[A]Russian familiar name for the czar.
[A]Russian familiar name for the czar.
Clara observed Paul, not the tailor, during this extravagant speech. Would Palovna, an intelligent man, free from excitement, condemn and ridicule Litizki's assertions as wild and imaginary? No; he listened gravely and gave no sign that he discredited the tailor in the least. Noticing Clara's inquiring look, Paul said:
"We Russians, Miss Hilman, are inclined to credit almost any monstrosity in the way of crime, treachery and violence to men like Alexander Poubalov. To us he stands as guilty of anything with which he is charged until he incontestably proves himself innocent."
Clara's heart sank heavily, but she knew that she could trust Paul.
"May I tell you something?" she asked, and he followed her into the dining-room. There she hurriedly repeated the substance of Poubalov's discourse, laying especial stress upon his warning relative to distrustful Nihilists.
"It's a splendid argument," said Paul when she had finished; "I suppose you were attracted by his very frankness in admitting that he is a spy? That was a characteristic move. Mind you, I never had trouble with Poubalov; I wouldn't know him if I saw him, but I know about him. He is a very prince of spies, a past-master in the art of deceit, and many, many shrewd men have been the victims of his seeming candor. You may be sure he masks some villainy beneath his frankness, for he never was known to do a disinterested act."
"He spoke as if he were here upon some mission," suggested Clara.
"Certainly, but he wouldn't tell you what that mission was. That it had to do with Strobel is certain. I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, Miss Hilman, but Poubalov is a most dangerous man. It may be well for us that you have faced him, though we must necessarily have discovered his presence soon, and to see him is to suspect. We at least know where to look. Litizki is an impressionable, excitable man, but he may be right, nevertheless. I am sure that you can trust him, whether or not there is anything in Poubalov's nihilistic suggestions. And as to that, I don't believe there is—not with him about. Plenty of false notions prevail about the Russian revolutionists, and it would be to Poubalov's interest to arouse dread of them in your mind. Anything to distract attention and suspicion from himself."
They returned to the front room. Litizki had recovered from his excitement, and was more like his customary, depressed self, but though he spoke quietly it was with bitter emphasis and strong conviction.
"I believe," he said, "that Poubalov instigated if he did not take part in the abduction of Mr. Strobel. I am convinced that he has him now in hiding, and the question only is whether we are to inform the police or take action ourselves."
"The police," responded Paul, "would not proceed against Poubalov on the strength of our suppositions. He would intrench himself in his official position, and insist on compliance with all forms of law; and during the delay, if, indeed, he has Strobel in his power, he would spirit him away."
"So I think," said Litizki, "and as he won't dare to remove Strobel until the interest in his disappearance dies down, unless he were openly attacked in the manner you suggest, I intend, if Miss Hilman agrees, to hunt for our friend in my own way. I shall do so to-night. I must find him."
He looked inquiringly at Clara.
"I cannot say yes or no," she replied; "you are a friend of Mr. Strobel's and you will do what you think best. Only, let me know what you find."
There was a gleam of pleasure in Litizki's eyes, followed by an expression of sullen determination as he responded:
"You shall hear from me to-morrow."
"Lou," said Clara, "I think we had better go home now. I am feeling very worn. If any of you hear the least word, I wish you would come to see me."
As she prepared to leave she took occasion to whisper to Paul:
"I do not know that I do right in encouraging Litizki. My feeling is that the more there are at work and the more various the methods, the greater is the chance of success. May I leave it to you to prevent Litizki, if possible, from any act that would be indiscreet, or worse?"
"I will do what I can," said Paul; "but he is, after all, an irresponsible agent. I am inclined to think that good will come of his investigation, whatever he does."
It was the luncheon hour when the young ladies reached home, and Mr. Pembroke had arrived before them. His face expressed painful anxiety as he greeted his niece.
"My poor child," he said, "you have heard everything, I suppose?"
"I have heard a great deal, uncle," replied Clara, "and appreciate your motives in withholding the paper from me that published the wicked rumor that Ivan had eloped, but you should have known me better. Do you suppose, uncle dear, that that rumor disturbed me? I dismiss it more lightly than anything that has been said."
"Poor child! poor child!" sighed Mr. Pembroke.
"Why do you say that?" asked Clara, sitting down wearily. "Of course, I am sorrowful; nobody can realize what I suffer; but I am confident that Ivan has done no wrong, and I cannot believe that we shall not find him. I have returned to rest, not to give up the search."
"Clara, my dear girl," said her uncle, tenderly, "you'd best give it up. You have a great sorrow to bear, but I know how brave you are. There is no occasion for further search."
"No occasion! Uncle, what do you mean?"
"The detective assigned from headquarters to make an investigation has been to see me."
"Yes, yes! what did he say?"
"The worst possible, Clara. He is convinced that Strobel went to New York, if not with Lizzie White, then to join her there. It is the only possible explanation of his disappearance."
"No! no! you know nothing about it, and the detective is a fool!" cried Clara.
Mr. Pembroke was immensely surprised at this violent outbreak, when he had expected tears, prostration, the deepest grief. It occurred to him that perhaps his niece's mind had been unsettled by her trouble. She sat looking at him with blazing eyes, her face flushed, her foot nervously patting the floor.
"You are greatly excited, Clara," ventured her uncle, gently.
"Tell me what the detective said!" retorted Clara, imperiously.
"He has found that a closed carriage, such as we know Strobel took at the corner of Park and Tremont Streets, halted at the Park Square Station shortly after that time. The passenger was a young man who answered the description of Strobel. He paid the driver, went into the station, bought a ticket for New York, and immediately took his place in the train. It is further known that Lizzie White took a train from the same station at about the same hour."
"Is that all?" asked Clara, scornfully.
"My dear girl, is it not enough?"
"It is nothing, uncle, absolutely nothing. Has your detective seen the driver of the closed carriage?"
"I don't know; I suppose so."
"I must see the detective then. No, I am not going now. After luncheon. I shall not risk failure by neglecting to care for myself. Uncle dear," and she suddenly melted and put her arms around the old gentleman's neck, "forgive me, please, if I am impatient and hasty with you. I know Ivan as you do not; I know this accusation is not true. The detective has been mistaken, and I shall show him so, and all the world besides."
Mr. Pembroke sighed sadly.
"Your loyalty, my dear," he said, "is deserving of a better subject and a better fate."
IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY.
Nothing would deter Clara from a trip to police headquarters after luncheon, and, as in the forenoon, her Cousin Louise accompanied her. As they entered the building in Pemberton Square, they met the infirm old man, Dexter, he who had arrived late at the church, he whom Clara had interrupted in conversation with Mr. Pembroke. He bowed to the young ladies with an attempt at graciousness, and reached for the shapeless, soft cap that covered his head, but he only succeeded in pulling the visor awry, and he passed them, mumbling about the weather.
