"I would wish that thegospodarknew as much as possible, because he will be in Kieff, and who knows what will happen in Kieff? Besides, he knows London."
Malcolm did not attempt to deny the knowledge, partly because, in spite of his protest, he had a fairly useful working knowledge of the metropolis.
"I shall ask thegospodarto discover the meeting-place of the rabble."
"Do you suggest," she demanded, "that Prince Serganoff is behind this conspiracy, that he is the person who inspired this idea of assassination?"
Again the old man spread out his hands.
"The world is a very wicked place," he said.
"And the Prince has many enemies," she added with a bright smile. "You must know that, Israel Kensky. My cousin is Chief of the Political Police in St. Petersburg, and it is certain that people will speak against him."
The old man was eyeing her thoughtfully.
"Your Highness has much wisdom," he said, "and I remember, when you were a little girl, how you used to point out to me the bad men from the good. Tell me, lady, is Prince Serganoff a good man or a bad man? Is he capable or incapable of such a crime?"
She did not answer. In truth she could not answer; for all that Kensky had said, she had thought. She rose to her feet.
"I must go now, Israel Kensky," she said. "My car is waiting for me. I will write to you."
She would have gone alone, but Malcolm Hay, with amazing courage, stepped forward.
"If Your Imperial Highness will accept my escort to your car," he said humbly, "I shall be honoured."
She looked at him in doubt.
"I think I would rather go alone."
"Let the young man go with you, Highness,"said Kensky earnestly. "I shall feel safer in my mind."
She nodded, and led the way down the stairs. They turned out of the garden into the street and did not speak a word. Presently the girl said in English:
"You must think we Russian people are barbarians, Mr.——"
"Hay," suggested Malcolm.
"Mr. Hay. That is Scottish, isn't it? Tell me, do you think we are uncivilized?"
"No, Your Highness," stammered Malcolm. "How can I think that?"
They walked on until they came in sight of the tail lights of the car, and then she stopped.
"You must not come any farther," she said. "You can stand here and watch me go. Do you know any more than Israel Kensky told?" she asked, a little anxiously.
"Nothing," he replied in truth.
She offered her hand, and he bent over it.
"Good night, Mr. Hay. Do not forget, I must see you in Kieff."
He watched the red lights of the car disappear and walked quickly back to old Kensky's rooms. Russia and his appointment had a new fascination.
Few people knew or know how powerful a man Prince Serganoff really was in these bad old days. He waved his hand and thousands of men and women disappeared. He beckoned and he had a thousand sycophantic suppliants.
In the days before he became Chief of the Police to the entourage, he went upon a diplomatic mission to High Macedonia, the dark and sinister state. He was sent by none, but he had a reason, for Dimitrius, his sometime friend, had fled to the capital of the higher Balkan state and Serganoff went down without authority to terrify his sometime confidant into returning for trial. In High Macedonia the exquisite young man was led by sheer curiosity to make certain inquiries into the domestic administration of the country, and learnt things.
He had hardly made himself master of these before he was sent for by the Foreign Minister.
"Highness," said the suave man, stroking hislong, brown beard, "how long have you been in the capital?"
"Some four days, Excellency," said the Prince.
"That is ninety-six hours too long," said the minister. "There is a train for the north in forty minutes. You will catch that, and God be with you!"
Prince Serganoff did not argue but went out from the ornate office, and the Minister called a man who was waiting.
"If his Highness does not leave by the four o'clock train, cut his throat and carry the body to one of the common houses of the town—preferably that of the man Domopolo, the Greek, who is a bad character, and well deserving of death."
"Excellency," said the man gravely, and saluted his way out.
They knew Serganoff in High Macedonia and were a little anxious. Had they known him better they would have feared him less. He did not leave by the four o'clock train, but by a special which was across the frontier by four. He sat in a cold sweat till the frontier post was past.
This man was a mass of contradictions. He liked the good things of life. He bought his hosiery in Paris, his shoes in Vienna, his suits and cravats in New York; and it is said of him that he made a special pilgrimage to London—the Mecca ofthose who love good leather work—for the characteristic attaché cases which were so indispensable to the Chief of Gendarmerie of the Marsh Town.
He carried with him the irrepressible trimness and buoyancy of youth, with his smooth, sallow face, his neat black moustache and his shapeliness of outline. An exquisite of exquisites, he had never felt the draughts of life or experienced its rude buffetings.
His perfectly-appointed flat in the Morskaya had been modelled to his taste and fancy. It was a suite wherein you pressed buttons and comfortable things happened. You opened windows and boiled water, or summoned a valet to your bedside by the gentle pressure you applied to a mother-of-pearl stud set in silver plate which, by some miracle, was always within reach.
He had an entire suite converted to bath-rooms, where his masseur, his manicurist and his barber attended him daily. He had conscripted modern science to his service, he had so cunningly disguised its application, that you might never guess the motive power of the old English clock which ticked in the spacious hall, or realize that the soft light which came from the many branched candelabra which hung from the centre of his drawing-room was due to anything more up to date than thehundred most life-like candles which filled the sockets.
Yet this suave gentleman with his elegant manners and his pretty taste in old china, this genius who was the finest judge in the capital of Pekinese dogs, and had been known to give a thousand-rouble fee to the veterinary surgeon who performed a minor operation on his favourite Borzoi, had another aspect. He who shivered at the first chill winds of winter and wrapped himself in sables whenever he drove abroad after the last days of September, and had sent men and women to the bleakness of Alexandrowski without a qualm; he who had to fortify himself to face an American dentist (his fees for missed appointments would have kept the average middle-class family in comfort for a year), was ruthless in his dealings with the half-crazed men and women who strayed across the frontier which divided conviction from propaganda.
Physical human suffering left him unmoved—he hanged the murderer Palatoff with his own hands. Yet in that operation someone saw him turn very pale and shrink back from his victim. Afterwards the reason was discovered. The condemned man had had the front of his rough shirt fastened with a safety-pin which had worked loose. The point had ripped a little gash in the inexperienced finger of the amateur hangman.
He brought Dr. Von Krauss from Berlin, because von Krauss was an authority upon blood infection and spent a week of intense mental agony until he was pronounced out of danger.
