted from their efforts he shouted:
"Don't forget to keep the stove burning, you English imbeciles—that is,if the diamonds are what you think they are."
Fordyce did not deign to reply, but, followed by his companion, descended the steps and gained the level passage. There was little here that called for examination beyond the iron clamps set in the wall; but at the farthermost end was a low, metal-bound door. It was ajar. There were bolts on both sides, but these had apparently not been used for a considerable time, since they were thickly encrusted with rust.
Entering the cellar, the Sub found that it was a spacious place, measuring, roughly, 50 feet by 20, the vaulted roof being supported by a row of four stone columns. In one corner was a large stove, the one to which Klostovitch had recently referred. A large portion of the floor was occupied by bundles of faggots and logs hewn into short lengths, so that there was no lack of fuel.
Seven feet from the ground was a heavily-barred window through which a cold current of air was pouring. Obviously communicating with the open air, the aperture itself admitted no light.
"Let me give you a leg-up, sir," suggested Chalmers. "There doesn't seem much chance of being able to shin through that window, but there's no harm done in finding out what's outside."
Agilely Fordyce scrambled upon the broad back of the resourceful petty officer, steadying himself by grasping the iron bars, and allowed the lamplight to shine upon the scene without.
The opening communicated with an arched tunnel through which flowed a small stream but at present the water was frozen hard. If it were possible to remove the retaining bars and crawl through the aperture, the ice would form a safe way of escape, since the stream was bound to emerge into the open air in one or both directions.
"Well, sir, what's to be done now?" enquired Chalmers, when the Sub had made his report on his investigations. "It's no use sitting here and doing a blessed stoker's job with that there fire. We can't expect our chums to help us, or else old Klosytally, or whatever he calls hisself, would bring up a crowd of his revolutionary pals."
"The Captain might appeal to the British Embassy," suggested Fordyce.
"I don't think that would be much good, sir," replied Chalmers. "From what I've seen of this blessed country, British interest don't seem to count for much. No, sir; it's no use trusting to others; we'll have to work for ourselves."
"Quite so, Chalmers," agreed the Sub; "but I'm sorry I got you into this mess."
"Don't you worry about me, sir," protested the imperturbable sailor. "I'm quite content to follow my senior officer's movements without asking questions. I'll just try my knife on that window."
"One moment," interposed Fordyce. "This lamp won't burn so very much longer. Keep the door of the stove open, and throw on some more wood; we'll have to work by fire-light."
This done, and the lamp blown out, Chalmers set to work to loosen the mortar in which were set the iron bars of the window.
For nearly an hour he toiled diligently, until the sweat poured down his face in spite of the cold blast of air through the opening. But the effort was in vain. It was the blade of his knife that was diminishing, not the cement, which was as hard as cast iron.
"I'll knock off, sir," he said, scratching his head in his disappointment. "Might go on for a whole month of Sundays, and yet get no forrader."
"We'll try to get those bars red-hot," declared Fordyce. "We've plenty of wood. Once we get the iron soft we can knock them out by using a log as a maul."
"Might be done, sir," admitted Chalmers. "No harm in trying; it'll keep us out of mischief, in a manner of speaking."
Acting upon the Sub's suggestion, a quantity of wood was stacked between the bars and set on fire. Fanned by the strong air-current, the combustibles burned fiercely, but the result was far from satisfactory. In less than five minutes the cellar was filled with choking fumes, and had not the experimenters torn away the burning wood they would have been suffocated.
mindiggle
mindiggle
[Illustration: IT WAS MINDIGGLE]
[Illustration: IT WAS MINDIGGLE]
The hours passed slowly. Hunger and want of sleep were beginning to assail the prisoners. For their personal comfort they kept the big heating-stove well supplied, as they had not the slightest fear that a fall in temperature would affect the contents of the dummy packet which Fordyce still retained.
