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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 41844
   :PG.Title: The Golden Bough
   :PG.Released: 2013-01-13
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: George Gibbs
   :DC.Title: The Golden Bough
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1918
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE GOLDEN BOUGH
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   .. _`Cover`:

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      Cover

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   .. _`The figure remained as before, staring past the lantern at the solitary oak`:

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      :alt: The figure remained as before, staring past the lantern at the solitary oak.  PAGE 4

      The figure remained as before, staring past the lantern at the solitary oak.  `PAGE 4`_

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      *The*
      GOLDEN BOUGH

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      BY

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      GEORGE GIBBS

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      AUTHOR OF "THE SECRET WITNESS," "PARADISE GARDEN,"
      "THE YELLOW DOVE," ETC.

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      ILLUSTRATED

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      TORONTO
      GEORGE \J. McLEOD, LIMITED
      PUBLISHERS
      1918

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      COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY
      D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
      COPYRIGHT 1918, BY THE PICTORIAL REVIEW CO.

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      Printed in the United States of America

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      TO
      DR. JOHN BACH McMASTER

   |   Your Muse, a-weary with the stress
   |   Of putting facts in careful dress,
   |   Has doffed her dignity and made
   |   Of History a masquerade.
   |   She prays you, sir, to follow me
   |   Into the Realm of Fantasy
   |   Where Clio in a cap and bells,
   |   With blither mien, our story tells.

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   CONTENTS

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CHAPTER

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   I.  `Crepuscule`_
   II.  `Enigma`_
   III.  `Mystery`_
   IV.  `Tanya`_
   V.  `Khodkine`_
   VI.  `Zoya`_
   VII.  `Camouflage`_
   VIII.  `Disaster`_
   IX.  `Surprises`_
   X.  `Flight`_
   XI.  `The Plot`_
   XII.  `Pursuit`_
   XIII.  `A Scent`_
   XIV.  `The Clue`_
   XV.  `The Turkish Cigarette`_
   XVI.  `Rescue`_
   XVII.  `The Central Committee`_
   XVIII.  `Von Stromberg`_
   XIX.  `A Samaritan`_
   XX.  `Escape`_
   XXI.  `The Visitor`_
   XXII.  `Pilgrims`_
   XXIII.  `The Priest`_
   XXIV.  `A Night Adventure`_
   XXV.  `Kempelstein`_
   XXVI.  `Finis`_

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   LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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`The figure remained as before, staring past the
lantern at the solitary oak`_ . . . *Frontispiece*

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`The American caught the glint of sunlight on a weapon`_

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`Her grave eyes met his in one luminous moment`_

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`"Listen to me, Philippe!  I swear to you that you have misunderstood"`_

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`"Keep down, Tanya," he cried. "It's I--Philippe"`_

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.. _`CREPUSCULE`:

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   THE GOLDEN BOUGH

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   CHAPTER I

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   CREPUSCULE

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In the still evening air the dust hung golden for a
moment and then slowly settled on tree and hedgerow;
from a distance, faintly diminishing, the tinkle
of sheep bells, the call of a bird, the sighing of a breeze,
and then, silence.

Against the stillness, suddenly, as though pricked
upon the velvety background of the summer night, a
quick, sharp staccato note near at hand, a crackle as of
brittle things breaking and a large thorn bush by the
side of the deserted road quivered and shook as its leaves
parted and a head appeared.

It was an eager, boyish head, but almost unpleasantly
alert, its brows furrowing, its dark eyes peering to right
and left, with a swift furtiveness that held little of
assurance.  A moment of quick inspection and a pair of
broad shoulders emerged, followed by a body and long
legs which strode into the middle of the road where the
man paused a moment looking at the afterglow in the
west and then set off with long steps to the south.  He
wore what had once been a uniform of the Légionnaire,
but rough contacts and hard usage had eliminated all
distinguishing marks, and a coating of dust and stain
had further disguised him.  It seemed as though Nature,
conspiring as it does against the enemies of its wild
people, had given this man its protective coloring, that he
might elude those who sought him.  To carry the
analogy further he was shaggy, unkempt, dusty and lean,
like a brown bear sniffing the breeze after a long period
of hibernation.

The stride was rapid but it was cautious too and once
at a fancied shadow in the road ahead of him, the soldier
darted into the bushes and crouched listening.  Fear had
made him cautious, but his necessity knew no law, so he
rose at last, went onward more rapidly into the
gathering dusk, aware that the end of his pilgrimage was near
at hand--there just beyond the hills before him in the
free republic of the Swiss.

As he neared the lights of the village, his pace grew
slower, and leaving the road he turned into a meadow to
his right in the direction of a grove of trees which
seemed to promise a temporary refuge while he planned
a raid upon some nearby larder or hen-roost.  But
contrary to his expectations, when he reached the shadows
of the trees, he found his way impeded by a high stone
wall, which thrust suddenly upon him out of the
darkness.  A wall!  A monastery?  Or a barracks perhaps,
full of the hated gray uniforms guarding the frontier!
He paused a moment, deliberating, but conscious of more
than a mild curiosity as to the purpose of this walled
enclosure, high up on this mountain side which seemed
so peaceful and so free from the horrors he had left back
there in the levels below.  Only yesterday, down the
valley he had seen them--the gray uniforms--and here too,
at any moment...

He grinned at the wall.  He was weary of flight.  A
wall.  A garden within--a monastery most likely
... sanctuary....  At any rate he could go no further
without food.  This place would do as well as another.
If there were monks within there would also be a kitchen
and with such a wall, a larder unguarded.  Moving to
the right he found a tree the lower branches of which
extended over the coping of the wall.  At the foot of
the tree he paused again, looking upward curiously, for
upon the leaves of the tree he saw the reflection of yellow
lights which seemed to be moving within the enclosure.
Climbing noiselessly he drew himself to the level of the
coping of the wall, and peered over.  Through the
foliage of his tree he could distinguish nothing clearly but
he was aware of a lantern and a figure which moved
slowly in an open space just beyond the thicket below
him.  It seemed that the figure wore a hood upon its
head, and a gown.  A monastery, of course--and this a
monk, the gardener perhaps upon a lonely vigil of
penance and meditation.

In any event the fugitive was now in no immediate
danger from his pursuers, so he crawled out along a
heavy branch of the tree which extended over the garden
and noiselessly lowered himself to the top of the wall.

Here he hung in a moment of indecision, preparing an
avenue of escape should his venture prove hazardous, and
then peering again toward the dark habit of the holy
man, now in silhouette against the light, he lowered
himself by his hands and dropped to the ground.  Danger
had made him skillful, but he was aware of the thud of
his heavy boots in the soft loam and crouched cautiously
behind the thicket, ready for the slightest movement of
alarm in the figure by the lantern.  After a moment in
which he reassured himself that the sound of his fall had
not awakened the watcher from his revery he crawled
forward until he reached the furthermost bush where he
paused again, still in hiding and peered across the small
stretch of lawn toward the light.

There was a raised daïs or platform of earth,
approached from two sides by steps of stone.  There were
two stone benches above, and upon one of them, leaning
forward toward a small oak tree in the center of the
guarded space, sat the dark figure which had carried the
lantern.  The eyes of the Légionnaire, now grown
accustomed to the glow of the light, made sure that the
figure had not moved, nor was aware of his silent and
furtive approach.  Two plans of action suggested
themselves, one to move behind the foliage to the right and
intercept the monk with the lantern should he attempt to
flee toward the lights of the house nearby, the other to
risk all in a frank statement, a plea for charity and
asylum.

.. _`PAGE 4`:

But as the figure remained as before, staring past the
lantern at the solitary oak tree as though lost in
contemplation of its branches, the Légionnaire rose, silently
crossed the lawn, and reached the stone steps where the
crackle of a twig beneath his foot with a sudden and
startling clearness revealed his presence.  He was aware
of the dark figure above him springing to its feet and
turning with a swift graceful motion which swept the
dark cowl from its curly head and betrayed the identity
of its owner--a girl--quite lovely in her fear of this
tattered brown ghost that had come upon her vigils.

In an awed whisper, she spoke a few words in a
language he did not understand and then was silent,
watching him, frightened.

"Bitte, Fräulein," he began softly.

The sound of his voice reassured her.  She turned
toward him and seemed to search his figure more
intently.  And then in French peremptorily, "What do
you want?  Who are you?" she said.

At the sound of the French tongue spoken rapidly and
without a trace of accent, the brown ghost smiled eagerly.
"Ah, Mademoiselle is French.  Then I am sure of her
charity and forgiveness."

He had put one foot upon the lowest step of the daïs
when she took a pace toward him and extended her
cloaked arms as though barring the way, repeating her
former questions.

"What are you doing here?  And what do you want?"
"I am hungry, Mademoiselle, also thirsty, for I have
come far."

Her glance swept his figure and then, as though
identifying him, returned with more assurance to his face.

"You are a soldier, a Frenchman?"

"A soldier----"  He hesitated, looking down at his
tattered sleeve.  And then more deliberately as his gaze
sought her face, "Mademoiselle is not a German.  No
German speaks French as you do."

"And what?"

"Merely that I am an escaped prisoner of Germany on
my way to Switzerland," he smiled.  "You see, I am
frank with you.  Something tells me that you're friendly."

"Switzerland!" she said.  "Did you not know that
you were already fifteen kilometers within the Swiss border?"

"Switzerland?  Here?"  The mingled expression of
bewilderment and surprise upon his dirty face was comical.

"Switzerland!" he gasped again.

"You must have passed the frontier in the night,"
added the girl.  "You're quite safe now, I should say."

"Sacred name of a pipe!" he grinned.  And then, with
an air of apology, "Pardon, Mademoiselle.  If I'd known
that I'd passed the border, I shouldn't have intruded.
But I was hungry, thirsty, too, and I thought that I
might find meat, drink, a place to sleep in peace."

He paused, waiting for the girl to speak, but she said
nothing and only stood frowning toward the lights at
the other side of the garden.

"Of course, Mademoiselle, since I'm now safe from
pursuit, if you wish it, I can retire by the way I
came."  He shrugged and turned half away when the sound of
her voice halted him.

"I--I do not wish to be inhospitable," she said softly.
"It is your right to ask asylum of us.  But you have
come, Monsieur, upon cloistered soil----"

"A convent?"

"No, not a convent," she said "But private land,
dedicated to solitude, and--and----" she paused
uncertainly.  "You would not understand."

He waited for her to go on.  But she stopped abruptly
and said no more.  The strangeness of her garb, the
mingled frankness and reticence of her speech, which
excited friendly curiosity while it repelled inquiry, gave the
fugitive a new interest in the cowled figure, an interest in
which even the pangs of hunger and weariness were
forgotten.  From the top step she towered above him, her
dark robe hanging with a majestic stateliness which
somehow belied the testimony of the curly reddish brown hair
and the red lips which had already been perilously near
a roguish smile.  Something in the eager expression of the
face of her guest as he looked at her made her suddenly
aware of the exigencies of the occasion, for she drew
the cowl about her head and came down the steps, leaving
the lantern upon the stone bench beside the small tree.

"Wait here," she said quietly, "at the foot of the steps.
If you will promise me not to----"  She turned and looked
toward the mound.  "If you will remain here without
moving, I'll see what can be done."

"I will promise anything, Mademoiselle."

They looked into each other's eyes a moment, smiling
in a friendly way, and then she passed him and vanished
within the house.

The soldier took off his cap and rubbed his head
thoughtfully.  "Cloistered soil----"  The phrase hung
in his ears.  A queer place this, a queer creature this girl.
To his western eyes she seemed better suited to a tennis
match or a game of golf than to this mooning by lamp
light, with shadows in eyes which were only meant for
joy and laughter.  What was her nationality?  Not
French, though she spoke it like a native, not Swiss,
and surely not German, something more Easternly,
Oriental almost.  She was a paradox, a lovely paradox
indeed to eyes long starved of beauty and gentleness.

But other considerations were less important to the
fugitive than the gnawing ache of his hunger and the
demands of a body already taxed for many weeks to its
utmost.  Obeying the injunction of the girl not to move,
he sank to the stone step.  When she returned, she found
him with his head bent forward upon his knees, already
dozing; but at the light touch upon his shoulders he
sprang to his feet, his club raised upon the defensive,
almost oversetting the dish which carried his supper.

"Be careful," said the girl.

He stared at her in a moment of incomprehension, but
the sight of the bread, meat and cheese, quickly restored
him to sanity.

"I--I beg pardon," he began, "I dreamed----"

But his hands were already reaching forward toward
the dish and with a smile she handed it to him.

"Sit again, eat and drink.  There is milk."

He obeyed, wasting no words and she sat beside him,
watching calmly while he bolted the food like a famished
wolf.  He finished what was on the platter and all of
the milk before he spoke again.  Then he wiped his mouth
on the back of his hand and gave a great grunt of satisfaction.

"Shall I bring you more?" she asked.

"No, no, thanks.  You're very good, Mademoiselle.
I didn't know I was so hungry."

"Are you sure you've had enough?"

"Oh yes."

"When was the last time that you ate?"

"The day before yesterday.  I didn't dare to leave
the woods, even at night."

"You've traveled far?"

"A million miles, I think.  I don't know how far.  They
had me working on the railroad near Mannheim."

"And you escaped?"

"At night, from the pen.  They shot at me, but I
swam down a stream and got away.  I lived on berries for
a while--and potatoes, when I could steal them.  I'm
a living example of food conservation.  It was risky work
approaching the farm houses, on account of the dogs.
Some of us may think Germany will go to the dogs,
but I'm sure of one thing and that is that all the dogs
in the world have gone to Germany.  And they never
sleep.  I went miles out of my way to avoid the roads.
You're the first human being I've spoken to for weeks.
It's quite extraordinary to be able to talk again, to have
some one listen.  Sometimes in the deep woods I used to
talk to myself just to hear the sound of my own voice."

"I'm very sorry for you."

There was no doubting the sincerity of her tone or
the gentleness in her eyes.

"Sorry?  Are you?  That's very wonderful.  I
thought that people had stopped being sorry for anything
in this world."

"It's terrible to be so bitter."

He laughed.  "I'm not bitter.  I never felt more
amiable in my life.  But the world has gone mad,
Mademoiselle."

"The Germans treated you badly?"

He smiled and shrugged.

"What would you have?  It is war."

"It is terrible.  And what will you do now that you are
across the border?  Will they not intern you?"

"I must find civilian clothing."

"And then?"

He laughed joyously.

"I will cross into France at the Swiss border, and
rejoin my regiment.  *Parbleu*!  There are some there who
will think I have risen from the dead."

She was silent for a moment regarding him thoughtfully,
her eyes brightening with a new interest.  At first
he had seemed a man of middle age, a broken man, such
as passed begging along the roads of the village.  And
the dirt and the ragged beard that covered his face had
done nothing to dispel the illusion.  But she saw now
how far she had been mistaken, for his laughter rippled
forth from his lean muscular throat as though in pure
joy at its own utterance.  He was not bitter--he was
merely experienced.

"You're a Frenchman, Monsieur?"

"No, Mademoiselle, an American."

"American!  And you've fought long for France?"

"More than two years."

"You were living in France?"

"No, Mademoiselle, in America.  But I could not stand
what happened in Belgium.  And so I came.  It's very
simple."

"But you speak French----"

"German and Italian.  I've been much in Europe.  I
had a gift for languages.  But I'm not of much account
otherwise.  I'm a ne'er-do-well--a black sheep."  He
grinned at her.

"I do look rather black now, don't I?  You'd be
surprised to see how much better I look when I'm clean."

"I don't doubt it, Monsieur."

Youth called to youth.  Her laugh echoed softly among
the venerable trees and as she raised her chin, the cowl
slipped from her head again disclosing her curly hair, a
copper-colored nimbus against the glow of the lantern.

He turned a little toward her and glanced at her with
more assurance, and then with a smile.

"You're just a girl, aren't you?"

She laughed again.

"What did you think I was?"

"I didn't know," he said more slowly.  "You seemed
something between a Shade and a Mother-Superior."

"A very inferior Mother-Superior, Monsieur," she
smiled, and then with more soberness, "I don't wonder you
were perplexed.  Sometimes I am a little perplexed
myself----"

She halted and did not resume, and so:

"I should not be inquisitive," he said, "Your
hospitality gives me no further claim----"

"What is it that you wish to know?"

"Who and what you are.  Is it not natural that I
should like to know to whom I am indebted----"

"It doesn't matter.  What I have done is little enough
beside what you have suffered for poor bleeding France.
At least we are allies."

"You----"

"A Russian----"

"Ah----"

"A modern Russian, Monsieur.  A free spirit of the
times in which we live.  It is the aim of my life to do
for my own country what you have done for France."

"But to fight, Mademoiselle----?"

"With subtler weapons than yours.  It is to that I
dedicate my life----"

She rose suddenly as though realizing that she had
already said too much.  She picked up the dish and bowl
and took an irresolute step away from him.  "I would
like to ask you to stay, but----"

She paused and whispered quickly.  "He comes.  Say
nothing.  Let me tell your story.  Perhaps you may
remain to sleep here."

And following her glance, he saw a figure emerging
from the gloom in the direction of the house, the tall
figure of a man, with shoulders bent and eager eyes which,
like those of a black nocturnal cat had already caught a
pale reflection of the lantern's gleams.





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.. _`ENIGMA`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   ENIGMA

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As the man came nearer, he seemed a remarkable
creature.  His coat, of the kind known in the
eighties as a Prince Albert, hung loosely from his
lean square shoulders, to a point midway between hip and
knee.  His hair was dark and long and wisps of it had
fallen over his broad pale forehead to which they adhered
as though a tight hat-band had pressed them there.  Heavy
eye-brows met above a long narrow nose, which jutted
down over lips turned in, thin and impalpable, to the
square chin which was thrust out aggressively as he strode
forward, his hands working unpleasantly at the ends of
his long wrists.

"What's this, Tanya Korasov?" he asked in a sharp
querulous voice.

"A hungry soldier, Kirylo Ivanitch," said the girl.

Her shining eyes glanced quickly toward the daïs.

"He came----"

"Over the wall.  He was much in need of rest and
food----"

"Ah----" growled the other.  "A soldier----"

"He goes to join his colors."

The frown on the brows of the man in the Prince Albert
relaxed and he seemed to give a gasp of relief as he
examined the intruder more calmly.

"The world has gone rabid with the smell of blood.
Even here, all about us----"  He broke off suddenly,
turning to the girl.  "You have fed him?"

"Yes, Kirylo.  But I doubted----"

"We are not savages, Monsieur," he broke in.  "You
shall be made comfortable for the night.  Come.  Tanya,
the lantern."

And he led the way across the lawn to the house, while
Tanya mounted the daïs for the lantern and followed them.
Whatever the doubts of the girl as to the hospitality
which might be accorded him, the fugitive now saw no
reason to suspect the intentions of the strange
gentleman in the Prince Albert coat, for as they reached the
building he stood aside, indicating the lighted doorway.

"Enter, mon ami," he said.  "It shall not be said that
this house refuses charity or alms to any seeker after
Liberty, even though he go about his quest in a manner
with which we disapprove."

"Thanks, Monsieur," said the soldier gratefully.

The room which they entered was the kitchen, and the
two persons who occupied it, an aged woman and a
youngish man with a shock of yellow hair, paused in the
act of masticating, remaining with their full mouths open
and eyes staring until the young soldier had passed
through the door into the main building beyond.  In the
brief moment of passing them, the American experienced
the same sense of vague hostility as that which had
first greeted him in the man Ivanitch, a querulous
attitude of anxious suspicion, which for some unknown
reason had now disappeared,--a look of expectancy in their
eyes, or was it a veiled fear, as of some danger which
might come upon them unawares?  Was this the reason
for the wall?  And if so, why a girl in a monk's cowl
for sentry?

He was too weary to analyze the return of his
impressions and when the Russian reached the room beyond the
kitchen, he motioned the Légionnaire to a chair while he
bade the girl Tanya bring forth glasses and a jug.

"Sit a moment, Monsieur the soldier," he said suavely.
"It is Chartreuse--the real Chartreuse, made years ago
by the monks not many leagues from here--there is
little of it left even in Switzerland.  It will give you new
life."

The soldier pledged his host and hostess and drank.

"You are very good," he said with real gratitude.  "I
came to steal and go upon my way," he smiled.  "And
so your kindness and that of Mademoiselle covers me with
confusion."

"Ah!  Necessity knows no law," said the Russian
pleasantly.  "You shall have a bed, a night of sleep.
And your necessity shall be our pleasure."

"But my intrusion!  If one lives within a wall it is
doubtless to keep people out.  But in helping me,
Monsieur, you are helping France.  And in helping
France,--Russia."

"Russia!"  There was a finality of despair in the tone
with which Kirylo Ivanitch uttered the word.  "May God
grant her help--for she needs it.  We pray for her--as
we work for her in secret--in secret."

Ivanitch clasped his bony fingers and squeezed them
until the knuckles cracked.  "If it will give you courage
to fight with steel and bullets, I will tell you that great
things are in the air, for Russia and for all the world."

"Freedom," said the American.  "I know.  It is
written.  So much blood cannot be shed in vain."

"We labor for the same end, you and I," went on
the Russian.  "The same end, but with different
means----"  And then, with a look of quick inspection--"You
join the Legion soon again?"

The gaze of the Russian quickened as for the first time
he noted the soldier's uniform.

"What is your name, Monsieur?"

"Phil Rowland."

"Rowlan'?"  He puzzled over the pronunciation slowly

"Rowland.  I am an American."

"Ah--American!"

"My mother was Italian----"

"But American.  How happens it that you are here
in this uniform?"

"I'm a citizen of the world, a nomad.  I like adventure.
And so when the war broke out I sailed and joined
the Foreign Legion."

"The Legion!  A regiment of young devils.  It is
madness.  A mad cause--to what end?"

"That France may live."

"Ah, yes."  And then, suddenly, "You join the Legion
soon again?"

The American would have replied, but the girl Tanya,
who had stood behind his chair, broke in quickly.

"Monsieur Rowlan' is tired, Kirylo Ivanitch.  Is it
not better that I show him to his room?  Tomorrow he
will tell you--"

"Your Chartreuse has already restored me, Mademoiselle."

The Russian waved his hand and Tanya Korasov sank
into a chair.

"An American!  I have always wanted to go to
America.  One day you will learn to think over there.
And then you will be able to help with the great problems
of Europe.  Your mother was Italian?" he asked.

Phil Rowland smiled good-naturedly at the persistence
of his questioner.

"Yes, Monsieur.  Of an ancient and noble family.
But in America we make little of ancestry."

"Yet, it is important."

The deep gaze of the Russian, which had been fixed
upon the jug upon the table, turned slowly and fastened
upon the uniform of the Légionnaire, the shocking
condition of which had not been visible in the dim light of
the garden.

"You have fared badly, Monsieur Rowlan'.  Your
uniform shows hard usage."

"What would you?  I was captured in it and have
worn it ever since.  The Boches do not trouble to send
their prisoners to a tailor."

"The Boches!  You were, then, a prisoner of the Germans----?"

The Russian straightened in his chair, his bony hands
clasping its arms, his brows tangling suddenly.

"Until three weeks ago, yes, Monsieur."

It was not imagination that gave Phil Rowland the
notion that the tone of voice of the Russian had
suddenly changed again.  He felt the black eyes, now
almost hidden under the dark bushy brows, burning into his
own.  And while he could not explain the feeling of
inquietude, he realized that some chance remark of his had
aroused a dormant devil in his host.

"A prisoner!  The Germans!" He repeated quickly.
"And you come here to Nemi.  Who sent you hither?"

"Why, no one, Monsieur," said the American, easily,
with a smile which concealed his growing curiosity.  "I
do not even know just when or where I crossed the border."

"Ah.  It is strange--that you should come here.
Italian, too----"

Ivanitch wagged his great head quickly.  The girl
Tanya broke in with a short laugh.

"Monsieur Rowlan' is not the first escaping soldier who
has passed through the village.  You remember, last
week----"

"But he went away, Tanya Korasov--he did not stay----"
broke in Ivanitch excitedly.

The American rose from his chair, mystified.

"As I shall do now, Monsieur, if you will permit me----"

He took a pace toward a door which seemed to lead
toward the front of the house, but the girl stood before
him and faced her compatriot, who had sank again in
his chair, his head deep in his shoulders.

"For shame, Kirylo Ivanitch," she said in a spirited
voice.  "For shame!  That you should be so inhospitable!
The man is dead upon his feet and you send him
out into the night--to be interned perhaps tomorrow!"

"An escaping prisoner!  A slave!"  He rose from his
chair, brushing his hair back with a wild gesture.  "You
were a slave, were you not--a slave to the Germans?
Answer me."

Had the man suddenly gone mad?  Or was the brain
of the Légionnaire suffering from a delusion of its own
weariness?  What was the meaning of this extraordinary
conversation?  What the significance of this sudden and
strange hostility?  And what difference could it make
to this man Ivanitch whether he, Rowland, had been a
slave or not?

The American shrugged and smiled again, more patiently.

"A slave?" he replied.  "One might call it that.  I
worked like a dog upon a railroad.  I was chained to the
man next me, and would have been shot had I attempted
resistance."

The result of this innocent explanation was still more
surprising.

"There!" cried the Russian, wildly exhorting the girl.
"Did I not tell you so?  A slave--an escaping slave--here
at Nemi.  Let him go, I say, or I shall not answer
for the consequences."

"Of course, Monsieur----" said Rowland.

But at a sign from the girl, the American paused at
the door and stood, his weariness forgotten in the curious
dialogue that followed, which seemed to plunge him deeper
into the mystery of this strange couple and the house of
the walled garden.  The girl Tanya crossed the room
swiftly and noiselessly and laid her hand upon the arm of
Kirylo Ivanitch, who now paced to and fro before the
fireplace, like some caged beast, his head lowered,
seeming not to see but furtively watching the dusty boots of
the astonished fugitive.

"It is not possible, Kirylo," she said softly.  "He
knows nothing.  Would he not have broken IT at once?
Who was to have prevented him?  Not I.  He is
merely a boy and free from guile.  Can you not see?"

"It is dangerous for him to remain," gasped the Russian.

"It is more dangerous for you to indulge these mad
fancies.  IT is safe yonder.  Go and see for yourself.
I, Tanya Korasov, will vouch for this weary fugitive.
But you shall not turn a loyal ally of Russia out into
the night.  Tomorrow he shall go forth and you shall
send him, refreshed and safely conducted to the border
of France, when he will go and fight your battles and
mine, with the common enemy of Humanity.  Do you hear?"

He stared at her, sullenly.

"I shall conduct him nowhere.  I wish him to go," he said.

But the girl stood her ground, continuing calmly:

"Tomorrow morning you shall give him a suit of civilian
clothing and he will go upon his way, thanking you,
Kirylo Ivanitch.  That is all."

"A boy?  Yes.  No doubt....  But Destiny is too
strong.  Italian!  What if----"

He paused, running his bony fingers through his long
hair.

"Impossible.  It cannot be," she soothed him.

"I have much to do--tomorrow or next day they are
coming--the conference is momentous.  If anything
should----"

"Sh----!  He shall be gone."

The girl turned to the American as though to atone
for the strange conduct of her compatriot, and smiled
graciously.

"You will forgive the whim of Monsieur Ivanitch, I
am sure.  He works too hard, all day, and most of the
night.  You would understand, if you knew his
problems, his suspicions, his labors."

"I'm still willing to go, Mademoiselle, if Monsieur still
desires it----" said Rowland easily.

For a moment they had been lost in each other.  A
gasp from the direction of the fireplace, and as they
turned, Kirylo Ivanitch fled past them silently and out
into the darkness of the night.  The look the American
sent after him gave the girl a true vision of what was
passing in his mind.

"You think that he is mad," she said soberly.  "It
is not so.  An obsession----" she paused abruptly as
though the words had been stifled upon her lips and
shrugged lightly.  "I can tell you nothing--but on this
I am resolved.  You shall not be sent forth tonight or
taken tomorrow when France, my country's ally, needs
you yonder."

He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips.  And
then, with a joyous smile:

"I shall fight the better for the memory of this hour.
Whatever your mission here, Mademoiselle, God grant
you success in it.  And for the part of one soul which
passes yours like a ship in the night, I pray that we may
meet again."

"It shall be so, perhaps," she said easily, though she
flushed at the warmth of his words.

"When a razor and a bath shall have made me once
more a gentleman," he added with a laugh.

"Perhaps that may be tomorrow?" she returned gaily.

The roguish smile that had died still-born upon her
lips, there, earlier, in the garden, came suddenly upon
the sweetness of her lips and gave them new lines of
loveliness, which made him glad that she had saved it
for the light where he might see.

She noted the look of admiration in his dark eyes, and
turned quickly away, taking up a candle from the table.

"Until tomorrow, then, Monsieur," she said decisively.
"For now you shall go to bed."

"I am no longer tired."

But she was already moving toward the stairway to
the upper floors.

"If you will follow me--" she said calmly, and led
the way up the stairs, her soft black robe caressing her
slender ankles.

A lamp set in a bracket burned dimly upon the second
floor, and he followed her heavily down the high, echoing
corridor.  A large hall, scantily furnished, dim and
mysterious with many doors to right and left, a house, it
seemed, more like a hotel than a villa, and more like a
monastery than either.  The girl led the way and opened
at last a door near the end of the corridor, entering the
room and setting the candle upon a table.  In the
flickering light which cast its shadows upward along her face
she seemed to have taken again the character of the
Priestess, the Shade of the garden, with the cowl and robe
of mystery.  Her expression too seemed to have grown
more serious, though the golden nimbus of light was
again entwined about her ruddy hair.

"Good night, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said gently.
"Tomorrow morning you will find a change of clothing
upon the chair outside the door.  Sleep safely.  If you
fear--" she paused.

"Fear?" he asked.  "Of what?"

"I forgot that you are a soldier.  But when I go out,
nevertheless, you shall bolt this door upon the inside."  And
as he turned to her in inquiry, "No.  You must ask
no questions, but only obey."

His smile met with no response.  And so he shrugged
and bowed.

"It shall be as you desire, Mademoiselle."

And without a word, she was gone.

He listened for a moment to the light tap of her
footfalls down the corridor until he heard them no more,
when he closed the heavy door, bolted it and sank upon
the small iron bed while he tried to ponder a solution
of the events of the evening.

Out of the train of vague occurrences stood clearly
the wholesome friendly figure of this girl, Tanya Korasov.
Her robes, her cowl, the vestments of her strange association
with the fanatic Kirylo Ivanitch, seemed only to bring
her sanity, youth and kindliness into stronger relief.
That she was a member of some secret association of
which her compatriot was the head seemed more or less
obvious, but what was the personal relationship between
them?  The man had intellectual power and doubtless held
his sway as the official director of some sort of
propaganda for the freedom of Russia, but his deference to the
wishes of the girl made it also evident that she too was
high in his councils.  His niece?  His cousin?  Or was
their relation something nearer, something----?
Impossible.  The man was fifty, the girl young enough to be his
daughter.  A relationship purely intellectual, more
deeply welded by the bonds of a cognate purpose.  But what
of the robes, the vigils, the daïs in the garden, the strange
dialogue about the escaping slave which seemed to have so
large a part in determining his own status as a guest in
this house of mystery?  What was IT?  And what the
danger suggested by the final injunction of the girl to
bolt the door of his bedroom?  From whom?  Ivanitch?
From the shock-headed youth in the kitchen who had
stared at him so curiously?  Or from others whom he had
not seen?

He gave up the problem and slowly removed his boots
and tattered clothing which he tossed with some disgust
into a corner.  The order of the room reproached him,
and tired as he was, he cleansed himself to be worthy
of the immaculate linen, then blew out the light and with a
sigh of delight at the luxury of sheets, he crawled into
bed and tried to relax.  He had thought of this moment
for weeks, and how he would sleep if he was ever again
offered a bed, but now strangely enough, his muscles
twitched and his eyes remained open, staring into the
obscurity.

Tanya!  That was a pretty name--Tatyana probably.
There was a fairy princess of that name who came
to him suddenly from out of the mists of childhood--a
princess with a filmy veil, a diadem upon her forehead and
a magic white wand which accomplished the impossible.
She was pure, she was beautiful and had happened long
ago, before--before his rather variegated career across
two continents.  This new Tanya was a part of the night,
a gracious kindly shade with a ruddy diadem and a
roguish smile, which set aside the symbols of her strange
servitude.  He smiled as he thought of her and closed his
lids again, but they flew open as though actuated by
hidden springs.

He was aware of some movement in the house about
him, the soft pad of footsteps in the corridor outside
which went along a few paces and then seemed to pause
just at his door.  Then a murmur as though of voices
in a low tone.  Once he fancied the knob of his door was
tried by a stealthy hand.  So sure was he of this that he
got out of bed and without striking a light, examined
the bolt to reassure himself that the door was firmly
fastened.

Then he smiled to himself and went noiselessly back
to bed.  The soldier Rowland was merely aware of a
devouring curiosity.  But presently the demands of his
weary muscles vanquished even this, and he slept.

He awoke suddenly, as he had often done in the
dugouts at the warning of the sentry, and started upright
in bed, listening.  The softness of the sheets perplexed
him, and it was a moment before he realized where he
was.  No sound but the murmur of insects outside the
house and the sighing of a breeze.  What had awakened
him?  Noiselessly he got up and tried the bolt of the
door.  It was fastened.  Then he stole cautiously to the
window, and peered down into the garden.

By the star-light, he could dimly see the lawn, the path
and the daïs beyond where he had first seen Tanya.  His
eyes, trained like a cat's to the darkness, during his
weeks of night traveling, pierced slowly into every part
of the obscurity beneath the trees.  Something was
moving there near the mound of earth, a dark figure with a
cowled head and a robe.  The figure moved forward slowly
a few steps, peering from right to left and then darted
suddenly around to the other side of the daïs, but always
eager and watchful, near the mound of earth.  Rowland
seemed to identify the figure by its broad bent shoulders
and shuffling walk as Kirylo Ivanitch.  As the American
watched, he saw the Russian turn and walk slowly toward
the house.  Beneath Rowland's window the Russian
stopped with folded arms and looked upward.  From
beneath the black cowl the American seemed to feel the
blazing eyes of Ivanitch upon his, but he knew that in
his place of concealment he could not be seen and so he
did not move.  And presently, the man turned swiftly
and went back to the mound of earth to resume his strange
sentry duty.

Philip Rowland shrugged as he turned away from the
window and went back to bed, grinning to himself.

"Batty," he muttered to himself.  "Completely batty."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MYSTERY`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium

   MYSTERY

.. vspace:: 2

Philip Rowland slept heavily until broad
daylight when the sun pierced his window and cast a
cheerful golden lozenge upon the white-washed wall
above his iron bed.  He stretched his arms luxuriously
and as the events of the previous night came to him, rose
and looked out of the window.  A clamor of birds among
the gilded tree-tops, long violet shadows along the dewy
garden, and there on a bench upon the mound of earth
which had perplexed him last night, a solitary black
figure, quiescent but watchful.  It was not Ivanitch or
Tanya, but one that he had not seen before, for the figure
wore no cowl and the head was clearly visible.  So they
had kept watch all night!  The American laughed
outright.  The things that had seemed weird and even
uncanny in the darkness were by the broad light of day
little short of arrant nonsense.  Mediæval flummery such
as this in the fair sunlight of the summer morning!  It
was amateurish, sophomoric, and hardly worthy of the
psychos of the intellectual mystic in the Prince Albert
coat.  Tanya, too--a dealer in magic and spells?  He
smiled to himself as he turned from the window.  He
knew women--they had a talent for the dramatic.  But
he wouldn't acknowledge even to himself that he was
disappointed in Tanya.  He wanted to keep last night's
vision of her as a thing apart.  She was his Goddess of
Liberty.  Whatever her share in this mumbo-jumbo
business, she herself was never to be tawdry.

He was softly whistling "Tipperary" as he unbolted
his door and peered out into the silent corridor.  There
upon a chair beside his door was the clothing that Tanya
had promised him, a suit of dark clothes--not a Prince
Albert, he was joyed to discover--underwear, a shirt
and--blessings upon blessings--scissors and a razor!  She had
forgotten nothing.  There is a delight in cleanliness that
only the cleanly who have become filthy can ever really
know.  But this escaped prisoner found a secret pleasure
in the fact that he was now to become Philip Rowland,
gentleman, a person once known on Broadway and Fifth
Avenue for the taste of his sartorial embellishments.

He bathed again, shaved and dressed in the clothing
(which fitted him atrociously) and went down the stairs
into the room through which he had passed last night.
There was no one about and the door into the kitchen
was closed, though an appetizing odor of coffee
pervaded the air.  He glanced at the books upon the table,
a few novels, Turgeniev, Dostoievsky in French, some
Russian newspapers and a miscellaneous lot of German
and French socialistic periodicals.  Socialism--of
course--the veneer that might cover a rougher grain beneath.

But the most extraordinary object in the room, one
which the visitor had not noticed last night, was a piece
of ancient sculpture upon a pedestal in a corner of the
room, a double-headed bust, one face young and beardless
with shut lips and a steadfast gaze, the other older
with wrinkled brows, a wild, anxious look in the eyes and a
mouth open as though in horror.  Around the neck of
the double-head a garland of what seemed to be
oak-leaves was carved into the stone and upon the pedestal,
the inscription REX NEMORENSIS.  That the sculpture
was of a great antiquity was indicated by its worn
surfaces and discolorations, and Rowland paused, studying
it attentively, lost in speculation as to what if any
connection this curious work of ancient art could have
with the mystery of this house.  Nemi--Ivanitch had
mentioned it last night.  REX NEMORENSIS--King of
the Wood.  But what was the symbolism of the two
heads--the young man and the old, the young one, eager
and fearless, the other old, anxious and terrified.  Nemi!

Where had he come upon the name before?  It seemed
to echo to him out of the past.  Nemi!  A name out of
a legend, written as though with fire against the darkness
of a childish nightmare and then extinguished.  A name
of something beautiful and something unhappy, something
dreadful and something fascinating--the name of a
blessing or of a curse!  He shrugged at last, winked
cheerfully at the hideous face on the pedestal, and gave the
problem up.  Then, turning, he sauntered toward a door
which seemed to lead to the front of the garden, but
before he reached it a voice came from over his shoulder,
and turning quickly, he saw the girl Tanya, standing on
the stairway giving him good morning.  Her black robes
had been discarded and she was dressed quite simply in
a white morning frock which accentuated the lines of the
strong slender figure and answered some of the questions
that her sober garb had denied him.  She was young,
resilient, full of the joys of the awakened day, and
wonderfully good to look at.  The two of them stood for a
moment staring at each other as though they had never
seen each other before, Rowland's eyes full of admiration
which he made no effort to conceal.

It was Tanya who first spoke.

"You are so different, Monsieur Rowlan', that I wasn't
quite sure----" she laughed.  "If I hadn't known the
clothes----"

"And you, Mademoiselle."  He paused seeking a word.
"You--are the morning."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Like the dead.  I was not disturbed."  He smiled
significantly, but she seemed not to notice, as she crossed
to the door of the kitchen and ordered the coffee.  And
in a moment they were sitting at a table in an adjoining
room where the shock-headed man brought the urn from
the kitchen and a tray upon which were eggs, butter and
*petits pains*.  Rowland studied the man carefully and
noted a sharp look from the fellow as their glances crossed.
But in a mirror opposite him he saw the man pause as
he went out and turn and stare at him with so malevolent
a look that the American recalled quite vividly his
impressions of the night before.  He was not wanted here.
Whatever the affairs of this place it was obvious that to
all except the girl Tanya, Rowland was *de trop*.  As he
ate he found his curiosity as to the strange actions of
the men of Nemi gathering impetus.  They were like a
lot of Boches having a morning "hate."  However hospitable
the girl, it was clear that they resented his presence,
and from a window, even as he sat, he could see the
ridiculous black figure of the third man mounting guard
over the absurd tree at the other side of the garden.
But Rowland grinned and drank of his coffee, sure now
that the eyes of Tanya Korasov had something on all those
of a Winter Garden chorus rolled into two.  But they
weren't bold eyes like some others he had known.  They
appraised him frankly but without the least timidity.
She had given him her friendship last night and until he
went on his way he was her guest to whom the hospitality
of the house was open.

"Monsieur Ivanitch," she said after a moment, and
with as he fancied a slight air of constraint, "begs that
you will excuse him, as he will take his coffee upstairs."

"Of course.  I hope that I haven't interfered----"

"It doesn't matter," she put in quickly.  "Something
happened which disturbed him.  He is overworked and
often distraught with nerves."

"I'm sorry."

"He is accustomed to being much alone," she added with
an abstracted air.

"I won't bother him much longer.  I'll be off in a
moment.  But I regret to go without knowing something
more of you, Mademoiselle.  Your kindness in spite of the
hostility of Monsieur Ivanitch, your fear for my safety
last night----"

"I--I merely thought that--that if you bolted your
door you would be able to pass a night of rest."

Her manner was not altogether convincing.  He looked
at her soberly and went on softly.

"I'm not a meddler by nature, Mademoiselle," he
continued, "but I do confess to a devouring curiosity.  The
organization to which you belong is secret.  I can perhaps
guess some of its purposes, but the mystery which I have
met on every hand----"

"I can tell you nothing," she said, her eyes averted.

"Not even that what you do is not distasteful to you?"

She lowered her voice a note.

"I'm not unhappy," she said slowly.

"Nor contented.  There is a danger in the air, a
nameless danger which if it does not threaten you, menaces
those about you."

"Danger!" she said quickly.  "What does that matter
to me, when Russia, when all Europe is bleeding to
death.  I fear nothing----"

"Not even an escaping slave?"

The words uttered quickly, almost at random, had a
most startling effect upon her.  She drew back quickly
from the table and then leaned forward, whispering.

"Sh----!  You knew----?" she asked.

"You came here----" she paused and was silent again.

"Was it not that phrase which so profoundly affected
Monsieur Ivanitch?" he asked.

She made no reply.

He rose from the table and straightened.

"You wish me to go, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment and then with a gasp,

"Yes.  You must go--at once."

He shrugged, smiled and turned away.  It was too bad.

"Of course I have no right to question you.  But I
should like to put myself at your command for any
service----"

"You can do nothing.  Only go, Monsieur."

He looked at her eagerly.  There was a change in her
manner.  She too had at last turned against him.  It
seemed that she had grown a shade paler, and he saw
her eyes staring in a startled way as at some object
behind him.

Instinctively he turned.  The door into the kitchen was
partly open and half through the aperture, distorted with
some strange agony, was the face of Kirylo Ivanitch.
In the fleeting moment before the Russian emerged it
seemed to Rowland that this was the exact expression on
the face of the anguished half of the double-bust in the
adjoining room, the face of the older man in terror and
fury.  But he had to admit that in the flesh and blood
it was far more convincing.

Ivanitch now thrust the door open with a bang and
stood, his arms, long like an ape's, hanging to the knees
of his trouser legs at which the bony fingers plucked
unpleasantly.

He did not speak to Rowland, though his gaze never
left his face, but he muttered something hoarsely in
Russian to Tanya--an angry phrase, the tone of which sent
the hot blood flying to Phil Rowland's temples.  He did
not know what she replied, but her voice was pitched low
and had a note of contrition that still further inflamed
him.  Last night he had thought Ivanitch merely an
eccentric zealot unnerved by too much work.  Now he
seemed surely mad, a maniac not far from the verge of
violence.

The Russian took a pace forward toward the American
who stood his ground, conscious of a rising anger at the
inhospitality and a growing desire to see the thing
through, whatever happened.  But a glance at Tanya
found her gaze fixed on him with a look so earnestly
appealing, that he suppressed the hot words that had
risen to his tongue.

"I am sorry, Monsieur Ivanitch," he said coolly,
taking refuge in the formal French phrase, "to have so far
strained the hospitality of Nemi----"

"Go then--" growled the Russian, pointing toward
the door.