He sat before a long mirror in his bedroom, that gave on Horridge's Hotel, and surveyed himself thoughtfully. He was looking at the only man he trusted, for it was not vanity, but a love of agreeable company that explained the passion for mirrors which was the jest of St. Petersburg.
It was his fourth day in London and a little table near the window was covered with patterns of cloth; he had spent an exciting afternoon with the representative of his tailor. But it was not of sartorial magnificence that he was thinking.
He stretched out his legs comfortably towards his reflection, and smiled.
"Yes," he said, as though answering some secret thought, and he and the reflection nodded to one another as though they had reached a complete understanding.
Presently he pushed the bell and his valet appeared.
"Has the Grand Duke gone?" he asked.
"Yes, Excellency," replied the man.
"And the Grand Duchess?"
"Yes, Excellency."
"Good!" Serganoff nodded.
"Is your Excellency's headache better?" asked the man.
"Much better," replied the Chief of Police. "Go to their Highness's suite, and tell their servant—what is the man's name?"
"Boolba, Excellency," said the valet.
"Yes, that is the fellow. Ask him to come to me. The Grand Duke mentioned a matter which I forgot to tell Boolba."
Boolba made his appearance, a suave domestic, wearing the inconspicuous livery of an English butler rather than the ornate uniform which accompanied his office in Kieff.
"That will do." Serganoff dismissed his valet. "Boolba, come here."
The man approached him and Serganoff lowered his voice.
"You have made a fool of me again, Boolba."
"Excellency," pleaded the man urgently, "I have done all that was possible."
"You have placed my fortune and my life in the hands of an American criminal. If that is your idea of doing all that is possible, I agree with you," said Serganoff. "Be careful, Boolba! The arm of the Bureau is a very long one, and greater men than you have disappeared from their homes."
"Illustrious Excellency," said the agitated man,"I swear to you I did all that you requested. There were many reasons why I should not entrust this matter to the men of the secret society."
"I should like to hear a few," said Serganoff, cleaning his nails delicately.
"Excellency, the Grand Duke stands well with the society. He had never oppressed them, and he is the only popular member of the Imperial House with our—their society."
"Our society, eh?" said Serganoff, noticing the slip. "Go on."
"Besides, Excellency," said Boolba, "it was necessary not only to kill the Grand Duke, but to shoot down his assassin. Our plan was to get this American to shoot him in the park, where he walks in the morning, and then for one of the society to shoot the American. That was a good plan, because it meant that the man who could talk would talk no more, and that the comrade who shot down the murderer would stand well with the Government."
Serganoff nodded.
"And your plan has failed," he said, "failed miserably at the outset. You dog!"
He leapt to his feet, his eyes blazing, and Boolba stepped back.
"Highness, wait, wait!" he cried. "I have something else in my mind! I could have helpedHighness better if I had known more. But I could only guess. I had to grope in the dark all the time."
"Do you imagine I am going to take you into my confidence?" asked Serganoff. "What manner of fool am I? Tell me what you have guessed. You may sit down; nobody will come in, and if they do you can be buttoning my boots."
Boolba wiped his damp face with a handkerchief and leaned nearer to the man.
"If the Grand Duke dies, a certain illustrious person succeeds to his estates," he said, "but not to his title."
Serganoff looked at him sharply. The man had put into words the one difficulty which had occupied the mind of the Chief of Police for months.
"Well?" he said.
"The title is in the gift of the Czar," said Boolba. "He alone can create a Grand Duke who succeeds but is not in the direct line. Therefore, the killing of Yaroslav would bring little but the property to the illustrious person. Only if His Imperial Majesty decided upon a worthier holder, or if the Grand Duke fell under a cloud at Court, could it pass to the illustrious person."
"That I know," said Serganoff. "Well?"
"Well, Highness, would it not be better if the Grand Duke were disgraced, if he were brought to St. Petersburg to answer certain charges which theillustrious person formulated? After, the Grand Duke might die—that is a simple matter. Russia would think that he had been put to death by the Court party as a matter of policy. Yaroslav is not in favour at the Court," he added significantly; but Serganoff shook his head.
"He is not sufficiently out of favour yet," he said. "Go on, man, you have something in your mind."
Boolba edged closer.
"Suppose the Grand Duke or the Grand Duchess were involved in some conspiracy against the Imperial House?" he said, speaking rapidly. "Suppose, on evidence which could not be disputed, such as the evidence of the London police, it was proved that either the Grand Duke or his daughter was in league with an anarchist society, or was attending their meetings—does your Excellency see?"
"I see," said Serganoff, "but they do not attend meetings."
Boolba hesitated.
"Yet," he said, speaking slowly, "I would guarantee that I could bring the Grand Duchess Irene to such a meeting, and that I could arrange for the place to be raided whilst she was there."
Serganoff put down his orange stick and eyed the other keenly.
"You have brains, Boolba," he said. "Some day I shall bring you to St. Petersburg and place you on my staff—if you do not know too much."
He paced the apartment, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Suppose you get in touch with this American again, bring him to the meeting, unless he's afraid to come, and then boldly suggest to him that he goes to St. Petersburg to make an attempt upon the life of the Czar himself."
"He would reject it," said Boolba, shaking his head.
"What if he did—that doesn't matter," said Serganoff impatiently. "It is sufficient that the suggestion is made. Suppose this man is amongst these infamous fellows when the London police raid and arrest them, and he makes a statement that he was approached to destroy the Imperial life, and the Grand Duchess Irene is arrested at the same time?"
Boolba's eyes brightened.
"That is a wonderful idea, Highness," he said admiringly.
Serganoff continued his pacing, and presently stopped.
"I will arrange the police raid," he said. "I am in communication with Scotland Yard, and it will be better if I am present when the raid isconducted. It is necessary that I should identify myself with this chapter," he said, "but how will you induce the Grand Duchess to come?"
"Leave that to me, Highness," replied the man, and gave some details of his scheme.