"I am afraid," said Clara, "that my trouble is making me harsh toward everybody, but that old man seems to me the most disagreeable and repulsive being I ever saw. Who is he?"
"I only know that his name is Dexter," replied Louise; "he has some business with papa, I believe."
Clara inquired for the detective who had been assigned to the Strobel case, and after such delays as are naturally incident to strangers making their first call at the offices of the department, she was confronted by Mr. William Bowker, a commonplace-looking individual, who said:
"Well, ladies, what can I do for you?"
"I am Miss Hilman," replied Clara.
"Ah!" and Bowker raised his brows regretfully, "I informed your uncle this forenoon, Miss Hilman, of what I have done and found in the matter."
"He told me about it, but I couldn't be satisfied with a report at second hand. Won't you tell me just what you told him?"
"It will be very unpleasant for you, Miss Hilman, and if Mr. Pembroke has told you the result of my investigation, that is really all there is to be said."
"I won't trouble you to repeat that a gentleman answering the description of Mr. Strobel alighted from a closed carriage at the Park Square Station, shortly after the accident on Park Street and bought a ticket for New York, or that Miss White took the same train. I am willing to take it for granted that you have traced Miss White's movements correctly. I want to know what makes you so certain that the gentleman who took the train was Mr. Strobel?"
Detective Bowker stared at the young lady a moment; it was his delicate way of expressing surprise.
"The description of the man and the time tallied with Strobel and his accident," he answered, "to say nothing of the reasons for his running away."
"Is that all, Mr. Bowker?"
"No, it ain't; that was what we found at first. Don't it look reasonable——" and he proceeded to theorize on the matter until Clara checked him.
"I could have heard all that from half the people in Boston," she said, "if I had paid any attention to the rumor. I supposed professional detectives would base their reports on something better than conjecture."
Bowker shrugged his shoulders.
"What would you say," he asked with a little temper, "if an acquaintance of Strobel's was to tell you that he saw the gentleman buy his ticket and go to the train?"
"Have you such evidence as that? If so, who is it?"
"I can't answer the question, Miss Hilman. I have no right to make public the workings of the department. I expect to get further evidence this afternoon to prove that Strobel eloped. It's by no wish of mine, you understand, that I tell you these disagreeable things."
"You needn't apologize, Mr. Bowker. I came for information. I understand, then, that you do not regard your investigation as finished."
"Well, not exactly. Of course we want to clinch it."
"Have you seen the driver of the closed carriage?"
"No. We have no means of identifying him except recognition by the man who drove the coupé. If a man should walk in here and say that he drove the closed carriage, we'd examine him, of course, but we've been unable yet to find that man. The thing being in the papers, it may happen—in fact, it's quite likely—that the missing driver will turn up to-day. Cabmen are usually anxious to please the department. I suppose the evidence of the cabman would be satisfactory, wouldn't it?"
"Quite, if I was satisfied that it was the man, and that he told the truth."
"I guess you're hard to satisfy, Miss Hilman."
"Mr. Bowker," and Clara beamed on him with a smile so sweet and radiant that he started with astonishment, "I think you are working hard and as faithfully as you know how to prove a theory which you formed early in your investigations, even before you had Lizzie White's flight to base it on. I shouldn't think you'd do that, you know. Honestly, wouldn't you rather find out the truth, even if it did upset your first theory?"
Bowker stared in undisguised discomfort.
"If you've got any facts," he said, "you'd ought to let us have them. Of course we want to find out the truth. What is it you know, or think of?"
"No, thank you, Mr. Bowker," responded Clara, rising, and still bewildering him with her lovely smiles; "you work along in your way and I'll work in mine. When I learn that you've found anything worth considering, I may take you into my confidence; I might even co-operate with you. Good-afternoon."
No one was more amazed at Clara's coolness than her Cousin Louise.
"I don't see how you can do it, Clara," she said when they were again in Pemberton Square.
"Do you realize," returned Clara, "what might happen if I didn't do something of this kind? Somebody muststir everybody else up, or else the public will not only come to believe that Ivan was false, but we shall never find him. I may be making mistakes, but I don't believe that detective will be content to stop where he is. He'll look further, and the further he looks the more certainly will he find that he has been working at a wrong theory. Let's go somewhere and find a business directory."
They went to the parlor of a neighboring hotel, where for an hour Clara busied herself making a list of all the livery and hack stables in the city. Then she hired a cab, and for hours the young ladies went from one to another stable, Clara always with the same inquiry, seeking for some trace of him whom for convenience she came to call the "second driver."
There is no need to go into the details of her tedious search. It was not concluded when evening came, and she had to desist from sheer fatigue. She had found no clew that promised the discovery of the one witness who could certainly be of use to her.
From Mrs. White's Litizki went to his shop and toiled patiently and methodically for two or three hours. He hardly opened his lips during the whole time, but his brain was busy with projects. That Poubalov was responsible for the fate of Ivan Strobel did not admit of a shadow of doubt; that he had concealed the young man in his lodgings was not so certain, but Litizki deemed it altogether probable. The spy would have plenty of money, he could have put up at a hotel; why had he not done so? Because, according to Litizki's reasoning, he had uses for a lodging to which the public conveniences of a hotel could not safely be bent. Distrustful of all men, the spy would keep his prisoner under his own charge, and in a lodging-house it would not be difficult to purchase the discreet silence of a not too scrupulous landlady concerning a mysterious co-tenant.
The more he thought about it the more firmly the idea took possession of the tailor that Strobel was confined in the Bulfinch Place lodging-house which Poubalov had enteredby means of a latch-key. If any one had suggested to him the spy's arguments to the effect that as the agent of a friendly government he could not venture, if he would, to violate American law, Litizki would have laughed, and that would have been very significant of his immeasurable contempt for the argument, for it was not in the memory of his associates that the tailor had ever smiled. His nearest approach to it, in fact, was when he manifested pleasure at the idea of being countenanced in an investigation of Poubalov's doings in his own way. Respect American law, indeed! Then would Poubalov be other than he was, and the leopard might be expected to change his spots.