The two men were almost on the point of falling into a fitful slumber when Klostivitch's voice hailed them. Lighting the lamp, Fordyce made his way to the passage. A sense of dignity forbade him to hurry, but curiosity prompted him to ascertain the cause of the interruption.
The place was deserted. The Russian had removed the stone covering to the trap, for on the floor was a basket containing food and a jar of water.
"He evidently doesn't mean to starve us," commented the Sub as he carried the basket to the cellar. "I wonder if the stuff's drugged."
"I'll risk it, anyway," declared Chalmers. "I'm fair famished, sir. How goes the enemy, sir?"
Fordyce consulted his watch.
"A quarter-past nine," he replied. "You turn in, Chalmers. I'll take first trick."
The petty officer, having eaten his share of the scanty repast, was soon sound asleep. Fordyce, having made up the fire, prepared to keep watch, not knowing what move his captor might make.
It was close on midnight when he heard his name called. Hardly able to credit his senses, the Sub started to his feet. The voice seemed familiar, yet he could not fix the speaker's identity.
Relighting the lamp, and without disturbing his sleeping companion, the Sub hastened along the passage. Suddenly he halted. The trap-door above his head was opened, and through the aperture could be seen the head and shoulders of a man. His features were muffled in a turned-up fur collar, while an astrakhan cap was drawn well down over his forehead; but, in spite of this, Fordyce was now able to recognize the man.
It was Mindiggle.
A seemingly very slight incident will freqently alter the course of a man's career, and throw his time-table completely out of gear.
It was thus in the case of Ernz von Verbrennungsraum, otherwise the trusted and respected Town Councillor Mindiggle of Otherport.
When he vainly attempted to trade upon Noel Fordyce's affection for his dog, Mindiggle had no intention of proceeding to Russia. It was only after his conversation with his fellow-conspirator, Boris Platoff, that he decided to go to Petrograd and hand over in person a small but immensely-powerful stock of nitro-talcite to the Extremist leader, Vladimir Klostivitch.
The haunting fear that perhaps he had made a grievous error in his dealings with Sub-lieutenant Fordyce, whose resolution and intelligence he had completely underrated, prompted him to make the journey without undue delay.
It was in his case an easy matter to leave the country. Through influence he was made a member of the Red Cross organization for the relief of wounded Russians, and, armed with credentials, he departed via the North Sea and Scandinavian railways to the Finnish town of Tornea, whence, by devious and uncertain travelling, he had made his way to Petrograd, arriving just twelve hours before Fordyce made his audacious yet ill-advised call at the house in the Bobbinsky Prospekt.
Mindiggle's suspicions were well founded, and, before the Sub had paid his visit, Vladimir Klostivitch had been warned of the possibility of being questioned by British naval officers.
Klostivitch immediately began to make enquiries. He soon learned that two Englishmen from a submarine lying at Cronstadt had recently landed from a Government steamer; that they had proceeded to the British Embassy, and thence to a house in which lived a compatriot.
The German agent wanted to be present at the anticipated interview, but this Klostivitch would not permit, avowing that he was quite capable of trapping the interfering Englishmen without assistance, and when this was done Mindiggle would be at liberty to converse with the captives.
"Hallo, Fordyce!" exclaimed the Hun from his place of safety. "I suppose you did not expect to find me here? How's that ferocious dog of yours? 'Costs against the plaintiff,' eh? Well, it will be a jolly dear bite for you before I've done with you."
"You think so?" enquired Fordyce coolly.
"I don't think—I know it!" replied Mindiggle. "Might I enquire why you've come here and tried to foist a spurious packet of diamonds upon my friend Klostivitch?"
"For motives best known to myself—and others," said the Sub stiffly.
"What motives?" enquired the spy, unable to restrain his curiosity.
"I decline to tell you; nor do I wish to hold further conversation with you," said Fordyce with asperity.
Mindiggle laughed loudly.