Sophia Kensky was a loyal and faithful adherent to the cause she had espoused, and her report, written in the weird caligraphy of Russia, greatly interested the butler of the Grand Duke Yaroslav. From that report he learned of the visit which the Grand Duchess Irene had paid; learned, too, that she had been escorted to her car by an Englishman, whose name the woman did not know; and was to discover later that the said "Englishman" had been sent out by Israel Kensky on a special mission. That mission was to discover the Silver Lion, a no very difficult task. In point of fact, it was discoverable in a London telephone directory, because the upper part of the premises were used legitimately enough in the proprietor's business as restaurateur.
Malcolm Hay had lunch at the place and saw nothing suspicious in its character. Most of the clientèle were obviously foreign, and not a few were Russian. Pretending to lose his way, hewandered through the service door, and there made the important discovery that the kitchen was on the top floor, and also that meals were being served somewhere in the basement. This he saw during the few minutes he was allowed to make observations, because there was a service lift which was sent down to the unseen clients below.
He apologized for his intrusion and went out. Officially there was no basement-room, nor, from the restaurant itself, any sign of stairs which led down to an underground chamber. He made a further reconnaissance, and found the back door which Sophia Kensky had described in her hypnotic sleep, and the location of which the old man had endeavoured to convey to his agent.
Malcolm Hay was gifted with many of the qualities which make up the equipment of a good detective. In addition, he had the education and training of an engineer. That the underground room existed, he knew by certain structural evidence, and waited about in the street until he saw three men come out and the door close behind them. After awhile, another two emerged. There was nothing sinister or romantic about the existence of a basement dining-room, or even of a basement club-room.
The character of this club was probably wellknown to the police, he thought, and pursued his inquiries to Marlborough Street police station. There he found, as he had expected, that the club was registered and known as "The Foreign Friends of Freedom Club." The officer who supplied him with the information told him that the premises were visited at frequent intervals by a representative of the police, and that nothing of an irregular character had been reported.
"Have you any complaints to make?" asked the official.
"None whatever," smiled Hay. "Only I am writing an article on the foreign clubs of London, and I want to be sure of my facts."
It was the first and most plausible lie that occurred to him, and it answered his purpose. He returned to Kensky with his information, and the old man producing a map of London, he marked the spot with a red cross. All this time Malcolm Hay was busy making preparations for departure. He would have been glad to stay on, so that his leaving London would coincide with the departure of the Grand Duchess, but his sleeper had already been booked, and he had to make a callen routeat Vienna.
It was on the occasion of this visit with details of the location and character of the club, that he first saw Sophia Kensky. He thought her prettyin a bold, heavy way, and she regarded him with insolent indifference. It was one of the few occasions in his life that he spoke with her.
"Thegospodaris going to Kieff, Sophia Kensky," introduced the old man.
"What will you do in Kieff, Excellency?" asked the woman indolently.
"I shall not be in Kieff," smiled Hay, "except on rare occasions. I am taking charge of some oil-wells about twenty versts outside of the town."
"It is a terrible life, living in the country," she said, and he was inclined to agree.
This and a few trite sentiments about Russian weather and Russian seasons were the only words he ever exchanged with her in his life. Years later, when he stood, hardly daring to breathe, in the cupboard of a commissary's office, and heard her wild denunciation of the man who had sent her to death, he was to recall this first and only meeting.
Israel Kensky dismissed his daughter without ceremony, and it was then that Malcolm Hay told him the result of his investigations. The old man sat for a long time stroking his beard.
"Two more days they stay in this town," he said, half to himself, "and that is the dangerous time."
He looked up sharply at Hay.
"You are clever, and you are English," he said. "Would you not help an old man to save this young life from misery and sorrow?"
Malcolm Hay looked at him in astonishment.
"To save whom?" he asked.
"The Grand Duchess," replied Kensky moodily. "It is for her I fear, more than for her father."
Malcolm Hay was on the point of blurting out the very vital truth that there was nothing in the wide world he would not do to save that wonderful being from the slightest ache or pain, but thought it best to dissemble the craziest of infatuations that ever a penniless and obscure engineer felt for a daughter of the Imperial House of Russia. Instead he murmured some conventional expression of his willingness.
"It is in this club that the danger lies," said Kensky. "I know these societies, Mr. Hay, and I fear them most when they look most innocent."
"Could you not get the police to watch?" asked Malcolm.
Had he lived in Russia, or had he had the experience which was his in the following twelve months, he would not have asked so absurd a question.
"No, no," said Kensky, "this is not a matter for the police. It is a matter for those who love her."
"What can I do?" asked Malcolm hastily.
He had a horrible feeling that his secret had been surprised, for he was of the age when love is fearless of everything except ridicule.
"You could watch the club," said Kensky. "I myself would go, but I am too old, and this English weather makes me sick."
"You mean actually watch it?" said Malcolm in surprise. "Why, I'll do that like a shot!"
"Note who goes in and who come out," said Kensky. "Be on hand at all times, in case you are called upon for help. You will see my daughter there," he said, after a pause, and a faint smile curved his pale lips. "Yes, Sophia Kensky is a great conspirator!"
"Whom do you expect me to see?" asked the other bluntly.
Kensky got up from his chair and went to a leather bag which stood on the sideboard. This he unlocked, and from a mass of papers took a photograph. He brought it back to the young man.
"Why," said Malcolm in surprise, "that is the man Serganoff, the Prince fellow!"
Kensky nodded slowly.
"That is Serganoff," he said. "Here is another picture of him, but not of his face."
It was, in fact, a snapshot photograph showingthe back of the Police Chief; and it might have been, thought Malcolm, of a tailor's dummy, with its wasp waist and its perfectly creased trousers.
"Particularly I wish to know whether he will visit the club in the next two days," said the old man. "It is important that you should look for him."
"Anybody else?"
Kensky hesitated.
"I hope not," he said. "I hope not!"
Malcolm Hay went back to his hotel, feeling a new zest in life. His experience of the past few days had been incredible. He, an unknown student, had found himself suddenly plunged into the heart of an anarchist plot, and on nodding terms with royal highnesses! He laughed softly as he sat on the edge of his bed and reviewed all the circumstances, but did not laugh when the thought occurred to him that the danger which might be threatening this girl was very real.