Litizki hated Poubalov with all the concentrated venom of his small nature, a nature that had known little of good in the world save in Ivan Strobel's kindness, that had felt the blows of tyranny and the stabs of treachery at the hands of this same spy. A desire for vengeance had smoldered long in his heart, and he had never expected that any breeze of fortune would fan it into living flame; and now, suddenly, it had burst forth a raging fire, and the possibility of opportunity rose before his dull eyes as the one glad hope of his wretched life. Poubalov in America! Poubalov at his treacherous work against the one man who had inspired Litizki with confidence and stirred his affections! and he, Litizki, knew Poubalov's secret, knew where he could lay hands upon him! Fate must have placed him there in order that Litizki's vengeance might be the more complete.
The tailor laid down his tools and bent his head upon his hands. Poubalov must be checkmated, Strobel rescued; and if in accomplishing this end, the spy should be—Well, what then?
Litizki put on a long coat with a high collar that he turned up about his ears, and a soft hat that he pulled down over his eyes. At the foot of the stairs that led to his shop he met Paul Palovna.
"Hello, Litizki," exclaimed the young man, "where inthe world are you going rigged out as if it were winter?"
The grotesque little figure looked sourly up at the inquirer and replied:
"I am going to begin my work."
"See here, Litizki," said Paul, seriously, "you mustn't do anything rash. I was just coming to see you to give you warning. Poubalov is dangerous and very clever. Don't get yourself into trouble, and don't spoil all chance of trapping him, if he has really got hold of Strobel, by any premature act."
The little tailor reflected.
"For myself," he answered presently, "nothing matters. I will be careful, Paul Palovna, as careful as man can be not to compromise any chances. I shall act for myself alone. Nobody sends me, nobody influences me. If I succeed, we shall all rejoice; if I fail"—he shrugged his shoulders significantly—"I will be the only loser. I promise you not to be rash, Paul Palovna, for the sake of noble Ivan Strobel and his beautiful lady."
Then he moved away, and Palovna knew hardly whether to smile at his ludicrous make-up, or shudder at the purpose that unquestionably lurked in his thoughts.
"I hope good may come of it!" sighed Palovna.
Litizki went to Bulfinch Place, and shrinking as far as possible into his long coat, walked along on the sidewalk opposite Poubalov's house. Yes, there the villain was, calmly reading a newspaper! One flight from the ground, front room. At the side of the room was a smaller one over the hall. Litizki knew the arrangement of the houses in that vicinity, and the blinds of that room were closed. Perhaps, though, the prison chamber would be in some more remote part of the house. Time and the night would tell.
The tailor went to the corner of Bowdoin Street, and stood there, unmindful of the curious glances of passers until he saw Poubalov leave the lodging-house. It was just possible that the spy had his prisoner concealed elsewhere, and was now going to him. Litizki followed. It occurredto him that now might be the time to get into the house on some pretext and make a search, but he dismissed the thought as ruinous. If Strobel were there, the landlady would be paid to be watchful during Poubalov's absence. No; the night was the time when nobody would be watching, and when every corner in the house could be searched from cellar to garret.
Poubalov went to State Street, and entered the bank where Strobel had been employed. He brushed past Litizki when he emerged, but apparently did not see him. The tailor followed him from one place to another, waited under a hotel window for an hour while the spy was dining, saw him into a theatre and eventually back to his lodgings, where he arrived at about eleven o'clock. It was evident that he went directly to bed, for the light in his room was extinguished very shortly after he went in.
Litizki then went to a cheap restaurant, where he appeased his appetite and drank several cups of bad tea. It was after midnight before he left the place, and his one wish was that he had a dark lantern. To make up for his lack, he was plentifully supplied with matches.
A printer, whom Litizki knew by sight, lived in the house adjoining the one where Poubalov lodged. The tailor knew that he ordinarily arrived home at one o'clock. He was on time this night, and as he turned into the tiny yard before the building, Litizki stepped down from the doorway.
"I'm glad you've come," he said, "I left my key in the room and I can't rouse anybody by ringing."
"No," responded the printer with a laugh, "they don't get up for anybody. How long you been living here?"
"Only a few days."
The door was opened, and both men went upstairs. The printer, with a cheery "good-night," entered a room on the second landing. Litizki continued to the top floor, and thence through a skylight to the roof. Fortune was, indeed, favoring him. He had supposed the skylight would be raised for the sake of ventilation. There had beendoubt whether the steps leading to it would be in place.
He cared little whether the skylight on the adjoining roof would be found open and the steps in place, or not; he would get in in any event. Both were in just the condition most favorable to his project, and a moment later Litizki had struck a match and was peering about in an empty room on the top floor of Poubalov's lodging house.
The little tailor exulted more and more as he crept down the stairs after examining every room. Not a sleeper had been awakened, not a door had been found locked. He would search the whole house before trying the door to the hall room adjoining Poubalov's. That would be found locked. He had no doubt he should pick the lock, for he had skeleton keys in his pocket, and if not—a vigorous shove and he would burst it open. What cared he for details at the very end of his search?
He had come to the floor above the spy's room. Here, as before, every door was unlocked, most of the rooms empty. He had just extinguished a match preparatory to descending further, when from somewhere out of the darkness heavy hands were laid upon him and he was borne to the floor. Another instant and a hand was pressed upon his mouth and there was a dazzling flash of light from a dark lantern held over him.
Litizki saw the cruel eyes of Alexander Poubalov glaring down, and then the slide of the lantern was closed again.
LITIZKI'S LESSON.
There had been no scuffle and almost no noise as the tailor fell to the floor, but one of the chamber doors opened, nevertheless, and a startled voice asked: "What's that?"
"Sorry you've been disturbed," said Poubalov; "a friend of mine, with a little more of a load than he could manage, has stumbled. That's all. I will look out for him."
The inquirer went back to bed grumbling, and as soon as the door closed Poubalov whispered in Russian: "Will you keep quiet, or shall I have to quiet you?" and he removed his hand from Litizki's mouth.
"It's all one to me, Alexander Poubalov," muttered the tailor, and, feeling the pressure removed, he rose to his feet. Still speaking Russian, the spy remarked:
"You are so good at finding your way in the dark that I will not pull the slide of my lantern. I should dislike, for your sake, to have you recognized. Go down and enter my room."
Litizki felt for the banister, and, guided by it, walked down the flight and opened the door, as directed, into his captor's room. When Poubalov came in he closed and bolted the door, then opened the lantern and let its rays fall on Litizki from head to feet, and head again, as if he were curiously studying the make-up. He laughed softly at last and said:
"There's a chair just back of you. Sit down."
The tailor sank into it, and Poubalov lit the gas. In the general light Litizki saw that the spy was fully dressed save for his coat, and that the folding bed which was afeature of the furniture had not been let down. Poubalov noticed Litizki's glance and understood:
"No, my friend," he said suavely, "I did not go to bed. I expected you, and sat up to receive you."
