THE LITTLE FRONT ROOM.
When Poubalov had fallen to the floor of the car and Clara was bending over him, his dark eyes shone with savage luster as he said:
"I am not hurt, Miss Hilman, but I would I were, if I could thereby gain your sympathy."
"Not hurt!" she repeated aghast at the spectacle he presented, and unable to credit his words. He lay flat on his back, and protruding upward from his closely-buttoned coat was the dagger. It looked as if half the length of the blade had been buried in his body.
The passengers gathered about, horrified and excited, while the man whom they supposed to be dying, sat up in the aisle and deliberately wrenched the blade from his bosom.
"See," he said holding it aloft where nearly everybody could observe it, "the point is badly blunted, and I shall have to grind it down, but there is no blood upon it!"
Then he laughed quietly, sprang to his feet, and with strong arms helped Clara back to her chair. She was horribly shocked by the episode, for Litizki's melancholy meditations rushed back upon her, and she seemed again to hear him promising yet to do something for her that should be of great service. And this was it!
She did not then realize that it was a remark of her own that had inspired his mad brain to action, and it was well that she did not, for it was enough that she should suffer as she did, accusing herself of failing to foresee what would happen if the little tailor were permitted to go on tormenting himself with the mystery, and indulging his immeasurable hatred of Poubalov. How could she havebeen so selfish, she thought, as to encourage the unfortunate man to devote his life to her purpose, and to arouse such devotion that he was carried by it to the very commission of murder? She shuddered as the word occurred to her, and she looked appealingly at Poubalov, as if to seek from him some further assurance that the miracle had occurred to avert the tragedy that Litizki had planned.
"It is absolutely nothing, Miss Hilman," said the spy, interpreting her glance correctly, "save a hole in my coat and the probable perforation of some interesting documents. I will show you."
Having just placed her in the chair, he was bending over her as he spoke, and now he stood erect, and while all the passengers looked on amazed, he unbuttoned his coat and drew from the breast pocket a large leather wallet filled with papers.
"I wear no armor," he said, smiling as he laid the dagger on the window ledge, that he might use both hands in showing how he had escaped. One side of the wallet had the mark of the knife, a gash clean cut in the leather, evidence sufficient that the blow had fallen with all the force that Litizki could command. Opening the wallet, he took out several folded papers, showing without revealing their nature, that the blade had pierced them. At last he drew forth a little copper plate, and held it up to the light.
"Yes," he said, "that finished it. The wallet itself was almost sufficient to save me, but without this plate I think I should have been scratched a bit. I had this plate engraved a short time ago in New York, as I wished to present my card with my name printed in characters that would be intelligible to English-speaking people. The engraver gave me the plate, of course, when he delivered my cards, and at the moment I put it here for convenience. I had forgotten all about it. You see," handing the plate to a gentleman who stood beside him, "my friend managed to erase my name but he left me my life."
"You are to be congratulated," exclaimed the gentleman, returning the plate after a vain attempt to decipherthe name. The point of the dagger had completely obliterated several letters and scratched most of the rest.
Clara sat during this with her handkerchief to her lips, trying to recover her mental poise, and concentrating her mind on the fact that a tragedy had not taken place. The train rolled slowly into the station, and the passengers were speedily occupied with escaping from their confinement. One officious gentleman remarked to Poubalov:
"You will, of course, report this matter to the police? I shall be pleased to give you my card if you require a witness, although I was in the wash-room at the time you were struck down."
"Thank you," responded Poubalov, with a grave smile, "I shall not require your card, as I have no complaint to make."
"What!" blustered the passenger, "you won't have your assailant arrested? Such a man ought not to be at large."
"The railroad officials may take that view of it if they choose," said the spy, calmly; "I have no desire in the matter."
Amazed and indignant, the officious passenger hunted up an official of the company, and having insisted on a thorough investigation of the attempted murder, went home complacent in that he had done his duty as a citizen. The train-men, of course, reported what they knew of the occurrence to their chief, but the assailant had leaped from the train, the name of the victim was not known, and the result was a lame account of the episode at the nearest police station late in the evening. The police had nothing to work upon, and, therefore, said nothing of it to the reporters when they made their regular calls at the station; and when at last, very late at night, a reporter to whose ears an exaggerated rumor had come, telephoned for corroboration, the sergeant in charge could only say that something of the kind had occurred; and thus it came about that one enterprising newspaper had an excusably imperfect report of the occurrence.
Clara would have left the train without Poubalov's assistance,but he took her arm in his, caught up her handbag, and helped her to the platform, in spite of herself. Still suffering from the shock, she realized by the close contact with him how masterful was his influence, and how by force of character alone he must accomplish quite as much in his unattractive employment as by intrigue and deceit.
"I thank you," she said faintly when she stood upon the platform; "I can go alone quite well now. I cannot tell you how glad I am that you escaped. I should have felt guilty if anything serious had happened, and I feel to blame for what has occurred."
"You mustn't borrow trouble that way, Miss Hilman," he responded, gallantly; "the sanest man might well leap to folly if he imagined that you wished him to."
"It pains me to have you make light of it," said Clara; "I assure you that I have quite recovered."
"You will permit me to hand you to a carriage, Miss Hilman? I will not intrude further, believe me."
She nodded assent, and they were about to proceed along the platform when Poubalov stepped squarely in front of her.
"Pardon me," he said earnestly, "if I do not go as far even as the carriage. I have not yet had opportunity to say what I called to tell you about Wednesday evening, or to explain why I left your house so abruptly and informally. I shall call to-morrow to complete my errand. I do not ask your permission to call, as what I would say is important, and you will want to hear it. This way, cabby! take care of this lady. Till to-morrow, Miss Hilman."
He had moved about slightly as he spoke and now darted away with quick strides. By standing in front of her and moving as he did, he had completely concealed from her view the driver, Billings, who was walking rapidly down the platform and who passed close by them.