"You'll change your tune, my boy," he exclaimed. "Long before I'm done with you you'll be ready to answer my questions. You are a prisoner—a state prisoner—on a charge of conspiracy against the Russian Government. There is no prospect of rescue. With other pressure heavy upon them the Russian officials dare not listen to the protests of the British Embassy, even if it were known to your friends that you are here. Let me tell you that German rule will be all-powerful here. The followers of Kerensky, of Lenin, of Trotsky, of Korniloff—all will be completely subordinated to their rightful masters—the military force of the German Empire. Already negotiations are in progress for peace between Germany and Russia —and the terms will be those of a victorious Germany, let me tell you. What do you think of that?"
Fordyce made no reply. He knew that his tormentor told hard facts, but he saw no reason why he should agree with him. He was on the point of returning to the cellar when Mindiggle continued.
"You may just as well know what is in store for you," resumed the spy. "You and your companion will be kept here until such time as is convenient for you to be taken into German territory. Really, I don't know why I shouldn't give orders for you to be executed, unless I consider that alive you will be more useful to the German Government. You will be fed during your imprisonment here, so you need have no fears of death by starvation; but, remember, any attempt at escape on your part will be visited by the severest punishment."
Unostentatiously the Sub measured the distance between the floor of the passage and the opening through which the spy was speaking. There were six iron rungs, by which Klostivitch had climbed when he tricked the two men into their prison—and Mindiggle's leering face was tantalizingly close.
With a sudden bound Fordyce scrambled agilely and rapidly up the rough-and-ready ladder. So astonished was the spy at the sudden onslaught, and taken at a disadvantage by the fact that he was lying at full length on the floor, that the Sub's attempt was within an ace of success.
But the ironwork that had supported Klostivitch's spare frame was unequal to the task of bearing Fordyce's weight. One of the bars was wrenched bodily from its setting, throwing the Sub to the ground, at the same time capsizing the lamp.
When he recovered his feet the young officer found that Mindiggle had gone and that the stone slab had been replaced over the aperture.
Fordyce returned to the cellar to resume his interrupted watch and to ponder over the recent conversation. It was beginning to dawn upon him that he was "up against a big thing". The affair was not merely an internal plot on the part of one of the many sections of Russian revolutionists, but an international intrigue that, if successful, might seriously jeopardize the Allies' triumph.
Presently Chalmers stirred in his sleep, pulling an imaginary blanket over his head after the manner of seamen accustomed to sleeping in hammocks on a draughty main-deck. Then he sat up and gazed at the ruddy glow of the burning wood.
"It's my trick, sir, isn't it?" he asked.
Fordyce glanced at his watch.
"Yes," he replied, not deeming it necessary to inform the petty officer that twenty minutes had elapsed beyond the specified time. "I've had a most interesting conversation, Chalmers."
"It strikes me, sir," remarked the petty officer, when Fordyce had related the details of his talk with Mindiggle, "that we are properly in the soup. Talking of soup, sir, I could just do with a plateful of 'bubbly'. Wonder if they'll grub us on rat soup, sir? I think I hear rats about, and they say food's scarce in these parts."
A distinct, rasping sound came through the barred window. Both men listened intently. The noise could be likened to that of a rodent's teeth tackling a hard substance. Then came the pitter-patter of claws upon the smooth surface of the ice.
"A whacking great rat," remarked Fordyce incredulously, as he threw fresh fuel upon the fire and stirred the embers into a blaze. Then he turned towards the window.
An animate object was frantically pawing the iron bars, and a succession of short, shrill yaps of delight pierced the air.
With a bound Fordyce gained the window.
"Good old Flirt!" he exclaimed. "How on earth did you find us out?"
The faithful terrier was almost mad with delight as she licked the Sub's hands and strove to force her way through the bars. Evidently she had been having a scrap with one of the canine residents of Petrograd, for there was a raw wound on one of her haunches.