Litizki groaned. Until then he had hoped desperately that even as a prisoner he would be able to accomplish something; now, convinced that the spy had prepared for his coming, he realized that his effort had been in vain. The awful sense of the unshakable power this man represented and wielded came over him as it did in those gloomy days in Russia when he had to choose between voluntary exile and certain banishment.
Poubalov drew a chair to a little table in the middle of the room, and sat down opposite the tailor.
"Nicholas Litizki," he said, "you have surprised and grieved me! I would not have supposed that even a residence of several years in America could have made you forget that Alexander Poubalov never takes a step until he is thoroughly prepared for it. I, who hardly know what the word emotion means, am almost hurt. Surely it must be that contact with republican institutions deadens a man's sensibilities and affects his memory."
Litizki's small eyes had been fixed upon those of his adversary from the beginning. They had relapsed to their customary dull expression, but they glowed faintly with new life, for, the first edge of his disappointment dulled, he recalled the two great purposes for which he had invaded the house: vengeance and the rescue of Ivan Strobel. Neither purpose might be lost, and if he must forego or postpone vengeance, he would not prejudice what means others might have at command for saving his benefactor.
"Poubalov," said the tailor, "I am an American citizen."
"I bow to your discretion," responded the spy, "but I knew it. You think to hide behind the generous skirts of your adopted country's goddess. Good! I admit the efficacy of the refuge, for the accredited agent of the czar—whomGod preserve, Nicholas Litizki—will do nothing in a friendly country in violation of that country's laws. But see, my friend, what a tower of strength a proper respect for the law becomes: I not only knew you were coming, but I knew what you were coming for, and I need not say that I knew what way you would take. I have kept within the law, and yet I found out all about you and your associates before I had been in Boston—no matter how long. Poor fellow! did you really think that Poubalov's eyes did not penetrate your flimsy disguise? I am sorry, Litizki; your patience and devotion would fit you for service in the holy cause of the czar, and it is not at all adapted to pursuing the steps of honest men."
"You do not frighten me," interposed Litizki; "I know your superlative cunning and your crooked ways. Your speech nauseates me. 'Honest men!' Bah!"
"We won't dispute over trifles, then. I simply call to your attention the fact that you unlawfully invade a dwelling-house, prowling about like a common thief and thus place yourself unreservedly in my power. Of course, Nicholas Litizki did not enter here to commit theft. He came to find his friend, Ivan Strobel."
"It is a lie, Alexander Poubalov! I sought him not."
"You know whether it is a lie, or not. So do I. Therefore we will not argue the matter. Well, what are you going to do now that you are here?"
Litizki boiled with futile rage. He was trapped not only literally as Poubalov's prisoner, but he felt how weak he was in any contest of words with this shrewd master of deceit. He had spoken truly in telling Paul Palovna that it mattered not what became of him, and although those words were uttered under the influence of a desire for vengeance that constant dwelling upon had turned to conviction that he would succeed, he now felt them to be as true, for he despaired, as he had been despairing for years, of accomplishing anything that would be worth the doing. Why had he presumed to undertake the hopeless task of outwitting Poubalov? He saw howwildly foolish had been his course, but his conviction remained unshaken.
"Have it so, then," he hissed; "respect for law is not in your character. You have unlawfully taken possession of Ivan Strobel."
"Yes?" responded Poubalov quietly; "you are very sure of that?"
"I know it, yes; I did come here to find him, to liberate, ay, to kill you if need be!"
"Indeed! the same, familiar antagonism to the authority of Russia, I suppose. The Russian agent is to you like the red flag to the bull. Yes, very interesting. Well, Litizki?"
"Alexander Poubalov!" exclaimed the tailor, rising and speaking with all his long-treasured bitterness, "you have Ivan Strobel, an American citizen, in your power; you restrain him illegally of his liberty, with what purpose it matters not. I, as an American citizen, demand that you release him."
Poubalov looked with mock admiration at the fierce but grotesque figure before him, and said:
"Good! very good! I am not certain but that demand is good law. I shall have to think of it. When, Nicholas Litizki?"
"I cannot tolerate your smart language," returned Litizki; "give him up now. It will be worse for you if you fool with me. You threw me down in the dark because I was taken unawares. In the light I can make my own fight, Alexander Poubalov! Come! Ivan Strobel is in that room, behind that door, and if you have not stopped his ears as you have gagged his mouth and bound his limbs, he hears my voice now and knows it. I should be less than man should I not take even a desperate step to rescue him, my friend, my benefactor!"
Even to the cynical spy the grotesqueness of the little tailor's figure and make-up disappeared in the exaltation up to which his emotions bore him. He took one determined stride toward the door to the little hall room.
"Nicholas Litizki," said Poubalov, softly.
The tailor turned, such was the compelling power of that deep voice, and for the instant his progress was checked. Poubalov had extended one arm upon the table and his hand was toying with a revolver.
"I believe you, my friend," remarked the spy, hardly looking toward the tailor at first, but later concentrating his gleaming eyes upon him, "I believe you when you say by actions if not by words that you would die for your friend, and that you do not care what becomes of you. But you have some degree of cleverness, Litizki. We learned that years ago. Listen, then, just a moment before you lay hand upon that door. It is locked, Litizki. Before you could open it I could put a bullet through your heart. Would I not dare? What should a peaceable lodger not do to a man who stealthily enters his house by night? Who would disbelieve me if I should calmly report to the police that you came as a burglar, and that I shot at you in protection of property and life? Suppose, however, that I prefer to avoid a disturbance. Before you could more than wrench the knob of that door once, I could pierce your heart silently."
Poubalov rose and stood towering over Litizki, a knife glistening in his right hand.
"You know something of my resources," he continued, "and whether I would be likely to find difficulty in disposing of your lifeless body. Why! you have come so secretly that you and I alone know of your whereabout. We would then have another disappearance to add to the Strobel mystery, but one that would not be half as interesting, Litizki, not half."
"You have killed Ivan Strobel!" whispered Litizki, shrinking away.
"In that inference," said Poubalov, contemptuously, as he laid his weapons on the table and resumed his seat, "your madness reaches its climax and you will speedily recover. You will not go to that door now. You see how useless it would be. Live, and you may yet see yourfriend, may yet assist in liberating him. Understand me, Nicholas Litizki: I have not come to this country for nothing. I have a mission to perform, and nothing shall prevent me from performing it, and in my own way."
"You will then keep Strobel a prisoner," muttered Litizki, "until you have wrung from him by cruelty what you have come for?"
"I shall perform my mission. Now it would be perfectly easy for me to remove you, for you are making yourself an obstacle, a slight one, to my plans. It pleases me better, however, that you should live, and you may yet be an assistance to me. I will show you to the street door whenever you feel ready to depart."