Mystified as usual by his strange conduct, but relieved that he was gone, Clara followed the cabman and in due time arrived safely at home. She went to bed at once, tellingher cousin enough of what had occurred to show that she had endured a strain. Louise sat in her room until late at night, but Clara slept peacefully to all appearances, and seemed to require no watching. In the early morning Litizki's letter arrived, and a servant took it to Clara's room. She read it before dressing.
While it recalled the shudders with which she had viewed the possibilities of Litizki's crime, and made her conscientious soul more sensible of what she deemed her responsibility in the matter, it nevertheless awakened hope afresh in her heart. Litizki was so positive in his belief that Ivan was confined in Poubalov's lodging-house, that she was well nigh convinced by his assurances, crazy though his brain undoubtedly was; but there were Poubalov's own utterances on that night when the little tailor had started to open the door to the hall room. They were not direct, but was ever Poubalov direct save when telling a straightforward lie? He had prevented Litizki from opening that door, and were not his ambiguous words susceptible of the interpretation that Ivan was, as Litizki had said, confined there, bound and gagged?
She read and reread again the parts of the letter that had reference to this clew, and decided that it would be wrong not to act upon Litizki's suggestions. She was resolved that nothing she would do should be calculated to precipitate another tragedy, but rescue her lover she must, and she set herself to thinking how it could be done.
When she was dressed, she went to her cousin's room, and Louise was surprised to be awakened by Clara, who looked none the worse for her extraordinary adventures.
"I'm not going to ask you how you are this morning," said Louise, with mock resentment; "I couldn't look as well as you do if I employed a trained nurse the year round."
"Perhaps I look better than I feel, dear," responded Clara; "but I confess that, in spite of everything, I do feel hopeful. Here is a sad letter from poor Litizki. Readit, and tell me if, underneath all his terrible madness, there is not some ground for hope."
Louise read with awe-struck attention, and laid the long letter down with a shudder of horror.
"How dreadful!" she exclaimed under her breath, "and yet with what perfect clearness he expresses himself! No rambling, few repetitions, everything directly to the point as he sees it."
"That is the way it impresses me. Litizki was not all mad. Would it not be madness in us to ignore his information?"
"Indeed it would! what will you do?"
"Do you know Paul Palovna's address?"
"No, but Ralph would."
"I shall write a note to Paul. Get right up, please, and write to Ralph, telling him to see that my note reaches Paul as soon as possible. Of course, we cannot follow poor Litizki's plan, for he believed that he had killed Poubalov. How he must suffer! But we can investigate his theory, at all events, in our own way."
The letters they wrote were taken to Ralph Harmon by a servant, and shortly before noon Paul appeared at Mr. Pembroke's house, in answer to Clara's summons. Her uncle had returned to Boston as he had planned, but he had sent word that he should not be able to come home until some time in the evening. So, again, Clara was thrown upon her own resources for guidance and action.
Clara went over the whole situation with Paul, who expressed his regret that she had not sooner called upon him for assistance.
"Not," he said, "that I could have done anything better than you have, but that I should have liked to help."
"Events have happened too rapidly," she replied, "to make it possible for me to think of more than each episode as it occurred. I don't want you to take a step in this if it is to be at the cost of the slightest danger to yourself."
"There is no danger," said Paul; "I do not underrate Poubalov's capacity for evil, but he has no reason to workagainst me. I doubt if he would recognize me, though he probably knows my name as that of Strobel's most intimate friend. As I understand it, you wish me to make a thorough investigation of Poubalov's house."
"Yes, it should have been done days ago, and I would have seen to it had Litizki told me of his experience there."
"It will be very simple. I will go there to look for rooms. Even if he should be there, and see me, he cannot well prevent me from going through the house. I will report to you before the day is over."
Clara had not shown Litizki's letter to Paul, but she told him enough about it and its contents to convince him that the tailor had been on the right track. He was in feverish haste to get downtown and effect a solution of the mystery at once, and he more than half believed that he should succeed.
His hope that Poubalov would not be in at the time of his call was realized, of course, for the spy was at that time on his way up the harbor after bidding the Cephalonia bon voyage. A scrubwoman answered his ring at 32 Bulfinch Place and left him standing in the hall while she went for the landlady.
Paul had observed that the window just over the door was concealed by the blinds, whereas every other window on the front of the house was fully exposed.
"I have several rooms vacant," said the landlady as she came jingling a bunch of keys from a back room. She was a stout, good-humored-looking woman whose pleasant face, a little hardened by business dealings, perhaps, did not suggest the duplicity that would be essential to an alliance with such a man as Poubalov. "What kind of a room do you want?"
Paul thought he would look at them all.
"I don't mind the price so much," he said, "as the way the room strikes me."
"Well," responded the landlady with a sigh, "if youwant a five-dollar room, I'd like to save climbing stairs to show those at two dollars. Come on."
"There's a room for five," she said, opening the door of the back room up one flight. It was the room adjoining that occupied by Poubalov. "The others on this floor are occupied."
"This little front room, too?" asked Paul, his hand on the door. He had quietly tried it and found it locked before she answered in the affirmative and started up the next flight.
They looked at every room in the house above the second floor. Some of them were occupied, but the landlady opened the doors and looked in. Paul noticed that the only locked door was the one to the front hall room next to Poubalov's.
"Well," said the landlady at last as they stood on the landing beside Poubalov's door, "do you see anything you like?"
"Yes," answered Paul, "I'll take this back room," and he took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to her. He said he would occupy the room at once, and the landlady gave him a house key.
While this transaction was in progress, a young woman came up the stairs, humming a tune with that nonchalance that indicates familiarity with one's surroundings, opened the door of the little front room with a key she took from her purse, and went in, leaving the door open until she had thrown back the blinds.