For full five minutes Fordyce fondled the still-excited terrier. Although overjoyed at seeing his pet, and at the sagacity of the animal, he was ill at ease. Flirt could not get into the cellar, and it was quite certain that if Mindiggle found that she was outside he would not allow her to rejoin her master except upon utterly unacceptable terms. He might, most likely, order the dog to be destroyed.
"She must have smuggled herself upon the steamboat, same as 'ow she did when she first came off, sir," suggested Chalmers.
"Yes, and now's the trouble to send her back," said the Sub. "I can't keep her here, and, goodness only knows, I wouldn't like to know that she was adrift in Petrograd."
"Think she'll find her way back, sir?" asked the petty officer eagerly.
"There's a chance," replied Fordyce dubiously. "The first boat leaves for Cronstadt at eight in the morning."
"Then, sir," exclaimed Chalmers, excitedly, "that's the bloomin' ticket! Lash a note to her collar and let the skipper know where we are."
"What do you make of it, Mr. Macquare?" enquired the Hon. Derek. "It looks as if winter has stolen a march on us."
"It has, sir," agreed the Lieutenant, as he rubbed his hands to restore the circulation. Even in the electric radiator-heated cabin the temperature was only a few degrees above freezing-point.
Mr. Macquare had just returned from a "spell ashore". It was close on sunset, by which time the British officers and crew had to be on board. During the hours of daylight they were allowed to wander freely over a considerable part of the great Russian arsenal, provided they conformed to the regulations laid down by the very democratic commandant.
The work of repairing R19 was proceeding apace. Already the diving-rudder had been straightened, and would be replaced the following day unless unforeseen circumstances arose to delay the operation. New tubes for the periscopes had been obtained, and only the fitting of the lenses and minor adjustments had to be made before the submarine was again ready for sea.
"The ice is forming rapidly on the Neva," continued the Lieutenant. "It's thick enough to bear a man's weight almost everywhere, except in the Morskoi Canal. They've got the ice-breakers hard at work already."
The Morskoi Canal is an artificial channel cut in the comparatively shallow Gulf of Finland, and affords deep-water communication below Cronstadt and the capital.
"Let's hope that the Baltic won't be completely frozen over during the next few days," remarked the Lieutenant-Commander. "We're running things pretty fine, but I see no alternative."
"Any news of Fordyce, sir?" asked the Lieutenant.
"Not yet," was the reply. "In fact I hardly expect to hear until he puts in an appearance. The youngster's not a sort of hare-brained fellow who would look for trouble. Just before he left——"
A discreet tap upon the cabin door interrupted the Hon. Derek's remarks.
"Come in!" he called out.
The door was opened, and the heavy curtain pushed aside, revealing the anxious features of Able-Seaman Cassidy.
"Well, Cassidy?" asked the skipper encouragingly.
"It's about that dawg, sir," began the sailor. "Mr. Fordyce's dawg."
"Has she bitten anyone?"
"Sure, no, sir; leastwise not as I knows of. But she's absent without leave, sir."
"For how long?"
"Can't say, sir. Cook's mate says as 'ow Flirt was in the galley just afore dinner. Me and my mates have looked everywhere."
"Have you tried Mr. Fordyce's cabin?"
"Sure that Oi have, sir."
"Well, she's not here, Cassidy," said the Hon. Derek, giving a perfunctory glance under the settee. "Have another hunt round and then report to me. The dog may have taken it into her head to go ashore for a prowl round."
Cassidy saluted and backed out of the cabin to confer with his equally anxious mates on the next course to adopt. The men were grievously concerned about Flirt's disappearance. Never before had the mascot been "absent without leave ".
Some of the crew went on deck and began a pantomime conversation with a Russian seaman on sentry duty on the quay side. By dint of signs and the promise of a "plug o' ship's 'bacca", the Muscovite was made to understand that R19's mascot was missing, and that her recovery would result in a substantial reward.