The voice was brutal, harsh, inhuman and challenged
all that was intemperate in Rowland, aroused again the
reckless venturing spirit that had sent him forth to deal
with the primitive forces of evil.  He leaned forward
toward the distorted face, his arms akimbo, and stared
the Russian in the eyes.

And then a strange thing happened.  The blaze in
the Russian's eyes was suddenly extinguished.  It was
as though a film had passed over them, leaving them pale,
like a burnt out cinder.  His jaw fell too, his arms
flapped aimlessly a moment and then fell to his sides as
he retreated through the open door into the kitchen.

"Go!" he whispered querulously, as though his voice too
had been burnt out.  "Go!"

As the man disappeared, Rowland relaxed and turned
toward Tanya with a shrug.

"A madman!" he muttered.  "You can't stay here,
Mademoiselle Korasov."

"It's nothing," she said breathlessly.  "When you are
gone, he will recover.  You must go now, Monsieur.
Hurry, or harm will come----"

"To you?" eagerly.

"To you, Monsieur."

"I'm not frightened," he said with a grin.

"I know.  But you must go at once.  Here.  This
way.  The gate is in the garden wall."  And she opened
the door and stood aside to let him pass.  He took up
the cap she had provided for him and paused a moment
to offer her his hand.

"I thank you again, Mademoiselle."

She touched his fingers lightly but he caught her own
and held them a moment.

"Good-by," he said gently.

"God bless and preserve you, Monsieur Rowlan'," she
whispered.

He stepped out into the garden, the girl just behind
him indicating the gate in the wall about fifty yards
distant, the only exit from the enclosure.  But as he
emerged from the shadow of the house and turned up the
path toward the gate a loud whistle sounded from the
direction of the daïs, where the monkish figure that had
been on guard rose suddenly, like a raven interrupted at
a meal, flapping its wings and screaming discordantly.
To his left in the wall of the house, doors flew open
noisily and men emerged, Ivanitch, the shock-headed man,
and another.  They did not come toward Rowland but
moved abreast of him as he went up the garden path,
silent, watchful, keeping pace with him, like men in open
order advancing in skirmish-line, Ivanitch nearest him,
not more than three paces distant, Ivanitch the fantastic,
Ivanitch the impossible.  Rowland eyed him curiously.
His face was moist with perspiration and the wisp of
black hair was glued to his white forehead.  His eyes no
longer blazed for they were invisible under the dark
thatch of his bent brows, but his figure and gait gave
every token of the strange terror that had suddenly
swept over him in the middle of their conversation last
night.

.. vspace:: 2

Rowland grinned at him cheerfully.  They dreaded
him, these four men, dreaded and feared him, but Ivanitch
dreaded and feared him most.  The situation was comic.
Rowland increased his pace; they increased theirs.  He
paused; they stopped.  It was like a game, Rowland went
on again.  He was the "guide," it seemed, of this strange
awkward squad.  But as he neared the turn in the path
which led to the gate, the shock-headed man went forward
in the direction of the daïs while Ivanitch came a pace
closer, bent forward, his long arms hanging, still
watching him eagerly.  The creature was menacing.  The
distance to the gate was now short, but the idea of
turning his back to this madman, who might spring upon him
from behind, was most unpleasant.  So Rowland stopped
and faced him, catching a glimpse of Tanya Korasov
who had followed them and stood nearby, listening and
watching, aware of the hazardous moment.

"It is a pleasant morning, Monsieur Ivanitch," said
Rowland coolly.

"The gate--is yonder," croaked the Russian.  "Go!"

"All in good time," said Rowland.  "But I've something
to say first."

The Russian's thin lips worked but he said nothing,
though his fingers twitched against his legs.

"I thank you for your hospitality--such as it is.  But
you don't like me, Monsieur.  Our sentiments are
reciprocal.  Your attitude even now is most unpleasant--not
to say offensive.  Were it not for Mademoiselle, I
should have lost my temper long ago."

"Go----!  Go----!" cried the Russian chokingly.  He
seemed trembling on the brink of some nervous paroxysm.

"When I'm ready.  In the meanwhile, listen----"

"What have I to do with you?"

"You know best about that," said Rowland coolly,
aware of a new desire to probe the mystery if he could.

The eyes of Ivanitch, paling as though they could not
endure the sunlight, stared wildly as he raised his
haggard face.

"You have known from--from the beginning?" muttered
Ivanitch.

"Yes, yes," cried Rowland eagerly.

"It is not true, Kirylo Ivanitch," he heard the girl
Tanya crying.  "He knew nothing.  He knows nothing
now."  And then, appealingly to Rowland, "Oh, go,
Monsieur.  Please go, at once."

But Ivanitch was oblivious.

"Destiny!" he muttered wildly.  "The Visconti----!"

Rowland started back.

"Visconti!" he repeated.  It was the family name of
his own mother.

Ivanitch wagged his great head from side to side, his
fists clasping and unclasping in the throes of some mad
indecision.  And then he came for Rowland, head down,
his long arms groping.  The American heard the girl's
scream and the shouts of the other men as he sprang
aside to elude the rush, but Ivanitch was quick and in a
moment they were locked in struggle.

Rowland was tall, wiry and agile, but privation had
sapped some of his strength and the grip of the
Russian around his body bore him backward up the lawn,
along the wall where they both tripped over a projecting
root and fell to the ground, Ivanitch uppermost.  The
fall stunned Rowland, but he managed to get a hand on
the Russian's throat and clutched with the strength of
desperation.  A madman!  Once in a German trench he
had fought with such another, but there were weapons
there, and fortune had favored him.  But his fingers
seemed to meet in the throat of the fanatic and the grip
around his own body relaxed as, with an effort, he threw
the man away from him and rolled clear.  As he sprang
to his feet he was aware of the other men attacking him.
There was a sound of shots and the familiar acrid smell
of powder, but he felt no pain and as the shock-headed
fellow came at him, a short arm blow under the chin
sent him reeling against a tree where he crumpled and
fell.

As he turned again to meet Ivanitch he had a vision
of Tanya with arm upraised and heard her clear voice
above the tumult.

"Picard!  Issad!  Stop!  I command you!"  And
then, "Kirylo!  Monsieur Rowlan'!  It is madness."

Madness it was, but none of Phil Rowland's choosing.
They had fought to a point just below the mound of
earth on which he had first seen Tanya by the tree and
it was at the foot of the steps that Ivanitch again rushed
at him.  Rowland's blow staggered him but he came on
furiously, and as the arm of the Russian went high over
his head, the American caught the glint of sunlight on a
weapon and threw up his arm, catching the force of the
blow upon his elbow.  But he felt a stinging pain in his
shoulder and clutched the man's arm as he raised it to
strike again.  Up the slope of the mound they struggled,
breathlessly intent, the one to murder, the other to save
himself.  Rowland fought coolly now, grimly, smiling as
a soldier of the Legion must, aware that only as long as
the threatening right arm of the Russian was pinioned
was he safe from the treacherous knife.  But it was
right arm against left and too close to strike.
Rowland avoided the stone bench toward which the Russian
had forced him, and twisting suddenly freed his right
arm and struck the Russian a fearful blow in the body.
He felt the arm of Ivanitch relax and in a second had
torn the weapon from his clasp and sent it flying into
the bushes.  Ivanitch came at him again--and again
Rowland struck--each time with greater precision.
Ivanitch rushed him against the tree, a branch of which
was torn off in Rowland's hand.

.. _`The American caught the glint of sunlight on a weapon`:

.. figure:: images/img-036.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: The American caught the glint of sunlight on a weapon.

   The American caught the glint of sunlight on a weapon.

He heard a cry behind him and a whimper as of an
animal in pain from Ivanitch.  "The Bough!" he cried.
"The Bough!"  But as he came on again, Rowland
stepped aside and hit him as he passed.  The Russian
staggered sideways, his head striking the stone bench,
rolled down the slope of the mound and lay still.

The American slowly straightened and glanced around
him.  A sudden silence had fallen.  At the foot of the
steps stood Tanya Korasov, a revolver in her hand and
beside her the scarecrow in black, and the two others,
inert, horrified.  Rowland breathing hard from his
exertions stared stupidly at the misshapen bundle of clothing
at the foot of the slope and then down at the branch of
the tree which he still held in his hand.

"The Bough!" the shock-headed man muttered in an
awed whisper, "the Golden Bough!"

Rowland raised the branch of the tree, looked at it
curiously and then dropped it to the ground.

"You saw?----" he gasped to the motionless group
below.  "You saw?  He attacked me.  It was self-defense.
It was not my fault."

Tanya Korasov had rushed to the sprawling figure in
the Prince Albert coat, lifted its head, and then recoiled
in horror, her face hidden in her hands.

"You saw," Rowland repeated as he came toward them,
"all of you--it was self-defense."

They drew back as he came down the steps but made
no effort to molest him.

"The Golden Bough!" the shock-headed man said again.
And another, "It is broken."

It was no time for such gibberish.  Rowland turned
them a scornful shoulder and went over to the girl beside
the motionless black figure.

To the question in his eyes the girl's eyes replied.

"He is--dead," she whispered.

And then looked up at Rowland, gaze wide and lips
parted.

"And you----"

If there was horror, there was no reproach in her tone.
Her attitude was more one of consternation and surprise.

"And you,--Monsieur Rowlan'," she whispered in an
awed tone.  "It is you who are----"

And then she stopped as though frozen suddenly into
immobility and silence.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TANYA`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium

   TANYA

.. vspace:: 2

And while he stood, still bewildered by the awed tone
and startled air of the girl, he saw that the three
men had come forward and had taken position in
a group beside him.  He glanced at them, at once upon
the defensive, but was quickly reassured by their passive
appearance and attitude, for they stood with heads bowed,
like mourners at the grave of a departed friend--with
this difference, that their eyes, oblivious of the figure
upon the turf, were turned upon Rowland, gazing
expectantly, in an awe like Tanya's, but unlike hers,
intimidated, respectful, and obedient.  Rowland felt like
laughing in their faces, but the figure in the Prince Albert
coat upon the ground reminded him that the mystery
behind this fantastic tragedy was at least worthy of
consideration.  Whatever the aims of this strange
company and however tawdry the means by which they
accomplished them, the fact remained that here at his feet
lay Kirylo Ivanitch, dead because of his convictions.

With increasing bewilderment he stared at Tanya and
again at the others.

"What do you mean, Mademoiselle?" he asked.  "I
don't understand."

Her reply mystified him further.

"The Visconti!" she stammered.  "You know the name?"

"Visconti, yes.  It was the name of my Italian mother."

At this reply Tanya started to her feet and behind
him he heard the murmur of excitement.

"Speak, Mademoiselle," said Rowland.  "What's this
mystery?"

Tanya put her fingers to her brows a moment.

"Something very strange has happened, Monsieur
Rowlan'," she said with difficulty.  "Something long
predicted--promises written in the legends of Nemi for
hundreds of years and it is--it is you, Monsieur, who have
fulfilled them."

"I!" he asked in surprise.  "How?"

"That the Visconti should again become the heads of
our order."

"What order?"

"The Order of the Priesthood of Nemi."

"Priesthood!  I?"  Rowland grinned unsympathetically
at the solemn faces, which were mocking at his common
sense, his appreciation of the ridiculous which from the
first had held in good-humored contempt the signs of
mediæval flummery.

"You, Monsieur," said the man in the cowl, whom they
called Issad.  "There is no doubt.  It is written."

"I've not written it," said Rowland contemptuously.

"The Priest of Nemi--you have broken the Golden
Bough," put in the shock-headed man.

"Oh, I see.  I broke your silly tree.  I'm sorry."

"Sorry!" whispered Issad, pointing to the dead man.
"It is he who should be sorry."

"I've no doubt he is," muttered Rowland, "but he
brought this on himself."

"That is true," said the third man eagerly, the one
Tanya had called Picard.  "We are all witnesses to it."

Rowland frowned at the man.

"Then will you tell me what the devil you meant by
shooting a pistol at me?" cried Rowland angrily.

Picard hung his head.

"It was he who was the Priest of Nemi--while he
lived, our oath, our allegiance----"

"Ah, I see," put in Rowland, "and now the water is
on the other shoulder."

He shrugged and as he did so was aware of a sharp
pain where the knife of Ivanitch had struck him, and from
the fingers of his left hand he saw that blood was dripping.

Tanya, who had stood silent during this conversation,
came forward, touching his arm.

"Monsieur is wounded," she said gently.  "You must
come----"

Rowland impersonally examined the blood at his finger
tips.

"If you wish to call the Gendarmes----" he began
coolly.

"Gendarmes!" broke out Picard excitedly, "No, Monsieur.
There must be no police here.  Nemi settles its
own affairs."

Rowland glanced at the fellow.  He was not hostile,
but desperately in earnest, and the faces of the two
other men reflected his seriousness.  Tanya Korasov was
silent, but into her face had come new lines of decision.

"If you will go into the house, Monsieur," she said
quietly, "I will bind your wound and perhaps give you a
reason why the police should not be called to Nemi."

Her suggestion reminded him that the wounded shoulder
was now tingling unpleasantly, and so, with a glance at
the others, who seemed eagerly to assent to his departure,
Rowland nodded and followed the girl toward the house.

A while ago the strange actions of this fantastic
household had keenly amused him, for Rowland was a product
of an unimaginative age, a Nomad of the Cities, bent
upon a great errand which had nothing to do with
priesthoods.  But now the startling sequence of events,
culminating in the mention of his mother's name and the
death of Ivanitch had made him aware that the arm of
coincidence was long, or that Destiny was playing a
hand with so sure an intention that he, Phil Rowland,
for all his materialism, must accept the facts and what
came of them.  Destiny!  Perhaps.  For a year
Rowland had believed it his destiny to be killed in battle,
instead of which he had lived the life of a dog in a prison
camp, and escaped into freedom.  But a priest of a secret
order, ordained twenty-seven years ago when in the smug
security of the orderly Rowland house in West Fifty-ninth
Street, he had been born--the thing was unthinkable!
But there before him, treading soberly, her slender
figure clad in a modish frock which must have come from
the Rue de la Paix, was Tanya; and there behind him,
in the arms of Picard, Issad and the shock-headed man,
was the dead Ivanitch, in token that the prediction of
the legends of Nemi had been fulfilled.

He followed the girl into the house and upstairs, where
she helped him remove his coat and shirt and bathed and
anointed the slight cut in his shoulder.  If in his mind he
was uncertain as to the judgment of the Twentieth
Century upon his extraordinary adventure, he was very sure
that Tanya Korasov at least was very real, her fingers
very soft, her touch brave, and her expressions of
solicitude very genuine.  And it was sufficient for Rowland
to believe that an intelligence such as that which burned
behind her fine level brows, could not be guilty of the
worship of false gods.  Intelligent, sane and feminine to her
finger tips....  The sanity of Tanya more even than
the madness of Ivanitch gave credence to the story that
she was to tell him....

"Thanks, Mademoiselle," he said gently, when she had
finished.  "You are very good, to one who has brought
so much trouble and distress upon you."

She looked up at him quickly and then away, while
into her eyes came a rapt expression as that of one who
sees a vision.

"Distress!" she said listlessly, and then slowly, "No,
it is not that.  Monsieur Ivanitch was nothing to me.
But Death--such a death can be nothing less--than horrible."

Her lip trembled, she shuddered a little and he saw that
a reaction had set in.  She rose to hide her weakness
and walked the length of the room.

"Forgive me.  I should have gone last night----"

"No, no," she said hysterically.  "You can bear no
blame--nor I.  He attacked you yonder.  You had to
defend yourself----"

She broke off, clasping her hands and turning away
from him.

"How could I have known that you were--that you
... I thought it mere timidity, nervousness on his
part--fear born of the danger that had so long hung over
him--I knew the legend of Nemi.  But Monsieur----"
she threw out her arms wildly--"I--I am no dreamer of
dreams, no mystic, no fanatic.  I have never believed that
such strange things could come to pass.  But Kirylo
Ivanitch had a vision.  You were Death!  You were
stalking him there and he knew----"  She laughed
hysterically and turned away from him again.  "You see,
Monsieur, I--I am not quite myself."

Rowland glanced at her steadily a moment and then
quickly went to the cupboard where last night she had
found the jug of Chartreuse, and pouring her out a glass,
carried it to where she stood struggling with herself at
the window.

"Drink!" he said sternly.  "It will quiet you."

She glanced at the glass, then at him and obeyed.

"Do not speak now," he urged quietly.  "Wait until
you feel better."

"No, I am well again.  I must speak at once.  I must
tell you all.  It is your right to know."  She sank
resolutely into the chair before him and leaned forward, her
hands clasped over her knees, her gaze fixed on the empty
hearth.

"Monsieur Ivanitch was--was my compatriot, Monsieur
Rowlan'--that is all.  I was sent here to him three
years ago to help in the great cause to which I have given
my life."

"Your parents, Mademoiselle?" broke in Rowland eagerly.

She moved a hand as though to eliminate all things
that pertained to herself.

"It does not matter what I am, so long as you know
that I am a Russian sworn to bring Russia's freedom
from those who seek to work her ruin."

"And Ivanitch----?"

"A Russian born--an exile, a zealot, a possible tool in
the hands of those more dangerous than he."

"Mademoiselle.  There are others----?"

"Listen, Monsieur.  I must begin at the beginning or
you will not understand, what my task has been, and
what--God willing--you will help me to do."

"I?"

"You, Monsieur."

Rowland was silent, looking at her, sure now of a
deeper import to her meaning.

"If there is anything I can do to help Russia, to help
France here, you may count upon me," he said quietly.

He might have added to help Tanya Korasov, but
something warned him that a hidden fire within her had
burst into a flame, which burned out all lesser ones.

Her fine eyes regarded him steadily in a moment of
intense appraisal, and then she went on.

"The origin of the Priesthood of Nemi, Monsieur,"
she said, "is lost in the mazes of antiquity.  According
to one story, the priesthood began with the worship of
Diana, at Nemi, near Rome, and was instituted by
Orestes, who fled to Italy.  Within the sanctuary at
Nemi there grew a certain tree of which no branch might
be broken.  Only a runaway slave was allowed to break
off, if he could, one of its boughs----"

"A runaway slave," he smiled.  "Then I----"

She nodded.  "You may think it fantastic, but that
was what Monsieur Ivanitch feared when he learned last
night what you were.  And I----" she stopped again.
"I could not believe that such things were possible----"

"They aren't," said Rowland, quietly.

His quiet voice steadied her.

"It is a strange tale," she said with a slow smile, "but
you must hear it all.  Only a runaway slave who
succeeded in reaching the Golden Bough and broke it was
entitled to challenge the Priest in single combat.  If
he--killed him, he reigned in the place of the priest, King
of the Wood----"

"REX NEMORENSIS----" muttered Rowland.

"You've heard?"

"I read it--there," pointing to the pedestal.  And
as he looked, the meaning of the double bust came to him,
the anguished face of the older man and the frowning face
of the youth who was to take his place.

"He was afraid of me," he said.  "I understand."

"The legend tells that the Golden Bough," she went
on quickly, "was that which at the Sybil's bidding Æneas
plucked before he visited the world of the dead, the flight
of the slave was the flight of Orestes, his combat with
the priest, a relic of the human sacrifices once offered to
the Tauric Diana.  A rule of succession by the sword
which was observed down to imperial times----"

"A ghastly succession--and Ivanitch----?" he questioned.

She frowned and bent forward, her chin cupped in a hand.

"No one knows of his succession--or no one will tell.
It was said that when he returned from Siberia, he killed
the man who had sent him there."

"A pretty business," said Rowland, rising.  "But I
did not kill Kirylo Ivanitch----" he protested.  "It was
he himself who----"  He paused and stared at Tanya
thoughtfully.

"You can not deny that if he had not attacked you,
he would be here, alive--now."

"That is true, perhaps.  But murder--assassination----"  He
stopped and smiled grimly.

"Mademoiselle Korasov, I'm a soldier and have seen
blood shed in a righteous cause.  I kill a strange German
in a trench because there is not room for us both, and
because I am trained to kill as a duty I owe to France.
But this----" he waved his hand toward the garden--"this
is a brawl.  A man attacks me.  I defend myself--I
strike him with my fists when I might have plunged
his own knife into his heart.  You saw me--I threw his
knife away and fought as we do in my own country,
with my hands.  If he falls and strikes his head upon a
stone----"

He broke off with a shrug.

"Whatever your rights, and I bear witness to
them--nevertheless, Monsieur--justified as you are in our eyes
and your own conscience, it was you who killed Kirylo
Ivanitch."

He stared at her for a moment.  Her brows were
drawn, but her eyes peered beyond him, as though only
herself saw with a true vision.  No fanatic--no dreamer?
Then what was behind her thoughts--the ones she had not
uttered?

"The man is dead," he mumbled.  "If I am guilty of
his death, I want a court, a judge.  I will abide by the
law----"

But Tanya was slowly shaking her head.

"There shall be no Court, no Judges but those of Nemi.
We saw--we know.  There shall be no inquiry.  Nemi
shall bury its own dead, and you, Monsieur----"

"And I?" he asked as she paused.

"You, Monsieur Rowlan', shall be the Head of the
Order of Nemi."

"But, Mademoiselle!  You don't understand.  I am a
part of the Armies of Republican France--a part of the
great machinery--a small part, lost but now restored
to go on with the great task, a free world has set itself
to do."

"A great task!"  The girl had risen now and caught
him by the arm with a grasp that seemed to try to burn
its meaning into his very bones.  And her voice, sunk
to a whisper, came to his ears with tragic clearness.
"There's a greater task for you here--Monsieur.  A task
that will take greater courage than facing the grenades
of the trenches, a task that will take more than courage,--a
task only for one of skill, intelligence and great
daring.  Is it danger that you seek?  You will find it
here--a danger that will lurk with you always, an insidious
threat that will be most dangerous when least anticipated.
There are others, Monsieur Rowlan', who may be taught
to shoot from the trenches, but there is another destiny
for you, a great destiny--to do for the world what half
a million of armed men have it not within their power to
do.  It is here--that destiny--here at Nemi and the
weapons shall be forged in your brain, Monsieur, subtle
weapons, keen ones, subtler and keener than those of the
enemies who will be all about you--your enemies, but
more important than that--the enemies of France, or
Russia, England and all the free peoples of the Earth----"

She had seemed inspired and her eager eyes, raised to
his, burned with a gorgeous fire.

"Germany!" he whispered.  "Here?"

"Here--everywhere.  They plot--they plan, they seek
control--to put men in high places where the cause of
Junkerism may be served----"

"But they cannot!"

"I have not told you all.  Listen!" She released his
arm and sat.  "You have misjudged us here.  To your
Western eyes we were mere actors in a morbid comedy
of our own choosing, masqueraders, or fanatics, pursuing
our foolish ritual in a sort of mild frenzy of self-absorption.
But Nemi means something more than that.  It
reaches back beyond ancient Rome, comes down through
the ages, through Italy, the Holy Roman Empire, through
France, Germany and Russia, a secret society, the oldest
in the history of the world, and the most powerful, with
tentacles reaching into the politics of Free Masonry, of
Socialism, of Nihilism, of Maximalism.  The society of
Nemi, an international society, with leaders in every
party, a hidden giant with a hundred groping arms which
only need a brain to actuate them all to one purpose."

She paused a moment, her hand at her heart, while she
caught her breath.  "And that purpose--Monsieur
Rowlan'--the saving of the world from autocracy!" she said
impressively.

He did not dare smile at her for her revelations were
astounding, and in spite of himself all that was venturesome
in his spirit had caught of her fire.  The rapidity
of her utterance and the nature of her disclosures for
a moment struck him dumb.  How much of this story
that she told him was true, and how much born in the
brain of the dead Ivanitch?  A secret society with
ramifications throughout Europe--a power which might pass
into the hands of the enemies of France.  Rowland was
not dull, and clear thinking was slowly driving away the
mists of illusion, leaving before him the plain facts of his
extraordinary situation.

"I am no believer in mysticism, Mademoiselle Korasov,"
he said at last, smiling, "nor in a destiny written before
I was born.  What you tell of the history of Nemi is
interesting, what you say of the Visconti very strange,
startlingly so, but I am the product of an age of materialism.
This drama was born and developed in the brain
of a dreamer and zealot.  Don't you see?  A strange
coincidence unhinged him.  He attacked me as he might
have attacked any other escaping prisoner----"

"But all escaping prisoners are not of the Visconti----"
she said.

He shrugged and smiled.  "I still think you more than
half believe in all this----" he hesitated a moment, and
then with cool distinctness, "this fol-de-rol."

She glanced up quickly and rose.

"Listen, Monsieur," she said soberly, "you may believe
what you please of the legends of Nemi, but you cannot
deny the material facts as to its influence.  There are
documents here which will prove to you that what I say
is true.  Members of the Order of Nemi are high in the
Councils of the Great--its power is limitless for evil or
for good in the world.  Whether you believe in it or not,
you are its Leader, in accordance with its strange laws
of succession, which have come down through the ages,
and you are recognized as such by those others yonder,
and will be recognized by others who will come.  Its
High Priest----"

Rowland's gesture of impatience made her pause.

"I'm no Priest----" he laughed.

"Call yourself what you like, then," she cried.  "It
does not matter.  But think, Monsieur, of what I am
telling you.  An opportunity--power, international
leadership, and a goal,--the freedom of Europe!  Oh, is
not that a career worthy of the ambition of any man on
the earth!  And you quibble at the sound of a name!"

Her tone was almost contemptuous.  She had walked
to the window and stood there trembling--he paused a
moment and then walked over to her.

"I haven't denied you, Mademoiselle.  I've merely
refused to believe in the supernatural.  Call my presence
here a coincidence, the death of Kirylo Ivanitch by its
true name, an act of involuntary man-slaughter and I
will do whatever you like--if I can serve France better
here than on the battle-line."

She flashed around on him and clasped his hand.

"You mean it?"

"I do.  If I can help you here, I will act whatever
part you please."

"At once?  There is no time to lose."

"I shall obey you."

"No.  It is I who must obey you--and they--Picard,
Issad, Stepan, Margot--but more than these--Shestov,
Madame Rochal, Signorina Colodna, and Liederman----"

"Who are these?"

"Members of the Order.  Councilors who will come to
you--to give advice and to take it."

He smiled.

"Ah, I see.  They are coming here soon?"

She nodded.

"A council has been called--the members may reach
here today.  You will meet them?"

"Have I not told you that I will do what I can?  But
I must know their nationalities, their purposes----"

"Oh, I shall tell you all that--and warn you.  Remember,
Monsieur, you are the Leader of Nemi----"

"And as such," he grinned, "subject to sacrifice upon
the altar of your precious Priesthood----"

She touched the back of his hand lightly with her fingers.

"Sh----!  Monsieur.  It is no laughing matter.  And
there are those I must warn you against."  Her eyes
stared widely past him from under tangled brows.  "Two
whom you must fear--of finesse, craft and intelligence--a
woman without a conscience and a man without a
soul----"

"Ah, you interest me.  A woman!  Their names----"

Before Tanya Korasov could reply, there was a knock
upon the door which was pushed quickly open and the
shock-headed man entered.

"What is it, Stepan?" asked the girl.

"Monsieur Khodkine has just come in at the gate,
Mademoiselle," he said in French.

Rowland saw the girl start and felt her fingers close
upon his arm.

"Ah, Stepan," she said quietly, "tell him to come here,
and bring Issad and Picard."

And when Stepan had gone, "It is one of those whom
I have spoken, Monsieur Rowlan'," she stammered.  "Be
upon your guard, Monsieur--and keep this paper,
committing to memory the names and figures upon it."

Rowland opened the slip of paper curiously and it bore
this inscription:

"*Droite* 12 *Gauche* 23 *Droite* 7."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`KHODKINE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium

   KHODKINE

.. vspace:: 2

Was it imagination that gave him the idea that
the manner of Tanya Korasov betrayed a
sudden inquietude at the mention of the name
of the newcomer?  He was sure that the fingers which
touched his sleeve in warning were trembling as she glanced
wide-eyed toward the door into the garden by which
Monsieur Khodkine would enter.  Who was this visitor, and
what his mission, what his power, what his authority?

Stepan threw the door open and stood aside, bowing
as the visitor entered, followed by Issad and Picard.
He was tall and well built, with blonde hair brushed
straight back from a broad fine brow, below which
steel-blue eyes appraised the room and its occupants.  His
nose was straight and well chiseled, and his small brown
mustache carefully groomed, defined rather than
concealed the straight firm line of his rather red lips, which
parted slightly as he saw the figure of Rowland before
him.  His glance met the American's, hovered a second
and passed to Tanya, who had risen and stood mute and
expectant.

The Russian crossed the room quickly to the girl, and
taking the fingers she extended, bowed over them and
pressed them to his lips.

"Tatyana!" he said in French, with a deep and pleasant
voice.  "The days have sped into weeks, the weeks into
months, since I have seen you----"

"Grisha Khodkine, you are welcome!" said the girl,
withdrawing her hand, and as the Russian straightened,
turned toward the American whom she indicated with a
graceful gesture.  "You are to meet a--a visitor to
Nemi, Monsieur.  Permit me to present Monsieur Rowlan'."

The Russian straightened and his clear and slightly
surprised gaze passed impudently over the American's
ill-fitting clothing from head to foot.  Rowland had a sense
that it was the garments which Monsieur Khodkine noted,
not the man within them, and had a feeling of being still
further ignored when the Russian, after the slightest
inclination of the head, which indeed had seemed a part of
his cursory inspection, turned again quickly to Tanya.

"Where is Kirylo Ivanitch?" he asked.

The girl leaned with one hand upon the table, her
gaze upon the floor.  Her voice trembled a little as she
replied.

"Kirylo Ivanitch is--is dead."

Khodkine started violently.

"Dead!  Ivanitch----!"  He turned a quick look at
Stepan and at Rowland.  "When did this happen?" he
questioned eagerly.  "And who----?"

His look as though impelled returned to Rowland, who
had picked up one of the cigarettes of Monsieur Ivanitch
from the table and was now lighting it, very much at his
ease.  Rowland made no reply, and Tanya, with a
gesture of her extended fingers:

"It happened but just now,--this morning, Grisha
Khodkine," she said.  "For some days Kirylo Ivanitch
had been distraught with nerves, in a kind of strange fit
of uncertainty.  He was frightened....  He bade us
keep watch upon the Tree and what lies below it day and
night.  And to humor him we obeyed.  We did not know
what was to happen--something strange, Grisha Khodkine----"

As she paused the Russian looked from one to the
other in astonishment and mystification.

"Dead!--but how?  What happened?"

"This morning," the girl went on, choosing her words
carefully, "he attacked Monsieur Rowlan', in the garden,
as he was leaving Nemi.  Monsieur Rowlan' defended
himself, and struck--struck----"  Tanya hid her face in
her hands, trembling.

"Go on----" said the Russian.

"There is little else to tell," said the girl, raising her
pallid face from her hands, "Kirylo fell--He is--dead!"

Khodkine's gaze sought the eyes of the other men in
confirmation.

"It is the truth, Monsieur," muttered Picard.  "We
saw.  It was a fair combat.  But it was written--what
happened!"

Monsieur Khodkine's look passed slowly from one to
the other and at last rested on Rowland, who met his
glance calmly, soberly, without deference--but without
defiance.

"He tried to kill me, Monsieur," he said quietly, "he was
dangerous, and so----"  He shrugged.  "What would
you?  He fell and his head struck a stone----"

The Russian stared a moment.

"Then you----"  He paused.

Rowland smiled a little.

"It seems, Monsieur," he said coolly, "that I am your
new Priest of Nemi."

There was a long silence during which the Russian
stared at Rowland more intently as though correcting a
former and mistaken impression.  At last he took a pace
forward and the eyes of the two men met.

"You--you knew?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Rowland.

"And now----?"

The American shrugged but Picard broke in eagerly:
"All the conditions have been fulfilled, Monsieur
Khodkine--all from the first to the last----"

And while Rowland stood silent, in good-humored
contempt, the Frenchman told all that had happened,
including the American's escape from imprisonment and the
breaking of the Bough.  Rowland keenly watched all the
actors in this drama, the zealous sincerity of the
excitable Frenchman, the mystic absorption of Stepan, the
fixed burning gaze of Issad, sure that those who played
the minor parts were committed beyond question to a
strict interpretation of the symbols of the order.  Tanya,
the color coming slowly into her cheeks, answered briefly
and clearly the questions that were put to her.  If there
had been restraint in her acceptance of this successor to
Ivanitch, or wonder at the strange chain of facts which
linked this matter-of-fact American with the destinies of
Nemi, she spoke now with an air of definite assurance
and fatalism which went far to convince Rowland that
if she were not sincere in her beliefs she was playing a
skillful part which warned him how deeply he too was
committed to his strange new office.  But it was
Monsieur Khodkine that Rowland watched the closest.  From
an expression of consternation the face of the Russian
settled into a frowning inquiry and then as his glance and
Rowland's met, into a mask-like immobility which revealed
nothing of his own state of mind.  As one by one the
facts were revealed to him, his voice became more quiet,
his manner more suave, while he nodded his head in solemn
deliberation.  The phrases he used were theirs, the jargon
of mysticism, and yet to Rowland, the man of the world,
this change of tone and demeanor failed to comport with
the very obvious air of modernity and materialism which
Monsieur Khodkine had brought in with him from the
world outside.

"The Bough--broken," Khodkine was muttering, "an
escaped prisoner of the Germans,--a slave surely!  And
the combat--either one may challenge....  The
Visconti....  There seems no doubt.  Yes--it is strange.
You say that Monsieur Rowland did not know the
tradition...?"

"Not until after Kirylo Ivanitch was dead," said Tanya
calmly.  "I told him."

"It is most extraordinary," repeated Khodkine,
turning to Rowland with level brows.  "An act of Destiny,
striking as with the hand of God from out of the mists
of the Eternal ages.  But it is a sign too definite to be
ignored--an act of Revelation and a Prophecy."

The words were spoken soberly, with an air of rapt
introspection, but Rowland missed nothing of the alert
intelligence of Monsieur Khodkine's pale blue eyes, keen
and observing, which unlike Issad, the dreamer's, fairly
blazed with objectivity.

The impression that Monsieur Khodkine was playing
a part, became more definite.  He acted a little too well.
The talk of mysticism and destiny fell a little too glibly
from his lips to be quite in keeping with Rowland's
reading of his character, which made the Russian out to be
a politician of an advanced type, a doctrinaire perhaps,
but an intriguer with a definite and perhaps sordid
purpose, who had come expecting to find the dreamer
Ivanitch, and instead had found a heretic and an
unbeliever.  But under this skillful camouflage of mere
words, which though they may have meant much to Issad,
Stepan and Picard, conveyed nothing to Rowland, he hid
his disappointment well, and when all questions had been
answered, he went and viewed the dead Ivanitch and
agreed as the others had done to an immediate interment
of the body.

Through it all Rowland had said little, reading in the
quick furtive glances of the girl Tanya a silent petition to
accede in these arrangements, and so when the orders had
been given Rowland returned with Monsieur Khodkine to
the room on the lower floor where Tanya, after a warning
glance which Rowland interpreted and answered, left the
two men to their own devices.  Rowland, now fully aware
that he was to deal with a man of no ordinary ability,
took a leaf from Monsieur Khodkine's book and fairly
met him at his own game.

"An American, Monsieur!" began the Russian, after
they had lighted their cigarettes.  "It is indeed a far
cry from the 'white lights' of Broadway to the Priesthood
of Nemi----"

"Ah, you know New York?" asked Rowland.

"I have been there.  An extraordinary city--a
wonderful people--intensely practical.  But you are no
nation of dreamers, Monsieur."

"Upon the contrary," replied Rowland, politely.
"Were we not dreamers--we should long since have
finished disastrously our experiment in individualism.  Like
you in Russia we dream, Monsieur, but unlike you, our
dreams come true."

Khodkine gazed at Rowland with a new interest.  Was
this smiling American less stupid than he looked?

"Individualism!  Yes.  You are even slaves to liberty,
which has made you the mere creatures of your own desires."

"You are a monarchist, Monsieur Khodkine?" asked
Rowland, with an innocent gaze.

"May the good God forbid!" cried Khodkine abruptly.
"I am a Russian, of the heart of Russia which throbs
with the pulse-beats of humanity.  The Czar has fallen,
but the era of absolutism in Russia is not yet over."

Rowland shifted his knees and fixed a cool look of
inquiry upon Khodkine.

"I am only a soldier, Monsieur," he said.  "For a year
I have been in a prison camp.  As you must see, I am
vastly ignorant of what is going on in the world."

"Then you must know that my country has changed
in nothing but a name.  Instead of monarchy we have
oligarchy--a band of men bent upon usurping the rights
of the people.  The people of Russia are drunk with
freedom and accept the new order of things because they
think it is what they have long fought for.  But the
men now in power in the Provisional Government are not
to be trusted--capitalists, bureaucrats, the enemies
of----"

"You are a Socialist Democrat, then, Monsieur?" put
in Rowland.

"A friend of Russia's freedom--call me by whatever
name you please."

Khodkine shrugged and blew a cloud of smoke.

"You mean that there are still those in power who are
in sympathy with Germany?" asked Rowland.

Khodkine rose and walked the length of the room while
Rowland watched him keenly.

"What else?  Is it not clear to you?"

"I am perhaps dull, Monsieur," said Rowland, vacuously.
"Rasputin is dead.  The Czarina has gone.  In
them you will admit the fountain heads of German
intrigue have been destroyed."

"Diverted, let us say, Monsieur--upon the surface.
But the evil stream still flows--secretly, below the ground,
to appear in high places where least expected."

Rowland rose and threw his cigarette into the hearth.

"I have no doubt that what you say is true, Monsieur
Khodkine.  I am not wise.  If I am to be of service
here"--Rowland paused significantly, until he found
Khodkine's gaze--"if I am to be of service here, I must
trust myself into the hands of those who have a deeper
insight into the politics of Europe than myself.  I have
promised Mademoiselle Korasov to stay at Nemi and do
what I can.  I would like to help."  He paused again
and then, with an air of frankness: "Perhaps, Monsieur
Khodkine, I could do no better than to entrust myself
into your hands."

Khodkine turned half toward him, his fine white teeth
showing in a smile and then thrust forth a hand in
confirmation.

"Can it be that you will trust me?"

"Implicitly."

Khodkine's pale eyes glowed with purpose.

"Ah, that is good, Monsieur Rowlan'.  It seems that
the hand which guides the destiny of Nemi is still
unerring."  And then more quietly, "You know what power
is yours to command?"

"Mademoiselle Korasov has told me something,--but
with skillful advisers--

"All will be well, Monsieur.  But you will have many
advisers.  They are coming here today, but you must
select the wheat from the chaff.  I shall tell you whom
to trust.  Russia must be born again.  You shall help
her in the pains of birth--save her from the malevolent
hands which threaten to throttle her in the very act of
being."

"It is a great destiny you plan, Monsieur.  The society
of Nemi may be powerful, but I can hardly believe
that such a powerful autocracy as Germany----"

"Tst--Monsieur!  You have heard some of the
rumblings in the Reichstag.  Liebknecht the elder blazed
the way.  His son has followed----"

"Oh, yes, Liebknecht.  I've heard----"

"Only the military might of Germany holds the nation
intact, but even in its might it trembles.  Nemi is strong
in Germany.  In many regiments the socialists have
revolted and in the navy--mutiny.  Those men realize that
there is a force let loose into the world, before which the
selfish aims of the rulers of the countries of the earth
are as chaff in the wind.  Not one nation shall rule, or
several, but all--Monsieur.  All!  Internationalism--!
Do you know what that means?"

And as Rowland remained silent, as though in deep
thought, Khodkine threw his long arms out in a wide
gesture.

"You shall see.  The time comes soon----"

"And you will help me, Monsieur?" Rowland asked
urbanely.

"With all my heart and intelligence."

Khodkine smiled and the two men clasped hands.  Monsieur
Khodkine's hands were very white and as smooth as
a woman's, but there was strength in the sinew beneath.
Internationalism!  A fine word! which might mean
anything....  If this man were Rowland's enemy, at least
he should not start with any advantage.  The new Leader
of Nemi was learning, still moving in the dark, for the
names of those who had come into power in Russia, Lvoff,
Rodzianko--and the others had seemed to stand for all
that was best in the interests of free government.  And
so he had led Monsieur Khodkine out, that he might
inspect, in profile, as it were, the motives which underlay
his politics.  As yet nothing definite--only a suspicion.
As to the sincerity of his beliefs in the ritual of Nemi,
Rowland was soon enlightened.

"You are a practical man, Monsieur Rowland," Khodkine
went on easily.  "You are no doubt mystified by the
curious sequence of events which have brought you here
to Nemi, as titular head of this great and secret order.
But I too am a practical man, and I will be frank with
you.  I care nothing for symbols.  Whatever the society
of Nemi is in the minds of its legion of followers, to
me it is merely a means to a great end--the safety and
peace of all Europe.  The fulfillment of the promises of
the legend is extraordinary--almost incredible, but
neither you nor I as men of the world can believe that it
comes from any supernatural agency.  Kirylo Ivanitch
was immolated upon the altar of his own fears, a
sacrifice to his own superstition.  He killed the Priest who
preceded him.  For years his Nemesis, a true Nemesis,
my friend, has pursued him.  But you, Monsieur, must
permit no such doubts to poison your usefulness."

"Why should I," laughed Rowland.  "A man attacks
me, stabs me with a knife.  If he is killed, is it my fault?
My conscience is clear."

"Good.  Then we understand each other."  He broke
off with a shrug.

"As to the ritual of Nemi.  There is a strength in
mysticism, a fact which the vile Rasputin was not long
in finding out.  A little ceremonial does no harm and
you, Monsieur, must play your part with skill and some
caution."

"By all means," said Rowland, with a laugh.  "Until
the new priest of Nemi shall find me out.  Then at least
I assure you that I shall not stand on ceremony."

"Ah, as to that, you may reassure yourself," said
Khodkine, easily.  "A Miracle such as this may sometime
happen by chance, but not twice in one generation."

"At least," Rowland concluded cheerfully, "you may
be sure that I am not afraid."

"Perhaps it is well that we have a soldier at Nemi,"
said Khodkine with a smile.  And then after a pause--"Tell
me, Monsieur.  Did Mademoiselle Korasov commit
to your keeping any documents--any papers?"

"None," lied Rowland coolly.  "As you know, this
affair has happened so recently----"

"There were no papers found upon the body of
Monsieur Ivanitch?"

"If they have not been removed by Issad or Stepan,
they should be upon his body now."

"Ah!  I will inquire."  And getting up quickly,
Monsieur Khodkine made his way out of the room in the
direction of the adjoining apartment.

Tanya, a warning finger to her lips, joined Rowland
immediately.  It seemed that she must have been near
the door, waiting for the chance to speak with him alone.

"You were careful?" she asked.

"As careful as a person may be who walks on a floor
carpeted with egg-shells," said Rowland with a smile.

"He asked if I had told you anything, given you anything?"

Rowland nodded.

"He has gone to search the body," he said.

"For the paper I gave you," whispered Tanya.  "I
found it in the pocket-book of Kirylo Ivanitch.  I took
it--there in the garden as I knelt beside him.  You have
committed it to memory?"

"Yes.  *Droite* 72 *Gauche* 23 *Droite* 7----"

"Sh--!  You can remember it?"

"Yes."

"Then destroy it quickly."

Rowland struck a match, lighted the scrap of paper
and threw it into the hearth.  She went toward the door,
stood in a tense moment of listening and then quickly
returned.

"Do not trust him, Monsieur, and be upon your guard
against him always.  For the present nothing more.  I
shall contrive to meet you tonight."

She walked to the chair which Monsieur Khodkine had
left and motioned Rowland to another, and then raising
her voice, spoke easily in a conversational tone of the
members of the Council who were to join them later in
the day.  A few moments later Monsieur Khodkine, his
brows troubled in thought, came into the room.