"She's been with me a year and a half," remarked the landlady, complacently, "and I don't believe you could hire her to occupy any other room."
WHAT PAUL PALOVNA SAW.
Paul was not disheartened by his discovery, or by the landlady's comment. He believed that she was telling the truth, and that the door that Litizki supposed to communicate with the little front room really opened into a huge closet, a convenience with which the old-fashioned house abounded. He had paid a week's rent, and he determined to get some good out of it. Accordingly, he returned to his regular quarters, and packed a bag with personal effects, as if he were going upon a journey. This he took down to the room in Bulfinch Place. He saw the landlady again as he entered.
"By the way," he said, "is there any communication between my room and the one in front?"
"No," she replied; "there's a door there that was put in years ago when a family occupied the whole of that floor, but it is nailed up. It won't open from either side, so you needn't be afraid. There's a very quiet gentleman in the front room, so you won't be disturbed."
"All right, thanks," responded Paul, thinking that in due time he might make good use of the landlady's proclivity for gossip. He went to his room and studied the disused door attentively. There was a keyhole, but it was securely plugged. He lay upon the floor and peered under, but the door came close down upon the threshold, and nothing was to be seen.
"It's a disagreeable expedient," he muttered, "but the end justifies the means in this case. I won't say anything to Miss Hilman about it, though."
He opened his bag and took out a gimlet that he had bought on the way to his permanent room. Then he drewa chair to the door, stood upon it, and began to bore, starting at a level with his eyes, and slanting slightly downward. His notion was that Poubalov would not be so likely to observe the tiny hole if it were a foot or two above his head as if it were lower. For the same reason he bored very close to the edge of a panel, and he took great care not to let the gimlet more than pierce the further side of the wood. It would never do to let any fresh dust show on the carpet in Poubalov's room.
After frequent experiments, to observe how far he had penetrated, he found that he could faintly discern the light from Poubalov's windows when he placed his eye close to the door and shaded it with his hands. Then he took a rusty nail that he pulled from the wall of his closet, and, working it patiently with his fingers, pushed it through the partially-bored hole until half its length must have protruded into the other room. A little more effort and he could put the nail in place and withdraw it without the slightest noise. Among the trifles that had accumulated in his possessions was an untrained lithograph representing cupids throwing flowers as big as themselves at one another. He could hardly remember how he came to have it; some young lady sent it to him, probably, as long ago as last Valentine's Day; but there it was, with a neat little card attached; and he hung it on the nail to excuse his operation should the landlady happen to notice it. There were plenty of hooks in the room, but he would tell her that it was his fancy to embellish the door.
"There," he thought, as he contemplated his finished work, "if our spy is not more observing and suspicious than I think he is, I shall be able to take a look at him occasionally."
Having carefully cleaned up the slight litter he had made, he locked the door of his room and went to make his report to Clara.
He told her frankly that he believed Litizki had been mistaken about the little front room. "But," he added, "I have taken the back room for a week, and I shall be surprisedif I do not make some discovery before my time is up."
Intent upon being on the ground, where he could watch every movement of Poubalov, he hurried back to Bulfinch Place, and sat himself down to pass time with books until the spy should come in.
All day long Clara heeded her uncle's injunction to rest, but that was because there was nothing she could do. Moreover, she expected Poubalov, and she was more than anxious to be at home to receive him. He came about five o'clock. The young ladies were refreshing themselves with tea, and Louise, who never ceased to be amazed at her cousin's proceedings, almost gasped when she saw Clara greet him cordially and hasten to get a cup for him.
One would not have expected Poubalov to show fatigue, if he ever felt it, but if he were not weary on this occasion, something had occurred to disturb him. His eyes were heavy, his accent harder to understand than usual, and it was not until several minutes had passed, and he had drank freely of tea, that he spoke with anything like his customary masterful confidence. Clara led the conversation at the start. After the first greetings she referred to the episode in the car, saying:
"I should have thought you would suffer as I did from the shock of that terrible assault. It was dreadful to look at, and how much more dreadful to be the intended victim."
"You are mistaken, Miss Hilman," responded the spy; "the very shock of the blow convinced me that I was unharmed. There was therefore no more occasion for alarm on my part than as if a book had fallen from the rack upon my head."
"But, really, I supposed the worst had happened," insisted Clara, "for you not only fell but you gasped——"
"Naturally. To put it roughly, the fellow knocked the breath out of me."
"And have you heard nothing of Litizki?"
Poubalov looked at her gravely as he answered:
"I have seen him."
"Seen him!" echoed both his listeners, and "where?" asked Clara.
"He was not under arrest," answered Poubalov; "he was free, as free as he ever will be with the memory of the recent past to haunt him, as it certainly will. You will never see him again"—he raised his hand deprecatingly; "pardon me, I did not mean to suggest the slightest discomfort. He has not committed suicide, and I do not know that he contemplates it."
He turned his attention to his tea, and both young ladies were silent for a moment. Then Louise found an excuse for withdrawing, and Clara was left alone with the inscrutable foe to her happiness. There was a marked pause after Louise had gone, Clara waiting for Poubalov, and the spy—who can tell what was coursing through his mind? At length he set down his cup, and with an attempt at the aggressive self-possession that usually characterized his demeanor, he said:
"I owe you an explanation, Miss Hilman."
"Only one?" she asked coldly, but there was a strange smile on her face.
"Many," responded the spy, and there was an expression on his features, in his bearing, in the tones of his voice, that, but for the circumstances, might have been credited to sincerity. He was either not his usual self, or he was playing a much deeper game than any he had yet revealed. "Many," he repeated, "and they will all be made in due time. Do you see that I honor you in the highest way that is possible for me? I mean by not treating you to the customary forms of courtesy which are the more or less transparent garments of falsehood. I do not come here with a plausible story to account for my conduct, asking you to accept it as an apology whether you believe it, or not. I tell you the truth, so far as I speak at all; and when the nature of the case would compel me to lie if I opened my lips, I am silent."