All that evening there was a constant stream of Russian bluejackets and marines, bringing with them curs of all sizes and descriptions, until the harassed officer of the watch was reduced to the borders of unparliamentary language, while the crew were partly solaced by the sight of the impromptu dog show.
Morning came, but with it no signs of Flirt. A sympathetic Russian petty officer, who could speak English, volunteered to make enquiries at all the landing-places, although he expressed his opinion that the dog must be roaming about somewhere on the island.
With the resumption of work Flirt's disappearance was temporarily forgotten. The Hon. Derek and Mr. Macquare were anxiously dividing their attention between the progress of the repairs and the steady formation of the ice. Already the water alongside was covered with two inches of clear ice, while, in order to enable the divers to labour at their task of refixing the hydroplane, men had to be told off to keep the floes away from the submarine's bows.
Suddenly Cassidy, who was engaged in red-leading the newly-fixed periscopes, gave a shout of surprise.
"Sw'elp me!" he exclaimed, pointing at a small brown object showing clearly on the glistening field of ice. "There's Mr. Fordyce's dawg."
The animal had made her way across the expanse of frozen water until she gained the edge of the still-open channel, on which slabs of ice of varying sizes and thickness were drifting.
Informed of Flirt's return by the A.B.'s shout, the Lieutenant-Commander whipped out his binoculars.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "the little beast's about to swim for it! She'll be done in, Macquare."
Even if the dog managed to withstand the low temperature of the water, she would be in considerable danger from the drifting floes. Quickly the Hon. Derek rose to the occasion and ordered the Berthon to be launched.
The collapsible boat was unfolded in record time and dropped over the side on the ice. Three men, one of whom was Cassidy, followed, and, grasping the gunwale, urged the Berthon forward like a sleigh across the 300 yards of frozen water that separated the submarine from the canal.
"Avast there, Flirt!" shouted Cassidy when the boat drew within hailing distance, for the terrier was dipping one paw into the water as a preliminary to jumping in.
At the sound of the A.B.'s voice Flirt cocked one ear, gave a yelp of welcome, and leapt from the fixed ice to a detached piece that had drifted within reach.
"Silly little josser!" exclaimed another of the Berthon's crew as the floe tilted under the dog's weight. It looked as if the animal would slide backwards in spite of her frantic efforts to find a firm foothold. Not until her body was half immersed did the sheet of ice recover itself, only to tilt in the opposite direction and precipitate Flirt into the bitterly cold water.
Slipping and floundering, the three men pushed the boat to the edge of the canal, then, heedless of the danger of the sharp edge ripping the canvas hull, they launched her and leapt in.
"Give way for all you're worth!" shouted Cassidy, who, in the absence of a rudder, gave the rowers directions by pointing with his hand.
Already Flirt was showing signs of exhaustion. Her fore-paws were threshing the water, instead of moving strongly and noiselessly beneath the surface. Her hind-quarters were sinking lower, while her head was thrown well back—sure signs that the task she had undertaken was beyond her power.
"Way 'nough!" ordered Cassidy. "Grab her, Bill!"
The seaman addressed boated his oar and leant over the gunwale, but, caught by the stiff breeze, the lightly-built craft drifted to leeward, just beyond arm's length of the now-benumbed animal. Before the man could grasp his oar, Flirt disappeared beneath the surface.
Without hesitation Cassidy took a header over the pointed stern of the Berthon, to reappear ten seconds later with Flirt firmly held by the scruff of her neck. Willing hands relieved the brave sailor of his burden and helped him into the boat.
"Crikey! Ain't it 'orribly parky!" he exclaimed. "'Ere, Bill, give me an oar before I'm frozen stiff."
"'Ow about it?" enquired Bill, who, having taken Cassidy's place in the stern-sheets, was devoting his attention to the now torpid dog. "Do the 'Instructions for the Treatment of the Apparently Drowned' hold good for a bloomin' animile? Lumme, what's she got lashed round 'er neck—'er kit in a brown-paper parcel, I believe."