That side of the adventure sobered him. He had sense enough to see that it was the unalienable right of youth to believe in fairies and to love beautiful princesses, and that such passions were entitled to disturb the rest and obscure the judgment of their victims for days and even for weeks. But he had an unpleasant convictionthat he was looking at the Grand Duchess from an angle which was outside his experience of fairy stories.
That night when he went on his way to take up his "police duty" in the little street behind the Silver Lion, he saw two mounted policemen trotting briskly down the Strand followed by a closed carriage, and in the light of the electric standard he caught a glimpse of a face which set his heart beating faster. He cursed himself for his folly, swore so vigorously and so violently at his own stupidity, that he did not realize he was talking aloud, until the open-mouthed indignation of an elderly lady brought him to a sense of decorum.
She was going to the theatre, of course, he thought, and wondered what theatre would be graced by her presence. He half regretted his promise to Israel Kensky, which prevented him discovering the house of entertainment and securing a box or a stall from whence he could feast his eyes upon her face.
His vigil was painfully monotonous. It was the most uninteresting job he had ever undertaken. Most of the habitués of the club had evidently come at an early hour, for he saw nobody come in and nobody go out until nearly eleven o'clock. It began to rain a fine, thin drizzle, which penetratedevery crevice, which insinuated itself down his neck, though his collar was upturned; and then, on top of this, came a gusty easterly wind, which chilled him to the marrow. Keeping in the shadow of the houses opposite, he maintained, however, a careful scrutiny, thereby earning the suspicion of a policeman, who passed him twice on his beat before he stopped to ask if he were looking for somebody.
As midnight chimed from a neighbouring church the door of the club opened and its members came out. Malcolm crossed the road and walked down to meet them, since they all seemed to be coming in the same direction.
There were about twenty men, and they were speaking in Russian or Yiddish, but the subjects of their discourse were of the most innocent character. He saw nobody he knew, or had ever seen before. Israel Kensky had expected that the St. Petersburg Chief of Police would be present; that expectation was not realized. Then he heard the door bolted and chained, and went home, after the most unprofitable evening he had ever spent.
How much better it would have been to sit in the warm theatre, with, perhaps, a clear view of the girl, watching her every movement, seeing her smile, noting her little tricks of manner or gesture.
In the end he laughed himself into a sane condition of mind, ate a hearty supper, and went to bed to dream that Serganoff was pursuing him with a hammer in his hand, and that the Grand Duchess was sitting in a box wildly applauding the efforts of her homicidal relative.
The next afternoon Malcolm Hay was packing, with the remainder of his belongings, a few articles he had purchased in London. Amongst these was a small and serviceable Colt revolver, and he stood balancing this in the palm of his hand, uncertain as to whether it would not be better to retain his weapon until after his present adventure. Twice he put it into his portmanteau and twice took it out again, and finally, blushing at the act, he slipped the weapon into his hip-pocket.
He felt theatrical and cheap in doing so. He told himself that he was investing a very common-place measure of precaution taken by old Israel Kensky, who was probably in the secret police, to protect his protégée, with an importance and a romance which it did not deserve. He went down to his post that night, feeling horribly self-conscious. This time he kept on the same side of the street as that on which the club was situated.
His watch was rewarded by events of greater interest than had occurred on the previous night. He had not been on duty half an hour before twomen walked rapidly from the end of the street and passed him so closely that he could not make any mistake as to the identity of one. Had he not been able to recognize him, his voice would have instantly betrayed his identity, for, as they passed, the shorter of the two was talking.
"I'm one of those guys who don't believe in starving to death in a delicatessen store——"
Malcolm looked after the pair in amazement. It was the little man whom he had befriended in the courtyard at Charing Cross station. Other people drifted through the door in ones and twos, and then a man came walking smartly across the street, betraying the soldier at every stride. Malcolm turned and strolled in his direction.
There was no mistaking him either, though he was muffled up to the chin. With his tight-waisted greatcoat, a glimpse of an olive face with two piercing dark eyes, which flashed an inquiring glance as they passed—there was no excuse for error. It was Colonel Prince Serganoff beyond a doubt.
A quarter of an hour later came the real shock of the evening. A girl was almost on top of him before he saw her, for she was wearing shoes which made no sound. He had only time to turn so that she did not see his face, before she too entered the door and passed in. The Grand Duchess! And Serganoff! And the American adventurer!
What had these three in common, he wondered. And now he recalled the warning of the old man. Perhaps the girl was in danger—the thought brought him to the door, with his hand raised and touching the bell-push before he realized his folly. There was nothing to do but wait.
Five minutes passed and ten minutes, and then Malcolm Hay became conscious of the fact that something unusual was happening in the street. It was more thickly populated. Half a dozen men had appeared at either end of the street and were moving slowly towards him, as though——
And then in a flash he realized just what was happening. It was a police raid. In his student days he had seen such a raid upon a gambling house, and he recognized all the signs. He first thought of the girl—she must not be involved in this. He raced toward the door, but somebody had ran quicker, and his hand was on the bell-push when he was swung violently backwards, and an authoritative voice said:
"Take that man, sergeant."
A hand gripped his shoulder and somebody peered in his face.
"Why, he's English," he said in surprise.
"Yes, yes," gasped Malcolm. "I'm sorry to interfere, but there is a lady in there, in whom I'mrather interested—you're raiding this club, aren't you?"
"That's about the size of it," said a man in civilian clothes; and then, suspiciously, "Who are you?"
Malcolm explained his status and calling.
"Take my advice and get away. Don't be mixed up in this business," said the officer. "You can release him, sergeant. What's the time?"
A clock struck at that moment, and the officer in charge of the raid pressed the bell.
"If you've a lady friend involved in this, perhaps you'd like to stand by," he said. "She may want you to bail her out," he added good-humouredly.
Mr. Cherry Bim, a citizen of the world, and an adventurer at large, was an optimist to his finger-tips. He also held certain races in profound contempt, not because he knew the countries, but because he had met representatives of those nations in America, and judged by their characteristics.
So that the man called Yakoff, whose task it was to inveigle Mr. Bim again to the premises of the Friends of Freedom Club, found to his astonishment that Mr. Bim required very little inveigling. The truth was, of course, that the gun-man had a supreme contempt for all Russians, whom he had classified mistakenly as "Lithanians" and "Pollaks." To the fervent promise made by Mr. Yakoff that no harm would come to him, Cherry Bim had replied briefly but unprintably.