"Or you evade the question," interposed Clara, andagain she smiled provokingly, but there was no invitation to feel at ease in her expression. Poubalov did not misinterpret it, and it almost seemed as if he, the master mind, were discomposed.
"Perhaps I do," he admitted after a moment; "my habits of speech are not such as conduce to absolute candor even with you, whom I respect too highly to consciously deceive. Tell me, Miss Hilman, will you not, can you not believe that I tell you the truth?"
"I have thought about it a great deal," replied Clara steadily, "and sometimes I almost think you do; but, you know, you have really had very little conversation with me."
"True enough, and I must confess that I never found it so hard to take my part in a conversation as I do at this minute. I usually lead it, I may say dominate it," and he smiled a little; "usually, you see, I make people, men and women, believe me. I would beg you to, Miss Hilman, if only I knew how."
"Why try to compel me to stand on the same plane as you do?" asked Clara; "you confess your habits of deceit. How can I promise to believe you without confessing that, for this moment at least, I accept your own style of intercourse?"
"You are an invincible logician, Miss Hilman," exclaimed Poubalov, compressing his lips. "I give up, and will let my words stand or fall on their merits, according as you judge them. I came here on Wednesday evening to tell you some things I had discovered. The man Billings called before I had begun to speak. I departed unceremoniously, because I did not wish to meet him."
"I know that," said Clara, simply. "I knew it at the time."
"Of course you did," responded Poubalov, crestfallen; "you could not infer otherwise, and my confession has all the appearance, therefore, of a pitiably weak attempt to bolster up my claim to veracity."
"I do not interpret it that way. I can make my own testof your veracity. I shall listen to whatever you have to say, without reference to what you call a confession."
"Well, then," resumed the spy, speaking rapidly, "this is what I came to say. I had made investigations in my own way along the lines of the theory laid down with respect to the possible operations of Nihilists against Mr. Strobel. I caught Litizki shadowing me, and recognized him as one with whom I had come in official contact in Russia. It seemed to me child's play to deal with him, for I had no respect for his intellect. I supposed at first that he was tracking me as the agent of a Nihilistic society. Then I learned that he was devoted to Strobel. I knew he would come to see me, but not openly. So I sat up for him, and he crept into the house like a thief. We had a conversation that I will not pause to detail. I did my best to impress him with my power, and then let him go away, for I wanted him to be at large, and I did not want him just then to report to you what I had told him. You see, I purposely allowed him to nurse his suspicions of me. Next day I called at his shop, my sole purpose being to learn who his associates were, and to endeavor to fasten upon them the taking off of Strobel. Among the men in his shop was one Boris Vargovitch, at one time somewhat of a leader among the Nihilists. The rest that I was going to say on that evening I do not need to say now, for I have since become convinced that Litizki was acting irresponsibly in pursuing me, and that if Nihilists were active, he was not in their confidence. Furthermore, I am now convinced that neither Vargovitch nor any other former Nihilist in Boston was concerned in the Strobel matter. I was mistaken in supposing that the Nihilists continued their close organization in this country. They may send revolutionary literature to Russia, but they do not keep up active operations here. I withdraw my innuendoes against them, therefore, and have to confess that you are now just as far along in your painful search as you were five days ago."
Clara was deeply impressed by this narration. She couldsee no flaw in it, no evidence of untruthfulness. But there was a touch of evasion in the conclusion, and she remarked with merciless coolness:
"You do not say that we are as far along as five days ago. You confine the lack of progress to me."
There was a hasty glance from the spy that looked like apprehension.
"Of course, I catch the significance of your words," he said; "you think I know more than I tell, that I instigated the abduction of Strobel."
"Tell me," she said, looking straight into his eyes, "why did you not wish to meet Billings?"
He hesitated, and the color rose slowly to his cheeks.
"No," he answered, "not now. I have said all I can for the present. I am still pursuing this matter, Miss Hilman, but I must put off further information. I would ask you to trust me to report faithfully to you but that it is such a farce for two persons like you and me to bandy words."
"It is a cruel farce," she exclaimed, rising indignantly; "you pretend to help me and you laboriously tell me things I already know."
She walked across the room, and her brain struggled for a plan in the confusion of impulses, hopes and fears. What might Paul accomplish? Would she not surely lose a possible point by dismissing the spy once and for all, and might she not some day gain much by keeping in some sort of communication with him? This was the policy she had determined upon, and she would adhere to it. So she turned and faced him. He had risen, waiting her word of dismissal or encouragement.
"I will give you one more opportunity to tell me the whole truth and make amends," she said sternly; "I believe what you have told me to-night. Next time I must have all, and nothing short of it. Will you come to-morrow?"
"Yes, Miss Hilman, in the evening."
He bowed gravely and left the house.
Paul did not venture to go to dinner when eveningcame. He read on and on, waiting to hear Poubalov enter the adjoining room. It was late in the evening when at last he heard the door open and close, and he knew that the spy was at home.
Then Paul laid down his book and stepped cautiously upon the chair by the door. He carefully drew out the nail and applied his eye to the hole. He commanded a view of the very center of Poubalov's room.
The spy had thrown himself into a chair, and was sitting as if deeply wrapped in thought. There were wrinkles in his brow and his lips were set close together.
After a few moments thus, he took his traveling bag from the bureau and unlocked it. Having fumbled over the contents, he drew forth a cabinet photograph that he took directly under the chandelier where the light was strongest. His back was partially turned to Paul, and he held the card so that the observer at the nail hole could see it distinctly.
With a shock of surprise Paul recognized it as a picture of Clara Hilman.
Poubalov gazed long and earnestly at it and then touched it reverently to his lips.
POUBALOV'S REVOLUTION.