"Don't heave it overboard," protested Cassidy, as Bill cut the lashings. "Strike me pink! There's writing on it—'Prisoners in a cellar in this house.—Fordyce'. Hallo! This is news for our skipper. Flirt, old girl, you're a brick!"
Flirt, beginning to take a renewed interest in life, feebly wagged her stumpy tail. Perhaps she was rather glad she wasn't one in the literal sense of the word, as a brick would have made a poor show in the waters of the Neva.
"Well done, Cassidy!" exclaimed Lieutenant-Commander Stockdale when the A.B., with his clothes already stiff with ice, came on board. "Go below—don't waste time—and shift into a dry kit; and tell Jones to serve out a stiff tot to you three men."
"Beg pardon, sir," said Cassidy, "but we found this gadget lashed round Flirt's neck—something written on it by Mr. Fordyce."
The Hon. Derek took the paper parcel. He recognized it as the dummy package that he had assisted to make up in order to tackle Vladimir Klostivitch.
"All right, carry on," he replied, dismissing the now shivering A.B.
"Mr. Macquare," he continued, turning to the Lieutenant, "come below with me if you please."
The two officers repaired to the Hon. Derek's cabin.
"Young Fordyce has got into hot water, judging by this messsage," remarked the Lieutenant-Commander, holding up the sodden parcel for his subordinate's inspection. "It's lucky the address is given, for I believe I forgot it. Now what's to be done?"
"Call for volunteers for a rescue-party, sir," suggested Mr. Macquare promptly.
The Hon. Derek shook his head.
"Won't do, Mr. Macquare. We aren't lying on an uncivilized coast, where we can act off our own bat. We've got to tread warily. All the same, there's no time to be lost. If we work through diplomatic channels there'll be weeks, perhaps months, of exasperating delay. We must be under way within the next twenty-four hours unless we are to be frozen in here for the winter. And I don't want to leave my Sub behind. Hallo, what is it? I'm busy."
The entry of a bluejacket holding a piece of pasteboard in his hand interrupted the discussion.
The card was that of Naval-Lieutenant Rodsky.
"Show him down below," ordered the Hon. Derek. "Dash it all, Macquare, Rodsky's a sound fellow; he might help us."
The Russian officer had recently returned to Cronstadt and had taken an early opportunity of paying a formal call upon the Hon. Derek. When informed of what had befallen Sub-Lieutenant Fordyce he became genuinely sympathetic.
"I quite see your point," he remarked, speaking in French, since, in the absence of the Sub, Stockdale was without the services of an interpreter. "I would suggest that you consult my friend, Captain-Lieutenant Orloff, of the destroyerZabiyaka. She is lying in No. 3 Basin."
Acting upon this advice the three officers went on board the destroyer, and Rodsky briefly outlined the case to his confrère.
"Vladimir Klostivitch—do I know anything of him?" exclaimed Captain Orloff. "One of the most dangerous men in Russia at the present time. M. Kerensky would have had him arrested, but there,"—the Captain shrugged his shoulders expressively—"Trotsky is more powerful than M. Kerensky, and Klostivitch is in Trotsky's pay."
"And Germany's too, I fancy," added Stockdale.
"I can suggest a plan," continued Orloff. "One that will remove all responsibility from your shoulders, Monsieur le Capitan. In the interests of my country I will arrest this villain, Klostivitch. Fortunately my crew are loyal to me and anti-German to a man. Now leave everything to me, and if your officer is not liberated within twelve hours my name is not Boris Orloff."
"You will not expose yourself to the risk of the Extremists' fury?" asked the Hon. Derek, loath to accept any favour that might be detrimental to the generous Russian's interests.
"My friend," replied Orloff, "what has England done for us? We Russians are extremely indebted to her. Strange, then, if I should hesitate to run a slight risk in return for far greater sacrifice that your navy has made for ours. There is one other point. I understand that you are leaving as soon as possible?"