"Of course, there'll be no harm come to me," he said scornfully. "You don't think I worry about what that bunch will do? No, sir! ButI'm powerfully disinclined to associate myself with people out of my class. It doesn't do a man any good to be seen round with Pollaks and Letts."
Yakoff earnestly implored him to come and give the benefit of his experience to the assembly, and had promised him substantial payment. This latter argument was one which Cherry Bim could understand and appreciate. He accepted on the spot, and came down to the stuffy little underground room, expecting no more than to be asked to deliver a lecture on the gentle art of assassination. Not that he knew very much about it, because Cherry, with three or four men to his credit, had shot them in fair fight; but a hundred pounds was a lot of money, and he badly needed just enough to shake the mud of England from his shoes and seek a land more prolific in possibilities.
The first thing he noticed on arrival was that Boolba, the man who had interrogated him before, was not present. In his place sat a smaller man, with a straggly black beard and a white face, who was addressed as "Nicholas."
The second curious circumstance which struck him was that he was received also in an ominous silence.
The black-bearded man, who spoke in perfect English, indicated a chair to the left of him.
"Sit down, comrade," he said. "We have askedyou to come because we have another proposition to make to you."
"If it's a croaking proposition, you needn't go any farther," said Cherry, "and I won't trouble you with my presence, gents, and——" he looked in vain for the woman he had seen before, and added, that he might round off his sentence gracefully—"fellow murderers."
"Mr. Bim," said Nicholas in his curious singsong tone, "does it not make your blood boil to see tyranny in high places——"
"Now, can that stuff!" said Cherry Bim. "Nothing makes my blood boil, or would make my blood boil, except sitting on a stove, I guess. Tyranny don't mean any more in my young life than Hennessy, and tyrants more than hydrants. I guess I was brought up in a land of freedom and glory, where the only tyrant you ever meet is a traffic cop. If this is another croaking job, why, gents, I won't trouble you any longer."
He half-rose, but Nicholas pushed him down.
"Not even if it was the Czar?" he said calmly.
Cherry Bim gaped at him.
"The Czar?" he said, with a queer little grimace to emphasize his disbelief in the evidence of his hearing. "What are you getting at?"
"Would you shoot the Czar for two thousand pounds?" asked Nicholas.
Cherry Bim pushed his hat to the back of his head and got up, shaking off the protesting arm.
"I'm through," he said, "and that's all there is to it."
It was at that moment that Serganoff came through the door and Cherry Bim remained where he stood, surprised to silence, for the face of the newcomer was covered from chin to forehead by a black silk mask.
The door was shut behind him; he walked slowly to the table and dropped into a broken chair, Cherry's eyes never leaving his face.
"For fifteen years," said the gun-man, speaking slowly, "I've been a crook, but never once have I seen a guy got up like that villain in a movie picture. Say, mister, let's have a look at your face."
Cherry Bim was not the only person perturbed by the arrival of a masked stranger. Only three men in the room were in the secret of the newcomer's identity, and suspicious and scowling faces were turned upon him.
"You will excuse me," said the mask, "but there are many reasons why you should not see me or know me again."
"And there's a mighty lot of reasons why you shouldn't know me again," said Cherry, "yet I've obliged you with a close-up of my distinguished features."
"You have heard the proposition," said the man. "What do you think of it?"
"I think it's a fool proposition," replied Cherry contemptuously. "I've told these lads before that I am not falling for the Lucretia Borgia stuff, and I'm telling you the same."
The masked man chuckled.
"Well, don't let us quarrel," he said. "Nicholas, give him the money we promised."
Nicholas put his hand in his pocket and brought out a roll of notes, which he tossed to the man on his left, and Cherry Bim, to whom tainted money was as acceptable as tainted pheasant to the epicure, pocketed it with a smack of his lips.
"Now, if there's anything I can do for you boys," he said, "here's your chance to make use of me. Though I say it myself, there ain't a man in New York with my experience, tact and finesse. Show me a job that can be done single-handed, with a dividend at the end of it, and I'll show you a man who can take it on. In the meantime," said he affably, "the drinks are on me. Call the waiter, and order the best in the house."
Serganoff held up his hand.
"Wait," he said; "was that the door?"
Nicholas nodded, and the whole room stood in silence and watched the door slowly open. There was a gasp of astonishment, of genuine surprise,for Irene Yaroslav was well known to them, and it was Irene Yaroslav who stood with her back to the door. She wore a long black cloak of sable and by her coiffure it was evident that she was wearing an evening toilette beneath the cloak.
"Where is Israel Kensky?" she asked.
She did not immediately see the man in the masked face, for he sat under a light and his broad-brimmed hat threw his face into shadow.
Nobody answered her, and she asked again:
"Where is Israel Kensky?"
"He is not here," said Serganoff coolly, as she took two paces and stopped dead, clasping her hands before her.
"What does this mean?" she asked. "What are you doing here, Ser——"
"Stop!" His voice was almost a shout, and yet there was a shake in it.
Serganoff realized the danger of his own position, if amongst these men were some who had cause to hate him.
"Do not mention my name, Irene."
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "And where is Israel Kensky?"
"He has not come," Serganoff's voice was uneven and his hands shook.
She turned to go, but he was before her and stood with his back to the entrance.
"You will wait," he said.
"What insolence is this?" she demanded haughtily. "I had a letter from Israel Kensky telling me to come here under his protection and I should learn the truth of the plot against my father."
Serganoff had recovered something of his self-possession and laughed softly.
"It was I who sent you that letter, Irene. I sent it because I particularly desired you here at this moment."
"You shall pay for this," she said, and tried to force her way past him, but his strong hands gripped her and pushed her back.
She turned with a flaming face upon the men.
"Are you men," she asked, "that you allow this villain, who betrayed my father and will betray you, to treat a woman so."
She spoke in Russian, and nobody moved. Then a voice said:
"Speak English, miss."
She turned and glanced gratefully at the stout little man with his grotesque Derby hat and his good-humoured smile.
"I have been brought here by a trick," she said breathlessly, "by this man"—she pointed to Serganoff. "Will you help me leave? You're English, aren't you?"