Paul's heart seemed to stand still as he reflected on Poubalov's act. The original purpose of the spy in calling upon Strobel and instigating his abduction, was as much a mystery as ever, but it was one that could be explained on the ground of Poubalov's confessed relations with the government with which Strobel had been in conflict. There was nothing personal in that; but here was an element of personal relationship that might lead to worse than complications.
Poubalov in love—no! not that sacred word; infatuated, rather, with Clara Hilman.
What hope could there now be that the spy, having some day accomplished the purpose for which he had crossed the ocean to find Strobel, would set him free? In the very hopelessness of his passion would he not first murder Strobel, and then Clara herself? Paul felt sick with horror as the possibility of these tragedies occurred to his mind. They were more than possible. With Poubalov's character in view, they seemed like certainties. What could be done to avert them? What would Clara say? How revolting, more than terrifying, would be the revelation that this subtle, conscienceless foe had dared to love her!
At first blush Paul felt that he could not tell Clara what he had seen. If there were only something that he himself could do to solve the mystery of Ivan's disappearance, for only Strobel's presence in perfect health could serve to check the spy's villainous course. He held absolute command of the situation as long as he succeeded in keeping Strobel in hiding. As the sense of his helplessness grewupon him, like an insidious vine whose twining tendrils choke the growth of a sapling, Paul wondered that poor Litizki's devotion had not the sooner driven him to madness.
He saw that, with all its evils, the situation must be made clear to Clara. He would continue his observations during the next forenoon, and then report to her.
Poubalov had said that he would call in the evening; Clara, therefore, in the early afternoon went to see Mrs. White. She went with no purpose of accomplishing anything in the mystery, but rather as an act of kindness to report how she had found Lizzie; but as she was about to turn into Ashburton Place, she saw Paul at the foot of the hill and she waited for him to come up. He had just started for Roxbury.
"I have something to tell," he said in answer to her anxious look of inquiry, "but I fear it is nothing that will be helpful, and it will certainly be disagreeable."
"I was going to call on Mrs. White," responded Clara; "suppose you go with me; but you can tell me what you have discovered before we go in."
"If you think best," and Paul hesitated.
"I do. Have no fear of me. Have I not learned to endure anything that can happen?"
"Poubalov loves you, Miss Hilman."
Clara blushed very faintly, looked straight into Paul's eyes for an instant, then off at the house-tops, and answered:
"I felt it. How did you find out?"
Amazed and relieved, Paul told her.
"I have made myself a spy," he concluded, "but I felt that the circumstances justified me."
"So I think, too," rejoined Clara. "Well, let us go on. I don't know at this moment how to act, but I cannot help thinking that this will bring matters to a crisis, and I hope, in spite of reason and fears, that it will end happily. I wonder where Poubalov got my photograph."
Then she remembered that when the reporter, Shaughnessey,had returned her photograph, it had been placed for the moment upon the mantel in the drawing-room. The next day she had looked for it, and, not finding it at once, had supposed that Louise or a servant had put it away. In the stress of events she had thought no more about it; but Poubalov's call and bareheaded flight had occurred after the return of the photograph, and the natural and satisfactory explanation, therefore, was that he had stolen it.
"There is one more thing," added Paul as they walked along, "and I suppose it shows that in order to circumvent this man one must have sleepless eyes and untiring vigilance. As soon as Poubalov went to bed last night, I hurried out and got supper. It didn't take me long, for I was anxious to get to sleep, so that I might get up early enough this morning to keep track of him. I rose before six, and took a preliminary peep through my nail hole. Poubalov had gone, and up to just now, when I left, had not returned."
"I think there is nothing lost," said Clara; "he is to call on me this evening, and your discovery makes it certain that he will come. If you will come out to the house ahead of him, I should like it ever so much if you would follow him when he goes away."
They were at Mrs. White's door, and Paul preferred not to go in. There was nothing more to be said, and it seemed better that he should return to Bulfinch Place, to observe Poubalov's doings, should he return.
Mrs. White, comparatively free from anxiety about her daughter, seemed more than desirous of talking about Mr. Strobel.
"I had a letter from Lizzie last night," she said, "and she told me how kind you were. I'm real glad you went to see her, 'cause it must make you feel so much more satisfied to know that Mr. Strobel did not run away with her. And you know, Miss Hilman, I can't quite think that the dark gentleman, Mr. Pou—something, has anything to do with it. He seems such a perfect gentleman."
"It is very hard to understand it all," responded Clara; "but what makes you think Poubalov is better than we have thought him?"
"Two or three things. Lizzie wrote me that he called to see her just after you had gone away, and she says he seemed real earnest about trying to find Mr. Strobel, and was just as polite as could be."
"Doesn't she say anything more about his call than that?"
"No, except that he spoke very kindly, and didn't let her think that he had suspected her of anything wrong."
"I should say not," remarked Clara, rather bitterly; "no one would know better than he that Lizzie was not concerned in the affair."
"I don't see why, Miss Hilman. Why shouldn't he think what other people thought? I'm afraid he did, for last Thursday evening he called here, and we had a real good talk about it. He seemed——"
"Did you tell him I had gone to New York?" interrupted Clara, sharply, for she was impatient with these ingenuous statements of what Poubalov seemed to be.
"Land sakes, no!" replied Mrs. White, "but he told me he was going on, and when he suggested so kindly that he would look up Lizzie, and let me know how she was situated, I was glad to give him her address. He hasn't been here since, though. Perhaps he hasn't got back yet."
Clara wondered wearily how stupidity should manage to flourish in a world where people have to struggle so hard against one another, and then she immediately reproached herself for the thought, recalling what a taxing puzzle Poubalov's character presented to herself. She made no effort to undeceive Mrs. White—how could she with so little as she herself actually knew?—but rather turned the conversation into simple channels until she took her departure.