"You found nothing?" asked Tanya.

"His watch, the talisman, some keys, a little money.
Nothing else."

"What was it you were looking for, Monsieur?" enquired
Rowland.

Khodkine glanced at Tanya and shrugged.

"A memorandum--it does not matter."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ZOYA`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium

   ZOYA

.. vspace:: 2

During the afternoon other members of the
Council of Nemi reached the village and arrived at the
gate in the wall where Issad, clad in his dark
robes and sensible of his own importance, greeted them
with all solemnity and conducted them to the house where
Tanya Korasov, Khodkine and Rowland received them.
First, Shestov, who was blonde, bald and slightly
pock-marked, with a long neck consisting mostly of tendons and
Adam's apple.  Shestov spoke French with a thickness of
tongue which gave the impression of a being constantly
under the influence of liquor,--a mere impediment of the
speech, for as Rowland afterward discovered, no spirits of
any kind had ever passed his lips.  Then came Liederman
and Mademoiselle Colodna.  Liederman was heavy, Hebraic
and noisy; Irina Colodna silent, abstracted and intense;
Monsieur Barthou, mild mannered, quiet but eager, his
sandy hair cropped short, his little red-rimmed eyes
magnified many fold behind his enormous goggles.  And lastly
Madame Rochal.

If internationalism was the keynote of Monsieur
Khodkine's politics, the term might in a general way be
applied to the curious and striking personality of Madame
Rochal, for she reflected such an intense cosmopolitanism
that it was at first difficult to identify her with any
nation of Europe.  Her name might have been French,
Russian or Spanish, and her gown might have come from
Paris or Vienna.  She spoke all languages, French,
German, Russian, English with equal facility, each it seemed
with a slight accent or tinge of the others, but without
preference or favor.  Her eyes, set a little obliquely in
her head, were of the night, dark and unfathomable, and
her hair, black with a faint green-violet gloss, was folded
back at each side over her ears like the two wings of a
raven.  She was jeweled, exotic, slightly tinted, and
exhaled a faint suggestion of daintily mingled perfumes.
To all appearances she was less than thirty in years,
though in her eyes lurked the wisdom of the centuries.

All of these persons were informed by Monsieur
Khodkine, the earliest arrival, of the tragic event of the
morning and of Philip Rowland's share in it.  Monsieur
Khodkine pitched his drama in a low key, spoke with great
seriousness and earnestly requested the new arrivals to
consider the evidence in the light of their own
understanding and showed them the body of Ivanitch and the
broken Bough, in token of the fulfillment of the prophecy.
As to his own mind, he said, that was already made up.
As a member of the Order, he would take commands from
none other than Monsieur Rowland, who was now the
President of the Order of Nemi.  Rowland said nothing
and stood soberly trying not to laugh, studying this
queerly assorted company who had listened to the
Russian, regarding the American with a new and rather
morbid interest, appraising him (so Rowland thought) as one
examines an egg which one expects to devour.

Whatever the others may have thought, only Liederman
was outspoken.  He got up, swaying from one foot
to the other, like a great brown bear, his hairy fists
clenched, his black brows beetling as he roared his
opinions in a French tinged abominably with gutterals.

"Pfui!  A new priest and an American!  You have a
doctrine over in your country.  You should permit us
to apply it here--Europe for Europeans, Monsieur--We
do not need to go so far--

"But the laws of the Order----" broke in Khodkine.

"Pouf, Grisha Khodkine.  We are no longer children,
believing in the necromancy of the middle ages.  I for
one am no exorcist.  We live in no day of incantations,
nor can we accept the idols which a past age has set up
for us.  The train of coincidences is extraordinary, but
let us accept it as such and end the matter.  The
Council of Nemi has borne with Kirylo Ivanitch, because as we
all know he formed a proper buffer between our conflicting
aims.  But Kirylo Ivanitch is dead.  When our numbers
are filled, let us elect a leader, a Priest if you still choose
to call him such, who will conduct our meetings and do
our bidding.  As for this Monsieur Rowland----" and
he gave a grunt, "as far as I am concerned, he may very
well go upon his way."

"That is impossible," came the cold, clear voice of
Madame Rochal, her strange eyes fixed on Rowland's
face.  "The new Leader of the Order of Nemi has already
been selected in accordance with a Destiny which it is not
my privilege--nor yours, Herr Leiderman, to thwart."

Herr Leiderman stopped rocking and stared at the
speaker, a look of sudden perplexity at his brows.

"You!  Zoya!" he roared.

"I," she returned with a quick flash of her eyes.  "And
why not?  God knows we need new wits to bring us
harmony.  Why not Monsieur Rowland's?"

"But----"

She shrugged and turned to Shestov who was speaking.

"Madame Rochal is not often wrong and her influence
is not to be despised.  For Russia I can speak.  A man
who is willing to offer his own blood unselfishly in sacrifice
for a nation not his own, is a friend to Freedom and to
Russia."

The red-rimmed eyes of Monsieur Barthou blinked
enormously behind his goggles.  "I am for the old order
of things--as they have been since the beginning----"

"And shall be everlastingly," said Khodkine sententiously.
"Amen.  And you, Irina Colodna?" he asked.

"What has been, shall be," she replied in her soft
Italian accent.  "Whatever happens--the order must not
be broken."

"Bah!" thundered Liederman, "and jeopardize our
leadership of the cause of the world by investing this
adventurer, this soldier of fortune, with the right to----"

"Hush!  Max!" cried Zoya Rochal shrilly.  "You are
a beast."

Liederman rocked in a moment of silence and then sank
into a chair, his fists clasped over his folded arms.

Rowland regarded him a moment and then as the gaze
of the others was turned toward him, took a pace
forward, faced them, and after a glance at Khodkine spoke
quietly, and with growing assurance, while the smile that
always lurked at the corners of his lips seemed to be
struggling against his sober demeanor.

"Messieurs and Mesdames," he said politely, "I am, as
this excellent and veracious Herr Liederman has just said,
both an adventurer and a soldier of fortune.  But if he
chooses to turn these words against me I can only reply
that I am an adventurer in the greatest cause the world
has ever known, a soldier for the fortune of freedom
which is to come.  I am no diplomat but a soldier of
France which stands resolute, undaunted, immovable upon
its new frontier.  I have been in the cauldron before
Verdun and thus am the only one among you who has seen
Hell upon this earth.  I say to you Messieurs and
Mesdames that death is nothing when compared to the
tension of nerves tightened like bow-strings.  After that I
say there is no war that can be right--no Peace that
can be wrong."  There was a movement of approval and
Rowland grinned comfortably and then went on--"Your
cause is mine and whatever the means by which you
accomplish peace, that is mine also.  I will do your bidding
if you desire it, but if, as Herr Liederman suggests, the
good of your Society is best conserved by my departure
I am ready to go upon my way----"

"Enough, Monsieur!" Zoya Rochal rose and threw
out one white hand in a wide gesture.  "We need you at
Nemi, Monsieur Rowlan'--Is it not so, you others--?"

She challenged them quietly, but her eyes shot fire at
the silent Liederman, who stared up at her from under
heavy brows and shrugged.

"I am out-voted," he said; "I have no more to say."

"That is well," said Khodkine.  He crossed the room
and clasped Rowland by the hands, an example which all
the others now followed.  Tanya had stood at one side, a
silent spectator of this scene smiling slightly, aware of
her own part in this decision, but watching keenly as they
came forward.  Madame Rochal was the last to greet the
visitor.  Their hands met and Rowland bowed over the
jeweled fingers.

"I thank you for your indulgence, Madame," he said.

"Do not let Herr Liederman disturb you," she
whispered, "we are of many minds at Nemi.  But the danger
lies not in what is said, Monsieur, but what is unsaid."

"I understand.  Perhaps you'll help me----"

"Perhaps.  We shall see."

And with a deep look into Rowland's eyes, she passed
on and joined the others who following Margot, the old
woman whom Rowland had seen in the kitchen, went up
the stairs to be shown the rooms they were to occupy.
For a moment Rowland and Tanya were alone.

"You think her beautiful?" the girl asked.

"Magnetic, startling--but beautiful--?  The *beauté
du Diable* perhaps, but Mademoiselle----"

Tanya moved her expressive fingers.

"She is the most dangerous woman in Europe."

"You alarm me," he grinned.  "The only powder a
soldier fears is the *Poudre de Riz*."

She smiled.

"I'm not jesting."

"Nor I.  You warn me against her?"

"If you love freedom.  She is an agent of the
Wilhelmstrasse."

"Ah--I see.  But her nationality?"

"No one knows.  What does it matter?  She is an
actress--a friend of princes, in Russia, in Austria, a
go-between, a shuttle-cock playing her own game for her
own ends."

"And Liederman--?"

"Is it not obvious?  Her servitor."

"But why should she have chosen to accept me without
question as the new President of the Order?"

Tanya was silent a moment, and then:

"Because, if I may make so bold as to say so," she
said, "your guileless appearance marks a line of least
resistance best suited to her methods of attack.  Kirylo
Ivanitch was immune.  She thinks to find you less difficult.
In other words," she finished dryly, "she means to
use you, Monsieur."

"I shall be guileless, Mademoiselle, as long as I can
learn something, but not too guileless to be ungrateful to
you."  She shrugged and laughed as he glanced toward
the stairway whence came the sound of voices.

Rowland laughed quietly.  "I'm pledged to you, to
Khodkine and to Madame Rochal.  Messieurs Shestov
and Barthou are perhaps on my side.  Before the hour
passes I shall swear allegiance to Signorina Colodna and
Herr Liederman," he grinned, "the society of Nemi at
least shall be cohesive and I shall be the amalgam."

"This is no joke."

"Nevertheless I shall not cry over it----"

He caught her hand and pressed it in his strong fingers.
"Will you let me solve these problems in my own way?
If I seem to be guileless, humor me for my simplicity but
do not distrust me, Mademoiselle--for of all these who
are at Nemi it is you only who shall be my guide."

"You swear it?" she whispered.

"Upon my honor."

Her face flamed suddenly and her glance fell.

Then he kissed her hand and released her just as
Khodkine entered from the garden where what had once been
Kirylo Ivanitch had, without ceremony, been put below
the ground.  But the lines at Monsieur Khodkine's brows
were not born of this gruesome informality for it seemed
that Nemi turned without question from old gods to new,
but of another matter which for some hours had obviously
given him inquietude.

"If Monsieur Rowland will permit," he said gravely
turning to Tanya, "Mademoiselle Korasov is best
informed to speak of the affairs of Kirylo Ivanitch and of
the business pending in the Council----"

"Shall I leave you, Monsieur?" asked Rowland.

"Why?  You are one of us--our leader----"

Rowland chose to read something satirical in his
ceremonious bow.

"Well," said the American good-humoredly, "what's
the order of business?"

"The reports from the various central committees
which these Councilors represent, appropriations of
money to carry on the propaganda and the plans for
Russia.  But first it is necessary to see into the condition
of the affairs of Monsieur Ivanitch.  The vault must be
opened."

"The vault?" echoed Rowland.

Khodkine nodded and glanced at Tanya.

"The Priest of Nemi is sole custodian of the documents
and funds of the order.  Only Ivanitch knew the secret
of the doors to the vault----"  Here he turned suddenly
to the girl--"Unless perhaps *you*, Tatyana----"

"What should I know, Grisha Khodkine?" she said
coolly.  "I have merely obeyed orders.  Kirylo Ivanitch
entrusted me with no such weighty responsibility as this."

"And yet it is strange, that no record should be
left----"

"Kirylo Ivanitch died without speaking."

"But you Tatyana were closest in his confidence.  He
must have given some sign, left some paper----"

"Search for it then, his room, his desk, his clothing----"

"I have done so.  There is nothing."

Rowland found another cigarette which he lighted with
the greatest cheerfulness.

"An *impasse*," he smiled, "what are you going to do
about it?"

Khodkine shrugged.

"That is a grave question, Monsieur Rowland."

"Dynamite," suggested the American.  Khodkine paced
the floor slowly for a moment, and then to the girl.

"Go, Tatyana, if you please, and make a thorough
search.  Perhaps you may succeed where I have failed."

Tanya turned toward the door and then paused.  "And
the others, what shall you say to them?" she asked.

"Tell them the truth," said Khodkine.

The Russian waited until Tanya had gone and then
coming close to the new President of Nemi, spoke rapidly
and in whispers.

"You and I are allied for a common purpose.  The
vault is outside in the garden, deep under the Tree, we
must find a way into it, you comprehend, without the
knowledge of these others."

"Yes, but how?"

"That we shall devise.  I will find a way."  At the
sound of voices he glanced toward the door.  "Meanwhile,"
he whispered, "say nothing."

Rowland nodded and they drew apart as Madame
Rochal and Shestov entered the room.

"Ah, Machiavelli," she said, coming forward with a
smile--"already wrapping your tendrils around the Tree
of Nemi."

Khodkine laughed uneasily.

"My tendrils perhaps do not grow so far or cling so
tightly as yours may do, Madame."

Zoya Rochal glanced at Rowland who caught her look.

"For the wild rose, Madame," said the new Priest
quietly, "the oak always bears a life-long friendship."

"Ah, Monsieur, who has taught you to make pretty
speeches?  But be sure that I am no poison vine," she
said with a shrug.

"It is only the dead oak tree that the poison-vine loves.
I, Madame, am very much alive."

She flashed a quick smile at him, at once a challenge
and a reproach, while Khodkine looked on gravely.

"Only an escaping slave shall break the golden Bough,"
muttered the literal Shestov soberly.

Zoya Rochal laughed.  "You, Grisha Khodkine?" she
said significantly.

Khodkine started.

"Or you, Madame," he replied quickly.

"A slave?" she said.  "I have escaped from one
servitude into another.  But to have political opinions in
Russia is fortunately no longer a crime."

Rowland looked from one to the other and laughed.

"Monsieur Shestov has rendered me a service," he said
with a grin.  "I didn't know of this menace.  If you,
Madame Rochal, desire my life you shall take it at
once."  He picked up the dagger of Kirylo Ivanitch which had
been brought into the house and put upon the table, and
thrust the handle toward her.  But she shuddered
prettily and turned away.  "As for you, Monsieur
Khodkine," he said coolly, "from this moment I must be upon
my guard."

But the Russian saw no humor in this pleasantry.

"Enough of this nonsense, Monsieur.  Let us go in to
dinner."

And yet this controversy which had been heard by the
others who had followed Zoya Rochal into the room, in
spite of its apparent triviality, had done something to
clear the atmosphere.  Rowland's perfect good humor
and air of guilelessness which seemed to see nothing but
good humor and guilelessness in all those about him, had
the effect of providing a common meeting ground of
good-fellowship for those of different camps.  And whatever
the diversity of their opinions, the darkness of their
thoughts and purposes, the dinner table gave no sign of
the deeper undercurrents of their various allegiances.

And when they all rose from the table at the conclusion
of the meal Rowland and Madame Rochal went to smoke
their cigarettes.

"I can't make you out, Monsieur Rowland," she said
when they were seated on a bench at the end of the
garden.  "At times you seem very much like an overgrown
boy," she began, "and then--something makes me think
that you are not so ingenuous as you look."

"I have traveled the world over, Madame," said
Rowland with a laugh, "but I've never managed to learn
anything, except that women are very beautiful and that
men are born to be slaves."

She laid her fingers along his coat sleeve.

"Don't you know, foolish boy," she muttered with
sudden earnestness, "that you have happened upon the very
edge of an Inferno?"

"No, you surprise me.  It has seemed very much like
a sort of pleasant game to me."  He laughed.  "I kill,
quite by accident, the chap that runs your shebang and
you all come along and pat me on the back.  It's great,
I tell you.  You haven't been in a German prison pen,
Madame.  The conversation is hardly worth mentioning,
the food is unmentionable and now for the first time in a
year I find myself set down in a milieu of beautiful women
and clever men with real food to eat and real conversation
to listen to, and you, Madame, wish to spoil my
evening by speaking of Infernos.  It's really not
considerate of you."

He lolled lower in his seat and smoked luxuriously,
gazing at her through half-closed eyes.

The fingers on his arm tightened.

"I tell you, Monsieur, that you are in great danger,
here at this moment.  Don't you understand?"

"I understand what you say," he said smiling at her
lazily.

"It's the truth--" she repeated.  "Danger--of--death--sudden--at
any time."

"I am so contented, Madame.  I can imagine no
moment more agreeable in which to die."

"You anger me.  Have you no eyes to see what is
going on about you?"

Rowland straightened and glanced carelessly over his
shoulder.

"And what is going on about me?" he asked.

"You have become--in a moment--the most important
single figure in Europe.  You do not believe me.  It is
true.  Around you, here at Nemi, seethes a struggle of
nations gasping for breath and you sit and look into my
eyes and dream."

"You must blame that upon your eyes," he whispered.

She shrugged, moved impatiently and then after
looking cautiously around them into the shrubbery, turned
toward him again.

"I pray you to listen to me, Monsieur," she said
eagerly.  "I like you, Philippe Rowlan'.  From the first
in there, when I saw you, I knew that I should like you.
I don't know why."  She shrugged expressively.  "You
are different.  But you are also very foolish and I would
not like to see you come to harm."

"And who would harm me?" he said coolly.  "Perhaps
I am foolish, but you must blame that upon my sense of
humor.  I blunder into the midst of a pretty little
opera-bouffe worthy of the best traditions of Offenbach, with
chaps in cowls and cassocks pottering about a saddish-looking
tree and muttering about escaping slaves.  And
you ask me to be afraid.  Perhaps when I get through
being amused there will be time for that.  For the
present, Madame, will you bear with me and tell me something
about yourself?"

She threw out an arm with a dramatic gesture which
showed something of her training.  "Ah, I have no
patience with you, Philippe Rowlan'," she said, "you are
impossible.  Think of what I shall tell you, for it is very
important.  Under the mound below the tree is the
treasure-vault of Nemi.  It is built of steel, like a bank,
and no one may enter it without the secret numbers which
open the lock.  Those numbers were known only by
Kirylo Ivanitch and he is dead."

"That's unfortunate," said Rowland as she paused.
"But you can't blame me."

"Do you know what is in that vault, Philippe Rowlan'?"
she asked.

"I can't imagine.  A pig with a ring in the end of his
nose?" he smiled.

"You still disbelieve?  Well, I will tell you.  The funds
of the Order at this time can amount to little less than
twenty-five millions of francs.  They are there for you
or for anyone with imagination to divert into the proper
channels."

Rowland's eyes in spite of himself had become a little
larger.

"I'm no burglar, Madame.  I've done almost
everything--but safe cracking is a little out of my line."

"And yet it is upon you that the responsibility for this
money devolves.  If it is stolen you will be held accountable."

"Stolen!  Who will steal it?"

She shrugged.  "Who wouldn't--in a righteous cause?"
She caught his arm again to emphasize the importance of
her words.  "To help the cause of Free Institutions in
Europe?  You!  I!  Anyone with a cause like that
near his heart."

Rowland flicked his cigarette into the bushes.  "I am
very dense.  There seem to be more causes than one at
Nemi, more axes than one to grind.  Let me be direct,"
he said coolly.  "Yours--Madame Rochal.  What is it?"
he asked.

She glanced at him swiftly.

"You do not know?"

"Obviously, or I should not be asking."

She paused a moment, looking away from him.  And
then as though coming to a resolution she turned and
spoke in a low tone.  "These others believe that I am
acting for the Social Democrats of Germany, like Max
Liederman, but that is not the case."

"Ah--what then?"

"I am trusting you, Monsieur----"

"By the witchery in your eyes, I swear----"

She paused a moment as though to be sure of her
effect.  And then in a whisper--

"I am a secret agent of the Provisional Government
of Russia."

Rowland sat silent a second and then laid his hand
over hers while his lips broke into a boyish smile.

"I knew it, Madame.  I was sure of it," he whispered
softly.  "Our cause is the same.  You and I together--what
can we not do for Russia and for Freedom."

He was so ingenuous, so boyish, so handsome.  His
very youth refreshed her.  She sighed and then laughed
softly as she raised the back of her hand toward his lips.

"There," she murmured, "you may kiss my hand."

But Rowland only glanced at the hand and before
Madame Rochal knew what he was about had caught her
in his arms and kissed her full upon the lips.

"Monsieur!" she stammered and drew away from him
hurriedly.  Rowland followed her glance and turned to
find Tanya Korasov standing before them.  Rowland
sprang to his feet and stood, his head bowed, looking
indeed rather crestfallen.

"Mademoiselle----" he began.

But she cut him short with a gesture, speaking rapidly
and he saw that she was very pale and suffering under
some suppressed agitation.

"Monsieur, you are to come to the house at once.  In
the name of Freedom--Grisha Khodkine demands it!"

"I will go at once."

Tanya had already turned and fled down the path.
Rowland had taken only a few paces when Zoya Rochal
rushed alongside of him and seized his arm.

"Be watchful, Philippe Rowlan'!" she whispered tensely,
"for it is he whom you have most to fear."

He laughed softly as he caught her fingers to his lips.

"Thanks, Madame," he said gaily.  "No one shall kill
me at Nemi but you.  That I promise."  And left her
standing in the darkness.





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.. _`CAMOUFLAGE`:

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   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium

   CAMOUFLAGE

.. vspace:: 2

Rowland's long strides overtook Tanya before
she reached the lighted spaces of the lawn.
He had called to her but she had not stopped
and so as he caught up with her he barred her way down
the path.

"Mademoiselle Korasov," he blurted out eagerly, "just
a word----"

She stopped and faced him, still pale in the moonlight,
but quite composed, waiting for him to go on.

"I--I've been placed in a false light--I would like----"

"How, Monsieur?" she said indifferently.

"What you saw, just now--there.  Perhaps you think----"

His words stumbled and at last failed completely, for
he saw that she was bent on making explanations difficult.

"What does it matter to me," she said, "whom you
embrace, and why?"

He felt the sting under her words, and realized that
every phrase he uttered only placed him at a greater
disadvantage.

"I can make no explanation," he muttered.  "If you
think me a fool, I'm sorry.  And yet I'll prove that your
confidence was not misplaced."  Another silence during
which Tanya walked onward without sign that she heard him.

"Madame Rochal has just confided that she is an agent
of the Provisional Government in Russia."

"And you believed her?"

"No.  But she believes that I believe her."

"Are you sure?" she shrugged.  "You are no match
for a woman of her antecedents----"

"I shall meet her with her own weapons."

"It seems," she said disdainfully, "that you have
already begun well."

"Mademoiselle Korasov--enough of this!" he said
firmly and after a swift search of a bush nearby again
placed himself in the path in front of her so that she
couldn't pass him.  "You may think me a philanderer if
you like, or a fool, if that pleases you better.  But the
end is worthy of the means.  Already I've found out some
of the things I wanted to know.  The vault beneath the
tree will be robbed unless you and I can prevent."

Her eyes flashed with sudden attention.  He had
arrested her interest at last.

"Ah, you know--?"

He grinned.  "I'm in league with both burglars.  I've
only consulted two.  There may be others."

"Zoya Rochal?"

"And Khodkine.  I suspect Liederman also."

Tanya stood silent a moment and then a wan smile
rewarded him.

"You see?  I was right."  And then bravely, "This
must be prevented, Monsieur."

"Yes.  But how?"

"Merely by robbing the vault yourself."

"But I shall need your help, Mademoiselle.  This
money must be removed for safe keeping until it can be
properly used."

"Yes.  I can help in that."

"We must waste no time.  The sooner the better.
Where is the entrance to the vault?"

"An iron door near the wall beyond the mound.  I
have a key."

"Meet me here then in the shadow of these trees
to-night, at one o'clock.  Do you agree?"

"Yes," she said after a moment.  "I must."

"And do you forgive me for--for----"

She raised her head and looked past him toward the
lighted windows.

"What does it matter, Monsieur," she said coldly,
"whether I forgive or not?  Come."  And moving
quickly she led the way toward the house while Rowland
followed, still certain that however clever he thought
himself he felt a good deal of a fool.

Khodkine pacing the floor of his room upstairs awaited
Rowland's coming impatiently, but with an effort
composed his features in a smile as the American appeared.

"Ah, Monsieur," he said.  "It is too bad that I should
feel it necessary to interrupt your tête-à-tête with Madame
Rochal, who as we all know is the most charming woman
in the world.  But the President of Nemi is not a free
agent.  There are matters requiring your attention in
conference with me."

"Of course."

"Then I may go, Monsieur?" asked Tanya from the
doorway.

"Yes.  Go," said Khodkine with an abstracted wave
of his hand and a peremptory tone which made a frown
gather at Rowland's brow.  Gone were Monsieur Khodkine's
soft accents of greeting and his courtly bow.  And
Tanya seemed in awe of him, her look hanging upon his
commands.  Rowland remembered the agitation in her
manner when she had come to summon him to this
conference.  Had Khodkine frightened her tonight?  And
how?  Why?  Was there something between them, some
threat of Russian for Russian, born of politics or intrigue
in which Khodkine played the master hand?  Or was it
something nearer, more personal...?  It seemed
curious to Rowland that he should be thinking of this for the
first time.  He had formed his first impression of Tanya
there last night in the garden, when clad in her cowl and
robes she had seemed so abstracted from the world
outside.  "A very inferior Mother Superior," as she had called
herself, and by this token secluded but very human.  He
had considered the fact of her extraordinary beauty
merely as a fortunate accident, and having dismissed her
relations with Ivanitch from his mind, had dismissed all
other sentimental possibilities--all, that is, except his
own.  A love affair--of course.  With Khodkine?
Perhaps.  And yet that would hardly explain the Russian's
attitude toward her tonight--or hers toward him.  The
one thing that seemed to rise uppermost in Rowland's
mind was Tanya's fear of Khodkine ... As he joined
the Russian at the table by the lamp, he found himself
examining Monsieur Khodkine with a new interest and a
new antipathy.

"I have here some documents requiring your attention,
in order that you may familiarize yourself with the order
of business tomorrow when our circle is complete.  The
report of Herr Liederman from the Socialists of
Germany, that of Mademoiselle Colodna from Rome, appeals
from Shestov and Barthou.  You will read them tonight,
Monsieur?"

"Willingly.  But this, Monsieur Khodkine, was not
why you interrupted my tête-à-tête in the garden," said
Rowland slowly.  "You had another motive."

Khodkine smiled, got up and shut the door and went
on in a low tone.  "Why should I not be honest with
you?  Madame Rochal is not to be trusted, Monsieur.
She has already surprised me.  She opposed Liederman
in accepting you unreservedly as our leader.  It was
from these two that I had expected resistance.  Liederman
is a member of the Reichstag.  Madame Rochal--?"  He
shrugged.  "If you can tell what she is, you are
cleverer than the rest of us.  She brings credentials from a
central committee in Bavaria, but that means nothing.
Such things are arranged.  I merely wished to warn you
before you had committed yourself to her interests."

"You need have no fear.  I've grown my pin feathers.
The cause in which we are interested is more important
to me than the fascinations of Madame Rochal."

"We understand each other, Monsieur.  We are friends.
You will help me.  I will help you.  We shall work
together in a harmony that will bring great good to the
world.  Are you satisfied?"

"Quite."

Khodkine offered his hand and Rowland took it, longing
at that moment in a boyish sense of bravado to try
grips with the Russian and see which was the better of
the two.  But his common sense told him that if there
were to be a trial of strength between them, it would be
a test of mind, of Rowland's cleverness against the
Russian's finesse, of the American's skill in dissimulation
against Khodkine's skill in intrigue.  As yet there was
no damage done, and with Tanya's help, Rowland
perhaps held the stronger hand.

"To show you the confidence I place in you, Monsieur
Rowland, I shall give you this."

And Khodkine, with a deliberateness intended to
convey the importance of the matter, took out of his card
case a small flat silver disk which he fingered a moment
and then handed to Rowland.  The American examined
it curiously.  It bore, in low relief, the double-headed
just upon the pedestal in the room downstairs, and
below it, the words REX NEMORENSIS.

"A proof of your confidence--Monsieur.  What----"

"The talisman of our society.  Taken from the watch
chain of the dead Priest.  Worn only by the Priest but
known throughout Europe.  Shown to members of our
committees, it will carry you safely anywhere."

"Ah, thanks, Monsieur."

"You will forgive me for sending for you, will you not?
But it will not do for you to move in the dark.  Trust
no one but me."  He took up the papers on the table and
handed them to the American.  "Now go to your room,
and study these papers carefully with my notes upon the
margins, for it is according to this that the council must
act tomorrow.  But see no one else tonight.  Tomorrow
morning I will come to your room and tell you of my plan
to enter the vault."

"I shall do as you suggest, Monsieur.  I am very
tired.  When I read these papers I shall be ready for a
good night of sleep."

"That is well.  Good night, Monsieur."

"Good night."

In the seclusion of his room, the Leader of Nemi had
much to think of.  The labyrinth had grown deeper, its
mazes more tortuous, but like Theseus he still held to the
silken cord which bound him to Tanya Korasov, and
having trusted to his own instincts he was now ready to
follow blindly where she led him.  But it was clear that
Tanya had not under-rated the skill and strength of
Monsieur Khodkine.  He was indeed an adversary
worthy of any man's metal.  Under his polished veneer,
Monsieur Khodkine was made of hardy wood of a fine
grain but none the less strong because of that.  Though
there had been no chance to verify his impressions by a
conversation with Tanya, Rowland had decided that
Khodkine was working in the interests of Germany for a
separate peace with Russia, which would throw all the
strength of the German armies upon France, England,
Italy and the United States.  A mere surmise and based
upon the instinct that Tanya was true and a friend of
Russia, for which Rowland had fought and was fighting.
Without Tanya the whole structure of his intrigue fell to
the ground.  If he believed that Madame Rochal was an
agent of the Provisional Government of Russia, he must
also believe that Tanya was plotting against it.  And if
Madame Rochal were an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse
working in the same interests as Monsieur Khodkine, why
should the Russian distrust her?

And what was the threat which Khodkine held over
Tanya?  There seemed no end to the tangle and no
course of action but to move softly and await
developments.  The story of the amount of treasure in the
vault below the Tree had opened his eyes.  Here,
perhaps, was the answer to some of the questions that
perplexed him.  Politics of the sort that had been disclosed
here, would stop at nothing.  The times in which he
lived made murder a matter of small importance, and
what was his own career in France but that of murder
highly specialized?  Rowland was sure that his own
safety now hung upon his continued display of
friendship and collaboration in Monsieur Khodkine's plans.
And those plans in brief seemed to be nothing less than
the looting of the strong-box of Nemi before Madame
Rochal or Max Liederman could get at it.  And for what
Cause?  For Germany?  Or merely for Grisha Khodkine?

Rowland had no weapons, not even a pocket-knife, and
Khodkine carried an automatic in his hip pocket, for
Rowland had contrived to brush his arm against it earlier
in the evening.  The situation was interesting, but hardly
to his liking.  He longed for a good American Colt
revolver, one shot of which, well placed, was worth all the
automatics in the world.

But the business before him tonight admitted of no
delay nor of any consideration for his own safety.  At
one o'clock he was to meet Tanya at the lower end of the
garden, and with luck, by morning the money and papers
in the vault would be well out of harm's way if Tanya
could find a place for their safe-keeping.  Then, so far
as Rowland was concerned, they might dynamite the vault
to their heart's content.

"*Droite* 72 *Gauche* 23 *Droite* 7."  He had repeated
the figures to himself frequently and now continued to do
so, taking a new delight in their significance.  Twenty-five
millions of francs!  Five million dollars!  They
might go far, if properly used, in the interests of the
cause he served.  Whose money was this?  How long had
it accumulated?  And what the purpose of those who had
contributed?  Peace?  Surely Peace would come most
quickly if Germany were defeated.  And was he not the
President of Nemi--the chosen of the Council to represent
all the members of the society, whether socialists,
revolutionists, maximalists, minimalists or what not?  The
way was difficult.  So difficult that there was no
arbitrament but the sword.  The counter revolutionists of
Russia should not betray France, and those who led Russia
to destruction under the protection of a fine catchword
should not succeed in their treachery if it was in his
power to prevent.

Reasoning in this way, Phil Rowland lighted another of
the cigarettes of the dead Ivanitch while he scanned the
documents entrusted to him by Grisha Khodkine and
awaited the hour when he should join Tanya Korasov
below in the garden.  He had no watch but a clock in the
hall downstairs announced the hours slowly.  At eleven
he blew out his candle and sat in a chair by the window;
waiting and listening.  It was necessary that Monsieur
Khodkine should be disarmed.  He heard footsteps in the
hall outside from time to time and snored discreetly.  He
had taken the precaution to fasten the bolt of his door
and so feared nothing from the hall.  Outside in the
garden all was quiet.  The moon had set--the moon that
had shed its inconstant beams upon his own dissimulation
and Zoya Rochal's....  Alluring female, that!  The
essence of all things enchanting, the woman of thirty, a
woman with a past....  A component of faint delightful
odors....  Women like that had a way of going to a
fellow's head.  What the deuce had happened to her after
Rowland's sudden exit from the stage she had set for him?
He smiled as he remembered the results of his rather
violent caress.  If Tanya hadn't----

Rowland frowned into the darkness outside.  Tanya!
He would have given much if Tanya Korasov hadn't come
along just at that moment.  Women were strange
creatures.  He had fallen immeasurably in Tanya's eyes, the
only ones at Nemi that mattered.  He hadn't really
wanted to kiss Zoya Rochal.  It was merely that her lips
were there to take--and he had taken them.  He seemed
quite sure that Madame Rochal had not been displeased....
And tomorrow he must still play the game.

The clock in the hallway struck the half hour.  Half-past
twelve.  Rowland bent over and took off his shoes
and then moved stealthily to the window where he stood
behind the curtain peering out into the obscurity of the
garden.  There was no lantern upon the mound and no
dark figure watching by the Tree as there had been last
night.  Sure that no one was watching outside, he stuck
his head and shoulders out of the window and looked
around.  All the lights were out.  He had at first thought
of descending from the window which was less hazardous
than passing down the corridor and stairs, but
remembered that last night after Tanya's warning he had
assured himself that there was no means of entrance to his
room by the window.  The wall below was quite bare of
vines or projections and at least thirty feet high.  There
was nothing for it but to go by the corridor.

And so with infinite pains to make no sound he slowly
moved the bolt of the door until it was drawn entirely
back and then waited listening.  Silence.  He turned
the knob cautiously and opened the door.  So far so well.
After another moment of listening he took up his shoes
and on tip-toe went noiselessly down the hallway.  The
house was as silent as the tomb.  If the other members
of the Council had any suspicion of one another or of
him they gave no sign of it.  The house indeed was too
quiet--a snore from the door of Monsieur Khodkine
would have comforted him.

At the top of the stairway he paused.  There was one
step that creaked, the tenth from the bottom, he had
counted it as he came up tonight.  The tenth from the
bottom and there were thirty-three in all.  The
twenty-third then....  He went down carefully until he had
counted twenty-two and then with a hand on the balustrade
stepped over what he thought would be the offending
stair upon the twenty-fourth--when a loud crash seemed
to resound from one end of the echoing house to the
other.  Idiot!  Twenty-four of course!  He had not
counted the top step.

To his own ears, used to the silence of the house, the
noise seemed loud enough to have awakened the dead
Ivanitch, and he stood listening for a long minute, awaiting
the shuffling of feet or the sounds of opening doors above.
But nothing happened.  The Councilors of Nemi still
slept.  Rowland grinned.  "Fool's luck," he muttered to
himself and carefully opening the door into the garden,
went out, stealing along the shrubbery past the kitchen,
and in a moment had reached the security of the trees.
There he stopped to put on his shoes and repeat to
himself the numbers of the combination.  "72 23 7.  *Gauche
Droite Gauche*."  Or was it *Droite Gauche Droite*?
The numbers were right--but the direction----  This
was no time to be uncertain in such a matter.  That
Boche bombing party must have done something queer to
his head.  No.  It was *Droite, Gauche, Droite*--he was
sure.  Tanya would confirm that perhaps.

He found her in the shadow of the designated trees
where she had preceded him by some moments.  She wore
her cowl and robe from beneath the folds of which she
brought forth a revolver which she handed to him.

"You have read my mind, Mademoiselle," he whispered
joyfully, "it was this that I wanted the most."

"You heard nothing?"

"No.  But one of the steps creaked abominably.  And
you--have you been here long?"

"No.  I came down the back stairs."  And then,
turning into the shrubbery beside them with no more ado,
"Follow me, Monsieur," she said.

Her manner was eloquent of the business they had at
hand and reminiscent of nothing personal in their
relations.  Her thoughtfulness in arming him was merely a
matter of self-protection, her trust in him was a matter
of necessity for had she not already given him the
numbers of the combination?  He followed her quietly.  They
stole along the outside wall in single file, making a
complete detour of the garden until they reached a clump of
shrubbery near the spot where Rowland had come over
the wall.  There they followed a well-worn path into the
bushes and were confronted by a mound of earth, in the
face of which was an iron door.  Here Tanya paused,
brought forth a key and in a moment led the way down a
flight of steps underground.  It was pitch black below
but Tanya who seemed to have thought of everything
brought out from the folds of her gown an electric pocket
lamp which she turned into the passage-way before them,
at the end of which Rowland made out a steel door with
a shining nickel knob and a handle.

"The vault, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said coolly.  "It
is of American manufacture.  Doubtless you are
familiar----"

She was looking at him as she spoke, and her eyes for
the moment drove all thought of numbers from his head.
He caught at her hand.

"Mademoiselle--before we go on, tell me that you've
forgiven me.  I was but serving your cause----"

She shrugged away from him and flashed the light upon
the shining metal knob of the vault door.

"Serve it here, then," she said quickly.  "There!--The
numbers, *Droite--Gauche*----"

She was quite relentless.  He chose to think her
repudiation of him the measure of her own purity and with
a last look at her fine profile bent forward and fingered
the metal knob.

"*Gauche* 72----" he muttered and paused.

"*Droite*, Monsieur!" she said sharply.  "Do you mean
to say that you have forgotten?"

"If you would be kind to me, Mademoiselle----" he
pleaded smiling, "perhaps I could remember better."

"Oh!" she gasped.  "This is no time to lose one's
wits----"

"You've robbed me of all I ever had----"

"Monsieur Rowlan'," she whispered in anguish, "the
numbers!"

"Say that you forgive me, Mademoiselle," he pleaded
again, turning toward her.

She threw out her arms and the light of the torch went
out.

"Mademoiselle," he was whispering.  "Forgive----"

The light of the torch flared suddenly, full on his face.
She had moved a pace away from him and the cowl had
fallen from her head, but her eyes were studying his face
intently.

"Forgive!" he repeated, smiling eagerly.

Something in his expression may have satisfied her, for
she thrust out her hand to meet his own.

"Yes, yes," she muttered hurriedly.  "I forgive."  And
suddenly switched the light upon the door of the vault.
"And now the numbers."

"Ah," he laughed.  "I remember them, instantly.
*Droite* 72, *Gauche* 23, *Droite* 7.  *Droite*.  Is it not
extraordinary?  I cannot do without you, Mademoiselle
Tanya--nor you without me.  I shall prove it to you.
You shall see----"

As she did not reply he relapsed into silence, bending in
sudden concentration upon his task.  And in a moment,
the click of a falling tumbler within the lock announced
success.  The knob moved no more.  Then he took hold of
the heavy handle and turned toward the girl with a laugh.

"OPEN, SESAME!" he said.  "The Princess Tatyana
wishes to enter."

The light wavered as the girl drew back and Rowland
saw amazement in her eyes.

"Princess!" she was whispering.  "Who told you of my
title?"

He stared at her blankly and then her meaning came to
him.

"Why, no one, Mademoiselle.  The Princess Tatyana
is a fairy-friend of my childhood.  I dreamed of her
as now I dream of you."

She stood puzzled a moment and then switched the light
upon the door.

"Open, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said in a half whisper.

He grasped the massive handle in both hands and with
an effort, swung the heavy mass of steel outward and the
dark entrance to the vault lay open to them.

With no further words, Tanya flashed the light into the
interior and quickly entered, while Rowland followed.  The
place had a musty smell but seemed quite dry, a fact
afterwards explained by a double wall and a deep drainage
system.  The air was close but the electric torch burned
brightly, revealing rows of shelves, each carefully lettered,
upon which were ancient parchments, discolored and illegible,
documents bearing pendant seals, in metal boxes tied
with heavy silken cords.  There was a grinning skull, a
steel casque of the Middle Ages, a spearhead, and an
ancient piece of sculpture draped with jewels; upon the floor
at the further end bulging leather sacks, and a rack of
modern rifles and ammunition.  All these Rowland's glance
took in at a first look, but his attention was quickly
arrested by the actions of Tanya Korasov, who bade him
hold the light while she went to a shelf upon the right
where her nimble fingers quickly began running over a
pile of documents, in modern envelopes, tied with tape.
She read the superscriptions eagerly and at last came to
the one she sought.

As she did so and took the envelope into her hands a
slight gasp of triumph escaped her.  Rowland looking
over her shoulder read eagerly the fine script.

"*Dossier de Gregory Khodkine.*"

And while Rowland's eyes sparkled with this discovery,
Tanya without ceremony broke the seal and took out the
contents, scanning the papers rapidly, smiling and
exclaiming by turns.

"His history, here," she whispered over her shoulder to
Rowland, indicating the first sheet.  "And the evidence--there,"
pointing to the documents.  "It is what I have
longed for, for months.  Evidence--proof.  Look," she
said excitedly.  "Read.  Gregory Hochwald.  A
commission in the Prussian Guards--1905--signed
Wilhelm--1908--appointment to the Staff, 1910--Resignation.
Liberal tendencies--(authorized at Potsdam) Russia
1911--Instructions from Graf von Stromberg--1912--(Head
of the Secret Service, Monsieur)--Member of the
Duma.  Other letters of instruction 1913, 1914,
1916,--*since* the war, Monsieur Rowlan'.  Is it not damnable?"

"Magnificent," gasped Rowland over her shoulder.
"We've got him, Mademoiselle--" and with a grin he
paraphrased triumphantly, "where Molly wore her beads."

She glanced at him in a moment of incomprehension,
then thrust the papers into their envelope and slipped
them into the belt beneath her gown.

"You see, Monsieur," she whispered, "Kirylo Ivanitch
was well prepared to deal with this situation.  He feared
Grisha Khodkine always, but seemed to do as he wished.
Now I know why--he was awaiting the overt act which
should throw the man into his hands----"

"My heritage," whispered Rowland.

"And mine," said Tanya.

"You've feared him, Mademoiselle.  He holds some
threat over you.  Today--tonight, I saw----"

"I fear him no longer, Monsieur Rowlan'--" she smiled
confidently.

"Mademoiselle," said Rowland with boyish eagerness,
"if you'll only tell me.  Let me help you.  I will----"

"No more violence, Monsieur.  I shall deal with Grisha
Khodkine in my own way."

She took the torch from his hand without a word and
led him to a corner of the vault, where upon the lower shelf
were a number of packages carefully wrapped in black
oil-cloth.

"Bank notes," she said.  "Each note of a thousand
francs or its equivalent.  There are twenty-five thousand
of them."

"What shall we do with them?  You have a plan?"

The girl nodded.

"It is arranged.  We have no time to lose.  Picard and
Stepan are outside the wall.  You will drop them over.  I
will show you."

And taking up several packages of oil-cloth she bade
Rowland hold out his hands while she filled his arms.

"Careful!  Each one contains a fortune.  Follow me."