"American, miss," said Cherry Bim. "And as for helping you, why, bless you, you can class me as your own little bodyguard."
"Stop!" cried Serganoff hoarsely, and instinctively, at the sight of the levelled revolver. Cherry's hands went up. "You'll keep out of this and do not interfere," said Serganoff. "You'll have all the trouble you want before this evening is through. Irene, come here."
At one side of the room was a narrow doorway, which most of the members believed led to a cupboard, but which a few knew was a safety bolt in case of trouble. The Prince had recognized the door by its description, and had edged his way towards it, taking the key from his pocket.
He gripped the girl by the waist, inserted the key and flung open the door. She struggled to escape, but the hand that held the key also held the revolver, and never once did it point anywhere but at Cherry Bim's anatomy.
"Help!" cried the girl. "This man is Serganoff, the Chief of Police at Petrograd——"
There was a crash, and the sound of hurrying footsteps. A voice from the outer hall screamed, "The police!"
At that moment Serganoff dragged the girl through the doorway and slammed it behind him. They were in a small cellar, almost entirely filled withbarrels, with only a narrow alley-way left to reach a farther door. He dragged her through this apartment, up a short flight of stairs. They were on the level of the restaurant, and the girl could hear the clatter of plates as he pushed her up another stairway and into a room. By its furniture she guessed it was a private dining-room. The blinds were drawn and she had no means of knowing whether the apartment overlooked the front or the back of the premises.
He stopped long enough to lock the door and then he turned to her, slipping off his mask.
"I thought you would recognize me," he said coolly.
"What does this outrage mean?" asked the girl with heaving bosom. "You shall pay for this, colonel."
"There will be a lot of payment to be made before this matter is through," he said calmly. "Calm yourself, Irene. I have saved you from a great disgrace. Are you aware that, at the moment I brought you from that room, the English police were raiding it?"
"I should not have been in the room but for you," she said, "my father——"
"It is about your father I want to speak," he said. "Irene, I am the sole heir to your father's estate. Beyond the property which is settled onyou, you have nothing. My affection for you is known and approved at Court."
"Your affection!" she laughed bitterly. "I'd as soon have the affection of a wolf!"
"You could not have a more complete wolf than I," he said meaningly. "Do you know what has happened to-night? An anarchist club in London has been raided, and the Grand Duchess Irene Yaroslav has been found in the company of men whose object is to destroy the monarchy."
She realized with a sickening sense of disaster all that it meant. She knew as well as he in what bad odour her father stood at Court, and guessed the steps which would be taken if this matter became public.
"I was brought here by a trick," she said steadily. "A letter came to me, as I thought, from Israel Kensky——"
"It was from me," he interrupted.
"And you planned the raid, of course?"
He nodded.
"I planned the raid in the most promising circumstances," he said. "The gentleman who offered to be your good knight is a well-known New York gun-man. He is wanted by the police, who probably have him in their custody at this moment. He was brought here to-night, and an offer was made to him, an offer of a large sumof money, on condition that he would destroy the Czar."
She gasped.
"You see, my little Irene, that when this gun-man's evidence is taken in court, matters will look very bad for the Yaroslav family."
"What do you propose?" she asked.
"There are two alternatives," he said. "The first is that I should arrest you and hand you over to the police. The second is that you should undertake most solemnly to marry me, in which case I will take you away from here."
She was silent.
"Is there a third possibility?" she asked, and he shook his head.
"My dear," he said familiarly as he flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. "I think you will take the easier way. None of these scum will betray you, thinking that you are one of themselves—as I happen to know, some of the best families in Russia are associated with plotters of this type. As for the American, who might be inclined to talk, in a few weeks he will be on his way to New York to serve a life sentence. I have been looking up his record, and particularly drew the attention of the English police to the fact that he would be here to-night."
Cherry Bim, creeping up the stairs in hisstockinged feet—he had marked and shot the fuse-box to pieces before the police came in, and had burst his way through the door in the wall—heard the sound of voices in the little room and stopped to listen. It was not a thick door, and he could hear Serganoff's voice very clearly. He stooped down to the key-hole. Serganoff had not taken the key out, and it was an old-fashioned key, the end of which projected an eighth of an inch on the other side of the door. Cherry Bim felt in his pocket and produced a pair of peculiarly shaped nippers, and gripped the end of the key, turning it gently. Then he slipped his handy gun from his pocket and waited.
"Now, Irene," said Serganoff's voice. "You must decide. In a few minutes the police will be up here, for they are instructed to make a complete search of the house. I can either explain that you are here to witness the raid, or that I have followed you up and arrested you. Which is it to be?"
Still she did not answer. Serganoff had laid his revolver on the table and this she was manœuvring to reach. He divined her intention before she sprang forward, and, gripping her by the waist, threw her back.
"That will be more useful to me than to you," he said.
"Sure thing it will!" said a voice behind him.
He turned as swift as a cat and fired. The horrified girl heard only one shot, so quickly did one report follow another. She saw Cherry Bim raise his hand and wipe the blood from his cheek, saw the splinter of wood where the bullet had struck behind him; then Serganoff groaned and sprawled forward over the table. She dared not look at him, but followed Bim's beckoning finger.
"Down the stairs and out of that door, miss," he said, "or the bulls will have you."
She did not ask him who the "bulls" were; she could guess. She flew down the stairs, with trembling hands unfastened the lock and stepped into the street. It was empty, save for two men, and one of these came forward to meet her with outstretched hands.
"Thank God you're safe!" he said. "You weren't there, were you?"
Malcolm Hay was incoherent. The detective who was with him could but smile a little, for the girl had come out of the door which, according to his instructions, led only to the private dining-room.
"Take me away," she whispered.
He put his arm about her trembling figure, and led her along the street. All the time he was in terror lest the police should call her back, and desire him to identify her; but nothing happenedand they gained Shaftesbury Avenue and a blessed taxicab.
"To Israel Kensky," she said. "I can't go home like this."
He stretched out of the window and gave fresh instructions.
"I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Hay," she faltered and then covered her face with her hands. "Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful!"
"What happened?" he asked.