Paul arrived at Mr. Pembroke's about six o'clock, reporting that Poubalov had been absent all day until latein the afternoon, and that when he came in he immediately began preparations for going out again.
"I came along at once," said Paul, "lest he should get here ahead of me."
Clara asked her uncle if he would like to meet the spy.
"No," he answered uneasily; "what good purpose would it serve?"
"I thought that perhaps you might read him better than I can," said Clara; "I don't see how we can help coming to a crisis this evening, and if you could help, we might bring about the release of Ivan all the sooner."
Mr. Pembroke was careworn, and all his utterances and actions had been marked by indecision since his return from New York.
"I am afraid I can do no good," he said with a sigh; "handle the situation as best you can, Clara. I believe you will find your happiness restored to you shortly."
With that he shut himself in his library, and they saw no more of him that night.
Poubalov acted more like himself than he did the day before, but it was apparent to Clara that his confident self-possession was maintained by an effort.
"Must we begin where we left off yesterday?" he said by way of introduction.
"You may begin where you please," responded Clara, "but you must tell me the truth. I think you are going to do so, Mr. Poubalov."
"I cannot remember that I have told you a single lie since I met you, Miss Hilman. It must be a strange admission for you to hear me make, that I am not certain when I have spoken truly and when falsely; but that is the fault of the peculiar work that my emperor has set me to do, and it is not due in the present instance to any purpose of deceiving you. I am going to begin by telling you of a discovery that I have made since I began to work on this case—a discovery that to me, at least, is startling.
"My experience throughout all my life has been such as to make me believe that honesty and sincerity did not existsave in the characters of simple-minded people whom it would be too harsh to call fools, and yet who are nothing short of fools when you look at them from the point of view of self-interest and material advancement. What have I found to be the chief requisite of leadership, whether in guiding the state, or seeking to wreck it, or in commerce? Craft, Miss Hilman, craft that suggests and includes indirect methods to attain ends, the holding out of false hopes, the display of the gilded side of things, the concealment of the base material—in short, trickery, which is but another name for treachery. I have believed that keen minds saw the folly of what we call honesty, and to find candor in a person of intelligence would have seemed to me an anomaly. I have discovered that extraordinary combination, Miss Hilman, and have been stupefied to find that my methods, however subtle, have availed nothing in opposition to this unaffected, unconscious honesty. It is a revelation to my mind that threatens to effect a revolution in my convictions."
"One moment, Mr. Poubalov," interrupted Clara; "your habit of circuitous approach to a point is still strong upon you, and according to your own admissions, it is out of place in conversation with me. Permit me, then, to help you adjust yourself to your incomplete revolution, and I will do so without any clever turns of phraseology. I am, then, the embodiment of this wonderful candor that you have discovered. It would have taken you a long time to say it. I appreciate the compliment. Go on, please."
There was a suspicion of a tremor in Poubalov's voice as he continued:
"Yes, you have said it, beating me, as usual, in the one part wherein I thought I was skilled. But I have to add, Miss Hilman, that having discovered the existence of honesty associated with the highest order of intelligence, I am astounded to find that I not only do not scorn and despise it, I admire it—more than that, I am conquered by it; I yield to it as a serf to the will of his master, and Iworship her who—" his voice railed him for an instant and then he concluded, "you, Miss Hilman."
Clara sat looking calmly at the spy, much as if she were regarding a play in which he was an actor, or, as it seemed to him, as if she were studying a strange anatomical specimen.
"This must be a remarkable experience for you," she said simply.
"It is a marvel!" he responded with great emphasis; "I, who knew only loyalty to my czar, find that there is something more potent to stir me than his beck, or his reward. I love, and with all the strength of my being!"
"It doesn't seem at all strange to me," she murmured, her voice low and musical; "I have never rated you as less than a human being, though at times you have seemed to fall infinitely below the standard of such men as it has been my good fortune to know."
Poubalov winced at this merciless thrust at his intense egotism, and Clara went on:
"What I do not understand is why you should have been to the mortifying pains of telling me about it, for it is a farce for such persons as you and me to bandy words. Has your revolution so far progressed as to convince you that it is worth while to waste energy?"
"A man must speak out when he loves as I do," said Poubalov, desperately. "I will not rave, as I have read that lovers do; I will stick to my logic; but I must confess that when I awakened to this emotion, I could not help a day dream in which I saw you by my side, and the sight was sweet, it was inspiring, for it cannot be often that minds of such caliber as ours are brought together and united for life."
"It will be better to return to your logic, Mr. Poubalov," said Clara, gently; his tones were passionate in spite of his evident effort, and she had no desire to lead him on to a freer outburst. "Let us dismiss this experience of yours, in which, of course, I share only as a disinterested spectator. What have you done with the man I do love?"
Poubalov rose, and Clara expected to see him pace up and down the room after the manner of her uncle when he was agitated; but the spy stood before her trembling in every limb.
"You have asked me the wrong question, Miss Hilman," he said hoarsely, "and I shall not answer it."
"Then," exclaimed Clara, "either leave me at once, or proceed in your own way to tell me what I wish to know. I have been days in my search, and I can listen to you for the whole of this evening if it is necessary in order to learn what I must know."
"Suppose I should tell you," said Poubalov, slowly, "that I can lay my hands upon Strobel at any moment. What would you say?"
"I should bid you to bring him to me."
Poubalov shook his head.
"I should not do it," he said.
AT ONE O'CLOCK A.M.
Clara rose at this and faced her adversary, speaking with intensity no less than his:
"It discredits your boasted intelligence," she said, "to presume so much as to suggest a compromise to me. There can be no middle course. You do not care that I consider you an unspeakable villain, but you must see that you are bound to do one thing or the other. Bring my lover to me, or—it would be idle boasting to say what the alternative would be, but you know that I should never cease to pursue you. In my own way I should certainly circumvent you some day."