"Directly repairs are effected," replied the Lieutenant-Commander of R19.
"Have any difficulties been placed in your way by the present naval authorities of Cronstadt?" asked Orloff pointedly.
"None whatever," declared Stockdale emphatically. "In fact an ice-breaker has been told off to keep a channel open for us."
"I am glad to hear it," remarked the Russian. "Later on it may be different, especially as I hear that the Huns, in their infamous peace proposals, demand the surrender of all Russian and Allied warships in the Baltic. For my part I would sooner blow up theZabiyaka, and there are, I am proud to say, many other commanding officers equally determined on that point. When will you be ready to proceed to sea, do you think?"
"By daybreak on Thursday," replied the Hon. Derek. "Stores and provisions are already on board."
"It is possible that theZabiyakawill escort you through the mine-field in the Gulf of Finland," remarked Captain Orloff. "If so, be prepared to receive a present from me," he added grimly. "Something, perhaps, that you may not appreciate, but we Russians will be only too pleased to get rid of. Au revoir, Monsieur le Capitan."
"What is he hinting at, sir?" enquired Mr. Macquare as the two British officers made their way back to the submarine.
"Goodness knows!" replied the Hon. Derek. "We can but wait and see."
Red dawn was breaking when a Russian naval pulling-cutter ran alongside the Probenjsky Quay. Already the ice, that a few hours previously had been broken by gangs of men impressed under the Revolutionary Government's decree for that task, was again forming, rendering it a matter of difficulty for the boat to force her way through the last twenty yards of water.
The quay was deserted. Heavy showers of sleet had dispersed the crowds of demonstrators who had "run wild" the previous evening. In that respect nature had found a far more efficacious method of dealing with the disorderly mob than had the Red Guards and their ever-ready machine-guns. Many broken windows and walls splayed with bullet-marks were the remaining evidences of the orgy that had ended in bloodshed and rain, and now a fall of snow was obliterating sinister patches on the roadway and pavements in a mantle of dazzling whiteness.
At the head of the flight of stone steps stood a sentry-box, the diagonal stripes of the Imperial regime still discernible under a hastily-applied coat of yellow paint. Within, and reclining against the woodwork, was a sleeping sentry.
Upon the approach of half a dozen or more bluejackets he bestirred himself sufficiently to push aside an empty vodka glass and grasp his rifle.
"It is all right, comrade!" exclaimed the foremost of the party reassuringly. "We've just had private information as to where we can obtain some sides of beef. We haven't tasted fresh beef for nearly a month. We belong to theKuptchino, and have just come in from Helsingfors."
"Have you your permit, comrade?" enquired the sentry.
The bluejacket solemnly closed one eye and slipped a sheaf of rouble notes into the man's hand.
"'Ts—sh!" he whispered. "These are better than permits, Comrade Ivan. We will not be long, and when we return there will be a bottle of vodka for you."
"So long as you do not get me into trouble I am content," remarked the befuddled soldier. "A whole bottle, mind, and none of the stuff from the Winter Palace."
He laughed at his own jest, and his listeners laughed too, for the story of the pillaged wine-cellars of the Imperial Palace was now common property—how the Red Guards had looted thousands of bottles, drunk their contents, and refilled them with coloured water. The inhabitants of Petrograd, eager to purchase wine from the ex-Tsar's stock, bought the proffered bottles with avidity, only to find that they had been "sold". There was no redress, for the deluded purchaser realized that arguing with an inebriated Red Guard was likely to end in a bayonet-thrust.
Having paved the way for their retreat, the landing-party—Captain Orloff and seven of his men, all in bluejackets' uniform—hastened along the deserted street until they arrived at the Bobbinsky Prospekt.
Here Orloff halted his men under an archway, and, taking one of the party, stole softly down the passage until he came to a gap between the two houses—a space fenced off by a tall iron railing.