Litizki shot a glance full of evil at his captor, but Poubalov ignored it, and calmly lighted the inevitable cigarette.
"Very well, Alexander Poubalov," said Litizki after a moment, "you may let me go, but expect no gratitude from me. I know only too well that you think to serve your foul purposes by my liberty, but, weak as I am, I shall not rest until Strobel is restored to us or his fate made known, and even after that I shall pursue you! You teach me a lesson, Poubalov, a hard one, but I shall learn it."
"I hope you will. Life will be easier if you do. Must you go now? Permit me," and with a fine pretense at courtesy he unbolted the door and accompanied Litizki to the street door, which he also opened.
"Good-night, Nicholas Litizki," he whispered as he withdrew again into the house.
It was Litizki's purpose to go at once to the house where Paul Palovna lodged, rouse him, and tell him his experience, with all the admissions that Poubalov had seemed to make, and all the inferences that were to be drawn from his remarks and innuendoes; but as he hurried along in the cool night air he felt as if something were leaving him. He slackened his pace, halted irresolutely, went on a few steps, and at last leaned heavily against a buildingand struck his hand angrily against his brow, muttering:
"Fool, fool!"
What was this sense of loss but a relief from the dominating influence of Poubalov's stronger personality? There, with all his desperation, even at the height of his exaltation, when he seemed to tread the border lands of heroism, he had halted at a single word from the spy. He had stood and listened to threats and sophistry, and had been moved by the one and convinced by the other.
No! he could not tell all this to Palovna, or to any other person except Strobel; to him, if he should ever return, he would make a full confession of his defeat. For the present he must keep it to himself, and if he would still do something to effect his vengeance and rescue Strobel, he must work in secret. And as he reflected that it was just this course that Poubalov undoubtedly expected him to take, he groaned and slunk abashed and mortified to his lonely room.
In the early morning, without waiting to read newspapers, or submit to interviews from reporters, should they call again at the house, Clara and Louise set forth to finish their search for the "second driver." Again they had a tedious, fruitless experience. Now and again it seemed momentarily as if they had come upon a clew to the man, but Clara's keen questions invariably brought them to the same disappointing end. By noon they had visited every livery stable in Boston.
"Don't think me unkind, Clara," ventured Louise, "but I fear we ought to give this up. I don't know that I can say just why, for I sympathize with you as deeply as ever, and, like you, I believe in Ivan; but somehow I fear."
"There are the stables in Cambridge and Somerville," responded Clara, absently; "we haven't been there. Forgive me, dear! I didn't mean to ignore what you said. We are both tired. I had meant to call at Mrs. White's before returning, but we will go home and rest, and see if fresh thinking will help us. There may be some word at home by this time."
There was, indeed, some word at home. The servant reported that Detective Bowker had called and would be glad to see Miss Hilman, should she care to go downtown during this afternoon; and there were many letters from friends who had learned of her trouble. All except one were more or less sympathetic, but in more than one there was a veiled remonstrance against her taking such a vigorous and public part in the case.
The exception was unsigned and without date. It read:
"If Miss Hilman insists on being convinced with her own eyes that her 'lover' has been false, if she needs more proof to cause her to withdraw from the ridiculous attitude she has assumed, why doesn't she go to New York and find Lizzie White? The writer is certain that she would return fully satisfied."
"If Miss Hilman insists on being convinced with her own eyes that her 'lover' has been false, if she needs more proof to cause her to withdraw from the ridiculous attitude she has assumed, why doesn't she go to New York and find Lizzie White? The writer is certain that she would return fully satisfied."
CORROBORATIVE DETAIL.
Clara had not come sufficiently in contact with the evil side of human nature to ignore an anonymous letter. She felt all the contempt for the writer that he or she deserved, and she spurned the suggestion contained in the letter as utterly unworthy of a moment's attention. Yet the sting was there. She might ignore the letter to all appearances, and yet not be able to forget it. The cruelty of the writer was what she felt, not the force of the blow.
"I cannot understand," she said, laying the letter down and taking a newspaper, "how a person can go out of his way for the sole purpose of doing an unkind thing."
"What is it, dear?" asked Louise, stopping on her way out of the room.
Clara started to show her the letter, but, overcome by a sense of repugnance for it, answered:
"Let it pass until after luncheon. We shall have a great deal to talk of then."
So Clara was left alone with the newspapers, and she read them with amazement and consternation. At the very first there was a little relief at finding no flaring headlines on the first page, for she had no enjoyment in the notoriety that the case thrust upon her. She bore it simply as one of the unavoidable features of the situation. As she searched the first paper, the relief vanished, and in its place came a growing wonder. The reports of the abandoned wedding had been set forth in complete detail with every expansion that fertile brains could suggest, as if every city editor had said to his reporter, "We'll stand all you can write." It had been the important news feature of the day, and to Clara it had seemedas if every newspaper in the city had undertaken to solve the mystery. Where, then, was the long account of the second day's developments?
Tucked obscurely away in the middle of a page devoted to a miscellaneous assortment of news, she found at last a few paragraphs setting forth the conclusions of the detective bureau, that there was no financial irregularity to be attributed to Mr. Strobel, and that the missing man had undoubtedly eloped with Lizzie White. Miss Hilman's health was reported to be good, and it was noted that she had taken a personal hand in the investigation with every appearance of confidence in the loyalty of her betrothed.
Clara found longer reports in the other papers, and the one that had published the first intimation of the elopement, continued to make it the sensation of the hour, but it was a labored effort, devoted quite as much to exploiting its own enterprise in beating the other papers as to setting forth the news.
So, then, the community, of which the newspapers were the reflection, had contentedly accepted the first solution that offered, and all her work had gone for nothing, worse than nothing, for she found herself pictured as a pitiable victim to her lover's faithlessness. The very fact that the reporters refrained from bringing out the picture of her misery in strong colors was evidence of the sincerity with which they wrote. They were satisfied that Ivan had eloped! To tell how loyally she had clung to him would be to put her in a ridiculous light before all readers.
The tears that came to Clara's eyes were angrily dashed away at first, but they would flow, and after a moment she gave full vent to them. Her experience was one that comes only to those who have to suffer such great calamities that for the time all life seems to be centered upon them, and the awaking to the cold fact that all life runs along just as before, and the great calamity speedily becomes an event of yesterday, is almost as hard to bear as the original shock. This awakening with Clara was coincidentto a fresh determination to continue her search. The world might laugh if it chose to be so cruel; she believed in her lover and would yet find him.