"Yes, you would, I believe that; but, Miss Hilman, I decline to accept your first alternative," and he strode toward the door.
"Stop!" she cried, running forward and getting in his way. "I told you this would be your last opportunity to tell me the whole truth. You haven't told me anything yet that I want to know. I meant what I said. I will not have you come here again."
"Nevertheless, we shall meet again, Miss Hilman."
Poubalov now appeared imperturbable. He had confessed to a certain weakness and defeat; in the presence of excitement and insistence he was easily the master of himself and the situation.
Clara realized quickly that she had lost a point by yielding even momentarily to her emotions, and she strove to recover by assuming once more what Poubalov called her logical position.
"You have said that you love me," she said as calmly as possible; "can you ask me to believe that when you deliberatelycause me the most cruel grief? Is that consistent? With all your confessed craft, you have a certain half-respectable consistency, for you confess to me at least, how base you are. Will you, then, love and torture me, too?"
The spy became deathly pale for an instant, and then answered:
"We shall see. I have made my confession, and nothing now shall swerve me from accomplishing my purpose in my own way."
"Is there such a thing as love of fair play in you?" asked Clara, her emotions now quelled and every instinct alive once more to fencing with her adversary.
"I suppose not, except in an argument. Even then it might not seem to be fair play to the party who found himself overmatched."
"In your arguments with me you do not treat me with the ordinary fairness of admitting me to a common ground with you. You withhold facts without which I cannot argue as well as I might."
"That, Miss Hilman, is because our contest is over a real issue, not over an abstraction."
"I don't wonder that poor Litizki regarded you as a fiend!"
"Therein you manifest yourself a woman. You long for invective, but your refinement cannot teach you how to use epithets effectively."
"This is the end of talking," said Clara, moving away; "I will not detain you."
Poubalov promptly bowed ceremoniously, bade her good-evening, and left the house.
Paul slipped out after him, and tried his ability at playing "shadow."
Clara was greatly disturbed by her interview with Poubalov, although it had added nothing to her knowledge of the circumstances with which she was blindly battling. She felt like retiring at once, for she was exhausted, but there was a fresh call upon her strength within a few minutes of the spy's departure. This time it was the manwhom she knew only by his first name, "Mike," who had been sent from the livery stable to take Ivan to the wedding. He was an uncouth, illiterate young man, the most violent contrast imaginable to her recent visitor, but also the most welcome, for there could be no manner of doubt as to his simple honesty. Clara found it a relief to talk with him apart from the fact that his message was one that stirred her with new hope and stimulated her weary brain to new plans for Ivan's deliverance.
"I was to say to ye," said Mike, "how I'd had me eyes an' more, too, last night, on the feller what did the trick to me wheel."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Clara eagerly; "but what do you mean? Did somebody send you to tell me?"
"Yes'm, me boss. I told me boss about it, an' he says you go to Miss Hilman with that, an' tell her all about it, an', says he, if it's anything that can be useful to her you can do, do it, says he."
"You must thank him for me," said Clara. "Now tell me, please, how and where you saw this man, and what he said. I won't interrupt you."
"It's not me as would like to tell you what he said, miss. He wasn't speakin' to a lady, an' I'm thinkin' a lady wouldn't 'a' give him the cause to curse as I did."
Mike grinned in enjoyment of some retrospect that Clara thought she could imagine, and she smiled and waited patiently for him to tell his story in his own way.
"It was last evenin', miss, at the corner of Dover an' Washington streets. I was done with me work for the day, an' was standin' in a saloon by the bar, havin' a drop of beer by myself, when this loafer came in. He stood alongside o' me an' called for something, I don't mind now what, for I was onto him, an' was thinkin' to meself would I thump him, or would I have an argyment. I was lookin' straight at him, me hand on me beer glass, an' I suppose he noticed me for that, for pretty soon he turns around an' with a kind of a start, 'Hello!' says he.
"Now I don't know what would 'a' happened if hehadn't spoke, for I would 'a' spoke to him, an' it might 'a' been all the same, but I was that mad all of a sudden, that I let the beer fly in his face. With that he jumped on me an' we had a fine fight, till the bartenders came round an' chucked us both into the street. They was a policeman near by, so we quit fightin', an' went to another bar where we had a drink an' got friendly. He was already pretty full, miss, an' I was as sober as I am now, an' after three or four more drinks he got to talkin' confidential about that wheel."
Clara was on the qui vive with anxiety to know just what had occurred between Mike and his acquaintance, while at the same time she felt repugnance to basing any serious efforts upon the words of a drunken man, as well as distrust as to the value of a clew from such a source; but she felt, too, that she could stop at nothing in the emergency that confronted her. So she asked, "What did he say, Michael?"
"First off he was for denyin' that he had anythin' to do with it; but bymeby, seein' as I wasn't mad any more, an' enjoyin' the trick of it himself, he told me he done it, an' I know what became of your man,' says he. 'An' what?' says I. With that, though, he shut up. He winked his eye, an' talked about somethin' else, an' I, not thinkin' or caring very much at the time, didn't ask many questions. But this mornin' I was thinkin' it over, an' wonderin' what became of th' gentleman, an' thinkin' there must be something crooked, or they wouldn't 'a' took me wheel off, an' so I told me boss an' he told me to tell you."
"It was very kind of you both," said Clara grateful, yet fearful that the point of most importance had been lost.
"Was his name Billings?"
"No'm, 'twas Patterson. Him an' me was together for some time after the fight, an' I walked along home with him."
"You know where he lives then?"