She shook her head. Then suddenly:
"No, no, I must go home. Will you tell the cabman? There is a chance that I may get into my suite without Boolba seeing. Will you go on to Israel Kensky after you have left me, and tell him what has happened?"
He nodded, and again gave the change of instructions.
They reached the hotel at a period when most of the guests were either lingering over their dinner or had gone to the theatre.
"I hate leaving you like this," he said; "how do I know that you will get in without detection?"
She smiled in spite of her distress.
"You're an inventor, aren't you, Mr. Hay?" she laughed. "But I am afraid even you could not invent a story which would convince my father if he knew I had been to that horrible place."Presently she said: "My room overlooks the street. If I get in without detection I will come to the window and wave a handkerchief."
He waited in a fit of apprehension, until presently he saw a light leap up to three windows, and her figure appeared. There was a flutter of a white handkerchief, and the blinds were drawn. Malcolm Hay drove to Maida Vale, feeling that the age of romance was not wholly dead.
To his surprise Kensky had had the news before he reached there.
"Is she safe? Is she safe?" asked the old man tremulously. "Now, thank Jehovah for his manifold blessings and mercies! I feared something was wrong. Her Highness wrote to me this afternoon, and I did not get the letter," said Israel. "They waylaid the messenger, and wrote and told her to go to the Silver Lion—the devils!"
His hand was shaking as he took up the poker to stir the fire.
"He, at any rate, will trouble none of us again," he said with malignant satisfaction.
"He? Who?"
"Serganoff," said the old man. "He was dead when the police found him!"
"And the American?" asked Hay.
"Only Russians were arrested," said IsraelKensky. "I do not think I shall see him again."
In this he was wrong, though six years were to pass before they met: the mystic, Israel Kensky, Cherry Bim the modern knight-errant, and Malcolm Hay.
Malcolm Hay drew rein half a verst from the Church of St. Andrea. Though his shaggy little horse showed no signs of distress, Malcolm kicked his feet free from the stirrups and descended, for his journey had been a long one, the day was poisonously hot and the steppe across which he had ridden, for all its golden beauty, its wealth of blue cornflour and yellow genista, had been wearisome. Overhead the sky was an unbroken bowl of blue and at its zenith rode a brazen merciless sun.
He took a leather cigar-case from his pocket, extracted a long black cheroot and lit it; then, leaving his horse to its own devices, he mounted the bank by the side of the road, from whence he could look across the valley of the Dneiper. That majestic river lay beneath him and to the right.
Before him, at the foot of the long, steep and winding road, lay the quarter which is called Podol.
For the rest his horizon was filled with a jumble of buildings, magnificent or squalid; the half-revealed roofs on the wooded slopes of the four hills, and the ragged fringe of belfry and glittering cupola which made up the picture of Kieff.
The month was June and the year of grace 1914, and Malcolm Hay, chief engineer of the Ukraine-American Oil Corporation, had no other thought in his mind, as he looked upon the undoubted beauty of Kieff, than that it would be a very pleasant place to leave. He climbed the broken stone wall and stood, his hands thrust deeply into his breeches pockets, watching the scene. It was one of those innumerable holy days which the Russian peasant celebrated with such zest. Rather it was the second of three consecutive feast days and, as Malcolm knew, there was small chance of any work being done on the field until his labourers had taken their fill of holiness, and had slept off the colossal drunk which inevitably followed this pious exercise.
A young peasant, wearing a sheepskin coat despite the stifling heat of the day, walked quickly up the hill leading a laden donkey. The man stopped when he was abreast of Malcolm, took a cigarette from the inside of his coat and lit it.
"God save you,dudushka," he said cheerfully.
Malcolm was so used to being addressed as"little grandfather," and that for all his obvious youth, that he saw nothing funny in the address.
"God save you, my little man," he replied.
The new-comer was a broad-faced, pleasant-looking fellow with a ready grin, and black eyebrows that met above his nose. Malcolm Hay knew the type, but to-day being for idleness, he did not dread the man's loquacity as he would had it been a working day.
"My name is Gleb," introduced the man: "I come from the village of Potchkoi where my father has seven cows and a bull."
"God give him prosperity and many calves," said Malcolm mechanically.
"Tell me,gospodar, do you ride into our holy city to-day?"
"Surely," said Malcolm.
"Then you will do well to avoid the Street of Black Mud," said Gleb.
Malcolm waited.
"I speak wisely because of my name," said the man with calm assurance; "possibly your excellence has wondered why I should bear the same name as the great saint who lies yonder," he pointed to one of the towering belfries shimmering with gold that rose above the shoulder of a distant hill. "I am Gleb, the son of Gleb, and it is said that we go back a thousand years to the Holy Ones.Also, it was prophesied by a wise woman," said the peasant, puffing out a cloud of smoke and crossing himself at the same time, "that I should go the way of holiness and that after my death my body should be incorruptible."
"All this is very interesting, little brother," said Malcolm with a smile, "but first you must tell me why I should not go into the Street of Black Mud."
The man laughed softly.
"Because of Israel Kensky," he said significantly.
You could not live within a hundred miles of Kieff and not know of Israel Kensky. Malcolm realized with a start that he had not met the old man since he left him in London.
"In what way has Israel Kensky offended?" asked Malcolm, understanding the menace in the man's tone.
Gleb, squatting in the dust, brushed his sheepskin delicately with the tips of his fingers.
"Little father," he said, "all men know Israel Kensky is a Jew and that he practises secret devil-rites, using the blood of Christian children. This is the way of Jews, as your lordship knows. Also he was seen on the plains to shoot pigeons, which is a terrible offence, for to shoot a pigeon is to kill the Holy Ghost."
Malcolm knew that the greater offence had not yet been stated and waited.
"To-day I think they will kill him if the Grand Duke does not send his soldiers to hold the people in check—or the Grand Duchess, his lovely daughter who has spoken for him before, does not speak again."
"But why should they kill Kensky?" asked Malcolm.
It was not the first time that Israel Kensky had been the subject of hostile demonstrations. The young engineer had heard these stories of horrible rites practised at the expense of Christian children, and had heard them so often that he was hardened to the repetition.