The bell had rung for luncheon, and drying her eyes, Clara went into the dining room. Her uncle was already at the table. His greeting was constrained but not lacking in affection and sympathy.
"Don't you think it would be better, Clara," he said gently after they had exchanged a few words, "to withdraw for a while from public view? I am afraid you are doing no good, and I will not conceal from you that I regard your loyal search as hopeless. I am getting to be an old man, and I have seen a great deal of the world, as we reckon it by the human beings who populate it. This blow that has fallen upon you has fallen on others before your time, and it will fall again. This that seems to you incredible has been no less incredible in the past——"
"Stop, please, uncle," interrupted Clara; "I cannot draw comparisons, and if I could they would be valueless. I must judge my affair by its own circumstances alone. I believe Ivan has done no wrong, and it is nothing less than my duty to him and myself to right the wrong that has been done to him."
"But tell me, my dear child, is there anything in the situation that promises a solution other than that found by the detectives and the reporters?"
"Yes, uncle, there is," replied Clara in a low tone, "and I am glad the reporters have not found the clew, and I am not sorry that Mr. Bowker missed it, too. I will tell you about it."
"Papa," said Louise, coming into the room at this moment, "Mr. Dexter has called. I was coming downstairs when the bell rang, and I answered it. I showed him into the library."
"I wish he would confine his calls to the office," exclaimed Mr. Pembroke, impatiently. "You will have to excuse me, though, for I am obliged to see him."
"I am afraid papa is having a serious time with his business," said Louise, after he had gone.
"Everything comes at once, doesn't it?" responded Clara; "I am so sorry! He wants me to give up trying to find Ivan, dear. It hurts me to displease uncle, but what would you do? I think he would like to have me go away for a time."
"Oh, I don't think that! I am sure he feels toward you as if you were his own daughter."
"I am sure he does, Lou. A father couldn't be more affectionate and kind; but in this matter, how can I yield to his wishes? He does not know."
"Do you mean about Mr. Poubalov?"
"Partly, but I had more in mind that no one could know Ivan's character as well as I do."
Louise thought of her own budding love. If Ralph Harmon were under suspicion, could she fail to defend him? Could she think of him as other than honorable and faithful?
A servant passed through the room, and left the door in the hall carelessly ajar. Neither of the young ladies noticed it.
"Clara," said Louise, "I should try to do just as you are doing, but I know I could not be so brave. I think if you should tell uncle about Mr. Poubalov it might make him feel better."
"I intend to do so," replied Clara, "and would have done so last evening if he had been at home."
They were interrupted by Mr. Pembroke's voice. He had stepped from the library into the hall, and was speaking with ill-suppressed anger.
"I won't listen to anything you have to say on the matter," he said, "and I will ask you to confine your talks to me to business matters; and when you must see me, go to the office."
"Ugh!" grunted old Dexter in reply, "she'll make you as ridiculous as she makes herself."
"Dexter," exclaimed Mr. Pembroke, "I think you're the worst villain unhung!"
"H'm, h'm, h'm," muttered Dexter, "you're a fool, Mat Pembroke. I think you're a fool!"
The front door closed loudly and Mr. Pembroke strode into the dining-room, where the young ladies were looking at each other with astonished eyes. Mr. Pembroke was flushed, and he bit his lip with added vexation as he noticed that his daughter and niece had heard the last words of his conversation with Dexter.
"I am sorry——" he began, his voice still shaking with anger. He did not complete his remark, but sat down and tried to eat.
After a moment Clara rose and put her arms softly about his neck.
"I am sorry, too, uncle dear," she said, "that you have so much trouble about me. Of course that vile man was speaking of me."
Mr. Pembroke shuddered violently at her first touch. He released her arms abruptly and stood up.
"No, don't!" he said with an expression of the deepest pain; "you continue your search in your own way, child. Don't mind about me or anybody else, least of all that—that meddlesome Dexter."
"I was going to tell you some of the information I learned yesterday, uncle."
"No, no! no, no! I don't want to hear it—that is, not now. Forgive me, child; I am disturbed by business matters and cannot attend to it now. This evening if you like. Good-by."
He hastened from the room, more agitated than when he had come in.
"It's a shame," said Clara, bitterly, "that any one who is in trouble has to annoy all those who are near to her."
"I wouldn't think of it that way, dear," responded Louise; "papa is as sympathetic as can be, and I am sure that when he gets over his anger at this Mr. Dexter's interference, there will be nothing to regret. He said himself,you know, that he would talk with you this evening."
"I hope I shall have something definite to tell him then," said Clara. "Will you go downtown with me again this afternoon?"
Of course she would, and in due time, therefore, the young ladies were again at police headquarters. Detective Bowker was evidently highly pleased with himself, although he manfully tried to suppress any signs of triumph.
"I called at your house this forenoon, Miss Hilman," he said, "to inform you that the driver of the closed carriage has been found."
"What does he say?" asked Clara eagerly.
"He corroborates what I told you yesterday."
"Does he say that he drove Mr. Strobel to the Park Square Station?"
"Yes, just as I told you."
"Can I see him?"
"I have no doubt you will be able to do so. He is not here now. He has gone about his work, but I can have him here at any time, or he will call on you. He suggested that himself when I told him that you would be pretty likely to doubt his story."
"I should like to see him," said Clara, her voice faint and tremulous in spite of herself. "When did you find him, Mr. Bowker?"
"Well, as to that," replied the detective, reluctantly, "Billings came in here early this morning. You know I said that might happen."
"Yes. What stable does he drive for?"
"What stable?" echoed Bowker with his stare of surprise; "why should you ask that, Miss Hilman?"
"Because I have visited every stable in Boston to find whether any employee could have been driving a closed carriage along Park Street at the hour when the wheel of Mr. Strobel's coupé came off."
"Whew! you did mean business, didn't you?" exclaimed Bowker with evident admiration. "It's a pity youhad such a time of it. Billings drove his own carriage. He wasn't connected with any of the stables."
"I am glad to know that my search did not fail through any lack of thorough inquiry," said Clara, and she felt her courage reviving. "Will you send word to this Mr. Billings that I would like to see him?"
"Certainly. When shall I tell him to call?"
"Any time this evening. And, Mr. Bowker, can you not give me the name of the man who said he saw Mr. Strobel buy a ticket for New York?"
"I cannot do so. The fact is, we haven't the name. I expected to get it, honestly I did, for I heard that Strobel was recognized in the station by a friend; but that friend hasn't turned up; and, to tell you the plain truth, we don't think it necessary to inquire for him."