She turned toward the door into the passageway, then
gasped suddenly and stopped, dropping her torch which
clattered upon the steel floor.  But in the second before
the light was extinguished, Rowland saw that a figure
stood at the entrance to the vault, a branch of foliage in
one hand while in the other, pointed directly toward him,
was a most significant weapon.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DISASTER`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium

   DISASTER

.. vspace:: 2

The surprise was so complete that Rowland stood
for a moment immovable, staring at the spot in the
darkness where Monsieur Khodkine had been, but
before he had time to spring aside, there was an explosion
and the shock of a sudden impact against him as one of
the packages flew from his arms.  Close shooting--but he
was unhurt and thinking quickly, dropped his bundles,
dodged, and drew his revolver, waiting for the next flash
of Monsieur Khodkine's weapon.

No sign or sound.  Then an anguished gasp from Tanya.
"Grisha Khodkine!" she cried.  "Don't shoot again.
You've killed him."

"Stand aside----"

It was all the mark that Rowland could hope for and
he fired low at the sound.  A pause of a second and then
the bullets from Monsieur Khodkine's automatic crashed
all around him.  A splinter of wood struck him in the
cheek but if Rowland was hit in the body he did not know
it and fired rapidly at the flashes until the hammer of his
revolver clicked.  His weapon was empty as was
Khodkine's.  Then creeping along the shelves, groping with
tense fingers, Rowland made for the spot where the
Russian had been.  He felt a breath of air from outside
through the powder fumes and knew that he had reached
the door.  His fingers grasped the cold steel of the door
jamb, groped across the entrance and--touched an arm.
A cry of terror from Tanya as he caught at her fiercely.

"You, Mademoiselle--thank God!" he muttered, and
released her.

"He is gone?" she stammered.

The answer came suddenly from behind them within the
vault as Khodkine, rushing blindly in the darkness at the
sound, brought up against Rowland, who twisted around
in his grasp, freeing his right hand, which struck blindly,
harmlessly, and then at last found Khodkine's throat.

"Go, Mademoiselle," gasped Rowland.  "It--it is
better--I will----"

Something told him that Khodkine had another weapon
and as he felt the man free his right arm he caught at
it desperately, pinioning it to his side.  His wrist ... a
knife ... everything depended upon the knife....  He
released the throat and while blows rained upon his head
and shoulders twisted Khodkine's wrist with both hands
until he heard the knife go clattering upon the floor.

"Even terms, Monsieur," he gasped, as body to body
they swayed from side to side in the darkness.

"You--fool," stammered the other.  "To risk--fortune--on
this madness----"

"My--risk," grinned Rowland through his blood and sweat.

Rowland, thinking of Tanya and of Germany fought
with cool desperation, his arms around Khodkine,
crushing, crushing the very breath from his body.  The man
was weakening.  Powerful as he was, his muscles had not
been trained as the American's had been in three years of
life in the open.

"A truce--Monsieur," Khodkine whispered hoarsely.
But Rowland did not hear him and bore him back against
the shelves to the left, where their feet stumbled over the
pile of packages that Rowland had dropped, and they fell,
Rowland uppermost, upon the floor.

All the fight was out of Monsieur Khodkine by this time,
and he lay prone while Rowland, the fog of battle still
upon him, clutched with his bony fingers even after the
man had stopped resisting.  It was only when the American
realized how tired his fingers were that he sat upon
Khodkine's stomach, somewhat bewildered as to what had
happened, aware after a moment that his shoulder ached
him badly and that his chest burned from his labored
breathing, but otherwise that he was quite sound and
cheerful.

"Do you give it up, you blighter?" he gasped in English,
at last, relapsing into the argot of his platoon of
the Legion.  "You've got enough?"

A groan from the man beneath was the only reply.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he asked in
a moment, in French.

"N--nothing," stammered Khodkine, struggling for his
breath.  "I--I am vanquished."

The situation was awkward.  If Khodkine were strong
enough, he might still slip away in the darkness.  Rowland
was groping about on the floor beside him for a weapon
of some sort, when he heard a frightened whisper behind
him.

"Monsieur Rowlan'--!  You are safe?" Tanya was
murmuring.

"Yes, thanks.  But I'm afraid to get up.  Can you find
the light here--somewhere on the floor?"

"I'll try, Monsieur," she whispered.  And he heard her
groping about on her hands and knees among the
scattered packages.  In a moment she found the torch and
threw its blinding glare into the eyes of the antagonists.

She stared at the sight of them, for the splinter wound
in Rowland's cheek still bled freely and made dark
discolorations upon his clothing and linen.  But the American
was sitting upon Monsieur Khodkine's stomach, blinking
cheerfully at the light.

"You--you're hurt, Monsieur?" she gasped.

"Am I?  It can't be serious.  I'm feeling quite all right.
And you, Monsieur Khodkine?  Comfortable?"

The man groaned.  "Enough, Monsieur."

Rowland straightened and released his wrists.

"There's about a million francs between his shoulder
blades.  Come, roll over a bit, Monsieur.  The steel floor
will be more comfortable."

Khodkine obeyed as Rowland relinquished the pressure,
while Tanya stood dumb and motionless, as though the
difficulties of their situation had driven her to her wit's
ends.

"Let me--let me up, Monsieur," groaned Khodkine.

"Why?  So that you can try to murder me again?
Hardly.  You've broken another Golden Bough----"

"And you--you have vanquished me," muttered Khodkine.
"Kill me--or let me go."

Rowland chuckled.  "Either alternative is pleasant to
me--but one is dangerous."

"I am--am unarmed--also hurt," said Khodkine.
"What harm can I do?  You--you are stronger than I----"

"No.  Merely more in earnest."  As the flash-light
wavered a moment in Tanya's hands it fell for a second on
the rack of rifles.  "Ah, Mademoiselle, I have it.  If you'll
give me the light," said Rowland calmly.  And wondering,
she handed it to him.  "Now, if you please, take a rifle
there and load.  The clips, I see, are upon the shelf."

While Rowland held the torch, Tanya obeyed quickly
and handed the weapon to Rowland, who after examining
it and testing it carefully, got quickly to his feet and
ordered Khodkine to rise.

"I'm no murderer, Monsieur Khodkine," he said easily,
"not in cold blood, at least.  And you're quite safe if you
remain perfectly still, while Mademoiselle Korasov
continues in the task you interrupted."

Khodkine, who had gotten to his feet with an appearance
of great difficulty, now stood, quite subdued, still
gasping for the breath which Rowland had squeezed out
of him.

"Monsieur--" he muttered, his gaze shifting this way
and that, "let me speak."

"By all means," said Rowland politely.  "If you don't
speak too long.  We have other business."

"You blame me for--for protecting the Treasury of
Nemi.  How should I have known that your intentions and
Mademoiselle Korasov's were innocent?"

"Merely by our guilelessness, Monsieur Khodkine,"
grinned Rowland.

Khodkine's smile was sickly.

"You are clever," he said.  "I have done you an
injustice.  But why should we quarrel?"

"We won't.  Our quarrel is ended.  Is that all you want
to say?"

"Let us be honest with each other.  Our cause is the
same----"

"Is it?  Then I'm the worst scoundrel unhung.  No,
Monsieur Khodkine, we shall go our ways, you yours--I
mine.  And now," with an inclination of the head in
excellent imitation of Monsieur Khodkine's satirical amenities,
"if you will permit us, Mademoiselle shall continue our
interrupted task."

Tanya saw his look of command, and setting the catch
on the torch and putting it upon the shelf, and filling her
arms with the bundles of bank notes, ran out through the
door along the passage.

"What are you going to do with me?" asked Khodkine,
moving slightly toward the shelf behind him.

"Keep you safe until I can call the Council together."
And then, as Khodkine moved another pace.  "I would
advise you to remain motionless.  Another inch backward,
Monsieur, and I'll fire."

Khodkine obeyed.  The easy manner of the American
had deceived him.

"What shall you tell them?" he asked, after a moment.

"That you had planned to rob the vault."

Khodkine laughed.

"This comes ill from you, Monsieur, who were already
robbing it."

"No," said Rowland good-naturedly, "we were merely
removing the notes to a place of safety."

"Safety!  And you think these others will believe you?"

"They will believe Mademoiselle Korasov."

"Ah.  Is not my word as good as hers?"

Rowland shrugged.  "You're wasting your breath."

Tanya returned at this moment, gathered up more bank
notes, and saying nothing, went running down the corridor
again.

Khodkine moved his feet a little uneasily but did not
move.  And his expression which had been shifting through
all the phases of uncertainty and apprehension, now broke
into a smile.

"Monsieur Rowland, I admire your skill and *sang-froid*.
You have a better genius for the game of intrigue than
many more experienced.  We should be friends, you and
I.  There is much we might accomplish together."

Rowland laughed and purposely lowered the muzzle of
his rifle a few inches.

"Ah, yes, perhaps," he shrugged.  He was a little
curious for a peep inside Monsieur Khodkine's brain.  "What
might we accomplish?"

Khodkine's pale eyes examined Rowland narrowly.  And
after a pause.

"You are an American, a nation which has blundered
into European affairs without cause.  You, Monsieur,
came to fight for France because you were born for the
spirit of adventure--because you live upon excitement and
have no fear.  Is this not so?"

Rowland thought he saw where the fellow was driving
but made no reply, for at this moment Tanya came into
the room again, loaded her arms and departed.

"That's a correct statement," he smiled.  "And I've
surely found it here."

He lowered the muzzle of the rifle a few inches more and
saw Khodkine's glance follow it.

Khodkine leaned slightly forward.

"You are taking this money to a place of safety, you
say.  That may or may not be.  But you will not succeed
in getting it out of Switzerland."

"Why not?"

"Because it is a long way to the French border.  You
dare not go into Germany.  And the arm of Nemi is long."

Rowland looked aghast and the muzzle of the rifle
dropped still further.

"I'm not afraid of the arm of Nemi--because," and he
laughed, "it's my arm, Monsieur."

Khodkine paused a moment, shrugged his disbelief, and
then in a lower tone,

"There is only one person who can help you get this
money safely away, Monsieur Rowland," he said.

"And he is----"

"Myself.  The German border is less than fifteen
kilometers away.  Once beyond it, I am safe.  See!"  And
while Rowland watched him closely, he thrust a hand into
his pocket and drew out some papers, one of which bore
signatures, a photograph and a seal.  "My *laisser passer*
and yours, Monsieur, if you choose to accompany me."

Rowland's eyes opened wider and his jaw fell.  This was
the real Khodkine--stripped to the skin that had been
born Hochwald.  But the American made no reply and
waited for the revelation to be complete.

Khodkine wasted no words, and his voice concentrated
in a tense whisper.

"The money is negotiable, and will pave a broad
highway from here to Holland, if one knows the ropes.  You
are not a rich man, Monsieur.  Nor am I.  Think what
a great fortune like this means, even to you in America
where there are many great fortunes.  You will be a
prince.  I too.  We will go together and the world will
lie at our feet.  Is it not a wonderful picture?"

Rowland heard him through until the end, when the look
of astonishment upon his face--indeed more than half
real--changed to sterner lines and the muzzle of the rifle
slowly came up level with Monsieur Khodkine's breast.

"Why, you d---- rascal!" he growled sternly.  "You
pig--dog of a thieving Boche!" he repeated deliberately.
He paused a moment as Khodkine straightened.  "You're
a poor conspirator, Herr Lieutnant Gregory Hochwald!"
he said with a malicious laugh, as Khodkine gasped.
"Hochwald of the Guard!" he repeated, "Prussian Guard
1906--Secret Agent of General von Stromberg--Russian
socialist!  Bah, Grisha Khodkine.  I've got your *dossier*.
It's a sweet one."

He paused in some satisfaction at the consternation he
had created in the face of Monsieur Khodkine, who was
struggling hard to regain his composure.

"My *dossier*, Monsieur!" he stammered, still staring
incredulously.  "You are mad."

"Not so mad as I seem--nor so guileless--nor so
even-tempered, Monsieur Khodkine.  I ought to kill you now as
you stand and free Nemi of a spy and Russia of a traitor.
But I won't.  But I'll draw your sting."

And then with a gesture, "March toward the door.
Hands up!"

"What are you going to do?"

"Wake Shestov and Barthou--Ah! would you----!"

Rowland fired as Khodkine leaped back, crashing the
light to the floor, and turned toward where he had been,
firing again at random, cursing himself for his stupidity.
The rifle was awkward in the confined space and as he
ran in the direction of the door of the vault to head the
man off, his foot struck something on the floor and he
stumbled against the shelves.  When in desperation he
found his way to the door of the vault, it clanged shut
with a heavy crash, and he heard the tumblers falling into
place.

He was locked in, and Khodkine--Khodkine had escaped!

The nature of this disaster did not for a moment occur
to him.  He hammered on the unresponsive steel for an
unreasoning moment, and then stopped to upbraid himself.

"Silly fool," he muttered.  "What did you go and do
that for?  You might have known.  You can't shoot,
either.  H---- of a soldier *you* are!"

Suddenly the terrible meaning of his position began to
dawn upon him.  The vault closed--with Khodkine
outside--and the combination of numbers that opened it
unknown to anyone but himself--Unless Tanya--!  He put
his ear to the steel door and listened.  He thought he
heard footsteps in the passage-way outside and shouted
her name.  Silence.  The darkness seemed to be closing in
on him, like the silence, heavy--oppressive--burdened with
meaning.

A tomb!  And unless Tanya contrived to find a way to
come to his rescue, likely to be his own.  And yet how
could Tanya----?  He dared not follow his thought to
its conclusion.  Khodkine would find her there in the
darkness and ... Surely he would find her, for she would
be coming back to the vault for him.  Picard--Stepan!
Would they know what to do?  And even if they knew
what had happened, how would they be able to release
him?  One by one he thought of the various possibilities
and at the last was obliged to dismiss them all.  He was
caught--like a bear in a trap, and like the bear, raged to
and fro for a while, knocking himself and breaking his
knuckles against the shelves in the darkness, and cursing
his own stupidity, and the wits of Monsieur Khodkine,
which after, all had proved cleverer than his own.
Khodkine had won--Khodkine, whom not five minutes ago he
had been laughing at for his stupidity!  Was it only five
minutes or was it an hour ago?...

This wouldn't do.  No time to be getting "rattled" now.
Bad business.  Dark as the devil, too, but not hopeless.
Nothing was entirely hopeless unless one thought it so.
Something might happen.  But what?  Short of an
earthquake that would tear the mound and vault to pieces,
there seemed little chance of anything happening except
Tanya--and Khodkine would see about her.  Rowland
was forced to admit that this was a beautiful vengeance
for Khodkine to discover, one quite fitting the Boche idea
of the eternal fitness of things.  To imprison a man, to
starve him, to let him beat out his brains in madness
against a steel wall, to smother him--

Rowland frowned into the darkness and whistled thinly.
To smother him!  The phrase seemed to have a new
significance, the more terrible because of its simplicity.
Suffocation, slow but certain, as he struggled for the
exhausted oxygen.  A matter of hours.  The acid fumes of
rifle and pistol smoke still hung in the air--already he
seemed to feel that breathing had become difficult....

Imagination!  He breathed quite easily and well.  What
time was it?  Something after two, perhaps.  He didn't
know.  What he did know was that he was tired as the
devil standing up and that he wanted to sit down
somewhere, and have a smoke.  He felt in his pockets.
Cigarettes of the luckless Ivanitch--and a box of matches.  He
struck a match and lighted a cigarette.  The skull on
the shelf grinned at him.  "Silly beggar, to grin on and on
for a thousand years.  Happier though."  *He* always
grinned when he could.  It helped a lot.  But he didn't
seem to feel like grinning now.

A thought came to him, and striking another match,
he found the electric torch upon the steel floor,--smashed
this time beyond hope of use.  He threw it away from him
in disgust and sat down on the hard steel floor, his hands
clasped over his knees, gazing at the light of the cigarette.
It was a singularly cheerful spot of light in the
denseness of the obscurity....

Fool that he was--smoking here, poisoning the little
oxygen that was left to him!  Angrily he extinguished
the cigarette upon the floor--and then clasped his knees
with his aching fingers and sat uncomfortably
waiting--waiting for what?  A miracle?  Could anything be
expected of Tanya?  And even if she succeeded in eluding
Khodkine, how could he hope that she would know the
numbers of the combination?  He was sure that she had
not even committed them to memory.  And if she
succeeded in reaching Shestov or Barthou and telling them
of his predicament, it would take a long while to break
into the vault, at the end of which he, Rowland, would
be dead of suffocation.

He got to his feet, steadying himself by holding to
the shelves.  In the darkness it seemed less easy to
coordinate the movements of his muscles....  Suffocation
must be something like being "gassed"--only less
painful.  He had seen fellows in the hospitals struggling
for their breath and remembered how they
looked--livid--green.  This was different but it wasn't going to
be pleasant.  The pounding of his pulses seemed to echo
in the still chamber.  He moved slowly to one end of the
room and reached upward.  The ceiling was low, he could
touch it easily with his fingers.  Stupid to build a vault
with a ceiling as low as that.

What time was it?  Four o'clock--five?  It seemed
as though he had lost all notion of the passage of time.
Was it daylight outside?  He walked around slowly,
peering into the corners, seeking a glimpse of daylight which
would mean a breath of air for his lungs and a respite
at least until starvation came.  Everywhere--blackness.
The steel of the vault was continuous.  Kirylo Ivanitch
had planned well.

Poor old Ivanitch.  Good sort of a well-meaning
lunatic!  He was sorry for Ivanitch ... but it hadn't been
Rowland's fault.  If Ivanitch had only been Khodkine!

Rowland leaned against the gun rack and fingered the
muzzles of the rifles.  He had wanted to die out there in
the open with a weapon in his hand, rushing a trench and
yelling *Vive la France*.  That was the kind of a death for
a good fellow----

Oh, well.  He'd had a good time.  He had taken his
fun where he found it....  But it was rotten luck that
he couldn't show Tanya that he had been worthy of her
confidence.  There was no use crying about it.
Somebody might come and let him out.  If they didn't this
was the end of P. Rowland.  He lay flat on the floor
where the air seemed very good.  Might as well sleep as
do anything else.  Perhaps tomorrow something would
turn up.  The ceiling seemed to be closing in on him,
like the Pendulum in the Pit.  Poe was great on this sort
of stuff--but Poe didn't have anything on him.

Once or twice he straightened, thinking that he heard a
sound--a dull sound, somewhat like the throbbing of the
blood in his ears, only ... Imagination again.  He
didn't want to think--everything was black--even
thought....  He was very drowsy.  It wasn't so bad,
after all.  Tomorrow perhaps Tanya would come....
Princess Tatyana ... Pretty name....

Then suddenly in his dreams the air was riven and his
eardrums hurt him horribly as though the blackness in
his brain were striving toward the light ... And
then--nothingness.





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.. _`SURPRISES`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium

   SURPRISES

.. vspace:: 2

Zoya Rochal had watched the figure of Rowland
until it disappeared among the shrubbery.  Her
brows were slightly drawn and her eyes, shadowed
by her dark hair, peered eagerly into the half light of
the garden.  Monsieur Khodkine, it seemed, respected her
intelligence.  But it was a pity that he had sent out for
Monsieur Rowland so soon.  It would have required but
ten minutes more to have hitched this handsome American
to her chariot wheel.  He was a nice boy and it would
be a pity if anything happened to him, for it seemed
quite certain that something was on the point of
happening at Nemi, and whatever happened it was Monsieur
Rowland who would be the loser.  Against the will of
Max Liederman she had chosen to throw her lot in with
the new President of Nemi, because he seemed quite young,
quite inexperienced and with good management could be
made quite useful for her own ends.  But she hadn't
reckoned upon the speed of Monsieur Rowland's wooing and
the sudden culmination of the adventure.  She wasn't
sure that she hadn't liked the spontaneity of his
caress--hurried, boyish and quite ingenuous.  She must do what
she could to save this newly found admirer from the
wiles of Monsieur Khodkine, and with this object in
her general plan, she moved slowly in the direction of the
house and encountered on her way Max Liederman,
walking alone in a bypath and furiously smoking a long cigar.

"Ach, Madame," he growled.  "So you've at last
condescended.  It's time----"

"Don't be a beast, Max," she said coolly.

"Well, this is no time for trifling," he growled.

"Sh!" she warned.  "I'm not trifling.  I've wasted no
time.  I've learned what I wanted to find out.  Monsieur
Rowland knows nothing."

"Does he look as if he knew anything?" he said
contemptuously.  "I could have told you that much.
Khodkine twists him around his thumb."

"And so do I."

"Ach--and at what cost?" he muttered suspiciously.

Madame Rochal smiled up at Khodkine's lighted window.

"That's my affair," she said coldly.

"And in the meanwhile," he went on, "this precious
Khodkine will get into the vault.  Tonight, perhaps--How
do I know that even now he hasn't the combination
to the doors in his pockets.  And I don't trust Fräulein
Korasov."

"Nor I.  She is much too quiet."

Liederman threw his cigar into the bushes, thrust his
fists into his trouser pockets and swayed heavily from one
foot to the other.

"Zoya Rochal," he said hoarsely, "you see how things
are here at Nemi.  While Ivanitch led our committee we
were sure at least of a man pledged deeply to Internationalism
and the socialist cause.  It was his fetish.  He
was orthodox.  He even gave his life for his convictions.
And now whom do we find as Priest of Nemi--a friend
of France, full of meaningless catchwords about Peace
and Liberty--a boy from America, now the enemy of my
country, ready to be caught by the first wind that blows.
You, Zoya, voted for him.  You have placed yourself
on his side,--why, God knows, when with Khodkine he
may work our ruin."

"Nonsense."

"I know what I am talking about.  Khodkine comes
with credentials from Russia, but that means nothing.
You carry credentials from the Central Committee of
Munich.  He may be a Russian or a Roumanian, an
Austrian or an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse----"

"That is not possible.  I know----"

"What difference does it make to me?  I distrust him.
You may turn hither and yon for advisers, but no one
may say that I'm not loyal to those who sent me here.
In Germany I was born and bred, but the cause I serve
is greater than nationality, greater than patriotism.
And whatever others may do I am ready to give my life
for that cause."

Zoya Rochal smiled at him charmingly and laid her
slim fingers along his hairy cheek and their touch seemed
to quiet him.

"No one doubts your honesty, my great bear," she
said with a laugh.  "You may not always be pleasant, but
you always have the courage of conviction."

"And what thanks do I get?" he growled.

"Mine," she whispered, running a hand through his arm.

"Bah!" he shrugged.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Nothing, except not to play with fire."

"You've planned something?"

"Yes," he growled.  "And I'm going to do it, to-night."

She turned up toward him in eager inquiry.

"What?"

"I'm going to take no further chances with this situation."

"Are you serious?"

"Am I ever anything else?  The money in the vault
belongs to the Society of Nemi and the essence of the
Society of Nemi--is Socialism.  While I live, that money
shall be spent in no other service."

"That is right, but you're not sure----"

"I trust no one here.  And as the Council stands I can
be out-voted.  Shestov, Barthou, Colodna, Khodkine--and
this young sprig of a Yankee.  And the others----?
We can't be sure of them.  Most of this money should
be appropriated for immediate use tomorrow, in
Germany, in Austria, in Russia and Italy.  And yet what
assurances have we that it will not be wrongly used even,
if used at all--or that Monsieur Khodkine this very night
may not make away with it."

"What do you propose to do?"

"Take it, tonight--myself."

"You----!"

Max Liederman shook his massive shoulders and tapped
her with a kind of elephantine playfulness upon the
hands.

"Did you ever know me to make a boast that I couldn't
fulfill?"  Then in a hoarse whisper.  "I'm going to break
into the vault."

"You are prepared?"

"Yes.  I've been prepared for a long time.  I always
believe in being ready for emergencies."

"Do you need my help----"

"Your society, *chère* Zoya, let us say----"

"When will you do this?"

"Toward morning.  I have a drill and explosives.  With
luck I should succeed in something over an hour."

"And the money?  Where shall you take it?" Zoya asked.

"Away from here to a safer place.  Will you go with me?"

"Suppose you fail?"

He smiled grimly.  "I won't fail.  There's no watch
kept upon the Tree.  Will you meet me here?"

"At what hour?"

"At three.  It is the hour of deepest slumber.  Your
room adjoins mine upon the other side of the house.  You
must sleep soundly, for we may have to travel far."

Madame Rochal stood in a moment of silence and then
assented.

"I see I've not put my faith in you for nothing, Max,"
she said quietly.

"I've told you," he muttered, "that I've always been
worth considering.  You shall see----  Will you kiss me,
Zoya?"

She made a little *moüe* at him and then obeyed with
the deftness of one skilled in illusions.

"There, my great bear," she laughed.  "And you'll
wake me?"

"Yes.  Now go and get your beauty sleep."

"And you?  Shall you stay awake?"

"I sleep with one eye open--I can wake when I please.
Borrow no trouble on that score."

She moved toward the house, whispering to him:

"Remain here.  It will not do for us to be seen together.
*Au revoir*."  And blowing a kiss at him with her
fingers, she floated away into the shadows.

Max Liederman was thorough.  With characteristic
prevision he had prepared all things, including a machine
which was to be waiting at daylight outside the wall.
Three o'clock found them at the iron door which led down
into the passage.  Liederman had been prepared to force
this lock and to his amazement, and Zoya Rochal's, the
key was in the door, which indeed was partly open.

Liederman stopped a moment to rock to and fro and
gaze at the door in a puzzled way.

"Curious," he muttered, rubbing his head.

"Some one has been here before us?" questioned Zoya.

He nodded.  "It looks so," he growled, "but we'll soon
find out."  Entering without hesitation and carrying his
tools in their canvas wrapping, he threw the light of his
pocket-torch down the steps and descended, while Zoya
Rochal, her small nose sniffing the air daintily, followed,
frowning.

"Don't you smell something?" she whispered when they
reached the passage.

"I fancied--yes, I'm sure--the fumes of powder."

"Ah, I was not mistaken then.  What can have happened?"

"I don't know.  Perhaps we are mistaken."

Zoya, whose eyes seemed to be keener than his, suddenly
darted forward ahead of him with a cry, and bending down
beside the steel door picked up something and held it
before Max Liederman's eyes.

"The Bough!" she cried.  "The Golden Bough!"

Liederman started upright, his eyes big as saucers under
his tangled brows.

"Khodkine!" he stammered.  "Here!"

"It's quite green," she whispered.  "Recently broken."

"He has killed--Monsieur----" she halted, her face white
as paper.

"Your little Yankee--!"  He shrugged uneasily.  "Perhaps.
Wait.  I must see."

He bent forward with the lamp and examined the nickel
knob and handle, turned the light down, then went
upon his knees and put his face close to the stone floor.

"There are many footprints in the dust,--one small,
one with high heels, Zoya."

"Tanya Korasov?"

"Who else?"

"She and Khodkine--but I don't understand----"

Max Liederman had settled down before the door of the
vault with a business-like air, unwrapping the canvas
covering of his tools, and examining the knob, listening
intently.  Then he threw off his coat and rolled up the sleeves
of his shirt and set to work while Zoya, her hand trembling,
held the light.

"Could they have killed him--do you think?" she asked
again anxiously.

"How should I know?  It would only be what he
deserves," he grunted.

Zoya's dark eyes frowned at him, but she said nothing.

Meanwhile the drill was slowly eating its way into the
steel door above the lock.  She questioned again but he
was intent upon his task and made no answer.  The sweat
stood out in beads upon his face and fell to the ground.
He was a magnificent brute.  There were women who
... But Zoya Rochal was difficult to please.

The first glimmerings of the dawn were filtering down
through the iron door at the end of the passage before
Max Liederman announced that his work was completed.
Then he attached the fuse and he and Zoya Rochal went
up the stairs, closed the iron door and waited.

A muffled explosion as the iron door swung open and a
cloud of dust enveloped them.  Liederman darted down
the steps with Zoya at his heels.  The charge had been
cleverly placed and by the use of an iron rod and a short
steel jimmy, at last the door of the vault yielded to
Liederman's weight and swung inward upon its hinges.

Liederman threw the light into the room and it gleamed
upon the swirling dust which for a moment obscured the
vision.  But as the cloud cleared, they saw a litter of
papers upon the floor, and in the midst of the wreckage
the figure of Rowland lying prone, his arms outstretched,
smeared with blood and grime.  A hasty glance around the
shelves revealed no trace of the treasure of Nemi.

Liederman rocked to and fro in an awful moment of
silent imprecation.

"*Schwein-hund* that I am, for waiting," he muttered.
"Khodkine has been here before us."

Zoya Rochal gazed at him wildly a moment, and then
fell to her knees beside the prostrate figure upon the floor.

Liederman grunted incuriously.

"He's dead?" he asked.

"Yes--No!  His heart beats----"

"Ach--we must get him out of this--into the air.  Pfui!
It is enough to stifle one.  Can you help, Zoya?  His
feet----"

Max Liederman raised the prostrate man and between
them, they half dragged, half carried him out along the
corridor and up the steps into the air.  Without waiting
for instructions Zoya ran to the house and came back with
water and brandy.  By the time she returned Liederman
had loosened the American's collar, and after a while, in
response to treatment, Rowland moved slightly and opened
his eyes.  He turned his head from side to side, gazing
up through the trees at the spreading dawn and then his
look met Zoya Rochal's.  He concentrated his gaze with
some difficulty as though not sure of himself, and then
with an effort raised himself upon one elbow, his hand to
his brows in a moment of thought.

"Khodkine!" he muttered weakly in English.  "And
the--the blighter--got--got away with it."

"Khodkine--yes-----" uttered Liederman.

Rowland grinned up at his interrogator and nodded.

"Gone--got the best of me----"

"With the money?  And Mademoiselle Korasov----?"
questioned Liederman keenly.

Rowland brushed a hand across his brow and started
upright.

"Mademoiselle Korasov!  Yes.  Yes----"

"They've robbed the vault, I tell you," cried Liederman
wildly.  "The money is gone----!"

It was here that Zoya Rochal took command of the
situation.

"We can do nothing alone.  Go, Max, arouse Shestov,
Barthou and Signorina Colodna.  They must learn of
this."

"I'm quite all right," muttered Rowland.  "Only a little
confused.  There was an explosion."

She gave him another drink of the brandy which he
accepted gratefully.

"You are very kind, Madame," he said.

Zoya Rochal regarded him in a moment of anxiety.

"I warned you, Philippe Rowlan'," she said.

He smiled at her broadly and then whispered quizzically,
"There was a pig in the vault," he laughed.  "The trouble
was that he hadn't any ring in his nose.

"It is no time to jest, Monsieur.  I'm afraid you're
badly hurt."

"I'm all right," he smiled, "but nitro-glycerine is not
the best thing for a headache."

"I'm sorry, Monsieur."  He saw Madame Rochal start
and put her finger to her lips.  "Sh--," she whispered and
peered out from behind the bush where Rowland was
sitting, toward the wall.  He got up to his knees and followed
her glance.  It was still quite dark, but in the growing
light he saw a movement in the branches of a tree near by
and presently made out a pair of legs, dangling above the
top of the wall.  "It's a man," whispered Madame Rochal,
"coming over.  What----?"

Rowland slowly got to his feet and stood, his hand in
warning on the arm of Madame Rochal, waiting until the
man should descend.  The gray figure hovered for a
moment on the top of the wall and then they heard the thud
of his boots as he reached the ground.  In a moment, as
the man emerged from the bushes, Rowland sprang out
and faced the intruder.  And as each man recognized the
other in the growing light, he stepped back, the one in,
surprise, the other in consternation.

"Picard----!"

"You, Monsieur Rowland!  Safe!"  He breathed hard
like one in the last stages of exhaustion.

"Quite, as you see.  Mademoiselle Korasov sent you?"

Picard gasped and nodded.  "With this note to
Monsieur Shestov."

"Let me see it."

While Zoya Rochal turned on the light of Liederman's
torch Rowland unfolded the slip of paper covered with
close writing--in Russian.

"The devil!" cried the American.  "Madame Rochal--read!"

Zoya Rochal obeyed, translating rapidly.


"Ivan Shestov,

The American Rowland, imprisoned in vault.  He will
die unless door is forced.  Lose no time.  I am prisoner
of Gregory Khodkine fleeing with bank notes into
Germany by upper road--a machine--destination--Munich.
Follow.

Tatyana."


As she finished, Rowland turned quickly to Picard.

"And Stepan----?"

"Dead, Monsieur.  He resisted.  Mademoiselle warned
me.  I obeyed Monsieur Khodkine until the time came,
when I took this paper and fled.  I have been running for
two hours."

"You have done well, my friend.  We shall lose no time.
But how was Stepan killed?"

"Monsieur Khodkine said that he had broken the Golden
Bough--that you, Monsieur Rowland, were killed and that
he was the Priest of Nemi.  We did not believe him.  He
ordered Stepan to carry the bank notes--which were
already in the suit-case--along the road.  Stepan refused
to obey and Monsieur Khodkine struck him in the head
with a stick.  His body is near the road only a hundred
yards or so from the wall."

"And you----?"

"Mademoiselle had whispered, 'Do nothing!  Obey!'  And
I went with them, carrying the suit-case until we came to
an empty machine standing by the roadside----"

"Liederman's----" explained Zoya Rochal.

"I see," muttered Rowland.  And then, to Picard,
"They had passed the German border when you returned?"

"Yes, Monsieur--a matter of three or four miles perhaps.
The machine slowed down upon a hill and I slipped
out and ran into a wood, coming back as fast as I could
run."

"You saw no one?" asked Zoya Rochal.

"No, Madame.  I knew where the sentries were stationed
on the frontier and avoided them."

Shestov and Barthou now came with Liederman, drawing
on clothing as they ran, their faces wan in the growing
light as the details of the situation were explained to
them.

"Your note, Monsieur Shestov," said Rowland coolly,
handing it to him.  "We took the liberty of reading it,
As you will see, there's little time to lose."

The tall Russian frowned as he read while the
impatient Barthou questioned anxiously.

"But I can't understand how Herr Liederman----"

Zoya Rochal cut him short.

"I heard the sounds of shots and called Herr Liederman,"
she explained glibly.  "We went to the vault which
showed signs of having been tampered with.  And so with
a crow-bar which Monsieur Khodkine had left, we broke
into it.  Is this not so, Monsieur Rowland?" she challenged
him.

Their glances met in comprehension.  Rowland turned
aside.

"That is true," he said coolly.  "Monsieur Khodkine
was robbing the vault.  I interfered.  We fought but he
outwitted me and got away----"

"But I don't understand----" persisted Barthou.

"Monsieur," cut in Rowland quickly, "there is no time
for explanations.  The bank-notes of Nemi are in a machine
bound for the interior of Germany.  Some of us must
follow at once.  A machine----

"Mine is in the village," said Zoya.

"Passports----"

"Mine----" cried Liederman.

"And Monsieur Rowland----?" questioned Zoya.

"I shall take my chances.  We must go at once."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FLIGHT`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium

   FLIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

Monsieur Khodrine drove steadily into the
gray light of the new day, satisfied with the
events of the night which had resulted quite
miraculously to his advantage, for the suit-case containing
the bank notes of Nemi was safe upon the floor of the
tonneau and the Princess Tatyana, still clad in her dark
robe, sat in the seat beside him, completely at his orders.
The escape of Picard had annoyed him, for he had
intended taking the man far into the interior of Germany
and there turning him over to the authorities as an alien
enemy and a prisoner.  But in the present turn of affairs
it was possible that the counselors of Nemi might be
put upon his own tracks and the pig of a Yankee liberated
from the vault.  He had been imprudent when in the first
flush of his success he had told Tanya of their destination,
but the chances of Picard getting back safely were
not great, and he knew nothing of value.

The way in which the American Rowland had hidden
his hand and almost defeated Monsieur Khodkine's
projects showed how easily one could be mistaken in
appearances and the feeling of comfort that had followed the
imprisonment of the Yankee intruder in the vault was now
slowly giving way to a vague inquietude.  For the arm
of Nemi, as Khodkine himself had said, was long and if
Max Liederman blew open the door of the vault before the
air for Rowland's cursed lungs was exhausted, Khodkine
would have the whole pack of them yelping at his heels
before he could take himself and the money to cover.

It was gratifying to him to turn his head and see the
handsome angry profile of the Princess Tatyana there just
beside him, but in spite of the way in which fortune had
played into his hands and the ease with which her
abduction had been accomplished, there were many thoughts
that bothered him and her uncompromising attitude of
enmity made him aware that he must play his game with a
gentle hand.  He had held her, heretofore, by the threat
which he had hung over her,--a painful business at best,
since she was quite the most desirable woman he had ever
known.  But the pig Rowland had startled him by revealing
a knowledge of his nationality, his correct name,
regiment and employment.  For if Rowland knew who he was,
from whom had he received the information?  Not from
Zoya Rochal, for that lady, clever as she was, could have
had no possible means of learning the truth.  Not from
Liederman nor Barthou nor Shestov, for he had covered
his trail far too cleverly.  He was not so sure that Kirylo
Ivanitch had not discovered something--Kirylo!  Had
Tatyana gotten something from the dead priest and told
what she had learned to Rowland?

And so, driving silently, Monsieur Khodkine tried to
think out a solution of his problems, mindful of the girl
at his side, who sat rigidly in resolute silence, deaf or
oblivious to the small attentions which he offered her.  But
as the day had now broken and the roads had suddenly
seemed to fill with people, some of whom stared at the
dark, cowled figure, he turned to her with a smile.

"They think, Princess Samarov," he said, "that I'm
eloping with a nun."

She made no reply.

"If it pleases you, Princess Samarov, we will descend at
Tuttlingen."

She understood the meaning of the repetition of her
name, but gave no sign that she was aware of it.

"Of course, Gregory Khodkine," she replied coldly, "I
must do as you wish."

"Ah, my dear Tatyana," he urged, "do not say that.
Rather tell me that you wish it also."

"I wish for nothing but my freedom."

He smiled at her pleasantly.

"How like a woman," he said, "to desire the one thing
not in my power to grant.  I cannot let you go.  And if
I did, here in Germany, your position would be
precarious."  He drove on in a moment of silence and then spoke
more soberly.  "Come.  Be reasonable.  Through no fault
of my own we are enemies.  It is very painful to me to feel
that you are not in sympathy with my aims for Russia,
but the very fact that I am right and you are wrong,
makes me more generous toward you."

"Generous!  Is this generosity----?"

"One moment, Princess Tatyana," he broke in as she
paused.  "You cannot forget, nor can I, that no matter
what has passed between us, you had no right to condemn
me unheard for what happened in Moscow.  Prince Samaroff
brought his fate upon himself.  Nor had you the right
to confide, without the consent of the Council of Nemi, in
this absurd adventurer from America, to set him against
the established authority, furnish him with the combination
of the door which protected the money of the society
that he might loot the vault for his own uses----"

"That is a lie," she muttered tensely.

He shrugged.

"The evidence is all against him--and you, Princess
Samarov," he added quietly.

She faced him and in the abrupt action the cowl fell
over her shoulders, disclosing her disordered hair.

"You dare not look me in the eyes and say that I would
steal money given in a holy cause.  You dare not!" she
murmured bravely.

He drove on stolidly for a moment and then a smile
came on his thin lips.

"Much as I would like to look in your eyes, Princess, it
is now impossible, since I would surely run into a market-cart.
It is difficult furthermore," he said coolly, "because
to look into your eyes is dangerous to my peace of
mind----"

"Tch!--"  The accent of scorn in her voice was very
genuine, as she twisted away from him.  "You honor me,
Gregory Khodkine," she finished.

"I would honor you more, Tatyana Samarov--the highest
honor in the privilege of any man to bestow," he said
quietly.  "I ask you to be my wife."

She was startled and turned toward him, wide-eyed.

"You!--after what you have done to me and mine----!"

"I beseech you to listen to me.  Your father, Prince
Samarov, was the enemy of Russia's freedom----'

"Because he believed in order," she broke in wildly,
"instead of anarchy----"

"Because he was reactionary--" he paused with some
show of delicacy, "because he was a traitor to the very
causes you represent."

"That is not true.  His cause is mine--the integrity of
Russia as well as her freedom."

Khodkine smiled lightly.

"The old order passeth, Princess, and with it those who
are not awake to the new issues."

"And what is the new order of things?"  She returned
with spirit.  "A carefully planned disorder that Germany
may triumph, a chase of will-o'-the-wisps through a mist
of illusions.  *You* speak of treachery; *You*----!"  She
stifled the scorn of her tongue with an effort, for the
thought of the papers in her bodice warned her that she
was coming to dangerous ground.

"You are trying to do me injustice, Princess," he said
quietly, "but your very words fail you for lack of proof.
That it was through my agency that Prince Samarov was
thrown into prison is indeed a proof of my loyalty--for
did I not know that in condemning him--" Khodkine's
voice sank a note as he finished slowly, "that in
condemning him I was losing my own heart's desire--the one woman
in the world that I have ever loved--or can."

She glanced at him quickly but anger dominated.

"He was innocent of any connection with the *Camarilla*
of Rasputin," she said in a tense voice.  "He despised
trickery--and you knew it."

"That will doubtless be proved, Princess Tatyana, and
it may be that I can help," he said suavely.  "Indeed I am
not without influence with the Council of Workmen's and
Soldiers' Deputies."

"And why should you not be--you who are----!"

Again she paused, her hand below her cassock fingering
the *dossier* of Gregory Hochwald.

"I am--what, Tatyana?" he asked keenly.

She shrugged and looked away.

"The apostle of--of license!" she said chokingly.

The promptness of her reply reassured him.  She
believed in the Provisional Government and the dangers that
now beset it were very real to her.

He smiled and turned to her softly.

"Aren't your mission and mine the same, after all?  We
desire a Russia free--not alone from medievalism but
from the traitors within her borders who have stolen the
food from her soldiers, profited upon munitions which
never reached those who upheld the honor of Russia at the
front--the capitalists and those they put in power.  I
need not go on.  You know their names and places--vipers
that any true Russian of the nobility or of the people
should pledge his life to crush.  You too, Tatyana--you
are their enemy as I am.  Will you deny it?"

Tanya had listened in silence, amazed at the fervor of
his denunciation and at his plausibility.  Had she not held
close against her body the proofs of his perfidy, had she
not known the secrets of his Russian intrigue, his clever
tongue might have persuaded her.  As it was, having in
her misery already planned a course of action, she merely
answered evasively.  Gregory Khodkine should be no more
clever than she.  At the present moment she seemed to be
completely in his power, and until a proper opportunity
presented, she must meet him at his own game.  This was
not the first time he had declared his love for her.  There
had been other moments in Petrograd and at Nemi when
Gregory Khodkine had chosen to dignify her with his
attentions, but beneath his suave demonstrations of
affection, she had always been sure of his venality and felt the
threat of a danger.  Her father at this moment lay in a
cell in the Prison of St. Peter and St. Paul, a prisoner
through this man's agency, and of those others who had
sworn falsely.  She had blamed Gregory Khodkine,
because she had guessed that the currents which actuated
him had their source among the high places.  Now she
knew what and where, for the proof was in her possession,
and that knowledge made her fear and hate him the more.

The disaster to Monsieur Rowland had stricken her
helpless, the death of Stepan had terrified her, but she had
managed to gather her wits together in time to feign
illness and write the note to Shestov which Picard had taken.
All her hopes lay in Picard.  Would he reach Nemi in
safety and if so would he be in time to save Monsieur
Rowland from a frightful death?  Monsieur Rowland was
a brave man.  There was a quality of carelessness in his
courage and ingenuity that had made her throw herself
impulsively into his confidences and upon his protection.
It was incredible that this fine young life should be snuffed
out....  She would not believe it!  And Monsieur
Khodkine, Rowland's enemy, Stepan's slayer, sat beside her,
driving into the sunshine of the dewy morning, alive,
awake, persistent and successful, a portent of the triumph
of the dark forces which were spreading their evil snares
all about the world.  She stole a quick sidelong glance
at him and marked the handsome, finely-cut profile.  He
was good to look at--but cold--so ruthless and so cold!
And it was this man who a moment ago had asked her to
marry him!  There had seemed something more ominous
to her in the carefully chosen words of his declaration
than there would have been in the rugged orders of an
honest jailor.  And yet there was too something in the
quietness of his manner and in the air of submissiveness
with which he had accepted her rebuff which reassured
her.  Could it be, after all, that under this impassive
exterior there was a soul that could be touched, a chord of
memory, an ideal to be invoked, in which during moments
not given to the soulless pursuit of a mad nation's
ambitions, she, Tanya, could have a part?  Once or twice she
had believed him genuine, for in his pale blue eyes had
come a look that had been born of a real emotion, and then
something had happened--a quick return of his imperiousness
or suspicion, which had driven from her mind all
thoughts except that this was the man who held the fate
of Prince Samarov in the hollow of his hand.  But what if...