"Not exactly, miss, but I could go pretty near to it. You see, we was goin' along Washington Street towardRoxbury, and had come a long way from Dover, when he turns down a side street, an' then another, an' I kep' along for I hadn't anything better to do. He'd been silent for a while, an' suddenly he stops an' says, tryin' hard to brace up. 'You mustn't come any further,' says he. 'Why not?' says I, half minded to give him another lickin', only he was too full. ''Cause me boss says he will——' but never mind what he said his boss would do. I said I didn't care, an' turned back. He went on, an' then I was minded to see where he went. Of course it was dark, an' I couldn't be certain, but I think I could go straight to that building."
"Will you take me there?" asked Clara.
"Now, miss?"
Clara reflected. Other objections aside, it might be the worst possible policy to move prematurely in the matter. It might be a false clew, she knew nothing about the building, and meantime Paul was following Poubalov. Much as she longed for immediate action, it seemed wiser to postpone it until an investigation could be made.
"Would your employer spare you to help me to-morrow forenoon?" she asked.
"I think he would, miss. He told me to do what you said, says he——"
"Tell him, please, that I would like to have you go with me to-morrow as soon after nine o'clock as you can get here. I shall want you to show me the building, and identify the man Patterson."
"That I will, miss, if he's served you any trick."
Poubalov walked very rapidly after he left Mr. Pembroke's. He could have saved himself many steps by taking a street-car, but he evidently preferred energetic action.
Paul, following, took note, as Litizki had done on a similar occasion, of the streets through which he passed, and at last he saw him pause and stand for several minutes at the curb, looking across the road at what seemed to be an old-fashioned hotel. After a time he walkedslowly on, and soon thereafter was joined by a man with whom he conversed.
Paul went near enough to see the man's face, but he did not recognize him as anybody he had ever seen before. The conversation finished, Poubalov continued on his way, again walking rapidly, but this time, after coming to Washington Street, he boarded a downtown car. An open car was directly behind it, and Paul found a place on its front seat, thus being enabled to keep the spy in view until he alighted at Scollay Square.
The guilty as well as the innocent must eat, and supper was the next thing to engage Poubalov's attention. Paul improved the opportunity in the same way, but he finished quickly, and waited a long time for the spy to come forth. He had been watching the restaurant entrance from a doorway across the street, and at last he ventured over to see whether possibly his quarry had escaped him. No; there sat Poubalov, at a table not far from the door, his head bent down as if he were thinking profoundly. His supper lay almost untouched before him. Just as Paul looked in, the head waiter touched the customer on the shoulder.
Poubalov looked up with a start, and the head waiter seemed to be apologizing for his intrusion. It was clear that he had supposed the customer to be asleep, or ill. Poubalov paid his check and left the place.
He went to his lodging-house, and when Paul saw that he had lit the gas, he, too, went inside.
He locked the door immediately and applied his eye to the nail hole.
Poubalov sat with folded arms in an old-fashioned rocking chair, gazing abstractedly before him. On the little center table under the chandelier, Paul could just distinguish Clara's photograph.
Paul remained with his eye at the hole until it seemed as if he could stand no longer. In all that time Poubalov had not moved perceptibly.
The watcher got down and looked at his time-piece. Itwas half-past ten. He then sat with his head against the door that he might hear the slightest sound from the front room.
Just what possessed Paul to be so vigilant on this occasion, when the spy was doing absolutely nothing but cudgel his inscrutable mind, he could not have told in less vague terms than that he didn't want Poubalov to get away from him. If he were to take a nocturnal, or early morning ramble, Paul purposed to be on hand to accompany him.
Something like a half hour passed, and then Paul heard a long, heavy sigh, and the creak of the rocker as Poubalov rose. Quickly mounting his perch, Paul saw him pace back and forth, his hands clinched behind him and his brow set in hard wrinkles. He seemed to be in for a night of it, and as his movement promised to be productive of nothing more than his quiescence, Paul again dismounted and sat down. So monotonously did the march continue that the listener's head began to droop, lulled by the very sound he had set himself to hear, and had it not been for the extreme anxiety with which he had undertaken his task, Paul would have fallen asleep. After twice catching himself nodding, he no longer dared to sit still. So he rose and stepped lightly about the room to start the blood in his drowsy limbs.
The sound of marching ceased. Poubalov had stopped under the chandelier, and when Paul had him in view he was in the act of turning Clara's photograph face down upon the table. He took out the leather pocketbook that had checked the dagger thrust by Litizki's hand, and examined one of the documents in it attentively. It appeared to be of an official character, for there was a big seal upon it, and it was bound with ribbon. Paul could see the holes made by the dagger in passing through the several folds of the paper, or parchment.
Poubalov laid the document upon the table, sat down, and, drawing fresh paper before him, began to write. His pen traversed the sheets with great rapidity, and asPaul could hear the scratching plainly, he again sought relief from his uncomfortable perch.
It was nearly one o'clock when the sound of writing ceased.
Paul saw that Poubalov had removed his coat. What he had written was folded and placed in an envelope upon the table.
The watcher supposed that the spy was about to retire, but there was so evidently something further upon Poubalov's mind, something that he seemed to debate whether it were best done now, or in the morning, that Paul kept his place and watched; and as he strained his eye to take in every movement, instinctively shading his face although he stood in the darkness, he saw Poubalov draw a revolver from his hip-pocket.
Placing the hammer at half-cock, he tilted the barrel forward and pushed the cartridge cylinder about with his thumb and finger.
Every chamber seemed to be as he wished it, and he readjusted the barrel.
Then he walked to the bureau upon which swung a half-length mirror. His back was thus partially turned to the watcher, and Paul could see dimly the reflection of his face looking somberly toward him. He held the revolver in his right hand, the finger on the trigger, the barrel pointed toward the floor.
Paul was in an agony of doubt and apprehension. What should he do?
How long would Poubalov stand there and allow him to reflect?
Would the spy, then, "get away," and by this manner of exit?
With his left hand Poubalov took his watch from his pocket. He glanced at the face of the busy and faithful little machine, and it was only too evident that he had set the limit of his life at some point that the moving hands would presently reach.