"It seems to me——" began Clara, stopping and reflecting. She was going to protest against the imperfect character of the investigation, but she thought better of it. This detective unquestionably had no interest to find other than the truth, and with his low conceptions of character, due doubtless to his frequent contact with criminals, it would be but natural for him to see no other explanation for Ivan's disappearance than the one to substantiate which he had obtained a certain amount of evidence. If even her good uncle were disposed to view the idea of the elopement as a possibility, nay, as a probability, what better could be expected of one to whom Ivan was merely a man like other men? And the evidence of the "second driver" which was undoubtedly straightforward—— Perhaps Ivan had gone to New York. How could she tell? Not with Lizzie White, of course, but—— She would talk with the driver.
"I shall be greatly obliged," she concluded, "if you will send me word should any new development turn up. I don't suppose I can expect you to pay any further attention to the case."
"We may hear from New York at any time," repliedBowker; "the police there are on the lookout for Strobel, and if we hear anything I will let you know."
Louise tucked her arm affectionately within Clara's, and asked:
"Where now, dear?"
"We will go to Mrs. White's," responded Clara, drearily. Her faith was yet undisturbed, but the mystery seemed the darker, for if the wily Russian had had to do with Ivan's departure, how much harder it would be to find him in New York than in Boston! Then, had he gone voluntarily, might it not be possible that he did not wish her to search for him? Surely he would write if he could. With that thought, and a renewed conviction that Ivan was somehow constrained of his liberty, she arrived at Mrs. White's house.
"I'm so glad to see you," cried the landlady, "with all this talk in the papers. I have heard from Lizzie. See! Here is the letter."
She handed a sheet of paper to Clara. It was not a long letter, but what little there was was rambling in style. It was dated from Second Avenue, New York, and stated that the writer had found a new home.
"I should be happy," she wrote, "if it wasn't for the way I had to go. But there wasn't any other way. After a while I shall tell you all about it."
Clara's quick perceptions told her that any person with the elopement explanation in his head would see a significance in these words that could not fail to reflect unfavorably upon Ivan.
"Mrs. White," she said tremulously, "you won't show this letter to reporters, or detectives, or anybody else, will you?"
STRANGE EXIT OF POUBALOV.
"I had already shown it to Mr. Bowker," replied Mrs. White, anxiously; "I thought it might convince him that Lizzie had nothing to do with the disappearance of Mr. Strobel."
"It didn't convince him," said Clara, bitterly; "but no matter. May I copy Miss Lizzie's address?"
"Of course. Are you going to write to her?"
"Perhaps so. Have you written yet?"
"I haven't had time, but I shall do so this afternoon. Is there something you would like to have me say?"
Clara was intent with her thoughts.
"Mrs. White," she said presently, "if you write to-night, could you omit any reference to Mr. Strobel?"
"Land sakes!" exclaimed the good lady; "whatever should I write about then? With Lizzie's name in the papers, and everybody believing that she ran away with Mr. Strobel, what should I say?"
"I suppose it would be hard to ignore it altogether, but couldn't you omit saying anything of the rumors that have connected their names?"
"Why, I'll try to, Miss Hilman, but Lizzie will have to know about it some time."
"Certainly, when you write to-morrow you can say what you please about it. Just for to-day I wish you wouldn't. I'll come down early to-morrow morning, and perhaps I will be able to tell you a great deal more than you know now, more than any of us know."
"I do hope you will hear something definite," said Mrs. White, "for you can't tell how much easier I am to know that Lizzie's settled somewhere, that she's alive and in ahome. If you only knew that Mr. Strobel was sick in a hospital, now, it would be better, wouldn't it?"
"Nothing is so dreadful as uncertainty," replied Clara; "you'll be very careful what you write then?"
"As for that, Miss Hilman, I don't see that I need to write at all to-day. It's only a day more, and if you say it won't make any difference to you what I say to-morrow, I'll put it off till then if you like."
"I should be so much obliged! Have you seen Mr. Litizki to-day?"
"No, nor the dark gentleman, either. Mr. Litizki's shop is not far from here, if you'd like to see him."
Clara inquired the way, and soon after the young ladies set out for the little tailor's place of business.
Litizki was his own master in business, and he employed two or more fellow-countrymen as assistants, the number varying with the demands of his enterprise. On this day there were several men in the shop, but they were not there as workmen. Most of them had come to talk with Litizki about the Strobel case. He was not very communicative, but that was his way. Nevertheless he had some things to say, and for this reason his acquaintances found that he talked much more freely than usual.
"I tell you," he insisted, his dull eyes glowing with hate, "Alexander Poubalov is in Boston. I am not one to be mistaken in that man, and his presence here means trouble for any, perhaps all of us."
"What could he wish to do against poor Russians, Nicholas Litizki, who have no intention of revisiting their native country?" asked one of the group.
"Better ask what has he done?" retorted the tailor. "Here is Ivan Strobel, more prosperous than we, with more powerful friends, and what has Poubalov done to him? Would that I knew!"
"As soon as Poubalov appears," remarked another, "Litizki will lay the very next crime that occurs to his hands."
"Where Poubalov goes," said Litizki, "you will everfind treachery and oppression. It is not for you, Peter, to make light of Poubalov. You have felt his hand as well as I."
"Yes," admitted Peter, "but in the Strobel matter you do not forget what the police have discovered, do you? Well might you suspect the dirty spy, were it not that one does not go far, it seems, to find the woman in the case."
"Bah!" sneered Litizki; "do you forget that there are two women in the case? And have you seen either of them? No. Well, I have seen both. I have no unkind word for Lizzie White, with whom they say he went away; but I tell you, friends, Ivan Strobel could not have preferred her to Miss Hilman." He pronounced the name softly as if it aroused a feeling akin to reverence. "You should see her," he continued; "she is a very angel of beauty and goodness. Happy would be the man whose privilege it was simply to worship her; and as for him whom she would permit to love her—Bah! talk to me not about the woman in the case until you have seen Miss Hilman."
His friends listened gravely. They found nothing ludicrous in Litizki's occasionally extravagant language. When he was stirred to something like eloquence, it was almost always by a memory of the wrongs he had suffered, and then no language could have been too imaginative to express the bitterness with which his sympathetic hearers listened.
"Where did you see her, Litizki?" asked one of them.
"Never mind now," he replied; "I have seen her since Strobel disappeared. She is bearing up bravely, and scorns the suggestion that he eloped with Miss White. She is devoting her life to finding him, and it is my opinion that every poor Russian in Boston ought to do the same."
He looked furtively from face to face in the group, to observe the effect of his words. Most of them stared at the floor.
"Strobel was a good man," said one, after a long pause; "but what could any of us do?"