She glanced at him again.  His position was unchanged,
his expression unmoved, sober, determined but not
unpleasant, and for the present he seemed to have forgotten her
existence.  Love?  To such a man--it was a thing apart,
a trifle, an incident upon the highway of his life and
yet--what if she could find it--use it?

There was a weapon here for her woman's fingers to
grasp and wield.  He had offered it to her.  Was that too
a part of the tissue of falsehoods he had woven about
his life or was it a tangible thing that would cut and rend
as a woman's weapons should?  There was nothing left
for her but to choose.  Timidly, but firmly she caught
at it.

"Grisha Khodkine," she said with a smile that belied
the fear in her heart, "perhaps you are right.  I am only
a woman.  I have thought deeply and sorrowed deeply for
Russia, but that is a woman's weakness for her heart leads
her always.  As to my father----"

She paused and looked over the blue valley which led
down to Lake Constance.

"He need not worry you," he broke in.  "Before leaving
Petrograd, I assured myself that he lacked nothing.
He is comfortable, well-fed and in no danger.  If you will
trust in me, it will not be long before all your clouds are
rolled away."

"I--I do not believe you, Grisha Khodkine," she
murmured.  "One does not change one's thoughts at the first
wind that blows.  You are catering to a maddened people
drunk with liberty.  That is dangerous and bodes no good
to my country--and--and yours."

"And yet the Council of Workmen's and Soldiers' Deputies
is to rule all Russia.  You shall see.  Out of chaos,
cosmos shall come, a government 'of the people, for the
people, by the people.'"

She shook her head and spoke quickly.

"Nothing can come out of chaos but the chaotic.  You
see I can not believe in you."

"That is a pity, Princess Tatyana," he said quietly.
"But one day you will learn that I have spoken the truth."

She was silent a moment and then she spoke, trying
to measure her words which came hotly in spite of herself.

"What have you done to make me believe in you?  What
does this flight into Germany mean?  These passports--which
permit you, who call yourself a loyal Russian, to go
into the very heart of your enemy's country without
hindrance, without question?  And by what right do you
carry me against my will to this central committee of
Munich, which represents a socialism tainted with the
poisons of Potsdam----?"

"I would suggest caution, Prince Tatyana," he
interrupted sharply.  "You are now in Germany and presently
may be placed in a position where such a remark if
overheard would put you in great danger."

"The daughter of Prince Samarov is not afraid," she
said scornfully.

"Then I shall be afraid for you and protect you in spite
of yourself."

Her growing anger had driven prudence to the winds.

"I am no puppet, Gregory Khodkine, to be carried here
and there against my will.  By what right have you dared
do this thing----?"

"By right--of might," he said quietly, "the force that
sways Russia and will sway the world."  The car had
reached a deserted strip of the road and Khodkine drove
more slowly.  "Listen, Tatyana.  Perhaps you did not
believe me a while ago when I told you what was in my
heart.  That is your privilege.  But it is mine to
serve--and wait----"

"Serve!"

"Let me finish.  Perhaps I can make my purposes
clearer to you.  You believe that I have stolen this money,
for some personal or political object.  That is not true.
It goes to a place of safety, where you as well as I will
have some say in its disposition in international affairs.
You chose to be suspicious of me and to take into your
confidence this mad American, but he did not foresee, nor
did you, that there were other forces at work which
threatened the Society of Nemi--Ah!  You are interested!  It
is the truth."

"Max Liederman!"

He nodded.  "And you know what that meant?"

"Zoya Rochal."

"Exactly!  You are clever, Princess Tatyana.  Herr
Liederman would have wasted no time.  I know.  I have
evidence.  He was prepared for the death of Kirylo
Ivanitch.  He meant that the bank notes should fall into no
other hands but his."

"But Herr Liederman, whatever his deficiencies, is at
least honest in his convictions and in his allegiance."

Khodkine laughed lightly.

"The convictions, the allegiances of a dotard who is in
love with a dangerous woman are no more to be relied
upon than the woman herself.  Zoya Rochal has owned
many men and used their fortunes.  She is without an
occupation.  Herr Liederman is not prepossessing, but in
her eyes twenty-five million of francs would beautify
Pluto himself.  And Herr Liederman----"

He shrugged expressively and finished with a smile.

"Herr Liederman would never have carried out his good
intentions."

And then as she made no reply,

"So you see why I have acted quickly.  Monsieur Rowland
is clever, but the Gods serve the righteous.  I brought
you with me, Princess, because it was impossible to do
otherwise.  The judgment of a woman is not always to be
relied upon.  You are out of harm's way.  I shall save
you from mischief and from others who might do you and
the cause I serve incalculable harm.  I pray that you
will do me the justice of believing in the honesty of my
motives."

Under her robe her fingers clutched the *dossier* of
Gregory Hochwald.

"Honesty is as honesty does.  The passports, Monsieur--to
me they can mean but one thing."

"Two things, Princess," he said with a laugh.  "I am
either a spy of Germany in Russia or a spy of Russia in
Germany.  Can you choose?"

His impudence amazed her.

"A spy--of Russia!"

It was time that she moved carefully, for the slightest
slip might betray her.  "Oh," she said carelessly, "I had
not thought of that."

"I am not without friends in Germany," he went on--"in
Prussia.  I was educated in a German university.  If
I have used my connections in Russia's services, how can
you blame me?"

She made no reply.

"Does that explain any facts--or help you to
understand?" he asked.

"I think--perhaps," she said slowly, "that it does."

He examined her keenly for a moment.

"You suspected--you had heard that I was acting in
the interests of Prussia?  Did Ivanitch speak of me to
you?"

"Oh, no," she said, turning and looking steadily into
his eyes.  "I was not the confidante of Kirylo Ivanitch in
such matters."  She broke off and turned away with a
shrug.

"My doubts as to your genuineness are purely
personal--and based, you must admit, upon good grounds.  In
the twentieth century abduction is hardly conventional.
Women no longer kiss the hands that beat them, Gregory
Khodkine."

He was silent for a long moment of meditation.

"It is very painful to me that you should dislike me so
much.  I ask nothing of you--expect nothing.  For while
I can help the cause of free Russia, I have sworn that no
personal consideration shall stand in the way of duty.  It
is the irony of fate that it should be you, Princess
Tatyana, who are thrown across my path, but that has made
no difference to me.  My life or happiness is nothing
beside the other issue.  That day at the British Embassy
when we met and afterwards walked along the river, our
minds struck fire.  I knew then that you were different
from other Russian women of your class.  I am not
sentimental--perhaps you think me cold; but I love you,
Tatyana, and whether you believe it or not will serve and
protect----"

"Please, Grisha Khodkine," she murmured.  "My situation
is delicate enough, without making it more difficult."

They were approaching the town and Monsieur Khodkine
drove more carefully.

"It shall be as you please," he said quietly.  "My
desire was to reassure you.  You shall be as safe in my
company as you are at Nemi, but I pray you to be
discreet.  One may not speak freely in Germany in times
like these.  I warn you now that for myself I fear nothing,
so that you are powerless against me, but should you
antagonize or deride German authority, I may not be able
to save you."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Keep silent, that is all.  You travel as my sister.  At
the town ahead of us you will provide yourself with a
valise, a hat, coat, and such toilet articles as you may
require.  Tonight we should reach Munich where you will
be again among members of the society.  I shall try my
case before them, place this money in their care."

"And after that--what?"

"If it pleases you, we shall go on into Russia."

She thought a moment.  "And if I promise to obey you
thus far, what do you offer me in return?"

"The liberation of Prince Samarov when we reach
Petrograd," he replied promptly.

"Very well," she assented at last.  "I agree."

"Good," and then with a smile; "one word more,
Princess Tatyana, a word of warning and of prophecy.  The
cause of the Provisional Government is hopeless, its
leaders dreamers--idealists.  Russia has dreamed too long.
The party to come into power will be radical, applying
desperate remedies to desperate diseases, but it will be
practical and it will be triumphant.  Do not sink with a
lost cause--for in the end the result is the same--Russia
free--socialism--Internationalism victorious----"

"International Prussianism----!"

He frowned slightly--

"You are already breaking your agreement--

"And England, France, Italy--" she persisted eagerly.
"What becomes of our agreements with them?"

He shut his jaws grimly.

"They must look out for themselves, Princess Tatyana,"
he finished.

"Ah!" she gasped, and sinking back into her seat, said
no more.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PLOT`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium

   THE PLOT

.. vspace:: 2

The car drew up at the door of a store the sign
upon which proclaimed the sale of articles of
feminine apparel and Khodkine got out and stood
bowing upon the pavement.

"A suit-case, a hat, gloves and coat and such other
articles as you require.  Let me know the cost and I will
give you money.  And remember our agreement.  I will
await you here."

She had slipped out of her dark robe before getting
down, and entered the store.  For a moment a vague
notion came into her head of escaping through a rear door
and hiding from him.  But maturer thought soon convinced
her that such a plan was impracticable.  Gregory Khodkine
was far too clever to permit himself to be eluded in
such a way.  He had made sure, too, that she had no
money in her possession and without money her case was
hopeless.  The exciting events of the night and previous
day had worn upon her and she now felt weak from lack
of food.  There was nothing for it but to obey Monsieur
Khodkine's injunctions and so she made her purchase
quickly, put on the hat, coat and gloves, and with the
other articles in the suit-case, presented the bill to
Khodkine, who gave her the money.

As he handed her into the machine he smiled at her
gravely.

"I am sorry to have kept you up all night, but there is
an inn near by and breakfast should be welcome."

Monsieur Khodkine was right.  The coffee was poor,
but it was real coffee, the eggs were freshly laid in a
neighboring barn yard and the rations of war bread were
nourishing.  She found nothing to complain of in the demeanor
of her companion and their breakfast finished they were
again upon their way.  Khodkine had now taken the
suitcase into the front seat beside him and put Tanya into the
tonneau, expressing a hope that she would find a chance
to doze.  It would be impossible to stop to rest as many
miles were to be covered by nightfall, and there was no
time to spare.  This rearrangement of their positions was
agreeable to Tanya, for she had many things to think of.
If she still had any thought of escaping, Gregory
Khodkine quickly removed them, for the fuel of the machine
having been replenished at Tuttlingen, she soon saw that
he was bent on covering the miles to Munich at a speed
as rapid as consistent with safety.  His suggestion that
she try to sleep in the tonneau was impracticable, for
though the road was for the most part in good condition,
the car swerved violently at the turns and it was difficult
without holding by a hand grasp to keep an upright
position.  Indeed it seemed as though she never wished to
sleep again.  Her body was weary with sitting upright,
but her eyes, wide open, stared along the gray road before
her as she wondered at Gregory Khodkine's skill,
persistence and tirelessness.

A German agent!  Many things had happened that had
made her suspect him of Teutonic leanings.  But this!
And Gregory Khodkine was but one of many.  Poor Russia!
She had indeed fallen into the hands of the Philistines.

Every mile they traveled carried the Princess Tatyana
further into the enemy's country and nearer to those from
whom this traitor drew his high authority.  Already she
had been given proofs of the character of his *laisser
passer*.  One glance by an officer of the guard seemed sufficient
to send the machine flying upon its way.  There was
always too an air of quick deference and a military salute
which accompanied it.  What chance was there for her
with the Central Committee at Munich to which they were
bound, with the finger of the Wilhelmstrasse upon the latch
of its door, with ears near by, strained for the first free
murmur which passed the bounds proscribed?  Members
of this Committee had been to Nemi--Georg Senf--letters
had passed between them.  Madame Rochal even had
come from Munich, properly accredited.  Tanya felt very
much alone, very much at a loss, helpless in the face of
the innumerable forces opposed to her.  But somewhere
within her heart a hope still leaped that all might yet be
well with Monsieur Rowland.

All night and morning the possibility of his death had
weighed heavily upon her conscience, for she could not
deny a personal responsibility in the series of events which
had brought about the final disaster.  Of course she could
hardly have foretold the madness of Ivanitch, but the fact
remained that she had cast her fortunes upon Monsieur
Rowland's side, and by giving him the secret of the vault,
had plunged him into the danger that had resulted in his
undoing.  There was a sweetness in the memory of their
first encounter in the garden of Nemi.  Here was a boy
grown to manhood unspoiled by rough contacts.  She
knew nothing of his history, save by the vague phrases
which confessed a roving habit and a knowledge of many
sides of life.  But the naturalness of their brief friendship,
its ingenuousness and charm were singularly refreshing to
one who from childhood had been brought up in an
atmosphere of intrigue and double meaning.

She could not believe that he would die.  The vault was
large.  One, two, perhaps even three days might elapse
before the air of the vault should be exhausted, and surely
before that time a means would be found to enter it.
Gregory Khodkine's revelation of Herr Liederman's plans had
filled her with hope.  Perhaps already Monsieur Rowland
had been liberated and was devising means to offset the
successes of her captor.

Would he follow her into Germany?  And could he if
he wished?  If Picard had succeeded in crossing the
frontier, her note to Shestov would have been delivered, for
Picard, she knew, would go through fire for her.  But
what claim after all had she on this Philippe Rowland?
A strange brief friendship, based upon the call of youth
to youth, and an intimate community of interests born of
her dependence and his mere love of adventure.  (Poor
boy!  She had got him more than he had bargained for.)  Or
was his sudden allegiance born of something more than
the interests she served?  She tried to remember the things
that he had said, the good-natured, disarming smile, the
amused look in his dark eyes, that could be both deferent
and bold.

And as she thought of this a slight frown gathered at
her brows.  His eyes could be bold and he was quite
capable of suiting his actions to their meaning.  Madame
Rochal had lost no time in discovering Monsieur
Rowland's knowledge of the complexities of her sex.

To a woman of the antecedents and training of Zoya
Rochal the conquest of a person of Monsieur Rowland's
frank disposition was a mere matter of opportunity and
Madame Rochal had lost no time in creating that.  But
Tanya had been a little dismayed at finding how quickly
the designing cosmopolitaine had accomplished her ends,
more than a little dismayed, too, to find that Monsieur
Rowland had so soon fallen to her wiles.  And yet back
of it all was the undeniable fact of Monsieur Rowland's
cleverness, his genuine appeal to her own generosity and
forgiveness which she had granted there at the door of the
vault when he had seemed to have forgotten the numbers
of the combination.  His boyishness and humor had
reassured her and something more than mere friendship she
had seen in his eyes.  The deference had been there, the
boldness also, but there was another look which she had
seen in other men's eyes, knew, and recognized.  Philippe
Rowland had given his allegiance to her cause, because it
was in a measure his cause too, but he had also given
Tanya Korasov his allegiance because of herself.

Unfortunately she realized that his promise to help her
defeat an intrigue against the fortunes of the Society of
Nemi was one thing; a chase across the enemy's country,
from which, by great trial and good fortune he had just
managed to escape, was another.  She had given Shestov
the slenderest of clues and Germany was large.  And if,
not for her sake merely, but that of Nemi, of which he
was the titular head, he decided to follow her fortunes
into danger, where could she find the hope that he would
succeed--without a passport, without influence and
without means unless he borrowed them?  Liederman--Zoya
Rochal--Shestov--to the outwitted Councilors of Nemi,
the loss of twenty-five millions of francs by the society
would be a terrible catastrophe, as it was indeed to Tanya,
for she had no hope that Gregory Khodkine intended to
use this money in the purposes for which it had been
contributed.  If any part of it was to be used in Russia, its
appropriation would be in the hands of Teuton agents
who would dispense it at the dictation of Graf von Stromberg
of the Secret Service to debauch the dreamers along
the thin gray line which marked the only borderland
between Prussianism and the free Russia she loved.

And yet, had not circumstance put Monsieur Rowland
in a position of responsibility toward those who had
contributed toward this vast sum of money for the
propaganda of freedom and liberal government?  He was the
leader of Nemi, secretly elected in accordance with the
strange rites which had come down from the forgotten
ages.  These hundreds of thousands did not know the
names of the leaders of the order, but they did know that
the Society of Nemi was great, and actuated by a high
purpose and that its leader, whoever he was, was responsible
to them for the use of the accumulated funds in its
possession.

How much of this responsibility would weigh upon
Monsieur Rowland?  And if he felt it, what use would he make
of the power that had come ready-made to his hands?
Was he already upon his way to France to rejoin his
regiment of the legion or would he...?

The Princess Tanya's pretty head dropped forward
upon her breast and she awoke suddenly with a start.
How long had she slept?  The heat, the dust, the roar
of the exhaust of the machine had worn upon her weariness,
but she straightened guiltily as though she had been
false to a trust.  There was no answer to her problems but
the implacable back of Gregory Khodkine's head, who
drove onward skillfully without a word, the suit-case safe
beneath his eyes and the source of his authority ever
growing nearer.

At Ulm he bade her get down at the railroad station
and deliver a message for the telegraph.  Inside the door
of the place, beyond the range of his vision, she
scrutinized it eagerly--a mere jumble of words strung together,
meaningless to her--in code.  She sent it.  What would
have been the use of opposing him in this when he could
confirm the message at the next town they came to?
Indeed, during the afternoon messages were delivered to him
as he arrived.  And he read them with satisfaction.

Her case seemed hopeless and if indeed she had needed
the proof, the venality of Gregory Khodkine was fully
assured.  But after awhile she became curious as to how he
would attempt to explain away these evidences of
Prussianism.

"The miles increase your assurance," she said bitterly
in Russian.

He found her gaze and then glanced away.

"It is well to take precautions.  I am not in the habit
of traveling with more money than enough for my
immediate uses," he said with a lame attempt at humor.  "The
responsibility weighs upon me."

"The responsibility to whom, Gregory Khodkine?" she
asked.

"To those who have sent me," he replied uneasily.

"You grow bold with success."

"Who doesn't?"  And then with a frown, "I warn you,
Tatyana, of your promise."

Gone were the softer tones in which he had pitched his
morning appeal.  This was another Khodkine, the man
who last night had asked her into his room at Nemi that
he might try to frighten her into a confession of what
she knew of the secret of the vault.  She had evaded him
then, had managed as she thought to throw him off the
scent, but there seemed no chance of evading him now or
indeed of finding any way into his confidences.  She had
missed her chance this morning.  The sense of a possible
power over him had flitted from her and with its loss came
a sense of defeat and utter hopelessness.

If Monsieur Khodkine's sense of security had been
increased he still drove rapidly and at turns in the road in
the open country she saw him turn his chin over his
shoulder and eagerly scrutinize the landscape behind them.
But they had come far and it seemed hardly possible that
pursuit could threaten now.

When Gregory Khodkine spoke it was to carry the war
into her camp.  He was quite civil and spoke in Russian
in a low tone, but his question probed deep and took her
off her guard.

"Princess Samarov, last night while you were outside
the vault, your friend the American accused me of a
connection with the Wilhelmstrasse, and obligingly gave me a
*dossier*.  Who told him that my name was Hochwald?
Did you?"

Tanya was unprepared and involuntarily her hand
clutched at her shirt waist where the papers were hidden
in her breast.  She recovered herself instantly and faced
him quite calmly, her hand dropping into her lap.

"You are full of surprises, Gregory Khodkine.  Hochwald!
Is it true?"

His pale eyes were regarding her keenly.

"No.  But who told him?"

"I can't imagine, unless Madame Rochal----"

"You are playing with fire, Princess.  I must know the
facts."

She shrugged lightly and smiled at him, though she was
cold with fear.

"Then you must go to those who know them."  Then,
lying with the ingenuousness which only a woman can
command, "Hochwald?" she said coolly.  "I've never heard
the name before."

From the tail of her eye she saw his look flicker and
leave her and she knew that she had baffled him, but the
infamous records burned against her, smirched the clean skin
against which they lay.  It seemed that he must feel their
existence as she did.

"You seem disturbed," she ventured carelessly.  "It is
the name perhaps you use in your dual role?"

"Yes," he replied shortly.  "In Germany I have no other."

"Must I then use it here?"

"It would perhaps be better, when you speak in
German," he muttered.

The incident passed and with it Gregory Khodkine's
incertitude.  Tanya who at the last stop for petrol had
returned to the tonneau sat clinging to the supports of the
top staring gloomily before her.  Her new suit-case was
in front of her.  Beside it in a litter upon the floor, some
spare tubes, a can of oil and other impedimenta.  She
examined them drowsily, wondering whose car this was and
how it happened to be where they had found it.  But she
had asked no questions of Gregory Khodkine and now it
didn't seem to matter, as long as the machinery held
together until they reached their destination.  But the new
suit-case seemed to fascinate her.  And then quite
spontaneously an idea was born--a plan!  It seemed utterly
absurd--madness--and she dismissed it.  It recurred
again, was dismissed; then it came and remained in her
thoughts, in all its precariousness, in all its beautiful
simplicity.  She looked again at her new suit-case and
suddenly felt herself trembling with excitement.  A wonderful
plan to be sure, a brave plan, but unless fortune aided her,
foredoomed to failure.  But of the consequences she had
no fear.  After all, what could be worse than the
uncertainty of this terrible, endless night and day.  Gregory
Hochwald might be an agent of the hated von Stromberg,
but Gregory Khodkine would never dare to murder her,
even if she succeeded in her venture.

All afternoon she waited for an opportunity, feigning
slumber while she watched him through lowered eyelashes.
But he drove on grimly, the millions of Nemi on the seat
beside him, his gaze fastened upon the towers of Augsburg.
But after dinner his mood was more cheerful and he
invited her into the seat beside him again, and lighting a
cigar drove off into the gathering darkness to the south.
Khodkine no longer feared pursuit and success was to be
the reward of his efforts, for they would reach Munich
tonight.  It was no wonder that he was happy.  Tanya
noticed a return of his solicitude for her comfort, and
catered to his friendliness, assenting as though in sheer
weariness to his plans.

"I hope that you may forgive me, Tatyana.  It has
pained me horribly to cause you so much suffering, but I
am only doing what I believe to be my duty.  When that
is accomplished, you shall see how I will requite you for
your generosity."

"You have left me no choice," she sighed wearily.  "It
does not matter.  This is not work that women were
made for.  I am very tired."

"You poor child," he murmured.  "It will not be long
before you shall be quite comfortable and at home in the
Bayrischer Hof.  No one shall disturb you and you shall
rest as long as you please."

"I shall be thankful for that," she said quietly.

"Our long acquaintance, Tatyana," he went on smoothly,
"your knowledge of my character and the nature of
my confession this morning must do more than any
further words of mine to reassure you."

"Yes, yes," she sighed.

"Will you tell me at least that you are no longer angry
with me?"

"No.  I am not angry with you," she said promptly.

"And you will let me try by my kindness and consideration
to correct the poor estimate you have made of me?"

"Perhaps--"  And then wearily, "But do not urge me
further now, Grisha Khodkine.  My mind refuses to act.
I am more than half asleep."

"Poor *dushka*.  I shall trouble you no more.  Sleep on."

And then, after a while, without warning came the
watchful Tanya's chance.  A tire blew out.  Gregory
Khodkine with a muttered imprecation stopped the car,
got down and examined the wheel.  They were in a deserted
road with no lights of any kind in sight.  Tanya stirred
and questioned lazily.  Khodkine had already thrown off
his coat and was on his knees in the road.  By the
reflection of the lights upon the indicators, Tanya's eyes
furtively examined the suit-case which contained the fortune
of Nemi.  The catch was closed, but the key was in the
lock.  All day Gregory Khodkine, keeping the suit-case
under his eye, had not deemed the key important.  And
now----

Tanya, fingering the catch with one hand to be sure
that it would open, leaned past the wheel and peered over
the side of the car.

"Do you think you will be long delayed?" she inquired
sleepily.

"A matter of twenty minutes, I should say," he grunted
from behind the car, where he was tugging at the straps
of the spare tire.

"Oh!  Then do you mind if I creep into the tonneau
and steal a wink of sleep?"

"Not at all.  You'd better," he growled.  "I may be an
hour."

"Really?  That's too blissful for words."

And crawling down slowly, lifting the suit-case containing
the bank notes to the seat as she did so, she clambered
down into the road beside him, making sympathetic
inquiries as to the nature of the injury.  He reassured her,
but she saw how greatly he was absorbed and she wandered
around upon the other side of the car.  But her plan was
already made.  Ahead of the car along the side of the road
she had seen some large loose rocks.  There would be
others here in the darkness.  Feeling with her feet, at last
she found one, another, and stooping quickly picked the
heaviest of them up, into her arms.  Then she paused,
feeling that her companion might have observed her, but
after waiting a moment motionless she bent over and
deposited them noiselessly upon the floor of the car.

"I think I will take my nap," she said sleepily.  And as
Khodkine assented she mounted into the tonneau.  There
was no moon and the clouds enshrouded the car in
darkness, but for a moment Tanya lay upon the seat in the
tonneau, watching furtively through the rear curtains.
The car was already jacked from the ground and Khodkine
was tinkering at the rim.  Now was the time.  She
must act quickly.  The bags were of nearly the same size.
Silently, and taking care that no movement should shake
the car, she hauled the suit-case which contained the
banknotes over the back of the seat into the tonneau,
then quickly removed the piles of notes, transferred them
to her own bag, the contents of which she put upon the
floor.  Then she took up the heavy stones, wrapping them
in the lap robe which she had used all day as a dust cover,
and put them into the other suit-case, packing it tightly
with the aid of the rubber tubes and other small articles
until the stones were tightly wedged.  Then she locked the
suit-case, put the key in her pocket and with an effort
restored it to its position beside the wheel in front.  She
then crept back noiselessly to the seat of the tonneau,
where she lay breathless, her heart throbbing with
excitement.  It was done.  She had done it.  Gregory
Khodkine was still hammering at the rebellious rim.  She was
a little frightened when she realized what hung upon the
success or failure of her plan.  The weights of the two
suitcases it seemed to her were much the same.  Gregory
Khodkine could never know what she had done unless he
examined the contents of the bag he had guarded so carefully
all day.  The key in her pocket would prevent that.  But
suppose that he became curious about the absent key.
Suppose he found her new clothing upon the floor.  The
new suit-case was somewhat larger than the old one and
she managed to get the linen and toilet articles into it.
The other things she stuffed behind the cushions of the
seat on which she sat.  Suppose he chose to test the weight
of *her* suit-case!

That at all hazards must be prevented.  She moved it
alongside of her just before Khodkine bobbed up out of
the darkness and peered in, reporting that he would be
ready to start in ten minutes.  She snored gently, in reply,
and presently heard him fussing at the wheel again.

Were the packages all inside the bag?  Had she left
any of the contents of her suit-case upon the floor of the
tonneau?  She could see nothing in the darkness, but her
fingers eagerly searched the tonneau and finding nothing
she breathed more easily.  Fortune so far had favored her.
What was to follow must be left to chance.  Whatever
happened she had much to gain and nothing to lose--unless,
perhaps, the tender lapses from duty of Gregory
Khodkine who was born Hochwald.

After a while he got into the driver's seat.  She
trembled as she saw him lift the suit-case containing the
rocks and her newly bought finery to the seat beside him
and for a terrible moment thought that he paused,
examining the lock.  Through her half closed eyes she saw him
peer over his shoulder at her in a moment of hesitation
and then heard the whirr of the engine as they started
upon their way.  Then one by one she took the articles
that she had stuffed behind the curtains of the rear seat
and choosing favorable opportunity dropped them onto
the road or threw them into the hedge.  When this was
done she breathed more easily and straightened, yawned
and sat up.

"I have slept," she said with a laugh.  "How far have
we gone?"

"Not two miles," grumbled Khodkine.

"Oh!" said Tanya in a tone of disappointment, "I
thought we must be nearly there."

Now that she had started upon this venture she found
a new interest in living.  She was wide awake now,
thinking quickly, for every vestige of her weariness seemed by
some strange magic of her success to have vanished.
Women have a natural talent for deception in minor
matters, but it is under the spur of great necessity that they
reach the perfection of dissimulation.  Tanya weighed
every chance of failure, and gained confidence in her
ability to carry the thing through to its end.  And so when
they reached their journey's end and drew up at the doors
of the Bayrischer Hof, she was standing upright in the
tonneau, trying to carry lightly her heavy burden and
had even stepped down upon the pavement before Gregory
Khodkine had come beside her.  If she could ever get the
bag up to her room without letting it pass into alien
hands!

Khodkine was for taking it from her at once, but she
refused to relinquish it.

"You have quite enough to carry, Gregory Hochwald.
If you will permit me--I am quite rested."

And with a glance at her face he smiled and led the way
into the building.  The hour was late and she was assigned
to a room immediately, while Khodkine wearily bearing his
suit-case which he like Tanya refused to relinquish,
disappeared with the clerk.

Once within the sanctuary of her own room and the
door closed and bolted behind her, Tanya sat upon the
bed breathing hard, weak in the forces of reaction.  But
she realized that her difficulties had only begun.  Her
thoughts whirled tumultuously for a moment as she tried
to picture Khodkine when he learned of the deception she
had practiced upon him.  There was no time to lose.  She
must do something with this money, something to put it
forever out of Gregory Khodkine's way--but what?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PURSUIT`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium

   PURSUIT

.. vspace:: 2

Rowland's head ached, his muscles were stiff
and the wounds in his cheek and shoulder needed
first aid, but after they were given attention he
lost no time, and breakfast eaten, Zoya Rochal's car
was brought to the gate by Liederman and in less than an
hour they were upon their way.  Another suit of clothes
and some linen from the posthumous wardrobe of Ivanitch,
had restored the American to a semblance of presentability
and he found his courage and optimism rising with
every mile that they traveled.  Barthou and Shestov
remained with Signorina Colodna at Nemi to explain to the
new arrivals the cause and extent of the disaster, and to
keep in touch with the telegraph office in the village
below, that they might be informed as to what happened in
Germany.

Max Liederman drove and Rowland and Zoya Rochal
sat in the tonneau.

On its face, this was a mad errand--to go flying into
the heart of the enemy's country from which after weeks
of trial Rowland had managed miraculously to escape.
But a transformation had been worked in Rowland's point
of view, as well as in his appearance.  He seemed, in the
few short hours he had spent at Nemi, to have achieved
a mission and an object in life, something, he was forced
to admit, that he had never possessed before.  The
mission,--a defeat of Prussian intrigue, the object,--Tanya
Korasov.  If the success of Monsieur Khodkine had for
the moment balked him, he was aware now of a spirit of
mild exaltation at the prospect of the dangers he must
run in the hope of success.  The sense of danger always
made him cheerful and rather quiet.  And so though the
massive Liederman sat gloomily, driving with a heavy
hand which at narrow places in the road seemed to
threaten destruction, swearing volubly over his shoulder
in the odd moments, and Zoya Rochal chattered excitedly
in three languages, Rowland sat grinning hopefully into
the long stretch of road which lay before them,
thinking of Tanya Korasov and wishing that he had Monsieur
Khodkine's throat in his fingers again.  He would pinch
harder next time.

Rowland had devised a plan which he hoped would
enable him to pass the frontier in safety.  And so, when
a mile distant from the military posts that guarded the
German line along the main highway, Rowland got down
and after making a *rendezvous* at a small town which
Liederman suggested, three miles beyond the border,
turned into the woods by the roadside and moved stealthily
westward.  This was a dangerous game, for in his escape
from Germany a few days before, he had done most of his
traveling by night, sleeping in the woods by day.  But
there was no time to be lost and nothing else to be done.
Herr Liederman and Madame Rochal had their own
passports of course and would go through without trouble,
and once within the borders of Germany the inspection of
the machine and its occupants would be less rigid than at
the frontier gates.

The plight of Tanya Korasov and the responsibility
which he now shared with her for the safety of the money
had sharpened Rowland's wits amazingly.  He reached the
edge of the woods and crouched in the bushes on a slight
elevation for a moment, studying the lay of the land to the
northward.  Then, discovering a slight depression upon
his left down which a small stream trickled, he crouched,
taking advantage of the cover which screened him from
the view of some men working in a field and went
northward rapidly for half a mile.

But he came at last to a spot where the stream
debouched into a meadow, beside which was a farm-house
and more men working.  So he was forced to go back a
few hundred yards and wriggle upon hands and knees in
the shadow of a stone wall up a hill, at the crest of which
he paused again for observation.  Before him, again to
his left beyond the farm houses, was a wood which spread
northward and eastward.  Once within its borders he
felt sure that he could move forward in greater security.
He clambered into some shrubbery, and upon the other
side of the hill saw the road which approached the farm
houses.  Once across this the cover would be better.  There
was no one in sight.  He crawled out of his place of
concealment, braving detection for the few hundred yards of
open country, dashed down the hill across the lane and
in a moment was hidden in a thicket upon the further side.
Here he waited again, watching in all directions, and then
taking to the undergrowth went on more rapidly, at last
reaching the protection of the thick woods, where he
breathed a deep sigh of gratification.  He had figured
that the border line must cut somewhere near the center
of this forest and could not be more than a kilometer
away.

He was more at home here, for the starvation and
misery of the past weeks had given him a skill in stealth
and woodcraft which would have done credit to a North
American Indian.  The possibility of there being a wire
fence along the border had not occurred to him, for if
he had passed such a barrier a few nights ago, he had
merely considered it the border of a sheep or cattle
pasture, even believing at Nemi that he was still well within
the German Empire.  But suddenly as he moved forward
a wire fence rose before him, a barrier of barbed steel,
thickly woven between the stout posts that retained it.
Rowland crawled into the center of a bush nearby and
waited a moment, for along each side of the fence was a
well-beaten path which showed where the sentries passed.
Rowland had resolved to burrow under the wire, since
to climb such a fence, even if it were not electrified, would
be difficult and damaging to his clothing, the presentability
of which was essential to his safety.  But he did
not wish to attempt it until he was sure of the exact
moment of the passage of the sentries.  And so he waited
calmly, aware of an intense desire to smoke which could
not be gratified.

In a moment his patience and wisdom were rewarded,
for, listening intently, he heard the thud of heavy boots
and the sound of a fine masculine voice singing.  The
Swiss soldier approached, still singing and passed him.
And not fifty yards beyond, the singing stopped and he,
heard another voice in greeting.

"Ah, Kamerad--you sing well."

"One must do something to pass the time."

"Weary work--with nothing to show for it.  You have
seen nothing?"

"No."

"Nor I.  It is the time for my relief.  *Auf wiedersehen*."

And the German soldier approached upon the opposite
side of the fence and passed on.

Now was the time.  Rowland waited a moment until
both men were out of sight, and hearing, when he came
out quickly, and approaching a slight depression in the
soft loam below the wire, set to work burrowing furiously
with his hands, in a few moments making a hole deep
enough to wriggle through.  Then covering the evidences
of his work with leaves, crossed quickly into the woods
beyond and disappeared.

It was a very weary and much bedraggled individual
who emerged from some bushes near the highroad at the
spot where the car was awaiting him.  Liederman was
fuming, Madame Rochal anxious.  They had used two
hours of time and it was now well past noon.  But
Rowland, though weary, was quite cheerful.  He had already
found a flaw in the perfection of the efficiency which had
so astonished the world.  There would be other flaws and
careless, casual little New York would find them.

The passports of Zoya Rochal and Herr Liederman
and the credentials which the latter carried, showing him
to be a member of the Reichstag, would probably be
sufficient to pass the party along the road.  But to
insure less chance of detention an alias was provided for
Rowland in case of surprise.  He had become Herr
Professor Leo Knaus, Curator of the Schwanthaler Museum,
returning to Munich after a brief holiday in search of
lost health in the Bavarian Highlands, where through an
unfortunate accident, his knapsack containing all his
personal papers had been lost from a cliff into a deep
torrent whence their recovery had been impossible.

By making detours, avoiding the larger towns, however,
they managed to travel fifty or sixty kilometers without
even so much as seeing a soldier, and Liederman figured
that once well within Bavaria away from the Swiss border,
the scrutiny of their papers would be less exacting.

And whether by good luck or good management they
reached Ulm without mishap, where Herr Liederman had
friends and influence.  And then a passport for the
unfortunate Herr Professor from Ulm to Munich was
procured which made the remainder of their journey less
hazardous.

Rowland would have felt more comfortable if he had
had a little money of his own, for though Madame Rochal
and Max Liederman seemed well supplied with funds, he
would find himself in a pretty pickle if he were suddenly
left upon his own resources.  He ran his fingers hopefully
through the pockets of Kirylo Ivanitch and found
nothing--oh, yes, the coin of the Priest of Nemi with which
Khodkine last night had presented him.  He had shifted
it to the new clothing with the matches and cigarettes.
He fingered it carelessly, then brought it forth and
examined it--a clever bit of low-relief, done by an artist,
probably Italian.

Madame Rochal who had been vociferously exchanging
opinions with Herr Liederman found curiosity more
essential to her happiness than argument and bending
suddenly forward, examined the coin.

"Who gave you this, Monsieur?" she asked excitedly.

"Monsieur Khodkine--last night.  It was to be the
symbol of our eternal friendship.  The Gods will otherwise."

"It is the Talisman," she cried.  "Do you know what
its possession means?"

"Ah, yes," he said, shrugging lightly, "that I'm the
King-pin in your ten-twenty-thirty."  And as she looked
puzzled he laughed.  "That I'm the Head of the Society
of Nemi.  But how the devil that's going to help me
here, I can't quite see."

"Monsieur Rowland," she broke in, "this is most
important.  In Munich you will need no better credentials
than this."

"But I'm an enemy of Germany--an American."

"Of Autocracy--of the Army--yes.  But Internationalism
knows no enemies."

"You mean----?"

"That the Democrats of Germany, whether Socialist
or Revolutionary, will receive you as a friend.
Names--nationalities mean nothing to them now.  All that they
need is a leader who has no fear of the Army--and a
spark to cause the conflagration."

"And you believe that I----?"

"Precisely," she said with a flash of her dark eyes,
"if I have not misjudged you.  *You*, Monsieur!"

She showed the coin to Liederman who fully confirmed
her opinion.  The Talisman passed with the office, and it
was very lucky that Rowland had found it, for there was
no other like it in the world.  Rowland looked at the coin
with interest, and then flipped it carelessly.

"Heads I win, tails Khodkine loses," he laughed.  "You
see, Madame.  Anyway you look at it Nemi triumphs."

Zoya Rochal examined Rowland's profile through her
half-closed eyes and when she spoke she used English, a
language which fell from her lips quite as readily as
French or Russian.

"Monsieur Rowland," she smiled, "you are quite the
most cheerful person I have ever known in my life.  You
always smile more when things go wrong.  I don't
understand.  Do you never get angry?"

"Well, rather!  Once when a piece of Boche shrapnel
smashed my jimmy-pipe, right out of my teeth.  It was
the best pipe I ever had," he finished thoughtfully.

She laughed.  "I've never met one like you before.
Most men are so desperate in great affairs."

"H--m.  I've been desperate a lot of times but didn't
find it helped me much.  I tried that in the vault last
night and only barked my shins.  So I went to sleep and
dreamed I was married to a princess--until Herr Liederman
blew me up."

"A princess!" she smiled archly.  "Monsieur Rowland,
you still have the heart of a child."  Her voice sank a
note as she glanced at the back of Herr Liederman's
head.  "It is that which has attracted me to you.  The
world has grown so old in wisdom and in sin," she sighed.

He laughed.  "It's a good old world but it needs a
vacuum cleaner.  We've got to 'get' Khodkine, Madame
Rochal.  He's a breeder of germs."

"And is bred of Germans----" she whispered.

"Same thing--disease in the *Welt Politik*--always
excepting our good chauffeur----," indicating Liederman's
broad back, "who is your friend and mine and therefore
quite all right."  Rowland was silent a moment and then
turned and laid his hand over Zoya Rochal's.  She turned
her palm upward and their fingers clasped.

"You and I, Madame----"

"Zoya----," she corrected.

He smiled and touched her fingers lightly to his lips.

"Zoya----," he repeated.  "Pretty name, that.  Zoya!
You and I must swear an allegiance."

"I have already sworn it in my heart," she said softly.

"And I can count upon you--whatever happens."

"Yes--for Russia."

"There are many Russias----"

"The Russia of the Constituent Assembly--the Russia
of sanity--of reconstruction----"

"Good.  We understand each other.  A beautiful
woman is a power, but a clever, beautiful woman----" he
smiled at her gaily, "the world lies at her feet."

Her fingers closed upon his own and she looked past
him down into the valley of a little river which flowed
past them while her voice seemed to trail away into the
beautiful distance.

"If you would only lay it there,--Philippe!"

His eyes boldly sought for flaws in her perfect face,
and found none.  And yet its very perfection was in
itself a flaw, for he knew something of her history.
Passion had made no mark upon her, or the suffering she
must have caused in others.  Whatever the world had
done to her soul, it had passed her beauty by as though
that in itself were a matter of no importance.

But Rowland did not kiss her, though he had a notion
that this was what was required to seal their compact.
He only laughed a little.

"You shall have it, Zoya Rochal.  I give you my word
on it, if you will help me to catch Gregory Khodkine."  And
then as he released her hand, "Tell me something of
this Central Committee of Bavaria."

She watched him as he lighted his cigarette and marveled
a little at the coolness of his renunciation of an
opportunity.

"Perhaps you didn't know that it is from the Central
Committee of Munich that I come to Nemi.  Perhaps also
you may think it strange that I, a loyal Russian, should
stand high in such councils.  But politics make strange
affiliations.  I have served the cause in many countries and
in Germany I have secretly stood with advanced
Socialism.  As you have seen, I possess papers which permit
me to come and go as I please and I am not without
influence even in Berlin."

"Ah, that is strange.  A secret agent----?"

"What you choose.  In the past I've done Prussia some
service in Constantinople, Buda-Pesth and Vienna.  But
since the war began---" she shrugged.  "Can you not
imagine?  After all, I am a Russian."

"I see.  And this Central Committee at Munich,--who
is its leader?"

"George Senf, a giant among pigmies.  You shall
see----"

"A member of the Society of Nemi?"

"Yes, and more than once a Councilor.  But he serves
our cause better in Germany where his name is a
byword for fearlessness and wisdom."

"And Liederman?"

"Herr Liederman represents Georg Senf and his
followers on the floor of the Reichstag.  They are both
loyal men but Senf is the master."

"Thanks.  This is what I wanted to know."  And
then, after a pause, "But why should Monsieur Khodkine
choose Munich as the place to which to take this money?"

"That has puzzled me, but I think I am beginning to
understand.  The first stronghold of the Order of Nemi
is in the Munich Committee and those others which it
influences.  Monsieur Khodkine plans first to take the
money to a place of safety; then to throw the whole
power of the Government into the Committee to thwart
its leaders, who are the friends of Nemi and to divert
this money to the corruption of Russian leaders, in the
Prussian cause."

"You are positive as to this----?"

"This or something worse," she said.

"What could be worse?"

"Its theft by Khodkine himself or its appropriation--by
the State."

"Can this be possible?"

"Anything is possible in Germany."

Rowland pursed his lips in a tenuous whistle.

"I can well believe that.  You have heard that Khodkine
is a Prussian agent?"

"I know nothing of Khodkine.  Our paths have not
crossed except at Nemi.  But I am ready to suspect him
of anything.  There is much energy conserved in
twenty-five millions of francs," she finished cynically.

"Well, rather," he laughed.  "Twenty-five millions--five
million dollars!  Phew, but that's a lot of money!
Think of the eats and shows and things----"

"You'd get a lot of jimmy-pipes with that, *mon vieux*,"
she laughed and then lowered her tone suddenly.  "Where
are you going to put this money if you recover it?" she
questioned.