In a very short space of time Orloff's companions filed through two of the bars, and, by means of a powerful tug, wrenched them sufficiently apart to admit a man's body. It was then a simple matter for the two Russians to lower themselves upon the slippery ice on the surface of the stream.
Flashing an electric torch, the captain of theZabiyakaplunged into the arched passage, through which the now frozen water usually flowed. For nearly a hundred yards he went, until he stopped at a small barred grating barely a foot above the ice.
"Are you there, Monsieur Fordyce?" he whispered in his own language, knowing that the captive Sub-Lieutenant spoke Russian fluently.
"I am. Who is it?" asked Fordyce.
"A friend," replied Orloff. "Take courage again," Fordyce, by the by, had never lost it; "help is at hand. I am Boris Orloff, Captain-Lieutenant of theZabiyaka, the destroyer that piloted your craft into Cronstadt."
"I am pleased to meet you, sir," said the Sub.
"And still more so under better auspices," rejoined Orloff. "Now listen: Here are a brace of revolvers. We are going to tackle Comrade Klostivitch. If he beats a retreat to this cellar, corner him. He is a desperate man, and doubtless armed. Cornered, he will not hesitate to shoot, unless you act promptly."
"He has someone with him," announced Fordyce. "A fellow from England. Whether he is an Englishman or a German I hardly know, although his sympathies are certainly Teutonic."
"We'll collar him too!" exclaimed the skipper of theZabiyaka. "Now, make ready. In five minutes we'll be with you."
"One question, sir!" exclaimed the Sub. "Might I ask how you knew we were here? Did a dog——?"
"Yes," replied Orloff, "it was a dog that brought the news."
"Then Flirt—my dog—is safe?"
"I have every reason to believe so."
"That's good!" ejaculated the overjoyed Fordyce. A great weight had been lifted off his mind. The harassing thought that harm had befallen his devoted pet had troubled him more than his own difficult position. And now, thanks to Flirt, deliverance was at hand.
Retracing his steps, the Russian rejoined his companion, and, having bent the railings to their original position, the pair hurried back to the rest of the party.
"No unnecessary noise, my children," continued Orloff, speaking in the pre-Revolutionary manner with which an officer addressed his men. "Two of you will remain here; two more at the other side of the street; the rest will come with me."
The dwellers in the Bobbinsky Prospekt were still deep in slumber. Undisturbed, the Russian bluejackets effected a forcible entry into No. 19 by the drastic expedient of cutting away the door-post into which the bolts securing the door were fitted.
Entering the room—there was no lobby—the intruders reclosed the door and proceeded in their search for Vladimir Klostivitch. The first room they entered was that in which Fordyce had interviewed the Extremist official. They found someone asleep on the bed over the stove.
"Seize him, men!" ordered Orloff.
Strong hands dragged the sleeper from his bed. It was Mindiggle, or, to give him his true name, von Verbrennungsraum.
Before he could be effectually silenced the German gave a yell of terror.
"Gag him!" ordered the captain of theZabiyaka.
It was too late. A shuffling sound announced that another inmate of the mysterious house was awake.
Revolver in hand, Orloff dashed up the creaking stairs, just in time to catch sight of a grotesquely-garbed figure disappearing up the next flight.
"Surrender!" shouted the naval officer, loath to fire lest the report should arouse the neighbourhood.
In spite of his years, Klostivitch possessed plenty of activity. Rushing into an attic, he slammed and bolted the door, piling articles of furniture against it as an additional safeguard.
Throwing caution to the winds, Orloff placed the muzzle of his revolver to the lock and pressed the trigger. Then, with a tremendous heave, he burst the door open.
The room was empty. An open dormer window showed the track of the fugitive. His pursuer, leaping upon a box, thrust his head through the opening.
Brave as he was, Orloff hesitated to follow his quarry. Klostivitch had gained the parapet and was contemplating a leap to the roof of the adjoining house.