The grin had left the man's face and there was a fanatical light in the solemn eyes when he replied:
"Gospodar, it is known that this man has a book which is called 'The Book of All-Power!'"
Malcolm nodded.
"So the foolish say," he said.
"It has been seen," said the other; "his own daughter, Sophia Kensky, who has been baptised in the faith of Our Blessed Lord, has told the Archbishop of this book. She, herself, has seen it."
"But why should you kill a man because he has a book?" demanded Malcolm, knowing well what the answer would be.
"Why should we kill him! A thousand reasons,gospodar," cried the man passionately; "he who has this book understands the black magic of Kensky and the Jews! By the mysteries in this book he is able to torment his enemies and bring sorrow to the Christians who oppose him. Did not the man Ivan Nickolovitch throw a stone at him, and did not Ivan drop dead the next day on his way to mass, aye and turn black before they carried him to the hospital? And did not Mishka Yakov, who spat at him, suffer almost immediately from a great swelling of the throat so that she is not able to speak or swallow to this very day without pain?"
Malcolm jumped down from the wall and laughed, and it was a helpless little laugh, the laugh of one who, for four long years, had fought against the superstitions of the Russian peasantry. He had seen the work of his hands brought to naught, and a boring abandoned just short of the oil because a cross-eyed man, attracted by curiosity, had come and looked at the work. He had seen his wells go up in smoke for some imaginary act of witchcraft on the part of his foreman, and, though he laughed, he was in no sense amused.
"Go with God, little brother," he said; "some day you will have more sense and know that men do not practise witchcraft."
"Perhaps I am wiser than you," said Gleb,getting up and whistling for his donkey, who had strayed up the side lane.
Before Malcolm could reply there was a clatter of hoofs and two riders came galloping round the bend of the road making for the town. The first of these was a girl, and the man who followed behind was evidently the servant of an exalted house, for he wore a livery of green and gold.
Gleb's ass had come cantering down at his master's whistle and now stood broadside-on in the middle of the road, blocking the way. The girl pulled up her horse with a jerk and, half-turning her head to her attendant, she called. The man rode forward.
"Get your donkey out of the way, fool," he boomed in a deep-chested roar.
He was a big man, broad-shouldered and stout. Like most Russian domestic servants, his face was clean-shaven, but Malcolm, watching the scene idly, observed only this about him—that he had a crooked nose and that his hair was a fiery red.
"Gently, gently." It was the girl who spoke and she addressed her restive horse in English.
As for Gleb, the peasant, he stood, his hands clasped before him, his head humbly hung, incapable of movement, and with a laugh Malcolm jumped down from the bank, seized the donkey by his bridle and drew him somewhat reluctantly to the side of the road. The girl's horse had beencurveting and prancing nervously, so that it brought her to within a few paces of Malcolm, and he looked up, wondering what rich man's daughter was this who spoke in English to her horse ... only once before had he seen her in the light of day.
The face was not pale, yet the colour that was in her cheeks so delicately toned with the ivory-white of forehead and neck that she looked pale. The eyes, set wide apart, were so deep a grey that in contrast with the creamy pallor of brow they appeared black.
A firm, red mouth he noticed; thin pencilling of eyebrows, a tangle of dark brown hair; but neither sight of her nor sound of her tired drawling voice, gave her such permanence in his mind as the indefinite sense of womanliness that clothed her like an aurora.
He responded wonderfully to some mysterious call she made upon the man in him. He felt that his senses played no part in shaping his view. If he had met her in the dark, and had neither seen nor heard; if she had been a bare-legged peasant girl on her way to the fields; if he had met her anywhere, anyhow—she would have been divine.
She, for her part, saw a tall young man, mahogany faced, leanly made, in old shooting-jacket and battered Stetson hat. She saw a good forehead and an unruly mop of hair, and beneath two eyes, nowawe-stricken by her femininity (this she might have guessed) rather than by her exalted rank. They were eyes with a capacity for much laughter, she thought, and wished Russian men had eyes like those.
"My horse is afraid of your donkey, I think," she smiled.
"It isn't my donkey," he stammered, and she laughed again frankly at his embarrassment.
And then the unexpected happened. With a frightened neigh her horse leapt sideways toward him. He sprang back to avoid the horse's hoofs and heard her little exclamation of dismay. In the fraction of a second he realized she was falling and held out his arms to catch her. For a moment she lay on his breast, her soft cheek against his, the overpowering fragrance of her presence taking his breath away. Then she gently disengaged herself and stepped back. There was colour in her face now and something which might have been mischief, or annoyance, or sheer amusement, in her eyes.
"Thank you," she said.
Her tone was even and did not encourage further advances on his part.
"I lost my balance. Will you hold my horse's head?"
She was back in the saddle and turning, with aproud little inclination of her head, was picking a way down the steep hill before he realized what had happened. He gazed after her, hoping at least that feminine curiosity would induce her to turn and look back, but in this he was disappointed.
The peasant, Gleb, still stood by the side of the road, his hands clasped, his head bent as though in a trance.
"Wake up, little monkey," said Malcolm testily. "Why did you not hold the horse for the lady whilst I helped her to mount?"
"Dudushka, it is forbidden,Zaprestcheno," said the man huskily. "She isKaziomne! The property of the Czar!"
"The Czar!" gasped Malcolm.
He had lived long enough in Russia to have imbibed some of the awe and reverence for that personage.
"Little master," said the man, "it was her Magnificence, the Grand Duchess Irene Yaroslav."
"The Grand——!" Malcolm gasped. The reality of his dreams and he had not recognized her!
Long after the peasant had departed he stood on the spot where he had held her, like a man in a trance, and he was very thoughtful when he picked up the reins of his horse and swung himself into the saddle.
Kieff is built upon many hills and it has the beauty and distinction of possessing steeper roads than any other city in Europe. He was on his way to the Grand Hotel, and this necessitated his passing through Podol, crossing the Hill of the Cliff, and descending into the valley beyond.
Considering it was a feast day the streets were strangely deserted. He met a few old men and women in festal garb and supposed that the majority of the people were at the shrines in which Kieff abounds. He passed through the poorer Jewish quarter, and did not remember the peasant's warning not to go into the Street of Black Mud until he had turned into that thoroughfare.