Rowland puffed his cigarette quite calmly but hid his
thoughts under the cloak of his perpetual smile.

"Would you like a new hat?" he asked.

"There are many things I would like, *mon* Philippe,"
she said coolly.  "A villa at Monte Carlo, an hotel in
Paris, a very tiny one, but--" she halted suddenly and
shrugged, "but I'm not apt to get those things with the
money of Nemi."  And then with a dramatic gesture,
"Is it not pledged to the Cause?"

He did not look at her for fear that he would betray
the confirmation of his suspicion.  But the impulse stirred
in him to follow this line of subjective inquiry still further.

"And yet I cannot forget that it was you, Zoya, who
at a doubtful moment swung the Council of Nemi in my
favor."

"I have not regretted it--nor shall I."

"I owe you much.  I am about to place myself in a
position where I shall owe you more.  With your help
in Munich I am doubly armed.  Something tells me that
we shall win.  But I must pay----"

"You shall pay me with your friendship, Philippe,"
she murmured.  "That is all I ask.  You will give it me,
will you not?"

She was clever.  He drew closer and looked into her
eyes which had in them something of the appealing quality
of a child's.  It was difficult for him to believe that her
expressions were not genuine, but he could not forget the
warnings of Tanya Korasov and smiled into her eyes with
a boyish frankness.

"Have I not already given it to you, Zoya?  Last
night--you didn't mind?  Your lips were very close....
They are very close now----"

Max Liederman narrowly missed a tree at the side of
the road.  Then he swore that terrible German oath which
translated means "thunder weather," slowed his pace,
stopped the car, then turned around in his seat.

"What do you talk about in English, you two?" he
roared, his face as black as the weather he apostrophized.
"Is it not enough to try and drive rapidly without these
distractions behind me?  You will come to the front seat,
Zoya," he growled, "or I shall drive no further."

"By all means," said Rowland cheerfully, getting up
and opening the door.  "If Madame will descend."

Zoya obeyed, but the pressure of her fingers and the
look she gave him advised him of her preferences.

"You act like a spoiled child, my great bear," she said
to the German, with a laugh.  "I was merely telling
Philippe of Georg Senf and the Committee."

"Philippe!" he growled.  "Already----"

She said something to him and as Rowland got in
behind them he drove off again.  But it was easy to see how
the wind sat in that quarter.

Rowland was obliged to admit that the woman distilled
a kind of subtle poison.  There was a time....  But
by the bloody beard of von Tirpitz--not now!  Her
beauty passed him by.  It was not for him, for he was
now measuring loveliness by other standards.  He would
play the game, must play it, wherever it led, even with
Zoya, but he found himself hoping that it would not lead
too far.  He had reason to doubt her sincerity and had
guessed the inspiration for this sudden affection upon
the part of Madame Rochal.  She had long lived upon
admiration and received it of Rowland as a right, but
more than this, she loved power, and more even than
power, the money that brought it.  Max Liederman was
a horrible example of the effectiveness of her art, for it
was plainly to be seen that he was infatuated and was
now even jealous of Rowland.  It wouldn't do to stir up
Liederman, or to blow cold with Zoya, for he needed them
both and meant to use them to the best of his bent, for
after all was not his captive Princess awaiting him
yonder, somewhere in the blue haze beyond the plain, and how
could he hope to succeed in finding her without the help
of Liederman?

They had made good time and by early afternoon had
passed Ulm on the way to Augsburg.  After dinner
Liederman's spirits rose and lighting a big black cigar, he
invited Rowland into the seat beside him, while Zoya Rochal
leaned over their shoulders and joined in the conversation.

"Herr Rowland, you have not yet explained entirely
to my satisfaction how you happened to be inside the
vault.  Khodkine surprised you there with Fräulein
Korasov, *nicht wahr*?"

Rowland told him the truth.

"I understand," said Liederman when he had finished.
"And what were you going to do with the money?"

"I don't know.  Fräulein Korasov had planned for that."

"Ah--and you trusted Fräulein Korasov?"

"Implicitly."

Liederman laughed and tapped Rowland playfully upon
the knee.

"Ach--a little tenderness in that quarter, *nicht wahr*?"

This was for Zoya's benefit, but the heaviness of his
humor made his intention rather pathetic.

"Fräulein Korasov was kind to me.  She fed me when I
was starved.  I could hardly show anything but
gratitude," said Rowland quietly.

"What assurance can you give me that her intentions
were honest?" asked Liederman.

The man was so dull.  But Rowland kept his patience
admirably.

"Merely this--that Fräulein Korasov sought to prevent
the very thing that has happened.  She distrusted
Monsieur Khodkine."

"Ach, so.  That is the one bond we all have in
common.  But Herr Khodkine is clever.  If he has high
authority for this game he is playing, we will be at our
wits' end to circumvent him."

Rowland thought a moment.

"You may be sure he will have that authority," he said
at last.

"You know----?"

Rowland paused again.  Where did the German in
Liederman end, where the Socialist begin?  Rowland took
the chance.

"He is an agent of the German Government," he said
shortly.

He was soon to find out where Herr Liederman stood.
The machine swerved violently as the German's heavy
hands suddenly grasped the wheel.

"A secret agent!" he muttered.  "Who told you?"

"Fräulein Korasov."

"And how did she learn this?"

"From Kirylo Ivanitch."

"The devil!  How did he find out?"

"I don't know.  But he knew."

A stream of smoke and sparks flew backwards from
Herr Liederman's cigar as he puffed violently.  He was
much disturbed.

"The Wilhelmstrasse!  It is worse than I supposed."

"It is well to know the worst," Zoya Rochal's clear
voice cut in coolly, "for then we can plan for it.  Georg
Senf must know at once."

"It will be a battle for our existence," said Liederman
grimly.  "They dare not interfere with our meetings,"
he roared.  "They dare not!"

"You feel very sure of yourself," put in Rowland.  "I
wish I were as confident."

Max Liederman clenched his great fist, held it for a
moment suspended in the air and then let it fall quietly
upon the wheel.  To Rowland, who had felt the might of
German autocracy, the action seemed typical--the
clenched fist of an aroused people which did not dare to
strike, a fist restrained in awe of a habit of thought!
But Liederman's words were brave enough.

"The German Socialists will permit themselves to be
intimidated just so far," he muttered between set teeth.
"And then they will show their might.  It may be that this
is the straw that will break the camel's back.  We shall
see.  They will not find us unprepared."

"Who is Graf von Stromberg?" asked Rowland,
suddenly recalling the name in Khodkine's *dossier*.

A stifled murmur came from Zoya Rochal.

"Br--!  You do not know?  The most terrible man
in the world.  He knows everything about everybody.  A
thinking machine which nothing escapes, which sees into
every cranny of Europe, with power no less than that of
the Emperor himself.  That man!"

Madame Rochal paused in the spell of some unpleasant
reminiscence.

"Why do you ask, Herr Rowland?" questioned Liederman
quickly.

"Because I have reason to believe that for some years
Khodkine has taken his orders from him."

"Do you think that he was acting under orders from
General von Stromberg when he took the treasure of
Nemi?"

Rowland shrugged.  "How should I know?  It is possible."

"You have learned a great deal in a very short time,"
growled the Socialist.  "I owe you an apology.  I thought
you were a fool, I'm glad to admit I was mistaken."

"I'm stupid enough at any rate to admit that I won't
know where to find Fräulein Korasov when we reach
Munich.  Without her we shall move in the dark.  Her
testimony before the Committee----"

"That is true.  We must find her.  But you must leave
that to me.  You shall see.  Ten thousand men if we need
them will search for her.  By tomorrow night at the
latest----"

Zoya Rochal behind them was laughing softly.  "It
is not at all improbable that you will find them in the
Imperial suite at the Bayrischer Hof."

Rowland felt the blood rising to the tips of his ears
but he kept his composure.

"Them, Madame Rochal?" he questioned soberly.

"Why not, *mon* Philippe?" she laughed.  "One can live
quite decently even in Munich with twenty-five millions of
francs."

But he played the game and laughed the remark aside.

"There is nothing in the animal world so unkind as one
beautiful woman to another."

Zoya Rochal shrugged, Liederman scowled, but Rowland
smoked quietly, his gaze on the distance.

Inquiries along the road, which was well traveled,
revealed no knowledge of Monsieur Khodkine or of his
stolen Mercedes--which Max Liederman had paid for--but
they drove steadily on, passing Augsburg and reaching
their destination late at night, where Herr Liederman
drove directly to the house of Georg Senf, which stood
in a region of small houses thickly settled.

An enormous bearded head stuck out of a window,
heard Liederman's earnest plea, and in a moment they
were admitted to the house, where the whole tale of their
adventure was told, when Zoya Rochal, protesting that
not for twenty-five hundred millions would she lose
another hour of sleep, was driven to the Russischer Hof
where Rowland and Max Liederman promised to meet her
upon the following day.





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.. _`A SCENT`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


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   A SCENT

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George Senf was leonine.  Aroused suddenly
from his bed, the disorder of his long white hair
and beard gave him a singularly wild and
ferocious aspect.  But he got out a long-stemmed pipe and
after lighting it, settled down with a steady eye to
listen to the story that Liederman and Rowland told him.
He heard them through to the end, putting in keen
questions or incisive remarks here and there which did much
to reassure Rowland that their case was in capable
hands.  This was a leader of men, a thinker and a man
of action, and his comprehension of all aspects of the
situation and the definite manner of his decisions, left
no room to doubt that he believed a crisis to be
impending between the forces he represented and the powers
of the government which stood behind Khodkine.  When
Liederman and Rowland had finished he sat for a long
while on his bed smoking, his brows frowning, staring at
the opposite wall.  At last he waved them away.

"Go," he said shortly.  "You will need your sleep.
My work begins now—at once.  Tomorrow we will have
a report from Fraulein Korasov.  We need her.  The
meeting of the Committee is tomorrow night.  Come here
when you have slept and we will plan further.  Good
night."

And so the two men returned to the Russischer Hof
and found the sleep of which they were both much in
need.  But it was with some mental reservations that
Rowland went to bed, for he had vowed that until Tanya
was found he would never rest in peace.  He had seen
something of the double nature of this Gregory
Hochwald, and the possible dangers to which she might be
subjected filled him constantly with vague alarms.  But
he realized that he must rest to be effective upon the
morrow.  If his conscience troubled him, he had no chance
to be aware of it, for he was sound asleep as soon as
his head touched the pillow.

Liederman was hammering upon the door of the
adjoining room which he occupied before Rowland awoke
and sat up in his bed, blinking at the light of broad day,
and after a hurried bath and breakfast they called upon
Zoya Rochal and hastened to the house of Georg Senf.

They found the Socialist leader in his bedroom, which
was blue with the tobacco smoke of a secret conference
of several men, three of them leaders, as Rowland
afterward discovered, in labor organizations allied to the
Socialist-Democratic and Socialist-Revolutionary parties.
As the new comers entered there was a silence except for
the words of greeting of Georg Senf and they all rose
and made place.  One of them wore a workman's blouse,
and the others were shabbily dressed but in all three
Rowland noted the same characteristics--the broad brows
of intelligence, the firm lips of resolution, the clear
penetrating gaze of men accustomed to think for themselves.

"This is Herr Rowland," said Georg Senf briefly, "the
new President of the Order of Nemi, who has come from
Switzerland on this sudden mission."

The men bowed and shook the hand of the American
gravely.

"You will not find Munich lacking in ardor, Herr
Rowland.  Our followers are many and we are strong,"
said one, named Conrad Weiss, who was chief telegrapher
of the Munich Post Office.

"You will need to be strong," said Rowland, "for there
is every sign that a test of your power is coming soon."

"We are ready for it, Herr Rowland," rumbled the
deep bass of Herr Hoffner, who wore the blouse, "and
the people of Bavaria are behind us.  They are sick--war
weary.  And the time has come."

"Have you arms--ammunition?" asked Rowland pointedly.

The question seemed to have probed deep below the
surface, for no one replied at once.  And then spoke
Herr Yaeger, a smallish man with long hair and the dark
eyes of a dreamer.

"Arms--ammunition.  Yes, perhaps--here and there.
But arms are *verboten*.  It is necessary that we move
with caution.  Nor do we wish to win with arms or
ammunition, Herr Rowland.  Stronger weapons,--poverty,
hunger, the rights of one man as against another.  They
will triumph in the end."

Rowland assumed an air of dignity he was far from
feeling, for deep in his heart he realized as these men
did not that strong as their organization was, or firm its
affiliations, the time would be long in coming for any
nation which so feared the *verboten* sign.  He was sorry
for them, but he dared not tell them so.  He had that
maddening inclination to laugh which came to him
sometimes upon the most sober occasions, but he bowed his
head deeply, saying nothing, which as every one
knows--is the part of wisdom.

In this he added to the respect with which they held
his office and when Georg Senf drew the meeting to a
close, offered him all the help that was in their power to
find the money that had been taken.

"That is well," finished Senf, "you will carry out your
instructions.  You, Herr Weiss, to the telegraph office
and summon all leaders for tonight by the harmless code
of initials.  The meeting is at ten.  So lose no time.
You, Herr Yaeger, to your factory.  You, Herr Hoffner,
will keep in readiness for a further call.  Herr Berghof
will please remain."

Now for the first time Rowland noted a figure in the
corner of the room, who rose as the others went out and
came forward at a sign from Herr Senf and was
presented to the new arrivals.

Georg Senf, relighting his long-stemmed pipe, paced
the floor before the fire place.

"I have been busy, my friends, while you have slept,"
he said.  "This matter of the money brooks no delay.
In ten minutes after you left this house last night I had
made my plans.  Our comrades live all about me here
and by daylight our different leaders had been notified.
By breakfast time thousands of members of our organizations
were combing the city in all directions.  Every
hotel, every pension--An hour ago we met with some
success----"

"You've found her----?" broke in Rowland eagerly.

"Only to lose her again."  As Rowland sprang up
Senf raised his hand.  "One moment.  It was through
no fault of our own--or of Herr Berghof's here, who
could not of course have known that Fräulein Korasov's
interests and mine were identical."

Herr Berghof, a thin, ferret-like person, smiled and
squinted as Rowland glared at him.

"You saw her, Herr Berghof----?"

But Georg Senf broke in again with maddening,
methodical Teuton insistence.

"All things in order, Herr Rowland," he said calmly.
"A little patience and you shall know all.  Herr Berghof
is a Social Democrat, but not a member of the Order of
Nemi.  He has been brought here by Herr Weiss a
while ago, somewhat against his will, but he has replied
to our questions, upon the condition that the matter is
kept secret!  Will you relate what happened last night,
Herr Berghof?"

The little man cleared his throat, squinted and nodded
politely.

"I am a stranger in Munich, a Swiss, from Basle, but
I have much interest in the Socialist cause.  Democracy
is very near my heart and if I can help----"

He glanced at Rowland, who had risen, his patience
nearly exhausted.

"You will please proceed directly to the matter in
hand," said Senf placidly.  "Fräulein Korasov came to
the Bayrischer Hof last night----?"

Zoya Rochal shot a triumphant glance at Rowland but
his gaze was fixed on Berghof.

"Yes, Herr Senf," the man replied, "I am connected
with the management of the hotel.  At about eleven, with
a gentleman who called himself Herr Hochwald----"

"Hochwald!" muttered Rowland in surprise.

"That was the name--the name also given by the gentleman
awaiting him in the south drawing room--who said
he was expecting his arrival."

"Ah, I see."

"Fräulein Korasov was taken at once to a room, number
two hundred and twenty-one, upon the second floor.
She carried a large suit-case.  I myself conducted Herr
Hochwald to the south drawing room where a visitor was
awaiting him.  They sat conversing at once in a low
tone of voice.  As I was not wanted I gave Herr
Hochwald the key to his room which was upon the third floor
of the hotel, at some distance from that occupied by
Fräulein Korasov."

"I see.  And then?"

"And then?  Nothing.  I went to sleep.  I was very
tired.  You must understand, Herr Senf, we are very
lacking in service at the hotel and upon the day before
I had been on duty----"

"Proceed, Herr Berghof," growled Liederman.  "At
what time did you see Herr Hochwald again?"

"Oh, yes.  It must, have been at least an hour or
more later.  Herr Hochwald, accompanied by Herr
Förster, the man who had met him in the south drawing
room, came running down the stairs and awoke me,
swearing in a manner such as I have thought was only
practiced by officers in the army, and demanding to be
let at once into room number two hundred and twenty-one.
The proceeding was most unusual, especially as
Herr Hochwald had been so particular in ordering that
Fräulein Korasov was not to be disturbed by anyone.
They had knocked upon her door, they said, but had
not been able to get a reply and feared that something
had happened to the lady.  So I procured my ring of
pass keys, and followed them up the stairs.  The matter
was delicate and one which might have involved me in
much difficulty with the proprietor of the hotel, but when
I hesitated Herr Hochwald raved and swore again,
knocking so that others nearby might easily have been
awakened, and then, thinking that perhaps something might
really have happened to the Fräulein, I found the proper
key and opened the door."

The clerk paused to get his breath and Liederman
swore softly.

"The Fräulein was sitting upon the edge of the bed,
fully dressed," he went on, "as though aroused from a
sleep of utter exhaustion.  But she gained her dignity
and self-possession almost at once and quite naturally,
demanded the meaning of the intrusion."

"'The suit-case,' cried Herr Hochwald.  'You have the
suit-case here?'"

"Fräulein Korasov looked a little bewildered.  'The
suitcase?  Yes, I have my suit-case here.  But what----?'"

"At that moment Herr Förster espied the bag of
Fraulein Korasov upon a table and running across the room
fell upon it eagerly, and opened it.  There was nothing
in it but a few pieces of linen.  And Hochwald let forth
another of his mad cries."

"'The money,' he said.  'What have you done with
the money?'"

"The Fräulein had now risen and stood, very pale and
angry."

"'I don't understand you,' she said quietly.  'The
money?  What should I know about the money?'"

"Herr Hochwald stood a moment, his face working,
trying to compose himself.  And then turning to the
officer who stood uncertainly, 'Search the room,' he
ordered, 'everywhere.  It must be here.'"

"Fräulein Korasov stood immovable.  'It is a pity,
Herr Hochwald,' she said coolly, 'that you have neither
honor nor decency.'"

"'What have you done with it?' he went on, trying
to keep his composure, 'tell me now, and all may yet be
well.'"

"'I know nothing,' she replied."

"Herr Hochwald stared at her a moment and then, as
though to himself.  'This is a grave matter.  We shall
take further steps.'  And seeing me standing beside the
door, he seemed suddenly to realize that I had seen and
heard all that had happened, for he frowned and ordered
me from the room."

"'Go,' he muttered, 'and order a cab--at once.  Fräulein
Korasov, you will descend with me.  Herr Förster,
you will stay, continue the search and question the
servants.  You have full authority.  It is understood?'"

"'At your orders, Herr Hochwald,' said the other."

"That was all I heard, for I went below and ordered
the cab, into which Herr Hochwald and the Fräulein
entered and were driven away."

The man paused and there was a moment of silence,
when a storm of questions assailed him.

"The directions to the driver," cried Liederman.

"Herr Förster found nothing?" asked Zoya Rochal.

"The servants were questioned?" demanded Senf.

"I did not hear the directions to the driver," said
Berghof, with a shifting glance at Rowland.  "The man
who conducted the Fräulein to her room could shed no
light upon the matter."

"But you.  Did Herr Förster not question you?" asked
Rowland keenly.

"Yes.  He questioned this morning, and I answered
him.  It is not healthy not to answer the questions of
one in such authority."

There was another silence, baffled it seemed on the part
of the questioners.  Herr Berghof took up his hat and
rose.  Rowland no longer smiled.  Liederman rocked to
and fro from one foot to the other by the mantel-shelf.
Zoya Rochal nervously lighted a cigarette.

"One moment, Herr Berghof," said Rowland, whose
mind had been tracing the interstices of the puzzle in
his own American way.  "You say that this Herr Förster
has questioned the servants of the hotel?"

Herr Berghof hesitated a moment.

"One or two only.  What was the use?  The Fräulein
had been there but an hour or more."

"But you seem to forget that in that hour much
happened," said Rowland.  "If that money was taken from
the valise of Herr Hochwald, it was taken before he
reached the hotel, not afterward.  If Fräulein Korasov
took it--ah----"  He paused a moment, then went on
quickly, "She had a valise, you say.  Empty?"

Herr Berghof hesitated again and shot a quick glance
over his shoulder toward the closed door behind him.
But Rowland had risen and now stood beside it.

"You say the suit-case was empty?" repeated Rowland
sternly.

Berghof swallowed uneasily.

"Except for one or two articles of apparel--yes."

"Then where did the other bag come from?" asked
Rowland suddenly.

Berghof's little eyes squinted rapidly and he moistened
his lips nervously.

"The other one?"

"The one in which the money was removed?"

"I--I don't understand."

"Follow me closely, Herr Berghof.  You have said that
Fräulein Korasov carried her suit-case to her room.  Were
there servants to perform that service?"

"Yes."

"Fräulein Korasov had the money in that suit-case.
Herr Hochwald knew that she had taken it, or he would
not have gone to her room at night with you and forced
the door.  She did take it.  But who helped her?"

"I'm sure I----"

"Are there bells in the bed-rooms?"

"Yes, but----"

"Where do they ring?"

"Er--in the office.  It is an English system----"

"Were there any calls between eleven and half-past
twelve?"

Rowland was shooting his questions at the bewildered
clerk like thunderbolts, and the man seemed to have grown
more and more anxious.

"Calls?  I dropped into a doze in my chair, as I have
said.  I cannot----"

"Think----!"

"Yes, a call or two--but I was half asleep----"

"A call--who answered it?"

Berghof rubbed his head with unsteady fingers but
replied with reluctance.

"Yes.  There was a call."

"Did you answer it?"

"No.  It is the duty of the valet or night porter."

"Did the night porter go?"

"I--I presume so."

"The night porter!  What is his name?"

Herr Berghof now seemed truly alarmed and for a
moment refused to reply.

"What is his name?" thundered Rowland.

"Drelich!" said Berghof sullenly.

"Is he on duty now?"

"No."

"Can you find him?"

"No."

"You shall try.  I will go with you.  He is the man
who has taken the money."

Liederman and Senf who had followed the rapid deductions
of the American with astonishment, rose eagerly
and Zoya Rochal laughed her admiration.

"You are right," said Senf.

"It is worth trying," muttered Liederman.

"There is no time to be lost," said Rowland quickly.
And then to Senf, "Have your men been sent to trace
the cab?"

"No, Herr Rowland--since the money was the most
important----"

Rowland reached down into his pocket, pulled forth
the talisman of Nemi and crashed it down upon the table.

"If there's any virtue in this--if Nemi is anything but
an empty word--if its leader is your master as well as
your slave, then do as I command," he said sternly.

Herr Senf gazed at the coin and then looked up at
the dominating figure before him.

"What more can I do----"

"Find me the man who drove that cab," said Rowland.
"And you, Herr Liederman--give me money.  I need it."

Max Liederman glanced at Zoya Rochal, then at Rowland,
and without a word obeyed.

"I will go with you, Herr Rowland," said Zoya Rochal
decisively.

But Rowland was already out of the door, his hand
on Herr Berghof's arm.

Georg Senf ran his fingers through his long hair and
looked at Liederman as Rowland went out.

"If we have longed for a leader, Herr Liederman, the
God of Democracy has sent us one.  Some of his fire
has got into my ancient bones.  I will follow and obey."

Liederman grunted and glanced at the door through
which Zoya Rochal had departed.

"He is keen," he muttered grudgingly.

"Moreover, his judgment is excellent.  Our case falls
without Fräulein Korasov.  We must find her.  I
myself will go to the cab stand in the Maximilian Strasse.
Call Herr Hoffner if you please and I will give him
instructions."

In the meanwhile Rowland and Zoya Rochal with Herr
Berghof found a cab.  The Swiss, at first sullen and
inclined to balk Rowland's plans, was speedily brought into
submission by the American's determined attitude and the
exhibition of an automatic, the mere sight of which made
him become more obliging and cheerful.  And they found
the lodgings of the porter Drelich at last, and Drelich
himself quite drunk upon his bed in his room.  But he
became more sober and quite alarmed when the purpose of
the visit was disclosed to him.  He was a man of sixty,
servile of manner but at first furtive and obstinate, giving
evasive replies.  But Zoya Rochal, who was resourceful,
informed him that she was an agent of the Government
and the man collapsed.

"Against my better judgment, I did it, Fräulein," he
stammered.  "Money is not made so easily nowadays."

"Fräulein Korasov gave you money?" asked Rowland
eagerly.

"Five hundred marks.  I give it to you.  Here it is,"
and with trembling hands he brought it forth from a
greasy note book in his pocket.

"Tell us what you did and you may keep this money,"
said Rowland quickly.

Drelich straightened hopefully and looked from one
to the other.

"I did this thing in ignorance.  How could I know
that the Fräulein was working against the interests of
the Fatherland?"

"Speak--what happened?" ordered Rowland.

"I was called to the office by Herr Berghof to reply
to a call upon the indicator.  He will tell you that.  I
noted the number and went to room Number two twenty-one.
The Fräulein within looked out at me and I could
see that she was very much disturbed.  Then she called
me within the room and shut the door behind me.  As the
lock caught I too was startled for I could not know what
was to happen.  She produced from the pocket of her
coat this note which she held up that I might look.  'I
want a suit-case or a bag of the size of this one,' said
she.  'Bring it here at once and obey my further
instructions and I will give you the money.'  I remembered
that there were some old suit-cases in the porter's
room--long unclaimed and it did not take me more than a few
minutes to unlock one of them with my keys, to empty
it and return to room Number two twenty-one.  I am
sure that I have done nothing which could put me under
suspicion of having done other than a service to a guest
of the hotel."

"Go on," urged Zoya, as the man paused.

"The Fräulein took the suit-case into the bath room
and in a moment brought it forth and handed it to me.
It was very heavy but that was none of my business."

"What did you do with it?"

"My instructions were to take it to the Haupt Bahnhof
and leave it in the check-room, returning with the check
which I was to give to her, provided I had an opportunity
to hand it to her unobserved.  So I told Herr Berghof
that I was taking a bag to the station and carried it
there."

"Ah!  You told Herr Berghof that and when you
returned you gave her the ticket?" asked Rowland
excitedly.

"There was no chance.  When I returned to the Hotel
and went up the servants' stairs to the second floor I
heard a loud commotion in the corridor and peering out
saw Herr Berghof and another gentleman standing
before the door of the Fräulein, knocking and shouting.
Then I knew that it was best for me to remain silent.
So I went to Herr Berghof reporting that I was sick and
went out of the hotel and--then I think that I drank
more than was good for me--for I have slept until just
now when you awakened me."

"Did anyone come to your room while you slept?"

"How should I know?  No one comes here."

"No one could have taken the ticket for the bag?"

The man looked bewildered.

"I don't know----"

"The ticket--the check for the bag," shouted Zoya,
mad with excitement.

"It is here----" he said.  And fingering stupidly in
his waistcoat pocket Drelich produced an oblong slip of
card board.

"The Haupt Bahnhof," cried Rowland.  "Come----"

And dragging the unfortunate Drelich by the arm
before he had a chance even to take up his cap, Rowland
turned toward where Herr Berghof had stood beside the
door.

The man had disappeared.

A blank look came into Rowland's face, followed by a
sudden frown, as he cursed himself for his stupidity in
not keeping better watch.  But there was no time to
spare and pushing Drelich before him into the waiting
cab in a moment he and Zoya Rochal were driving post
haste to the Railway station.

"Was the bag locked?" asked Zoya eagerly.

"I don't know."

"We shall find it," muttered Rowland between set teeth.

"Monsieur Rowland!" said Zoya, smiling at him joyously,
"you are quite the most wonderful man in all
the world.  Accept my congratulations."

"Wait----" said Rowland shortly.

As they drove up to the station Rowland leaped out
and still holding Drelich by the arm hurried toward the
parcel room, Zoya Rochal breathlessly following.

At the window, his heart leaping with suspense,
Rowland presented the ticket to the baggage agent, who
with maddening deliberation moved slowly along an aisle,
whistling and peering to right and left.  Zoya, her hand
trembling on Rowland's arm, watched the leisurely
movements of the official, like Rowland a prey to maddening
incertitude.  They saw the man go down the aisle looking
at bag after bag, finally picking out a bright yellow
suit case, bringing it forth and laying it upon the counter.

Rowland glanced at Drelich who was staring at the
new bag stupidly.  But compelled by Rowland's gaze he
frowned and whispered,

"It is not the bag----"

"It's not the bag!" repeated Rowland.  "There's some
mistake here."

The official scratched his head and frowned.

"That is strange.  It is impossible that our checking
system should err."

"But it *has* erred," roared Rowland.  "It was this man
himself who brought the bag here--this office which gave
him the ticket.  Is it not so?" to Drelich.

"That is true.  A black bag, old, plastered with labels----"

"We never make mistakes," broke in the official with
rising anger.  "Our records show that this is your bag.
You must take it."

Rowland could have laughed in the man's face, but
instead he raised his voice again, while the fingers of
Zoya Rochal closed upon his arm and he realized that a
crowd was gathering.

"Will you not let this man look and see if he can
discover my property?" he asked more quietly.

"*Verboten*," said the official shortly, and turning on his
heel, walked back to the records of the system which could
not err.

There seemed to be nothing to do but take the yellow
suit-case to the cab and depart.  Somewhat bewildered by
this ill turn of fortune, which could not be explained
Rowland took up the bag dejectedly and was about to lead the
way to the door when he felt Zoya Rochal's fingers fiercely
clutch his elbow.  She stopped, her face blanching, her
eyes staring wildly at a tall figure in a military uniform
who stood before her.

The man was very erect and quite old, his face graven
with innumerable fine wrinkles which just now had broken
into a cynical smile.

"My compliments, Madame," said a thin crisp voice.
"It is a great pleasure to meet you here, so unexpectedly."

Zoya Rochal had recovered herself instantly and forced
a laugh.

"You--Herr General!  It is--a great pleasure----"

"You grow more beautiful, Madame--with every year.
A little pale--perhaps--but it becomes you, like the
blossoms upon a meadow in June.  You are quite well?"

"Ah, quite, Herr General----"

"It seemed to me that perhaps you were a little nervous."

"It is so long since I have seen you.  I thought
perhaps that you might be angry at my failure last
year----"

"Angry?  I?  One cannot expect to succeed always."  And
then, with a malicious grin, "You are not engaged in
any propaganda dangerous to the Fatherland?"

"Ah.  You--you are unkind.  Have I not----?"

"Women are the only uncertain quantity in the world
equation," he said slowly, his eyes peering down at her.
Then turning to Rowland, he asked quickly, "Your
companion is harmless?"

Rowland, who had stood uneasily, bag in hand, now
found refuge in a smile.

"Harmless--yes," stammered Zoya.  "Herr Leo
Knaus--Herr General Graf----"

"No names, Madame," broke in the tall officer with a
smile.  "Good-bye--and remember that Argus had a
hundred eyes----"

And with one keen look which seemed to sweep them
both comprehendingly, from top to toe, the Herr
General clicked his heels and departed.  Zoya Rochal
remained as though frozen to the floor, looking after him.
Rowland caught her by the arm and moved slowly toward
the door.

"Sardonic old pelican!" he said with a grin.  "Would
you mind telling me who in the devil----?"

"The devil himself," she broke in, with a stifled voice.
"Graf von Stromberg!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CLUE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium

   THE CLUE

.. vspace:: 2

The shock of Madame Rochal's announcement took
Rowland's breath away.  If they had needed any
explanation of the disappearance of the black
bag, here surely was one which would have satisfied the
most exacting.  Von Stromberg--head of the Prussian
secret service--the most hated, the most feared man in all
Europe!

The jig was up.  Rowland shrugged, making up his
mind to bluff it out to the end, and so with his hand on
Zoya's nerveless arm, walked with an appearance of great
carelessness toward the door of the station, beyond which
their cab was awaiting them.  An official stood near the
door and a soldier nearby but when Rowland reached
the man, he merely preened at his mustache and smiled
at Zoya.  They reached the door.  Still no arrest.  The
thing was interesting.  What was the game?  In the
doorway Rowland stopped, put down the bag and in spite
of the whispers of Zoya Rochal deliberately faced the
door while he lighted a cigarette.  The official had turned
his back.  The soldier had walked away.

He was frankly puzzled.  It hadn't needed a great deal
of imagination on Rowland's part to convince him that
if Herr General von Stromberg had been instrumental in
the theft of the bag, there was very little time left to
Rowland in which to say his prayers.  By all the rules
of the game, he should already have been arrested, inside
of twenty minutes he should be in a prison and tomorrow
morning he should be shot.  But here he was free, carrying
the odious yellow suit-case and getting into a cab,
under the very eyes of the very person who had most to
lose by his liberty.  Had Efficiency slipped a cog?  Or
was there a motive behind this astonishing leniency?
Or--still more surprising--was von Stromberg as innocent
as he and Zoya as to the whereabouts of the bag of the
Bayrischer Hof?  Indeed he was almost ready to believe so.

He turned again at the door of the cab and slowly
gave directions to drive to the house of Georg Senf and
then, while the pallid Zoya beseeched him frantically to
hurry, he got into the cab and sank beside her.

If von Stromberg was the man who had found the
money why, with all the authority he possessed, had he
not arrested Drelich, Berghof, Liederman, Zoya Rochal
and Rowland, put them in prison and discussed the
matter afterwards?  What was the meaning of this
extraordinary consideration?  Was it due to the nature of the
business in hand,--a desire to keep secret the dark
business of the theft of the funds of Nemi which would
antagonize the small army of Socialists in Munich who
were growing in power in the message they were sending
across the breadth of the nation?  Or was von
Stromberg waiting until all the cards should be in his own
hand, when he would play them to win?

Indeed, if the millions of bank-notes were already in
his possession, it seemed that von Stromberg had already
won and could afford to laugh at Herr Senf and all his
followers.  And yet if this man of mystery and power
already knew so much why had not Rowland already been
imprisoned as an alien enemy and a spy?

To this mental question there were two answers--the
first the obvious one that Gregory Hochwald had
not believed that Rowland, the escaped prisoner from
a German camp, would dare to risk his life again following
the fortunes of Nemi into the heart of the enemy's
country, and that von Stromberg had accepted this opinion;
the second, that General von Stromberg had just
descended from his train from Berlin and knew nothing
about him.  The first answer was plausible but it didn't
satisfy.  The second satisfied but it wasn't plausible.
For the old demon had surely acted the omniscient with
his keen eyes and sardonic smile, frightening poor Zoya
half to death.  And yet it was just possible--.  D---- the
fellow!  He couldn't know everything.  Rowland was
plucking up his spirits admirably.  At least he hadn't
been arrested yet.

Poor Zoya seemed for the moment bereft of all spirit
and initiative and leaned back in the cab, frowning out
of the window, her arms folded, a very thunder-cloud of
vexation.

"We have lost," she said at last, in despair.

"It seems so," said Rowland with a smile, lighting
another cigarette.  "And yet there remain several
matters which I do not understand."

"That man!  There will be much more that you do
not understand if you have to deal with him.  He is
uncanny--in league with the devil himself."

"Perhaps.  I can well believe it."

As the thought came to him, Rowland glanced suddenly
over his shoulder out of the rear window.

"Ah, I thought so.  It's not von Stromberg, Zoya.  It's
Hochwald!  We are being followed.  Two men on
bicycles."

She was too well trained to look around but seemed
no happier because of the discovery.

"There's no use losing one's nerve," said Rowland
cheerfully.  "In fact, I'm growing happier every minute."

Madame Rochal's amazement was painted in her face.

He shrugged.  "Because if General von Stromberg had
succeeded in getting the money, he would have arrested us
both in the Haupt Bahnhof."

"You mean that----"

"That someone else has taken it.  Precisely."

"Hochwald?"

"Perhaps.  I don't know.  But, as we say in my
country, 'I'm from Missouri, you've got to show me.'  And
if Herr Senf is the man I think he is, I'm going to proceed
on that theory."

The workings of Philip Rowland's brain, it seemed,
had been a mystery to her from the first, when she had
thought him such easy fish for her net and she looked
at him now with a new interest as though some more
brilliant facet of his personality had suddenly been
revealed to her.  She threw her hands impulsively over his
own and drew closer to him.

"You, at least, *mon brave*--are a man!" she said.

"Listen, Zoya," he put in quickly.  "This is no time
for fooling.  It's going to be a squad and a stone wall
for me, if things don't break right.  You've got to do
what I tell you.  I've got a lot to do between now and
night and I can work better alone.  I'm going to give
those blighters back there the slip.  You're to go on to
the Russischer Hof, take the yellow bag, and wait.
Understand?"

She nodded, pressed his hand, sighed and sank back
in her seat.

He leaned forward, gave some orders to the driver
and then as they turned a corner where the traffic was
thick, he opened the door quickly, jumped out and lost
himself in the throng upon the sidewalk.  As the cab
went up the street he had the satisfaction of seeing the
men upon bicycles pass him by in their vain quest and
with a smile turned the nearby corner and hurried in
the direction of the house of Georg Senf, which was upon
the other side of the river.

"D---- the woman!" Rowland was muttering.  "I've
got other business."

What mattered the millions of Nemi if he couldn't find
Tanya?  He shut his lips and increased his stride,
tortured by the maddening uncertainty as to her
whereabouts.  A serious matter, Hochwald had called it.  It
would prove a serious matter for him, if they ever met
on anything like equal terms.  And yet if it was von
Stromberg who was opposed to him, what was the chance
of his finding Tanya in this city of more than half a
million people?  But if Nemi meant anything, there was
a power here that might be more than a match for this
subtle Prussian General.  What was he here for unless
to seize the millions of Nemi?  But he hadn't seized them
yet.  Rowland's immunity from arrest was the pledge of
it.  Then who had them--who had taken the black bag?
Was Hochwald playing some deep game of his own in
defiance of the dangerous Prussian?  And if he had taken
the black bag why had he ordered these men to follow
his cab instead of arresting him at once?  Rowland had
now reached the point of believing that Hochwald didn't
know where the black bag was.  This new hope was based
on other premises than his inherent optimism.  There
were several missing links in the stories of Drelich and
Herr Berghof.  Each by itself was clear, but taken
together, there was food for thought.  He hadn't liked Herr
Berghof.  The fellow had a shifting eye.  He had come to
testify because not to do so would have made him an
object of suspicion.  Rowland had watched him closely
and had noted the growing hesitancy in his manner as
the American had probed deeper into the problem.  Why
had he suddenly fled?  Did he know that there would be
no money in the bag to be redeemed at the Haupt
Bahnhof?  In this case he was an agent of Gregory
Hochwald or Baron von Stromberg.  Or had he fled because
he thought that there would be no bag to redeem?  And
why, if an agent of Hochwald, should he show such
inquietude?  And why, on the other hand, disappear
suddenly on the eve of a recovery which would redound
much to his credit with a probability of substantial
reward?  Berghof hadn't rung true somehow.

As he strode rapidly over the bridge, dismissing the
elusive bag and thinking of Tanya, he made a resolve
to put the authority of Nemi to the test.  He had taken
this greatness because it had been thrust upon him, in a
spirit half of amusement, half of adventure, because
Tanya had demanded it of him.  But the joke seemed
to be on him now.  These Bavarians were serious, sober
and deeply in earnest and if the *verboten* signs didn't
frighten them before they started something, there was
a promise of big doings in Munich before many hours
passed.  He was It, the grand mogul, and great things
were expected of him.  He would try not to disappoint
them.  If he didn't find Tanya and the money it wouldn't
be long before the prettiest little revolution this
prince-ridden country had ever seen would be brewing right here,
where brewing was the leading industry.  He would brew
them one and if it ever got properly started, it would
reach to Potsdam.

At the house of the Socialist leader, Rowland gained
a new sense of his power.  For during his absence the
heads of many of the different labor organizations of
Munich had called to offer him their fealty and
encouragement.  And to focus his attention quite definitely
upon the meeting tonight, Senf showed him a message
that had been received from Herr Hochwald a moment
before his arrival, announcing that gentleman's
intention to be present with the Central Committee at which
he expected to bring up matters of grave importance.

"They're going to test our strength," said Senf quite
calmly, "and we're going to let them.  It will be a fight
for our existence."

"If they'll only forget the *verboten* signs," said
Rowland absently--for he was thinking of Tanya.

"I beg pardon," asked Senf politely.

"I was thinking of another matter.  How shall you
succeed against Hochwald while he holds your most
important witness?  They will believe that Fräulein
Korasov has taken this money unless she is there to accuse
her jailer.  I must find her, Herr Senf.  And you must
help me--before tonight."

"Ah," said Senf with a sudden access of interest, and
told Rowland of a report that had come to him a short
while before.  The cabman who had driven the Fräulein
and Herr Hochwald away from the Bayrischer Hof had
with some difficulty been found.  He had driven them to
the garage of the Bureau of State Railroads and the
pair had departed in an automobile.  The official at the
garage, evidently acting under instructions, refused to
talk, but Senf's agent had been lucky, for a mechanician
in the garage was a political follower of Max Liederman's
and a member of the Order of Nemi, and had heard quite
accidentally that the automobile had gone to a villa upon
the banks of the Lake of Starnberg.

Rowland's eyes kindled.  It was high time that
fortune aided him.  Starnberg he found was less than twenty
miles away and could be reached by railroad in
three-quarters of an hour.  He sent for and questioned the
man who had brought the information, but could elicit
nothing more, for the mechanician had told all that he
knew and there was no way of finding the precise location
of the villa without arousing the suspicion of the official
and this might be fatal to any plans to effect a search.

When the man had gone, Rowland looked at the clock
on the mantel.  It was four o'clock.

"Herr Senf," he said with a smile, "you have done
wonders.  I could not have asked more of you.  I must
move now in search of the Fräulein and move quickly.
I'm going to Starnberg at once."

"You!  But, Herr Rowland--the committee!  We
meet tonight.  I had counted upon you to speak to
them----"

"I shall try to come back in time--I shall try," he
muttered, with a wave of his hand.  "But you see how
it is--without her----"

"We must do what we can."

"Are there members of the Order of Nemi at
Starnberg?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, a few.  Herr Benz----"

"You must send a wire to him at once to expect
me.  I leave on the first train."

"Three-quarters of an hour.  I will do as you say.
But you will return?"

"Yes----"

Senf wrote a message and gave it to a man who was
waiting outside the door.

"To Herr Weiss--in the code.  A handkerchief--a
red handkerchief in his left hand--you understand?"

The matter of a disguise was imperative and in a few
moments in the blouse and cap of a workman Rowland
stood in the door shaking the old man by the hand.

"One thing more, Herr Senf.  Herr Berghof must be
found at once, and hidden until my return."

"Herr Berghof!  He should come willingly enough."

Rowland smiled.

"I'm afraid not.  He has taken fright."

"But why?"

"I don't know.  If he is honest you should find him
at the Bayrischer Hof.  If he is merely frightened the
matter may be more difficult.  But if he knows more than
he has told us he is already on his way to the Swiss
border----"

"You suspect him----"

"I suspect everyone.  He says that he was asleep.
But Drelich avers that he told Berghof he had carried a
suit-case to the Haupt Bahnhof.  Berghof knew that and
he knew also what the suit-case contained--money--much
money."

"True," cried Senf excitedly.  "But how could he
have redeemed the bag without the ticket in Drelich's
pocket?"

"He couldn't.  But he could have gone to the lodgings
of Drelich and taken it.  The porter was drunk."

"And the ticket Drelich gave you?"

Rowland grinned.  "Would there not be other baggage
checks in the office of the Bayrischer Hof?  The
owner of the bag may be hunting it now.  Find the
owner of that bag, Herr Senf, and we will know who
made the substitution."