"Do?" repeated the tailor, and his indignant reply diedon his lips as he remembered with sudden distinctness the fiasco of the previous night. "We could at least watch Poubalov, and I, for one, intend to do so. I cannot sit, and cut, and sew, and think, while he is in this country and my friend is in his power."
"Nicholas Litizki," said one who had not spoken previously, "if I were in your place, I would let the Strobel case take care of itself."
The tailor glanced at the speaker.
"You speak as if we were still in Russia," he said, "and you had authority to command me."
"You will do as you please," returned the other; "but if I were in your place, I should keep quiet."
"Listen then, all of you," exclaimed Litizki, with energy; "I shall not keep quiet. I shall pursue Poubalov, I shall do everything possible to effect the rescue of Ivan Strobel, and if I have to sacrifice my business and everything, and every chance I have in the world, I shall do it."
The door of the little workshop opened, and Alexander Poubalov stepped in.
"Good-day, to you, Nicholas Litizki, and friends," he said with easy familiarity. "When one is in a foreign land, and has need of something, he will naturally apply to a fellow-countryman, will he not?"
He looked around at the group, as if expecting a general assent. The men looked darkly at him and were silent. If all had not seen him in Russia, they knew who he was; and if there had been any doubt, they would have but needed to glance at Litizki to see that he was facing his arch-enemy.
The tailor rose from his bench, and his sallow face was deathly pale.
"Alexander Poubalov," he said determinedly, "this is no place for you. You hear no words of welcome——"
"Gently, Litizki, my friend, gently," interposed the spy; "I call simply on business. I want clothes. Will you make them for me?"
"Not for all the wealth of the czar!" returned the tailor, fiercely.
"Then we will waste no time discussing material and prices. Good-day again," and Poubalov walked grandly out.
The group exchanged inquiring glances in silence for a moment, and then Litizki exclaimed:
"You see, friends! you see! I was not mistaken in the man, and he is the same here as in Russia—the spy who goes everywhere and does nothing. I don't need to tell you that he wanted no garments. He came here for a purpose, and he accomplished it. It is now my turn, Vargovitch, to utter a warning. Poubalov's eyes are upon you, and if I were you—Bah!"
Litizki had begun to imitate the serious tone in which his friend had warned him to let the Strobel case alone, but it seemed superfluous to suggest a warning to Vargovitch after he had himself seen the spy.
"Yes, I understand," said Vargovitch, "and I simply repeat that you'd better keep out of the Strobel case."
"Vargovitch," cried Litizki, "you do not talk like a loyal Russian. Is it you who would stand by and let this spy work his will among us?"
"I have no more love for Poubalov and his work than you have, Litizki," replied Vargovitch. "May there not be reasons for my counsel—reasons that you do not understand?"
Litizki peered at the speaker silently and resumed his work. Vargovitch left the room and shortly afterward the other visitors dispersed.
"I would do what Vargovitch says, Nicholas Litizki," remarked one of the tailor's assistants.
Litizki worked away as if he had not heard, and his thoughts were not pleasant or hopeful. It had seemed to him as if every compatriot of his in the city would need but the suggestion to unite in an effort to outwit Poubalov and rescue Strobel. Litizki could not understand it,and he was disappointed. It was while he was meditating thus that Clara and Louise called.
The little tailor almost blushed as he left his bench and went to meet them.
"I should almost say," he began hurriedly, after he had awkwardly acknowledged their greetings, "that you ought not to come here. Are you aware that Poubalov may be, probably is, watching your every step? That man has the eyes of a thousand, and if it were possible to throw him off the track it would be best to do so. But it is impossible. If you did not come here, he would find out that you know me, and he would infer the rest."
"You seem troubled, Mr. Litizki," said Clara, kindly; "have you, too, given up Mr. Strobel?"
"I? Never! It is because I do not give him up that—well, yes, I am troubled. Why disguise the fact that Poubalov is a powerful enemy? I am not a coward, Miss Hilman; my life is not worth enough to me to make me care for it, but I fear that man's power will be too great for the friends of Ivan Strobel."
"You have seen him, then?"
"Yes, I—" Litizki averted his eyes and continued: "He has been here, to-day, not more than half an hour ago."
"I hope, Mr. Litizki," said Clara, "that you will not put yourself in his power. If you feel that it is dangerous to help in the search for Mr. Strobel, you must not do it."
"Dangerous? It is too late to think of that, if I cared about it. That man has possession of Mr. Strobel, and will keep him until he has accomplished some purpose. Strobel will not yield." Litizki paused and looked gloomily away. "You see, it is a question of how to circumvent Poubalov," he added.
"I am afraid, Mr. Litizki, that your loyalty to your friend will bring misfortune upon you. I should be very sorry for that."
"Ah, Miss Hilman," muttered the tailor, and a sad wistfulness lingered briefly in his eyes, "you are worthy of my benefactor. I could not say more."
Clara was deeply touched, and her voice trembled as she said:
"Thank you, Mr. Litizki. I hope to be worthy of your kind thoughts. I may learn something to-night that will put another light on the case. Is it too much to ask you to call at my uncle's house some time during the evening?"
"Not if you lived in Siberia, Miss Hilman. Where is it, and when shall I come?"
Clara gave him the address and left him, begging him to come early. When they were on the way home, Louise said:
"I am more and more amazed at your method every day, dear. Have I not been good to listen, and ask no questions and volunteer no advice?"
"Too good, dear. I should often want advice, and ask it, but that I fear hurting you by not following it. I must go my own way."
"Of course you must, but I was just leading up to this question: What in the world do you want of Mr. Litizki this evening?"
"I hardly know myself, dear; but if that 'second driver' calls, I hope to make Mr. Litizki useful. Will that do?"
It had to, for Clara fell to thinking, and her cousin saw that questions would be irritating.
Mr. Pembroke sent word from his office that he should not come to dinner, and he had not arrived when the servant announced a caller, and handed a card to Clara. It was Poubalov.
"I suppose," said Clara, showing not the least surprise, "that I'd better see him alone. Will you wait here" (they were in the dining-room), "in case I should want you?"
Poubalov smiled and his face looked almost attractive as he rose and bowed when Clara entered the drawing-room. At that instant Clara felt that but for his self-confessed methods of deceit, she could have trusted him, andthis in spite of the black pictures that Litizki and Paul Palovna had drawn of him.
"I am delighted, Miss Hilman," he said, "to observe that you endure your sorrow and your remarkable work so well."
"I am told that nothing escapes you," replied Clara, "and so I suppose you know all about my search for the driver of Mr. Strobel's second carriage."
"Miss Clara," said a servant at the hall door, "a man who says his name is Billings wishes to see you."