"Donnerwetter!" cried Senf.  "It is quite possible.  But
if we have learned this much what is to have prevented
Herr Hochwald from learning it also?"

"Nothing, unless----"

"Unless what, Herr Rowland?"

"Unless Herr Berghof has managed to elude him."

Senf scowled at the opposite wall.  "We shall see about
this.  Go, Herr Rowland, you may leave this matter
quite safely in my hands.  I will bring Herr Berghof
here and crush the truth from him with my bare hands."

Rowland laughed at the old man's enthusiasm.  "Yes.
But if you don't find him in Munich a wire to Shestov
or Barthou might not be inadvisable."

"You think----?"

"I think nothing," said Rowland.  "I'm tired of thinking.
But I'm the best little guesser in Munich.  And
now I must be off."

Sending Liederman to Zoya Rochal and the Russischer
Hof to search the yellow bag and if possible find
its owner, Rowland went at once to the Haupt Bahnhof
and took a train for Starnberg.  He had no definite plan.
But what he had already seen of George Senf's influence
and following gave him new courage.  If Tanya were
still at the villa to which she had been taken, he would
find some way to reach her.

In the train many plans came into his mind.  He now
knew that the man he was to meet here and if necessary
others who did his bidding would be absolutely at his
orders, and the sense of the power that he possessed made
him bold.  It might be difficult to find the villa to which
Tanya had been taken, for Starnberg was a town of
several thousand inhabitants.  But the villas, he had
been told, were strung along the wooded slopes of the
lake, each in its spacious grounds, and Gustav Benz
would know the names and occupants of all the regular
summer residents.  It would perhaps not be difficult, once
he found where Tanya was, to approach the place with
five or six men and accomplish by force what might be
difficult alone.  But there was a strong argument against
a fight, which might bring in the police and end in
publicity if not disaster.  The subtler plan appealed to him
more.  Hochwald could hardly suspect the good fortune
that had enabled Rowland to discover the whereabouts
of the prisoner, and if not aroused before Rowland's
plans matured, would probably permit some carelessness
of Tanya's jailers which would open the door to her
escape.  Rowland meant to move slowly until he was sure
of his opportunity, then acting quickly with such means
as presented.

It was half-past five o'clock when he descended from
the train, with an old bag of Senf's in his right hand, in
the guise of a Munich workman off for a few days' holiday.
In his left hand he carried a cheap red handkerchief, with
which as he reached the platform he wiped his brow.  He
waited in a moment of apparent indecision when a man
at the door of the station stepped forward.  He had a
handkerchief in his left hand.  Rowland stopped before
him and the man extended his hand.

"You come from Herr Senf?" he asked.

"From Senf, yes.  You are Herr Benz?"

"Yes," replied the other.  "Come."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TURKISH CIGARETTE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium

   THE TURKISH CIGARETTE

.. vspace:: 2

He was a prosperous looking man, a small
house-owner, perhaps, or tradesman, but he had a
broad brow and a look of alertness which were an
earnest of his intelligence.  Rowland walked by his side
conversing easily of casual things until they reached a
street upon the edge of the town, built up with rows of
smaller houses, all much alike, each in its well kept yard.
Into one of these houses Benz led the way and in a
moment they were safe from curious eyes.  Rowland was
quite certain that he had not been observed either upon
the train or in the town and it was therefore with a
feeling of confidence as to his own present security that
he informed Herr Benz of the nature of his errand and
the necessity for immediate aid from those friends who
had the interests of the Order of Nemi at heart.  Herr
Benz made no pretense of concealing his antipathy for
the Prussian government, and proclaimed his full
allegiance to the Socialist cause.  The deference which he paid
Rowland and exacted of his son, a boy of sixteen, the
supper served by the neat Frau, and the willingness Herr
Benz expressed to aid in any possible way, showed
Rowland how deep and strong was the undercurrent of
antagonism and unrest in the hearts of the placid easy
going Bavarians.

Benz knew Starnberg, he said, as he knew the palm
of his hand.  He had been born and bred here and for
twenty years had conducted the small bakery which was
now his own.  He knew every villa as far as Possenhofen
where Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, as Herr Rowland
must be aware, the daughter of Duke Max, was born.
Every villa....  He must think.  All these people were
good customers of his, and had been for years.  His son
every morning early delivered the bread, a distance of
two miles or more to the furthest house.  Did Herr
Rowland believe the villa he sought could be as far away
as that?  Rowland shrugged helplessly.

"I know nothing more than I have told you," he said.
"A villa upon Starnberg See--near Starnberg--that is
all I know."

Benz nodded, but his brow was puzzled.

"Near?  How near?  A mile?  Fortunately, all the
villas that need be considered are on the east bank of
the lake.  That reduces our labors.  I will try to
remember them one by one."

That task seemed to be hopeless, even with the aid
of the boy, who was called in to testify.  The day was
now fading and so Rowland suggested that they go out
and walk the length of the road and attempt by a
process of elimination to isolate those houses which might
for any cause be classed as possibly open to suspicion.
The suggestion was acceptable to Herr Benz.  And so
he left word with his son that if any message came from
Herr Senf over the telegraph, arrangements for which
had already been made, Benz the younger was to bring
the message along the road on his bicycle, and keep
passing to and fro until he found them.  They then set forth,
smoking their cigars, very vile ones, which Herr Benz
had provided, and presently were walking down the well
ordered driveway along the shimmering lake.  One by
one Herr Benz named the owners of the cottages,
puzzling here and there over a doubtful case, Rowland with
an appearance of great unconcern, eagerly searching the
grounds with his glance, the lighted windows for a glimpse
of a feminine figure which might be Tanya's.

The night was warm and upon the terraces overlooking
the water many of the occupants of the houses were
sitting enjoying the night air.  He heard the low
murmur of their voices, a light laugh here and there, the
sound of a piano and young people singing, but nothing
that could give any immediate clue as to the location
of the villa he sought.  And yet Tanya Korasov was
here somewhere near him waiting for the aid that had not
come.

At the end of the driveway which now became a mere
country road Herr Benz paused, for the distance between
the houses had grown greater and except for a few small
cottages in the dusk beyond, the region of larger places
had come to an end.  The total results of Herr Benz's
process of elimination to this point were five houses as
follows:--

Two small villas, the names of whose occupants were
unknown; a large unoccupied house belonging to an
Italian, Count Monteori, who because of the war had been
absent for three years; the magnificent place of Baron
von Speck, occupied only by the servants, its owner being
on the staff of Prince Leopold in France; the château
of Frau Baltazzi, an aged Grecian woman of wealth who
lived alone with a female companion.

It was with some difficulty that the impatient
Rowland constrained himself to sit with Herr Benz upon a
rock overlooking the placid lake and calmly discuss the
matter.

"You are sure," he asked, "that you are quite familiar
with the antecedents of the occupants of all the other
houses?"

"Quite, Herr Rowland.  In the case of additional
persons coming into these houses, the orders for bread would
undoubtedly be increased.  My son is a clever boy.  He
would hear of any new comers through the kitchen doors.
With these larger houses the case is different, Frau
Baltazzi is a woman of mystery.  She has no friends in
Starnberg.  But she is very old and an invalid.  It is
possible that Herr Hochwald may have the authority to
compel her--but I doubt it, Herr Rowland."

Indeed, after a process of question and reply which
seemed to be sufficiently conclusive, only the residences
of Count Monteori and Baron von Speck remained as
probabilities.  Having reached this conclusion, it was
decided for the present to concentrate all attention upon
these two places.  And so, turning north, they walked
slowly back toward the town, while Benz told what he
further knew of the two residences under suspicion.  The
place of Baron von Speck was just before them on their
right, a pretentious stone mansion, in the midst of a
grove of trees, beyond a spacious lawn, at some distance
from the road.

Rowland, who felt sure, because of the Baron's rank
and affiliations that the use of this house by a representative
of the Prussian secret service would be justified,
was for entering the grounds at once and making a
thorough investigation of the premises.  Time was precious
and it was worth taking a chance.  But Herr Benz
hesitated.  Here again Rowland discovered that awe of the
military authority which he had noticed in Max Liederman,
a habit of thought bred in the bone since childhood,
which for a moment of inaction seemed to have created
a sudden atrophy in this man's interest and enthusiasm.
But the moment passed for Herr Benz did not lack courage.

"Wait here," he said at last.  "I will go and inquire."

So Rowland concealed himself in a clump of shrubbery
within the grounds while he watched the figure of Benz
go around the turn in the road toward the house until
he was lost in the shadows.  He had promised not to
move, but every impulse urged him to follow and pursue
the investigation in his own way, for he felt sure that the
end of the chase was near.  But he realized that Herr
Benz had reasons for his method of approach and
decided at least for the present to await in patience the
result of his investigation.  After awhile he heard the
footsteps of the man crunching the gravel of the
driveway and in a moment had joined him.

Benz was shaking his head.

"I went to the kitchen and saw the housekeeper,
telling her of the new order as to the slight increase this
summer of the ration of war bread.  She had not known
of it and was thankful for the information, but informed
me that her own orders from the Baron were strict and
that her household had been reduced to three persons,
so that what she was allowed would be sufficient.
Further conversation followed and she took me to see the
view of the lake from the terrace.  There is no one there,
Herr Rowland, but the three servants.  I would take my
oath to it."

Rowland's hopes fell.  And yet he realized that after
all the decision of Herr Benz had been a wise one.

"Did you make any inquiries in regard to the villa
of Count Monteori?" he asked.

"Yes, and they know nothing."

And so the two men went northward again more rapidly.

The Monteori villa, like that of Baron von Speck, lay
within spacious grounds well wooded, the house itself,
built of stone and stucco, like many of those famous
residences on the lakes of Italy, just upon the edge of
the lake, the waters of which lapped the base of the
stone wall which protected its terrace and garden.  As
Benz had said, it had long been unoccupied except for
two servants and if the Prussian government had seen fit
to use it, for purposes of its own, the fact could, he
thought, be quite easily discovered.  But the method of
approach which had been so successful in the case of the
house of Baron von Speck might be hazardous here, since
Herr Benz was not upon terms with the caretaker,
Taglitz, a north German, an old man of a violent temper who
suffered much from asthma.  Last year Benz had
quarreled with him about the payment of a bill.  And so it
was decided that he and Rowland should separate before
they reached the place, moving with caution under the
protection of whatever cover availed, in a quiet
investigation of the lighted windows and garden.  Rowland
chose the side toward the lake and leaving the road where
the shadows of the trees afforded protection, moved down
through the underbrush cautiously, peering forward,
waiting and listening and then making a long detour
to avoid a stretch of lawn until he reached a small
ravine, down which a stream trickled to the lake below.
Progress was slow because of the necessity for caution,
but at last he emerged near the edge of the lake and
hidden behind a huge rock gazed upward toward the
windows of the house, less than two hundred feet away.

He saw that a wall of stone separated the terrace from
the lawns.  There was a gate in the wall probably locked
so that it seemed as though the best mode of approach
would be from the lake itself to the stairs which led up
to the terrace.

There was a light in one window of the house, upon
the second floor under the tiled roof, another, a dim one,
in the room which let out upon the terrace, and he thought
that he could distinguish the low murmur of voices above
the lapping of the waters of the lake beside him.  But
he was not sure.  There was no way of getting nearer
the house from this side without a danger of being
observed, for the moon had risen and there was no cover
on the lawn before him.  And so he lay quiet for a while,
keeping watch on the windows.  While he looked he
fancied he heard voices again from the window upstairs
and then shortly afterward a new light appeared in the
wing of the house, a candle or lamp which threw a large
shadow upon the wall.  For twenty minutes he watched
it and then he heard the sound of a door closing and
at the same moment the light went out.  Whoever had
gone to that room had left it, taking the light with him.

He fancied now that he heard the sound of a masculine
voice and then a figure appeared upon the terrace,
threw a cigarette over the wall into the lake and then
went indoors, but a cloud had come over the face of the
moon and it was not possible to distinguish the identity
or appearance of the smoker.  But presently upon the
light breeze was wafted the odor of a Turkish cigarette.
After a while the light on the lower floor went out and
so Rowland slowly retraced his steps up the ravine to
the road, determined to choose another point of observation.
He lighted his pipe and passing the gates to the
park went on to the farthest boundary, the appointed spot
at which he and Herr Benz had decided to meet and
compare notes.

Herr Benz had heard nothing, seen nothing suspicious;
but when Rowland informed him as to the man with the
Turkish cigarette Benz listened attentively.

"You are quite sure that it was a Turkish cigarette?"
he asked.

"Quite positive."

"That is curious."

"Why?"

"Because in Munich one smokes a pipe or a cigar.
The cigarettes one may buy are too expensive for such
a man as Taglitz, this caretaker, to smoke."

This seemed a slender straw to clutch at but as
Rowland thought of it the smell of the Turkish cigarette
seemed to grow in significance.  Taglitz, an old man who
suffered from asthma, would hardly choose a Turkish
cigarette, even if he dared smoke at all.  And the only
other occupant of the house was his daughter, who cooked
his meals and looked after him.  Either Fräulein Taglitz
had formed a very bad habit or Herr Taglitz had visitors.
And so they walked a short way down the road toward
the town while they planned.  Herr Benz wanted to go to
town and bring two of his followers, one of whom could
watch the driveway, the other to hide near the house
while Rowland found a means of entrance, by the terrace,
from a boat on the lake.  To this Rowland agreed,
insisting however that he should remain watching the
house in the meanwhile.  They had just bidden each other
farewell and Rowland had turned back toward the
suspected villa when he heard the sound of voices behind
him and stopped to listen, returning quickly to the group.

Herr Benz introduced him quickly to a man young
Benz had brought with him.

"This is the Government telegraph officer at Starnberg
station--but a friend, Herr Rowland.  He brings
you a message from Georg Senf."

"A message----!"

"I know nothing of this matter," said the man in
uniform.  "The message was in cipher.  It is this: 'Herr
Berghof was murdered this afternoon.  No clues.  No
trace of bag.'"

Berghof murdered!  Rowland questioned the man eagerly.

"At what time did this message arrive?"

"Less than half an hour ago."

"It came by private code?"

"Yes, from Herr Weiss."

"I see.  I owe you many thanks."

"I would do more if I could.  But I must return at
once."

"Go then.  You will be on duty later?"

"Until morning, Herr Rowland."

"Good.  I may have a message to send."

The man bowed and departed with the younger Benz,
while Rowland watched them in silence until their figures
were merged into the night.

Berghof murdered!  By whom?  And why?  The answers
to these questions were obvious if he chose to follow
the train of thought that was uppermost in his mind.
Had Hochwald killed him?  Or Förster? or another
agent of von Stromberg?  The motive one of two things,
to secure the black bag filled with the bank notes which
Berghof had taken, or to silence a tongue which had
already spoken too much.  Or perhaps both.  Whatever
the facts, the death of the man with the squint was
eloquent of the fact that Rowland had not been far
wrong in his deductions.  Herr Berghof had paid the
penalty--either of cupidity or disloyalty to those who
employed him.  In any event it was clear that if the
black bag had ever been in his possession it had now
passed to a confederate--or to Gregory Hochwald!  And
therefore if----

A warning sound from Herr Benz brought his speculations
to a close for from within the grounds they had
just left came the sound of an approaching motor car.

"It must have been hidden in the porte-cochère," Benz
was muttering.  "I did not see it."

As the machine approached, they walked toward it and
it passed them at a rapid rate going in the direction of
the village.  Just one glimpse they had of the occupants,
a chauffeur and a man wearing a cap, sitting in the
shadow of the curtains in the tonneau and smoking a
cigarette.  Who was he?  It was impossible to tell.  But
to Rowland's keen eyes the figure seemed strangely like
that of Herr Hochwald.

Imagination?  Perhaps.  Rowland's interest in the
villa Monteori was now such that he was ready to think
anything that would confirm his growing belief that here
was the prison of Tanya Korasov.  Herr Benz too shared
his excitement.  Herr Hochwald hurrying to the
Committee meeting he had called!  The thing hung together.
There were few enough motor cars in the Empire, and
all those not in use by officials of Munich had been put
into requisition for military purposes.  There was but
one machine in Starnberg, an ancient affair which could
only be hired at a price beyond the means of any but
the most wealthy of the town.  He had seen a machine
this afternoon rapidly passing his bakery which was on
the highway to Munich--was it this very machine?  It
had a top like this, a chauffeur and one man sat within.
He had commented upon its passage to his boy.  The
young fellow, who shared the mystery of their search,
now voluntarily cleared their minds of doubt, for with
that omniscience in all things which pertain to makes of
cars, he ventured in a guarded tone--

"It is the very machine which came from Munich this
afternoon."

"How do you know?" asked Rowland, eagerly.

"It's a Mercedes, sir," he said.  "I know it by the
shape of the hood."

If a machine went back and forth between the Villa
Monteori and the city of Munich it was doubtless because
of urgent affairs in which some official empowered to use
automobiles was involved.  Who but Hochwald?  And
what affairs, unless those of Tanya and the black bag
of the Bayrischer Hof?  Rowland had reached the point
where he felt that he must leap at a conclusion of some
sort.  At any rate there were two men the less at the
Villa Monteori and it was time to risk everything in an
effort to bring this adventure to a conclusion whether in
failure or success.

Rowland planned rapidly.  A short distance below
them there was a cross road which led down to the lake,
at the foot of which in the dusk of the evening he had
noticed a small pier or jetty near which a number of
canoes, sailboats and row-boats were moored.  He
proposed to take one of these boats and under cover of the
darkness, row down in the shadow of the bank to the
stone steps of the villa which led from the terrace wall
to the water.  As the sky had now become cloudy and
the night quite dark it would thus be possible to come
unnoticed much nearer to the house than if he attempted
to enter by the road or to cross the lawns where the
stone wall must be climbed.  Herr Benz would wait in
the Pavilion which seemed to be deserted.  If Rowland
did not return before ten o'clock he was to take another
row-boat with the other two men whom young Benz had
gone to fetch from Starnberg and follow.

Benz demurred at first, professing a desire to share his
dangers, but at last consented to the arrangement, and
Rowland embarked and set off upon his solitary
venture.  As it was still early there were many young people
out on the lake in canoes and sailboats returning to shore
and the sounds of their voices came softly across the
water.

Their presence in the neighborhood was reassuring and
likely to distract the attention of any visitors at the Villa
Monteori.  Rowland slipped slowly down under the very
shadow of the terrace wall where his boat drifted in
close to the steps where Rowland listened for a long
moment, and then fastened the painter to a ring in the
wall and disembarked.

He had determined to enter this house and search it
from top to bottom, regardless of consequences.  A fool's
errand?  Perhaps; for he had little evidence to confirm
his theory which after all had been born more of hope
and desperation than any proof.  And yet the chance
was worth taking for at the best it meant merely a
discussion with an irascible and asthmatic watchman; at the
worst perhaps an encounter with a government official
who had a private commission, with which he could have
no concern, and this meant a rapid retreat and the saving
of his skin.  But the death of Berghof and the passage of
the mysterious automobile from what was reported to
be an untenanted house, had seemed to point him a way
which he couldn't ignore.  If Tanya were here the
element of surprise would be in his favor, and as his head
reached the level of the top of the steps, where he paused
for a long moment of inspection of the house, he saw no
indication of watchfulness on the part of those within.
There were a rustic table and a number of benches and
chairs upon the terrace, and crawling up on his hands
and knees he hid himself behind a bench where he could
examine the lower floor of the house at closer quarters.

There was a loggia enclosed in glass just before him.
Within, in the main body of the house, a light was
burning.  At some risk of detection from the windows above
he moved closer and quickly rising, turned the knob
of the glass door.  To his surprise it yielded and
without hesitation he entered, closing it softly behind him.

"Careless beggars, to forget there was a lake," he muttered.

Rowland's spirits were fast rising, and his fingers were
itching for a grip on something tangible, preferably the
Adam's apple of Khodkine-Hochwald.  Denied that,
anyone else's would do.  But a disappointment awaited him
here, for the door to the main body of the house was
locked.  He drew aside into the shelter of the wall and
rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  "Not so dull, after all,"
he said to himself.  "But I'll make it, if it takes the
butt of an automatic."

Fortunately he was not obliged to resort to that
extremity for a French window with a loose catch rewarded
his patience.

"It's flat burglary, nothing less," he said with a grin
as he crossed the sill and entered the room.  It was quite
dark here, the only illumination coming from a lamp in
an inner room, and he paused a moment to get his bearings
and listened.  A sound of voices somewhere upstairs.
His breath came a little more quickly--the deep bass of
a man and he was sure the tones of a feminine reply.
Taglitz and his daughter?  He would soon find out.  It
took him a few moments of noiseless investigation to study
the plan of the lower floor, the location of the steps
which led upstairs and the hall which led to the rear of
the house.  Then he peered into the lighted room beyond.

It was empty and upon the table lay what remained of
a meal, the dishes of which had not yet been cleared away.
At the further end of the room was a swinging door which
led to the kitchen and Rowland crossed to it, in
accordance with a quickly formulated plan to make safe the
lower floor, before he went upstairs.  But just as he was
about to go forward there were sounds of heavy footsteps
in the kitchen passage just beyond and he had barely time
to flatten himself against the wall when the door was
pushed open and a man entered and walked to the table.
He was an old man, with bent shoulders, possibly a little
deaf, and his breath wheezed like that of a horse with the
heaves.  It seemed a shame to do it, but there was no
time for moral compunctions and stepping quickly
behind him Rowland thrust an arm around the fellow's
neck and with a knee in the small of his back garrotted
him noiselessly and effectually.  Then he laid the man upon
the floor and with a warning hand on his throat, which
he threatened to tighten at the least indication of an
outcry, questioned in tense whispers.

"Herr Hochwald left this house half an hour ago?"

There was no reply but a terrible gasp as Taglitz
fought for his breath.

"Answer me," growled Rowland with an air of ferocity
he was far from feeling.  "Answer me, or I'll choke----"

Taglitz raised a feeble hand and tried to move his
head, gasping horribly meanwhile.

So Rowland waited an anxious moment fearing that the
fellow would die.  Then questioned again--

"Where has Herr Hochwald gone?"

Taglitz shook his head.

"I--I--don't--know," he gasped.

Rowland could have shouted for joy.  Hochwald!

"Where is your daughter?"

"Gone out--since supper--to visit in Starnberg."

"Who are upstairs?"

The eyes of Taglitz stared, and beneath him, Rowland
could feel the man's limbs trembling in terror.  But he
wouldn't reply, so Rowland's fingers closed gently upon
his throat.

"Answer me," he whispered, "or I'll choke you."

Already Taglitz's eyes were starting from his head and
Rowland released the pressure.

"Answer," he said sternly.

Taglitz gasped for a few moments of fearful unhappiness
then, as Rowland's fingers tightened, held up a feeble
hand.

"Who are upstairs?" repeated Rowland.

"Herr--Herr Förster----"

"Who else?"

"Fräulein Korasov."

"At what time did Herr Hochwald reach here?"

"Be-fore supper."

"How long before supper?"

Taglitz paused and Rowland's hand moved toward him.

"An hour," he answered.

Rowland's brain was now acting quickly.

"What did he do with the black bag he brought?"

"I--I don't know."

Rowland's eyes sparkled.

"Did he carry it upstairs?"

The terror in the man's eyes was pitiful and the
trembling began anew but Rowland was merciless.

"Answer me."  Again the hand threatened.

"Don't--strangle me.  I will tell," and as Rowland
released him.  "He took it to his room."

"Where is his room?"

"In the wing to the south."

The room which Rowland had been watching when he
lay below the rock an hour ago--the shadow had been
Hochwald's!

Rowland grinned at the frightened face beneath him
while he reached for a napkin upon the table.

"You're a brick, Herr Taglitz," he muttered in
English.  "That's what you are--a brick.  But bricks
are silent--and harmless--unless in riotous hands."

"What are--are you"--croaked the prisoner.

The words were stifled by the napkin which Rowland
thrust into his mouth.  It was a large napkin and the
ends tied firmly at the neck and chin made a neat gag.
The two other napkins, one around his knees, the other
at his elbows behind him completed Rowland's purpose,
which was to render one hundred and sixty pounds of
potential Prussianism as helpless as Rameses the Second.
He rolled Taglitz under the table, assuring himself that
the man was in no danger of death, then searched the
lower floor for signs of other occupants.  But the man
had spoken the truth for there was no one else upon
the lower floor.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RESCUE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium

   RESCUE

.. vspace:: 2

With a heart beating high Rowland paused at
the bottom of the flight of stairs to listen.  A
man's laugh--Herr Förster's, and in the room
with him, Tanya!

This task was to be more difficult and Rowland felt
rather pleased that it was to be so, for the impotent old
man underneath the dining room table was already weighing
on his conscience.  Up the stairs he climbed, but he
drew his automatic now for no matter what happened he
was going to reduce the chances of failure to a minimum.

Again Förster's voice and Tanya's in reply.  As his
eyes reached the level of the floor he saw the line of
light beneath a door upon his left and climbed quickly,
approaching the door silently, upon tip-toe.  Here he
stopped to listen again for a moment while he planned
what to do.  If the door was locked he would perhaps
have to find some other way to get in.  Another door
from an adjoining room----

But Förster's voice now came to him clearly.

"The Fräulein is unkind.  Is it my fault that I am set
to guard you?  I am only doing my duty."

Then Tanya's voice--a voice he recognized instantly,
subdued but angry.

"Your duty may be performed outside.  I have no
means of escape."

"My orders are strict, Fräulein.  Until the return of
Herr Hochwald I was not to let you out of my sight,
which is gladdened by your beauty.  Why so unkind?
I must obey."

"I pray you to leave me," came her voice wearily.
"I am very tired."

"I am sorry.  I pray you lie upon the divan,
while with your permission I will smoke a cigarette at
the window.  No?  Then I will sit and again feast my
sight upon your loveliness."

"You are a beast----!" said Tanya.

Rowland turned the knob furiously, the door yielded
to his foot and flew open with a crash.  He sought and
found Förster's eyes, covering him with his weapon.  The
surprise was complete.  The man's hands went up above
his head as his startled glance searched the obscurity
of the doorway behind Rowland as though expecting
others, then, seeing no one, his right hand went down to
his pocket.

"*Hände Hoch!*" Rowland roared the warning, then
fired, as Förster's weapon came into line, fired quickly,
once, twice, three times.  He felt the cap twitched around
on his head, but saw Förster's weapon falter and the
bullet crash into the mirror beside him, as the man reeled
and then toppled sideways upon the couch, rolling over
and down upon the floor, where he lay motionless.

Rowland then turned toward the girl who had risen
from her chair and now stood clinging to the table
looking at him wide-eyed.  She was very white and her lips
moved but made no sound, and then he realized that the
clothing he wore had effectively disguised him.  So he
took off his cap and smiled at her cheerfully enough.
He saw the recognition spread upon her face as she
came forward, both arms extended.

"You, Monsieur Rowlan'!" she whispered in French.

"Tanya!"

Their fingers touched--their hands--and then a
stronger impulse urged as he saw the look in the eyes
turned up to his.  She faltered a moment but he caught
her close to him and held her there.  If this was the
sanctuary she had awaited she had surely found it.

"Tanya," he was whispering.  "I've found you.  Won't
you tell me that you are glad?"

She moved a little in his arms, but he only held her
closer.

"Glad.  Yes, Monsieur Rowlan', I'm glad," she
murmured.  "But at first I could not believe----"

"What does it matter so long as I've found you?  Your
heart, Tanya--have I found that too?"

She made no sound, but her head sank a little lower on
his breast.  The tip of one ear only was visible in the
confusion of her ruddy hair.  He kissed it.

"Answer me, Tanya," he insisted.  "Your heart.  It's
that I've come for.  Will you give it to me?"

He felt her fingers press his own, felt her slender figure
relax in his arms, as she raised her head, while her grave
eyes met his in one luminous moment and then were hidden
by the long lashes under which two small tears trembled
and fell.

.. _`Her grave eyes met his in one luminous moment`:

.. figure:: images/img-218.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Her grave eyes met his in one luminous moment.

   Her grave eyes met his in one luminous moment.

"My heart," he heard her whisper.  "That is yours
also, Monsieur Rowlan'."

Then he kissed her lips.

"Philippe," he corrected gently.

And with a smile she repeated, "Philippe."

"Had you thought that I would come for you?"

"I--I didn't know what to think.  It--it seemed
impossible that you would dare venture into Germany.  I
had no hope of anyone else.  I have been so frightened
for you--so guilty in my conscience----"

"Why?"

"Because it was I who brought you into all this trouble.
The vault!  The horror of it!  Picard reached Shestov
in time?"

Rowland laughed, kissed her again and told her what
had happened.

"Thank God.  I have prayed the Holy Virgin for your
safety," she murmured happily.

"I'm hard to get rid of.  I've come back to stay,
Tanya, for better or for worse."

Her fingers pressed his.

"Whatever happens," she whispered, "for better or
for worse!"

"You love me----?" he whispered.  "Tell me that you do."

She smiled up at him.  "It would be strange if I do
not--since I am here in your arms.  But I am still
frightened, Monsieur Ro----"

"Philippe----"

"I am still frightened--you are not hurt?"

"No," he laughed, "I bear a charmed life.  It is you
who have kept me safe."

"I?"

"The Princess Tatyana--the fairy princess of my
childhood who has come to me again."  He raised her
chin and held her close.  "Kiss me again," he whispered,
"and make me Immortal."

She obeyed and in the brief moment that they snatched
from the whirl of danger lost the world in each other.

The moment passed, and it was Rowland who first
straightened, aware of the hazard of their position and
of the man upon the floor who groaned and stirred.
Rowland bent over him and felt his heart while Tanya, the
fleeting color gone from her cheeks again, stood watching.

"Is he----?"

"Thank God--no," said Rowland, coolly, putting Herr
Förster's automatic into his own pocket.  "But I'll take
no chances.  He may come around all right and begin
shooting, and I mightn't be so lucky next time."

He rose and caught Tanya by the hand as the urgency
of his mission took precedence.

"Listen, Tanya, dear.  We can't think of him.  It was
my death or his and I couldn't take a chance.  It's war.
And it's not pretty.  But we can't afford any sentiment
now.  We haven't a moment to spare.  We must move
quickly.  The meeting of the Central Committee of
Bavaria is set for tonight--and I have promised to return.
It is gravely important.  Hochwald is to be there.  He
has gone already.  I saw him leave in a machine.  He is
going to play a desperate game and I've just found out
what it is.  He has recovered the black bag in which you
sent the money to the Haupt Bahnhof.  It is here
somewhere in this house."

"Here?  How do you know?"

"I've found out.  He brought it here.  I suspect that
he and the gentleman yonder upon the floor had planned
to make away with it to Holland at the first opportunity."

"I can't believe----"

"Everything points to it.  He told you that he was
going to bring the case up in the Committee--take the
disposition of the funds of Nemi out of our hands and
have its appropriation made by the Munich Committee
itself.  Is this not true?"

"Yes, but how did you----"

Rowland grinned in self-gratulation.  He was really
beginning to have a high opinion of his own intelligence.

"Madame Rochal told me.  But if Hochwald had that
notion he has changed it now.  He is going to that meeting
tonight to swear that he has not been able to recover
the money--that you have escaped from Germany and
taken it with you."

She was trying to understand.

"And that is why he was guarding me so closely--so
that I could not get into touch with our friends in
Munich!"

"Precisely.  Only you and I can save the situation.
You who have only to tell the truth.  I who will bring into
the meeting the suit-case and if I'm not guessing badly
show the bank notes themselves.  Do you understand?"

Tanya pressed his hand in token of comprehension.

"But how do you know all this?" she asked.

"I can't explain--there isn't time.  Förster may come
to at any moment and set up a howl.  We must search
the house.  Will you help?"

The rapidity of his extraordinary revelations had
bewildered her a little, but with a shudder of horror at the
man upon the floor she followed Rowland out into the
hall, and with an effort gathered her scattered wits
together.

"You would know the bag if you saw it?" he asked.
"The black bag of the Bayrischer Hof?"

"Of course."

"It should be in this room in the wing on the south
side," he muttered.

And while she wondered at the completeness of his
information, she showed him the way down the corridor into
the room which Herr Hochwald had occupied.  Together
they searched it,--in vain.  The bag was not there.  A
methodical search of the house would take time, but there
seemed nothing left to do.  So Tanya lighted a candle to
hunt in the other rooms upon the second floor while
Rowland went down the stairs.

"The care-taker--Taglitz," she cried suddenly in alarm.

Rowland grinned.  "Don't worry.  He's doing his bit
under the dining-room table."

She was not yet accustomed to the strange figures of
speech of this astounding person to whom she had given
her heart.  She only knew that she believed in him with
all her soul and that if he could be cheerful, all was well.
So she searched the rooms across the corridor, finding
no bag of any sort.  But in a moment she heard a cry
from Rowland and went to the head of the stairs, peering
over, candle in hand.

"I've found it," he cried.  "Is not this it?"

And as she came running down the stairs she identified
the black bag at once as the one the porter of the
Bayrischer Hof had procured for her.

"Clever," muttered Rowland.  "The perfect security
of the obvious.  Edgar Allan Poe stuff.  Hasn't even
bothered to hide it.  See.  It's heavy--not even touched.
We've got to be off.  Get your hat and coat.  Our yacht
awaits us at the foot of the steps."

He was in high good humor.

"Yacht!"

"I came by the Lake--in a rowboat.  Sorry I haven't
a machine.  But we must get back to Munich at once."

She hurried up the stair for her bag, coat and hat and
in a moment had joined him by the window through which
he had entered.  He helped her over the sill, exacting
a tribute as she passed and then led her down the steps
from the terrace and safely installed her in the stern of
his stolen craft, in which they were soon pulling away
from shore.  The hands of the clock in the hall of the
house had pointed to ten.  Altogether he had been in the
Villa Monteori less than an hour.  If they hurried there
would still be time to make the evening train to Munich.

A few drops of rain fell as they descended from the
terrace and in the distance from the heights of the
Wetterstein there was a deep bass rumble of thunder.
Rowland bent to his oars and rowed along the shore, smiling
at the girl who sat opposite him, a little bewildered at the
rapidity of events, the swift tumultuous wooing, so soon
ended for she knew not what new hazards.

But she could not misconstrue the marks of his
preoccupation and in reply to his breathless eager questions
she told him of her fear that Hochwald would discover
the papers containing his *dossier* and other incriminating
data which she had kept concealed in her shirt-waist, but
she brought them out to his delight and showed them to
him.  He was eager too to learn how she had managed
to hoodwink him in getting possession of the bank-notes
and while he listened she told him how she had
accomplished the exchange, loading the suit-case which had
contained the treasure with rocks taken from the road.  As
she finished he suddenly stopped rowing and bent quickly
forward over the bag which lay between them.

"What is it,--Philippe?" she asked anxiously.

"A key to the bag!" he cried.  "It must be opened."

"A key, why I have it.  In my coat, I think.  Here!"  And
after a moment she handed it to him.

Rowland unlocked and tore open the bag and thrust
a hand inside, a terrible expression of dismay upon his
face, the first she had ever seen there or perhaps would
see again.

"Glad I thought of it," he muttered.  "It seemed too
easy.  Rocks!  Stones!  It's filled with rubbish."

And taking out a stone, he dropped it with a loud
splash into the water.

"I must go back," he muttered, taking up his oars in a
moment of indecision.  "I must go back."

But instead of doing so at once, he pulled furiously for
the pavilion where he found the patient Benz waiting for
him.

"Success," he explained.  "Fräulein Korasov is here,
but the money----

"He has removed it?"

"No.  It's in that house.  I would take my oath----"

He broke off hurriedly and got out, helping Tanya to
the jetty.

"Herr Benz, in a way we are very fortunate.  It is
very necessary that Fräulein Korasov be taken at once in
safe hands to the meeting of the Committee.  There is a
train you say at half past ten.  She must go on it.  Are
there two men whom you can trust?"

"They are here," said Benz with a smile.  "We were
just on the point of following you to Monteori Villa."

"Ah, good.  Then let them take Fräulein Korasov to
Munich.  Tanya, these men are your friends and the
friends of the cause.  You are quite safe with them.
Listen attentively and obey these instructions.  You
will send a wire to George Senf telling of your safety and
departure for Munich.  The telegraph officer knows and
is to be trusted.  Senf will have men to meet you at the
Haupt Bahnhof.  Do you understand?"

"Yes," she murmured.

"Then *au revoir*.  I will join you later."

"You are going----?" Tanya asked anxiously.

"Back there," he muttered grimly.

In the darkness he saw the compression of her lips but
he stepped into the boat and in a moment all that
remained of Tanya was the remembrance of the swift brave
touch of her fingers upon his own.

Herr Benz remained at the pavilion to resume his
watch of suspense and inaction, but he obeyed orders,
aware that the tremendous import of the business in
which they were involved had given him a new sense of
importance in the great cause.  Twenty-five millions of
francs!  That was enough to spread the gospel throughout
all the world!

Rowland lost no time in covering the distance to the
villa for caution was now of less importance than time.
And in a short while he was crawling in through the
French window into the hall.  First he examined the bonds
of Taglitz and then went quickly up the stairs to the room
where Förster lay.  The man had recovered consciousness
but it was easily to be seen that he was badly hurt.

At the sight of Rowland, he muttered a curse.

"Where is this money, Herr Förster?" he asked coolly.

"Money?  And if I knew--do you think--I'd tell you?
Go and let me die in peace."

"The black bag which you were told to throw into the
middle of the lake is a poor substitute for what I want.
The notes are hidden in Herr Hochwald's room, *nicht
wahr*?"

Förster was in no condition to dissimulate and his chin
gave the slightest twitch upward.

"Ah.  That is kind of you----  If you will remain
quite still,  Herr Förster," continued Rowland, "I will
send a Doctor to look after you.  In the meanwhile I will
take the liberty of locking the doors."

Lamp in hand he sought the room into which Khodkine
had gone.  It was luxuriously furnished with the
trappings of a man, evidently the abode in times of peace of
Count Monteori himself.  First he searched the bathroom,
with no results.  There was a towel very much soiled upon
the rack and another upon the floor which showed traces
of some dark stuff.

"Slovenly blighter!" thought Rowland as he went out
into the bedroom.

A book-shelf stood in one corner of the room--a likely
place?  But in a moment with all the volumes strewn upon
the floor Rowland had to acknowledge himself mistaken.
He tried the bed next, ripping up the mattress and the
pillows.  The drawers of the bureau were empty, but he
took them out one by one and examined the woodwork
behind.  Next he tested the chairs and couch without
success.  Then he stopped in disgust to sit down with a
cigarette, scratch his head and grin at the frightful
disorder he had created.  Where--where could Hochwald
have hidden the money?  He had been in the house less
than two hours.  Skillful camouflage would require a
longer time than that.  It must be something more
obvious, a simple expedient but clever, worthy of the talents
of the gentleman who had locked him in the safe.

He had examined the porcelain stove, a large affair
which stood in one corner of the room but there was
nothing in it except a few old newspapers.  Now as he
stared at it, a new thought came to him and lighting his
cigarette he touched the fire from the match to the waste
paper in the stove.  The result was quite surprising, for
smoke poured from every aperture, filling the room and
driving Rowland to open the window.  No draught.  He
climbed on a chair and lamp in hand, carefully examined
the smoke pipe, his long subdued excitement growing
again.  There was half an inch of rust showing at the
lower joint.  He then got down from the chair and
thrusting in his arm found the flue, at last found the
aperture and discovered at once the meaning of the lack
of draught, for his fingers met something soft to the
touch which they closed on and with some difficulty drew
forth.  But when he moved the tightly wedged cloth
there was a commotion in the smoke pipe above, and as
he drew forth the grimy towels which had stopped the
hole, a heavy object fell into the smouldering ashes
below--an oil-cloth package, the appearance of which was
familiar to him--another--another--until in less than
ten minutes in a sooty pile upon the rug in an orderly
row which tickled his fancy were the twenty-five packages
of bank-notes of the Vault of Nemi.  He made no
mistake this time, examining each one carefully in turn.
Triumph!  Hurriedly he packed them into the black bag.
Clever?  It was a wonder that he hadn't thought of it at
first--especially after the sooty towels.  A childish
expedient, a temporary one at best, until Herr Hochwald
and Herr Förster could find a way to hide the fortune
more effectually.

Rowland now knew that it was he or Förster who had
traced the bag to Berghof and had killed him shortly
after Berghof and Rowland had parted in Munich!  There
no time to lose.  For the last half hour Rowland
hadn't dared to hope that he could be in time to reach
the meeting, but now his sense of humor long restrained
got the better of him and he laughed outright as he
snapped the catch of the bag and lifted his burden.  To
reach the Committee and formally restore the stolen funds!

But how could he reach Munich now that the last train
had gone?

He hurried down the stairs, when, his precious bag
beside him, he liberated the gasping Taglitz and when
the Prussian sat up bewildered:

"You are to go at once to the village for a doctor for
Herr Förster who lies in the front room upstairs, badly
wounded----"

"*Zu befehl*," muttered the bewildered man, "if you will
but let me loose."

"Thanks, old top--and you might tell Herr Hochwald
when you see him that the chimney has been cleaned.
*Verstehen sie*?"

"*Zu befehl*," muttered the other.

Rowland hurried forth, crossed the terrace and went
carefully down the stone steps and in a few minutes had
untied the painter, taken up the oars and pushed off.
But as he cleared the terrace wall and came out into
view of the house, there was a streak of flame from the
upper window and bullets splashed all around him.

"Not so sick as he looked," he muttered, "or maybe
it's Rameses the Second."

And then just to show that he was feeling quite happy
himself Rowland emptied the rest of his clip at the
window when the firing suddenly ceased.

With a laugh he took up his oars and rowed for dear
life toward the pavilion and Herr Benz.

That honest man was awaiting him quite disturbed over
the sounds of the shots which informed him that Herr
Rowland had not come through his adventure without
danger.

"Herr Benz, we are going to the meeting of the
Central Committee in Munich."

"Tonight?  But how?"

"In the ancient automobile which is for hire at such
an exorbitant price."

"I don't know----  It is late."

"We shall find it.  One can find anything in the world
with twenty-five millions of francs."

"Then you have----"  The man's words choked him
for sheer delight.

Rowland tapped the black bag affectionately and laughed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium

   THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE

.. vspace:: 2

It was with a heavy heart that Tanya followed her
two companions to the Starnberg Bahnhof.  For her
escape from the Villa Monteori, so miraculously
accomplished, had for the moment filled her with the hope
that the end of her troubles was at hand.  And the brief
glimpse of happiness she had had in the discovery of the
love and loyalty of Philippe Rowlan' had in their ecstatic
hour of union driven from her consciousness all thought
of that other allegiance and responsibility to which she
had pledged her young life.  It came to her with a
distinct sense of shock that Philippe more than herself now
seemed to feel that responsibility, and accept it as his
first duty even above the claims that he had given her
upon himself.  Grave as were the dangers through which
he had passed to save her and deadly as the dangers
through which they must still pass as long as they
remained in Germany, he had been able to put her aside,
to force all thought of their happiness from his mind, in
the accomplishment of his graver mission in the cause of
Free Government.

It was she who had brought him this responsibility
and she loved him for the loyalty with which he fought
for a cause not generically his own, but deep in her heart
was a sense of failure, of disappointment in this, the
greatest hour that could come in a woman's life.

Only four days ago this valiant, careless American had
come to her, a new type of being, such as she had never
seen before, bringing with him the spirit of joy, unselfishness
and honesty, committing himself merely because she
had asked it of him, to a cause which as he could well
see exposed him to nameless dangers; typical of his great
nation across the seas which had now entered the world
conflict, pouring into the inferno of German hatred its
millions and its men, not for gain or glory, but merely
that the world might be free for its brothers in
democracy.  In her heart she had not dared to admit even
to herself that she loved this tall dark-haired stranger,
who smiled and then fought and seemed to smile the more
when fighting.  But she knew now that she had loved him
from the first, when he had come half-starved, and asked
for bread, his eyes, which could be merry even in
suffering, discerning with frank admiration the woman beneath
her robes of Nemi.  Nemi to him but a name, its priestess
but a woman to whom he had committed himself without
question and was now committed for all time.  She had
loved him then, but more than then or yesterday she
loved him now for the unselfishness of a devotion which
could dare so much without hope of other reward than
she could give him.  But the short definite commands at
the moment of parting impressed her anew with the sense
of intelligence and will which lay beneath his careless
manner and the firm strong touch of his fingers bade her
still have courage and faith whatever was to happen.

And so, at last, calmly, she took up her burden, ready
to accept her share in the dangers of the night as he
would wish her to do.  She had sent the message to Georg
Senf, and with the aid of the telegraph officer at
Starnberg, had managed to secure a compartment with her
two companions for the short distance to Munich.  They
were silent men, watchful and obedient, solemnly aware
of their responsibilities and at the Haupt Bahnhof which
they reached near eleven o'clock hurried her to the cab
that Herr Weiss had fortunately provided, for the rain
was now falling in torrents.  In the cab with the Chief
Telegraph Operator beside her, the others following in
another vehicle, they were driven to a house in the
Schwaiger Strasse where the secret meetings of the
Central Committee were held.  As Herr Weiss talked to her
on the way, she gained for the first time a definite
conception of the position the Socialists of Munich had
taken, the growing preponderance of the Revolutionary
party and the efforts of the so-called Official Socialists,
represented by Herr Scheideman, to pour oil upon the
troubled waters of rebellion.  The government, it seemed,
had exhibited a growing anxiety as to the Bavarian
propaganda, had interfered by police force in breaking
up small meetings and was of course inimical to the work
of the Central Committee which as every one in Bavaria
knew was growing in influence and power.  At the last
meeting a month ago, money had been appropriated for
the work of the Order of Nemi, to which all of the
organizations had contributed, for the work in Russia.  It was
to the great international society that the Socialists of all
creeds looked in their fight against the power of Berlin.
Herr Senf was greatly respected for his wisdom and his
intelligence, but he was growing old.  Herr Rowland was
English or American, but to Internationalism what did
nationality matter?  Herr Weiss had had the honor of
meeting him but once, but it was clearly to be seen that
here was a leader who could be counted on.

Tanya glowed with pride, not a little astonished too at
these words of commendation.  She inquired as to the
meeting to which they were bound and Herr Weiss looked
grave, but told her that in the midst of friends she need
have no fear, but that it would be necessary to make
their entrance unobtrusive.  Rain was pouring in torrents
when they reached their destination, a house of ordinary
appearance in a small street, beyond the Cornelius Bridge
and close by the borders of the river.  The windows were
all dark for the blinds were drawn but Herr Weiss got
down and, umbrella in hand, conducted the Fräulein with
assurance to the door, where he knocked three times and
after a careful scrutiny was admitted with their
companions.  It was with a feeling of some apprehension
that Tanya went up the stairs behind him, for brave
though she was she could not forget that she was in the
heart of the enemy's country and that it was she who had
taken the lost bag containing the money that these very
men had helped contribute.  Suppose that Philippe should
not succeed....

Upon the landing of the third floor they were halted
at a door and scrutinized again, admitted at last to a
suite of three large rooms with wide doors, filled with
people, all smoking and listening to a man at the farther
end of this improvised hall, who was addressing them.
The ceiling was low and smoke-stained, and the
atmosphere was heavy with the reek of tobacco, damp clothes
and perspiring humanity and the smoky lamps which
hung in brackets upon the wall seemed to be struggling
in a futile effort to lighten the gloom.  Upon the tables
here and there were glasses and steins, some half full,
some empty of the bitter stuff that they drank as a
substitute for the beer they loved.  There were several women
present, and as the new comers entered, those nearest
the door turned and scrutinized Tanya in a moment of
curiosity and then again listened to the speaker, a
youngish man with dark hair who seemed to have captured their
attention.  Herr Weiss found Tanya a chair and she sat
while the men who had come from Starnberg took places
around her.

Though the room was oppressively hot, Tanya shivered,
as though with cold, and clasped her hands to keep
them from trembling.  A feeling of disappointment and
depression had come over her.  This was the Central
Committee of which she had heard so much--that old
man at the table in the furthest room near the speaker,
Georg Senf, with whom she had corresponded, once a
councilor of Nemi and known from one end of Germany
to the other.  The sordid surroundings, the poverty of
the appearance of those nearest her, their pinched, eager
faces,--who were these poor half-starved looking wretches
who dared oppose the might and majesty of the Prussian
Eagles?  Their task seemed so hopeless, so futile, and her
own mission so uncertain, so fraught with complexity and
danger.  Her glance sought the door again and again, as
she thought of flight, and she scrutinized each
newcomer, hoping against hope that it might be Philippe.  But
at last she grew more tranquil and found herself catching
some of the fire, some of the terrible earnestness of those
about her, who sat leaning forward on their benches,
with their burning eyes turned to the face of the young
speaker, their minds responding to his intelligence and
devotion in a silence that was eloquent of the sincerity of his
appeal.  And finally a phrase that he uttered, poignant
of a truth that lay near her own heart, caught her
attention and forgetting herself she listened at last as
abstracted and as eager as those about her.

"The foes of the people are growing ever bolder, ever
more shameless," he cried.  "War wastrels, war
instigators, war profiteers, those to whom the misery of the
people brings power and gain.  Such wish no peace.
Workmen!  Our brothers the Russian proletariat were
but a few weeks ago in the same plight, but we know what
happened in Russia.  Russian labor has crushed Czarism
and has gained a democratic republic.  And we?  Are
we still patiently to endure the old poverty, extortion,
hunger and murder of the people--the cause of our pain
and agony?

"No! a thousand times no!  Quit the workshops and
factories.  Let labor stop.

   |   "Man of toil, awake from slumber!
   |   Recognize thy growing might!
   |   All the wheels will lose their motion
   |   Without thy strong arm's devotion.
   |

"Down with the war!  Down with the Government!
Peace!  Freedom!  Bread!"

It was the sincerity of the man more than what he
said that impressed her.  He finished amid loud
handclaps and calls, followed by the hum and buzz of
excitement.  From this moment Tanya was one of them.  Rough
as it was, here was the leaven to permeate the mass and
set the nation free.

Senf with a glance at his watch and an anxious look
toward the door, next introduced Herr Liederman, who
rose, swaying from side to side, his deep bass rumbling to
the deeper accompaniment of the storm outside.  Tanya,
from her sheltered position searched for and found Zoya
Rochal, near the speaker's table, her modish hat, rakishly
on one side, somewhat out of place, it seemed, in this
motley gathering.  Herr Hochwald was near the speaker's
table too, her companion whispered, but there was
no cause for alarm.  So Tanya crouched lower, hiding
behind the broad back of the man in front of her, aware
of the impending crisis, but no longer timid or uncertain.
The words of the speaker had given her new courage.
Even death, he had said, was a privilege in so great a
cause, and she had believed him,--even death--if this
was required of her.

Liederman was much in earnest and after a brief
peroration, announcing his own stand upon the floor of the
Reichstag, a position which he said had carried the
cause as far as he dared, he spoke of the work of the
Society of Nemi, in the past five years in sending speakers
to America, to England, France and Italy, in spreading
reading matter in Russia, Austria and Germany.  Russia
had already cast off her shackles--which other Monarchy
would be next to follow?  He belonged to the Council of
this great international society, had gone to Nemi, the
headquarters in Switzerland, to vote the appropriation
of a large sum of money from the treasury of the society
which was to be used in aiding to restore order among
the Slavic people under a form of government which
would be acceptable to all Socialists throughout the
world.  But Herr Kirylo Ivanitch, the wise and prudent
leader of the order, had died, even while the Council was
meeting, and another leader had been elected in his
place--one Herr Rowland, an American of New York, a young
man of extraordinary sagacity and will, deeply
committed to the cause, an enemy only of the military caste,
the war wastrels, and profiteers, of whom Herr Fenner
had spoken, who were also the enemies of all Socialists
the world over.

Here Liederman found a moment to glance at Zoya
Rochal whose rakish hat bobbed quickly in approval.

"But a disaster has befallen the Order of Nemi, my
friends," he went on more quickly.  "Its vault containing
money in bank-notes of various denominations to the
amount of twenty-five millions of francs three days ago
was entered and robbed and the money carried away--and
into Germany."

A tremendous commotion ran in waves from one end
of the assemblage to another.  But when Senf rose,
rapping for order, a hush fell over the room and utter
silence followed.

"I will tell you the facts," Liederman went on.  "It
is your right to know them, as it was your money and
that of others even poorer than yourselves which was
given to this cause.  Herr Rowland had reason to believe
that an attempt would be made to break into the vault
during the night after the day in which he came into
office.  And so he and Fräulein Korasov, who had been the
Secretary of Kirylo Ivanitch, decided to remove the
money secretly to a place of safety----"

A man in the assemblage had risen and stood quite
calmly face to face with Max Liederman.  It was Gregory
Hochwald.  The incisiveness of his voice no less than the
words he uttered, startled the room into sudden excitement.

"A place of safety, Herr Liederman," he sneered.  "So
safe a place, indeed, that it would never have been
discovered."

Georg Senf quieted the tumult with an effort.

"Herr Liederman will proceed.  Herr Hochwald will
be heard in a moment."

"While engaged in this occupation," Liederman went
on in a louder tone, "Herr Khodkine, a member of the
Council from the Moscow Committee, came upon Herr
Rowland and Fräulein Korasov in the vault.  What he
had come there for is best left to your imagination.  An
altercation between Herr Rowland and Herr Khodkine
followed, and a struggle in which firearms were freely
used and Herr Rowland was left for dead at the vault.
Madame Rochal and I, hearing the sounds of the
explosions, rushed out of the house but by this time Herr
Khodkine had fled, taking with him not only the money
but Fräulein Korasov as well."

"In whose machine, Herr Liederman?" asked Hochwald,
with a laugh.

Zoya Rochal had sprung to her feet.

"In mine, where it had been left just outside the wall."

Her cool tones fell like a naked sword between them.

Hochwald shrugged and sat.

"Silence!" cried Senf.

Liederman finished his testimony without further
interruptions until he reached the end, when, leaning
forward, he pointed his stubby forefinger at the smiling
Hochwald and proclaimed him as the Russian Khodkine.
Georg Senf rapped furiously for order, but the roar
refused to diminish until the Committeemen saw
Hochwald standing upright facing them, his handsome face
quite composed, awaiting his opportunity.  Not until
the disturbance had been quieted did he speak and then
very deliberately, his pale eyes passing slowly over the
audience as though seeking out those who had cried the
loudest against him.

"Friends and brothers," he began, "if you will have
patience for a few moments I will tell you what has
happened.  I am Herr Khodkine the Russian Socialist.
I am Herr Hochwald the German Socialist, for in my
politics I recognize no nationality--no power but that
which comes from the people themselves."

A murmur more encouraging greeted this announcement.

"I am German by birth, but the wrongs of Russia
were greater than any you had suffered here.  I changed
my name and went to Russia to work for the revolutionary
party and was one of those who was sent to the
train which carried Nicholas Romanoff toward Tsarskoë
Seloe and demanded of him in the name of the Russian
people his abdication from the throne.  I was one of
those who conducted him to Tobolsk where he is now
imprisoned, a harmless fool, a terrible warning to those
who still hope to thwart the will of the people."  Herr
Hochwald shrugged easily, "You may verify my
statements if you please.  They are on record.  Monsieur
Rodzianko can give them to you.  As to my loyalty to
the cause of Internationalism, I have three times been
nominated as Councilor of Nemi and have always served
it faithfully and you, my brothers, in a common cause.
Therefore---"  He turned with a frown at Herr
Liederman and raised his voice a note--"Therefore what I
say to you must be the truth.  Would I come here into
your midst a guilty man, to have myself torn to pieces?"

A brief murmur of approbation and cries of "Speak then!"

"I will," he continued in a louder tone.  "Herr
Liederman has testified that I went to the vault at Nemi and
interrupted Herr Rowland and Fräulein Korasov while
they were removing the twenty-five millions of francs.
He speaks the truth.  I did so.  Why?  Because I
suspected this Herr Rowland, an adventurer, a pig of a
Yankee, an escaped prisoner from a German camp.  You
may verify that too, at military headquarters.  We do
not love the Yankees in Germany, or in Russia, for money
alone is their God, their fetich, and they have entered
this war to prolong it that their own capitalists may reap
the harvest of our suffering."

Louder cries of approval from those nearest him.

"Wait, my brothers.  I am not finished yet.  Herr
Liederman has said that Herr Rowland suspected his
associates of the Council of Nemi--Herr Liederman of
Stuttgart, Madame Rochal, your own representative--myself!
Herr Liederman has been easily deceived by this
plausible American.  He meant to take this money away
from Europe.  *Your* money, my brothers, back to New
York and spend it for his own uses.  And Fräulein
Korasov----"

He paused for a moment and lowered his voice slightly.

"Fräulein Korasov was also deceived."  He shrugged
again and faced his audience, leaning forward, one fist
extended.  "I did what you would do, my brothers, at the
risk of my life.  I overpowered this renegade soldier, and
imprisoning Fräulein Korasov, brought the money here to
Munich to you that you might keep it safely and dispose
of it in all honesty in the purpose to which it has been
dedicated.  Did I do well or no?"

Cries of "*Hoch*," the clapping of hands and the clatter
of steins and glasses upon the tables at the sides.

Order was restored with difficulty for it was clear that
Herr Hochwald had swayed his hearers.

"I have said little of Fräulein Korasov, who has labored
earnestly for Russia.  But all women are not wise----"

"True!" interrupted a little thin man with a nasal
voice upon his left.

"Indeed, few women are wise enough to face alone so
grave a responsibility.  Fräulein Korasov was ill-guided.
She believed in the honesty of this American adventurer,
and for a reason which I will give if you demand it,
distrusts me.  Upon the journey from Nemi to Munich last
night she succeeded in taking the bank-notes from the
suitcase in which I had placed them--and put them in her own
bag, filling the bag I carried with rocks from the road
while I was repairing a tire."

"Where is Fräulein Korasov?" thundered a voice.

Tanya shrank down in her seat, trembling, while Herr
Weiss spoke words of courage in her ear, which she heard
faintly above the tumult.

"In a moment, Fräulein--our time will come.  Be brave.
No one can harm you."

In the meanwhile Georg Senf had difficulty in restoring
order, for the meeting, it seemed, had gotten beyond his
control.  Question after question was hurled at Herr
Hochwald from all parts of the room and he shouted his
replies, gaining a greater assurance with every moment
and telling a plausible story of Fräulein Korasov's ruse
before he discovered his loss in sending the porter Drelich
to the Haupt Bahnhof with the money, from which place
it had been since taken away by a confederate--and had
vanished.

"Where is Fräulein Korasov?" again thundered the
terrible voice.

And Tanya saw its owner now--a huge workman in a
blouse, who had risen and stood before Herr Hochwald,
both fists clenched in a fury.

"I am a poor man," he cried, "I make what little we
have to eat at my house with the labor of these two
hands.  I have given money--money that might have gone
into bread for my children.  Where is she?  Where is
Fräulein Korasov?"

Herr Hochwald faced the man calmly, waiting for him
to finish.  Then with a hand raised for silence he stood
smiling and self-possessed.  When the noise had subsided
he spoke again.

"You ask me where she is?  I tell you that I do not
know.  She has escaped----"

"How?  Why?  Did you not----"

"I drove with her in a cab to the Bureau of State
Railways where I had sent the machine in which I had arrived
from Switzerland.  It was my intention to take her
somewhere into the country and keep her under guard until the
missing bag could be found.  But upon the road I was
set upon by two men who disarmed and beat me, and
Fräulein Korasov went with them.  You will see," he
finished, pointing to the bruise upon his cheek which
Rowland had inflicted.  "You will see by this scar that I
did not come off unscathed."

He was clever enough to bait his lie with truth and
they listened to him and believed.  He did not notice, nor
did they, the slip of paper which was brought in to Georg
Senf, who read the message eagerly and then looked at
his watch.  The big workman was questioning again.

"Who were those men who attacked you?"

"How should I know," replied Hochwald.  "The same
who took the suit-case from the Haupt Bahnhof?  I do
not know.  I know nothing more.  The money is gone
and all trace of Fräulein Korasov who took it."

He stood easily, amid the uproar, that was renewed,
smiling again, triumphant.  Georg Senf rose in his place,
held up his hand.

"Herr Hochwald," he said calmly, and Hochwald faced
him.  "I would like to ask you a few questions."

Hochwald bowed.

"You speak of two men who attacked you in the
automobile.  Why did you stop to let them attack you?"

"They stood in the middle of the road and the car
slowed down.  When it stopped, they sprang upon the
running board."

"You were armed?"

"Yes, but they had me covered before I could get my
weapon."

"You had a chauffeur?"

"No."

"That is all for the present, Herr Hochwald."

And Hochwald sat down.  Senf remained standing and
with a sober face commanded silence.  Men leaned
forward in their seats, wondering what was coming next,
aware from the manner of the chairman that the
statement of Herr Hochwald was not to go unchallenged.
The big man in the blouse at a gesture from Senf took
his seat and the crowd became quiet.  Hochwald had
lighted a cigarette, and sent a quick look of challenge
toward Liederman and Zoya Rochal.  The venerable
chairman began speaking.

"I charge you all," he began, "to remain quiet in your
seats, for this is a grave matter and involves the probity
of members of this Committee and of our Councilors
in the Society of Nemi--which is responsible to us for the
funds in its possession.  At a late hour evidence has
reached me which must be presented to you at once.  The
witness is a woman who has long labored for a government
by the people."

Senf paused a moment, raised his chin and gazed toward
the distant end of the suite of rooms.  Zoya Rochal
nudged Liederman and they both stared at Herr Hochwald,
who had turned in his chair, a frown at his brows,
his glance swiftly sweeping the row of faces behind him.

"You will remember my instructions," said Senf.  "The
person who rises from his seat or interrupts the speaker
will be ejected from the hall."  And then, in a clear
tone that reached every one in the rooms,

"I now call Fräulein Tanya Korasov."

Hochwald sprang to his feet but was immediately
forced down by the two men who sat next him.  There
was a low sibilant murmur and all heads were turned as
Tanya, followed by Herr Weiss and another, came quickly
up the aisle.  She bowed to Herr Senf and accepted
a chair, which was provided for her, facing the crowd.
She was very pale and the faint blue shadows around
her eyes showed the strain under which she had labored
and the incertitude of the present moment.  She clasped
and unclasped her hands in a moment of nervousness, but
raised her head bravely, at Herr Senf's first question,
her lips twisted in a little smile.

"Your name is Tanya Korasov?" asked the Chairman kindly.

"It is."

"You are a Russian?"

"I am."

"For how long were you the Secretary of Kirylo
Ivanitch, the Head of the Order of Nemi?"

"Three years."

"You shared his confidence?"

"More than anyone else."

"You knew of the contents of the vault at Nemi?"

"Yes."

"What have you to say as to the character and
honesty of the newly elected President of the Order----?"

"I object," Hochwald cried, springing up.

"Silence," roared Senf, like Jove aroused.  "Silence!
You have testified.  If you will not keep your
tongue--you will be gagged."

The men beside Hochwald had pulled him down into his
seat and those of the crowd nearest him had assumed
an angry attitude.

"You will answer my question, Fräulein."

"Herr Rowland," she said clearly, "is the most honest,
the most loyal man I have ever known."

"It has been said that you went to the vault to take
the money to a place of safety.  Whose idea was this?
His or yours?"

"Mine, Herr Senf.  I had reason to believe that the
vault would be entered by those without authority to
do so.  The combination of the door was in my
possession----"

"How----?"  The question was stifled upon the lips
of Gregory Hochwald for a heavy hand was clapped
over his lips while the man beside him held him down.

"Because----" she went on firmly, with a glance at
Hochwald, "at the death of Kirylo Ivanitch it was mine
to keep in trust for the new Leader of the Order."

"You have heard the testimony of Herr Liederman
and Herr Hochwald.  Is the account of what happened at
the vault true?"

"Substantially, yes."

"And Herr Hochwald managed to escape and force
you to go with him and the money in an automobile?"

"Yes."

"You reached the Bayrischer Hof last night, having
made the substitution of the money by a ruse?"

"It was the only thing to do," she said, her clear voice
slightly raised.  "I had to.  It was my only chance."

"Your only chance of what?"

"Of saving the money which belonged to the Society."

The ingenuousness of her reply made an excellent
impression.

"Then you believed that in Herr Hochwald's hands
the money was in danger."

"I knew it," she said simply.

"Silence!" again roared Senf, as an eager murmur went
around the room, a sympathetic murmur which showed
the shifting temper of the crowd.  Once again Herr
Hochwald had struggled in the arms of his captors and
was again silent.  The angry looks of those nearby showed
him that he was playing a losing game.

"Herr Hochwald's testimony in regard to the porter
Drelich is correct?"

"Yes.  Except that I had no confederate.  I knew no
one in Munich except you, Herr Senf, and I had
forgotten your address.  I had hoped to recover the bag
the next day, but the porter Drelich did not return
with the check.  Herr Hochwald with Herr Förster
entered my room before there was time."

"Who is Herr Förster?"

"An accomplice of Herr Hochwald."

"Were you attacked in the automobile on the way to
Starnberg?"

"Oh no.  There was no attack."

"And you reached the villa of Count Monteori quite
safely?"

"Oh yes--safely."

"And you were kept a prisoner there by Herr
Hochwald, until you were rescued this evening?"

"That is true."

Herr Hochwald's face was now quite unpleasant to
see.  He was very pale and the dark bruises upon his
cheek had become unpleasantly prominent.  His hair had
been ruffled and his cravat disarranged and altogether he
presented a very wild appearance.

Senf glanced at him scornfully and then to Tanya:

"That will be all for the present, Fräulein Korasov.
If you will sit yonder----" indicating a chair nearby.
Then he raised his voice again so that all might hear
and summoned Zoya Rochal.

As she got up there was another movement and
murmur in the crowd, quickly suppressed as she began to
speak.  Madame Rochal knew her audience.  Beauty
had always been her weapon, but she had always had the
good sense to realize that intelligence in this assemblage
was the greater asset.  She wore no rouge and though
she wore her clothing smartly, this was somber and of the
plainest.

"Madame Rochal--will you tell the Committee your
judgment as to Herr Rowland?"

Her fine teeth showed in the most ingenuous of smiles.

"He is a *man*," she said, with quick enthusiasm in her
very slightly foreign accent.  "And you may be sure
that I know what a man is like."

A nervous laugh from somewhere near the middle room
broke the silence and then a ripple of amusement passed
over the crowd.  Their nervous tension was broken and
with their smiles came their sympathy.  Zoya Rochal
was *en rapport* at once.  She was the center of interest
and very much enjoying herself.

"A man, yes," said Senf smiling, "but as to his
character, his loyalty, honesty, devotion----?"

"I would trust Herr Rowland," she said gravely, "to
the very ends of the world."

"You know then that it is not he who could have taken
this money?"

"That would not have been possible.  Until this
afternoon either Herr Liederman or myself was with him
constantly."

Herr Senf nodded his head and looked at his watch
upon the table.  It seemed that he was playing for
time.

"You went with Herr Rowland this afternoon to the
Haupt Bahnhof with Drelich to present the check and
recover the bag?"

"I did.  It was not there.  Someone had taken it."

"Do you know Herr Berghof?"

"I met him today."

"You have proof that he took the bag?"

"Yes.  The woman at the house of Drelich saw him
enter the room early in the morning where Drelich lay
drunk.  She knew Berghof well for he was Drelich's
employer."

"And Berghof took the check from the pocket of
Drelich while he slept?"

"Yes.  She saw him, through the crack of the door
into the kitchen."

"Thanks, Madame.  That will be all."  And then
turning to a man near the platform, "Herr Yaeger, if
you please."

The Committeeman rose awkwardly and stood.

"You followed this clue this afternoon at my orders?"

"I did."

"You received a report that Herr Berghof had been
seen in a small pension near a house in Haidhausen?"

"I did."

"Tell us what happened."

"I went with two men from the factory and watched
the place.  We saw Herr Hochwald enter the house
and----"

"At what time was this?"

"About three o'clock.  A short while later they both
came out and went away in an automobile together.  We
tried to follow but it was impossible.  We lost them."

"You have heard of Herr Berghof since that time?"

Herr Yaeger paused and looked steadily at Hochwald.

"Herr Berghof was found in the Englischer Garten at
half-past five.  He had been murdered----!"

"I demand to be heard----"

Hochwald with an effort had thrown the man next
him aside, had risen to his feet, crying hoarsely, "I
demand to be heard.  It is my right----"

"Sit down----!" a hoarse voice shouted, while other
hands reached for him.  But with a tremendous effort
he struggled free and faced them, pale and dishevelled,
in a desperate effort to regain his lost ground.  "Is this
an inquisition?" he cried.  "Is this the freedom you would
give to Germany?  You listen to the testimony of my
enemies, not even sworn, who conspire to ruin me
without permitting me to say one word in defense.  Let me
speak.  It is my right.  I demand it."

Herr Senf calmly waved the men aside and Hochwald
stood alone in the empty space, breathing hard, his pale
eyes glittering with fury as he gazed from one accuser
to the other.

"It is a fine story that you tell, Herr Yaeger.  What
should I know of Herr Berghof?  I was not upon this
side of the river or near the Englischer Garten but
elsewhere, as I can prove by many witnesses.  If Herr
Berghof has been killed where is the proof that I have killed
him?  My word is as good as those who testify against
me.  If I have taken the money, you must find it.
Fräulein Korasov says that she had no confederates when
you have heard that Herr Rowland whom I found in
the very act of robbing the vault of Nemi was today
here in Munich.  It is he who has taken the money of the
Society of Nemi."

Here he turned to Herr Senf and pointed one trembling
forefinger.

"It would have been better if you had sent your men
in search of this clever scoundrel who has pulled the wool
over your eyes, instead of sending them upon a wild goose
chase to watch honest men in the rightful pursuit of their
business.  It is you who have let the Treasure of Nemi
slip through your fingers, Herr Senf, for by this time
this American has doubtless sent it across the border
into Switzerland!  Find him, Herr Senf, find him, I
say----"

Herr Senf raised his hand.  There was a smile upon
his face and his eyes eagerly sought the most distant
room of the three, where there was a commotion at the door.

Hochwald hesitated--paused--as though already he
felt a premonition of new disaster.

"I have found him, Herr Hochwald," cried Senf, with
his Jovian smile.  "He is here!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`VON STROMBERG`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium

   VON STROMBERG

.. vspace:: 2

The crowd of people turned in their seats or rose
and stretched their necks to look over the heads
of those who sat behind them.  What they saw
was a tall, very much bedraggled individual, with a
rain-soaked cap pulled over one eye, but grinning happily
and struggling up the narrow aisle, with a disreputable
looking black bag which seemed to be very heavy.
Hochwald glared at him in a startled way, and at the bag,
then turned away laughing softly to himself.  But
Rowland followed closely by Herr Benz marched past him
perspiring and breathless and crashed the bag down upon
the speaker's table, with a great gasp of satisfaction.
He took off his cap, shook himself like a St. Bernard dog
emerging from a bath, then wiped his forehead with a
coarse red handkerchief.

"Pfui!" he said cheerfully, "I didn't think I'd ever get
here!"

Herr Senf, Liederman and Madame Rochal were
crowding around him shaking him by the hand.

"You've found it?" Zoya asked in a low voice in
English.

"Surest thing you know," said Rowland with a nod.

And then Senf, "Fräulein Korasov!"

"She is here--quite safe."

Rowland's eyes quickly found Tatyana's and a look
passed between them, a look which no one in the room
except perhaps Zoya Rochal, could have read, and she did
not see it.  For Georg Senf was again calling the meeting,
to order and the sound of excited voices in controversy
diminished to a hum, a whisper and then to silence.
Herr Senf was still smiling.  He was evidently very happy.

"Herr Rowland has justified our faith and our allegiance,"
he began, his deep bass ringing with the sounding
periods he loved.  "You have heard what has been said
of him here tonight.  If you would believe all you have
heard he is both super-man and devil!  Fortunately, we
are not all so acrimonious as Herr Hochwald.  Perhaps
that is because we have less at stake.  I may tell you
that Herr Rowland is neither super-man nor devil but
a being like you or me, a citizen of the world, thrust
suddenly, in a crisis in its affairs, into the leadership of
a great organization which brings our message to all
peoples.  That he has acquitted himself with skill, good
faith and devotion, you shall now see for yourselves and
decide, at least for the South German representatives,
whether he is not worthy of his high prerogatives."

The citizen of the world sat upon the speaker's table
swinging his legs, one arm affectionately around the black
bag alongside of him, his highest prerogative at that
moment being the use of a pinch of dry tobacco from
the pouch of his nearest neighbor, which he was now
smoking, exhaling it through his nose luxuriously.  He
was very contented and chuckled at the angry face of
Herr Hochwald in front of him.

"I will not take your time," Herr Senf went on, "to
tell you the means by which Herr Rowland discovered
the whereabouts of Fräulein Korasov.  I will let him
inform you how he found her and how he has brought you
the Treasure of Nemi.  Herr Rowland."

A murmur of voices pitched in low excited tones, while
the occupants of the benches leaned eagerly forward,
those in the rear seats crowding and climbing up to see
over the shoulders of those in front of them.  Rowland
stopped swinging his legs and crawled down from the
table with evident regret, but he laid the pipe aside and
stood up facing them with a smile.  A good many things
have been said about Phil Rowland's smile, and tonight
it was essentially a part of him because he couldn't
remember when he had ever been so happy in his life, and
he didn't intend to have his evening spoiled (or theirs
for that matter) by making a speech.  So he began
quite clearly and without the slightest hesitation an
account of the events of the evening with Herr Benz,
culminating in the discovery of Fräulein Korasov in the room
upstairs in the villa of Count Monteori at Starnberg.

"Our friend, Herr Hochwald, had planned well," he
finished.  "But a vacant house which exhales the odor
of a Turkish cigarette is an object of suspicion.  The
resistance of Herr Förster was unfortunate, but if the
thought is any comfort to you, Herr Hochwald, I may
tell you that Herr Förster is now in the care of a doctor
and I hope for the best.  I succeeded in getting what I
went for.  Fräulein Korasov came to you by the
evening train, because her testimony was necessary to your
business.  I did not know if I could get through in time
but thanks to Herr Benz, here I am and what is more to
the point here,----" tapping the bag beside him, "here
is the money."

Hochwald had risen with a swagger and a smile.

"This man is an impostor," he cried.  "He is trying to
deceive you.  This is the bag which Fräulein Korasov
filled with stones.  Have you a key, Herr Rowland," he
asked maliciously, "that you may open it?"

Rowland laughed.

"Oh yes," he said easily and then significantly, "I found
the key, Herr Hochwald--in the chimney!"

Hochwald staggered and leaned upon the back of a
chair.  His face was ghastly, for Rowland opened the bag
and took out the packages one by one, exhibited them
and put them on the table.

"I think they are all here," he said.  "Twenty-five of
them--mostly in thousand franc notes--a thousand in
a package.  Would you like to count them, Herr Hochwald?"

There was no reply and Rowland put the packages in
the bag again.

Herr Hochwald waited in a moment of hesitation and
then crossed the room toward a door beyond the speaker's
table.  But before he reached it, a strange thing
happened, for a man rose from a seat upon the left in a
corner where he had sat silent and unobtrusive all the
evening, a very tall man in a long linen coat with a slouch
hat pulled well down over his eyes.

"Stop that man!" he cried in quick, sharp accents.
"He is under arrest!"

Hochwald halted and the two men nearest him
instinctively caught him by the arms.  All eyes were upon
the tall man who spoke as though with authority.  Georg
Senf stared at him.  Rowland looked up quickly.  But
Zoya Rochal turned a startled look in his direction and
muttered an exclamation.

"And who are you, sir," asked Senf anxiously.

The tall man threw off his slouch hat and linen coat
and revealed a cadaverous figure, clad in the field gray
uniform of a Prussian General.  His face was thin,
wrinkled and yellow and his small eyes were hidden under
the thatch of his brows.  He pushed forward, those
nearest him making way quickly and as he did so they saw
the decorations which glittered on his breast.

"The pelican!" whispered Rowland to Zoya Rochal.

A silence had fallen--a hush rather--which differed
from that which had been compelled before.  It seemed
now as though the breath of every person was held in
suspense, in awe--or was it terror?

The tall man reached the cleared space by the speaker's
table and with a quick gesture of authority motioned
Hochwald to return.

Hochwald's eyes were starting from his head, and he
seemed unable to move, but suddenly as though obedient
to a habit he couldn't resist, he came back to the table
and saluted.

"At your orders, Excellency," he stammered and stood
at attention.

"I am General von Stromberg," the officer snapped in
his crisp staccato as he turned to the crowd.  "Let no
person leave the room.  The house is surrounded by my
men.  I am in command here."

Of all those within the rooms, only Rowland moved.
Behind von Stromberg's back, he seized the black bag from
the table, put it down on end upon the floor near Tanya
and sat on it.

General von Stromberg folded his arms and glared
along the rows of faces which seemed to bleach row by
row, under his withering glance.  He dominated
them--completely, as Rowland hurriedly thought, the living
personification of the *Verboten* sign.

"You were permitted to come into these rooms," the
General began--"all of you.  But none of you," and he
gave a sardonic grin, "will be permitted--to go out."

In his long fingers, he swung a silver whistle by a silken
cord.  He seemed to be playing with it, amusing himself,
while he watched their faces.

"I have been very much interested in listening to your
speeches and your testimony," he said, his thin voice
caressing his words, "it has been very interesting--ve-ry
interesting.  And now you shall listen to mine.  Is there
anyone here who denies me the right?"

Silence.  Rowland struck a light for his extinguished
pipe and the venerable Senf with some show of spirit
spoke up.

"The right of free speech has not been denied us, Excellency."

Von Stromberg glanced at him and very slightly
shrugged his shoulders.

"I have heard much of the rights of free speech, much
more of the doings of the Bavarian Committee.  It has
aroused my curiosity.  That is why I am here.  Some
of you are well known to me.  Herr Senf, Herr
Liederman, Madame Rochal, Herr Fenner, Herr Rowland, I am
glad to identify you.  I hope you will come to no harm.
Perhaps it will surprise you when I say that I am deeply
in sympathy with your purpose to recover the money of
the International Society of Nemi.  So large a sum if
misappropriated, if wasted or improperly used, may do
an incalculable harm to your own cause--or even to the
Fatherland."

He paused and looked around the room.  Then he went
on amusedly.

"While I have heard many things here tonight which
have greatly enlightened me, still I am not disposed to
be querulous.  We will pass them by.  We will forget
them.  You like to meet and drink your beer and listen
to speeches.  It is an amusing pastime to find fault with
the Government.  You are all loyal citizens--oh I am sure
of that.  But I want very much to put your loyalty to
the proof, for the Fatherland now has need of all the
support, all the devotion and patriotism of its people."

Where was he leading?  The faces of the people
before him showed mystification.  Zoya Rochal shot a
hopeless glance at Rowland, who frowned a little, then
crossed his legs and squatted more firmly on the black bag.

At this moment General von Stromberg turned, faced
him and their glances met.

If the General's look held a challenge, Herr Rowland
could scarcely have been aware of it, for he looked up
at him, quite respectfully but with a look of grave
inquiry.  Von Stromberg turned away.

"Perhaps I do not make myself clear," he went on.
"Herr Rowland, the new leader of the Society of Nemi,
has brought you back your twenty-five millions of francs
that you may vote this appropriation for certain laudable
purposes.  Perhaps there is some question in your minds
as to which purpose is the most desirable.  Some of you
wish the money to go to Russia, some that it may be used
in France, England, Italy and America.  A few of you
perhaps that it shall be spent in Germany."

He laughed again and toyed with his whistle cord.

"And why not in Germany, my friends?  For three
years we have been at war with the ring of enemies who
are bent upon exterminating us.  And there are some
among you who would send this money into the countries
of our enemies, where it will eventually go into munitions
to murder your own brothers?  It is unbelievable."

"If your Excellency will permit," Rowland had risen
and stood astride like the Colossus of Rhodes with the
black suit-case between his legs.

Von Stromberg turned toward him with a frown,
impatient at the interruption.  But Rowland's tone, though
polite was quite firm and his smile charmingly ingenuous.
"Your Excellency perhaps is unaware that this money is
not the property of this Committee to do with as it
chooses.  It was contributed by men and women of many
nationalities, and is to be kept in trust by the Society
which I represent for----"

"A grave responsibility for one so young, Herr
Rowland," the General broke in suddenly.  And then with
much politeness, "Will you permit me to continue?"

Rowland laughed.

"No," he said clearly.  "Not if you're going to urge
the appropriation of this money for interests with which
the Society of Nemi has nothing in common."

At this effrontery those in the front seats gasped, but
there was a deep murmur of approval among those at
the rear of the room.

General von Stromberg merely smiled.

"I claim the right to speak.  I ask for a ruling from
the chair.  Herr Senf----"

The chairman frowned and rose.

"Excellency," he gasped.  "You may speak."

"Thanks.  I will not detain you long.  Herr Rowland
has chosen to bring up the question of the ownership of
the money, on the ground of its contribution by people
of many nationalities.  My reply is that Germany recognizes
but two groups of peoples on the earth, its allies
and its enemies.  In the one case, the money is ours
because we have contributed it--in the other it is ours----"
he lowered his voice and spoke the words softly--but
everyone in the rooms heard him--"because--we take it."

As he finished, he turned slowly and with a significant
gesture.

"Herr Rowland will bring the suit-case here--to the
table."

Rowland remained immovable but his eyes narrowed
and his lips compressed.

"You can hardly expect me to comply with such a
request----"

Von Stromberg frowned.

"I don't request, I command," he said sharply.

Rowland's features relaxed again and he burst into
a good humored laugh.

"You can't mean it, Excellency.  You are too wise.
It would lead to trouble--serious trouble----"

Something in Rowland's tone, more than the words
themselves, arrested Von Stromberg's attention.

"Trouble!" he repeated.  "What trouble?"

"Merely that I might feel compelled to call a
revolution," said Rowland pleasantly.

Von Stromberg glared at him a moment, his closely
cropped bullet-like head, deep between his shoulders.
Then suddenly he straightened and a smile twisted at the
end of his lips.

"You have a strange sense of humor, Herr Rowland.
A revolution!  In Germany?" he laughed.  "Surely the
time is not yet when a polite adventurer from the United
States, our most deadly enemy,----"

"*Your* most deadly enemy, Baron von Stromberg,"
Rowland broke in.  And then with a wave of his hand,
"Not theirs!"

"Ah, Herr Rowland, I must pay you the tribute of
admiration," said the General with a bow of mock
humility.  "You are a brave man--so brave that it seems a
pity to arrest you--to shoot you tonight--as a spy.  It
would pain me deeply----"

"Not so much as it would me, Herr General," said
Rowland, "or those whose cause I represent," he
continued, his voice ringing clearly, "for that shot would
echo from one end of Germany to the other."

A roar of approval rang through the Hall.  "That is
true!" roared a voice, and another, "He does not dare!"

General von Stromberg stood erect, quiet, searching
out with his keen eyes those members of the Committee
who had spoken, waiting for the outbreak to cease.  Then
when quiet was restored, he shrugged a shoulder and with
a quick gesture of his fingers toward Rowland,

"Herr Rowland is there," he said with a smile.  "Quite
safe, unharmed.  That is my reply.  He shall remain
quite safe, unharmed and go whence he came, to conduct
his own business and yours--upon certain conditions.
I like this loyalty to his great trust.  It is quite
admirable."  He smiled slowly.  "Fortunately this
Committee can lift from his shoulders the weight of his
responsibility."

"How, Excellency?"

Von Stromberg's smile vanished and he spoke with great
deliberateness, each word falling with icy distinctness
upon the hush of the crowd.

"By voting this money as I shall direct," he said.

"Your Excellency!"  Senf had risen at last to the
full majesty of his outraged dignity.  "That may not
be.  I cannot permit such a vote to be taken," he broke in.

The hoarse murmur of approval had risen again and
here and there a reckless note of anger punctuated the
commotion.  General von Stromberg listened coolly, his
twisted smile unpleasantly unhumorous.

"Silence!" he snapped, and the noise of voices
diminished but did not cease.  A rumble of thunder outside
added to the din.  Electricity was in the air.  But Von
Stromberg stood upright, swinging his whistle by its
silken cord.

"Silence!" he repeated.  "I command you!"

The habit of obedience compelled them and they sat
silent at last, but there were angry faces among them.

"My friends, this toy in my fingers is harmless enough.
But if I put it to my lips, you will be shot as you sit
upon your benches----"

"We can die but once----" broke in a clear high
voice almost beside him.  Tatyana had risen pale and
erect, her hands at her sides and faced him calmly.

"We can die but once," she repeated again more
insistently as though she feared he might not have heard.

Von Stromberg stared at her in a moment of silence,
then without replying turned to Herr Senf who still
stood, trembling with anger.

"You refuse to obey my command?" asked the General.

"I do."

"Then *I* will take the chair," he grinned.  "Herr
Hochwald!  You will take pencil and paper and record the
vote."  And then raising his voice so that it rang sharply
through the rooms.

"It has been moved by Herr General Graf von Stromberg,
Privy Councillor of His Majesty the Emperor----"

He paused to grin in self-gratulation--"that the funds of
the Society of Nemi at the present moment in the custody
of the Central Socialist Revolutionary Committee of
Bavaria, be and hereby are appropriated for the uses of the
Socialist Party in the Reichstag as his Imperial Majesty
may direct."

A death-like silence had now fallen.  What did it
portend?  Rowland stood as though the smile had frozen
on his lips, the impudence of this old man was more
wonderful than anything he had ever witnessed in his
life--one man against two hundred enemies, so sure of
himself and of the power that he represented--that there
seemed to be not a doubt in his own mind as to the
outcome of his audacity.  Rowland could have shot him as
he stood, but feared.  Their leader could not stand alone.
Senf was plainly frightened.

It was *their* fight--those others.  He set his jaws in
a moment of fury.  Were they stuffed men--images?
Where was the defiance he had heard so brave upon their
lips today?  Shriveled in their hearts with the terror
that made them dumb.  He had no definite plan, but he
measured the distance to the door behind the table,
resolved that if the worst came the money and Tanya
would go with him from this room.  What a fool he had
been to bring it here.

"We will now vote," Von Stromberg's voice broke in
again.  "Herr Hochwald will record your names as you
come forward.  He will also take your addresses.  We
will proceed--the first now--from the right.  Herr
Fenner----"

The man who a moment ago had swayed Tanya by his
fervor and sincerity, rose and came forward slowly.

"I know you very well, Herr Fenner," Von Stromberg
was saying, "You have devised a bomb which has proved
quite efficient.  One of your bombs exploded last month
in the rifle-assembling room at Essen.  Fortunately no
one was injured.  You are an inventor, Herr Fenner.  I
pray you to invent an excuse for this outrage which will
make you innocent."

"Excellency, I----"

The man's face was the color of parchment.

"How do you vote, Herr Fenner?" asked Von Stromberg
with a leer.  "*For* the resolution----?  Or against it?"

"For----" the man gasped in a half whisper.  "I
vote for----"

Von Stromberg grinned.

"Good!" he cried jovially.  "The force of example will
be of inestimable value.  Herr Liederman!"

The bulky form of the Socialist approached, his brows
twitching, his face suffused with blood.

"Excellency.  I am Councilor of the Order of Nemi."

"Max Liederman," cut in the sharp voice.  "Socialist-Democrat.
Owns property in Stuttgart which may be
desired by the Government.  Accepted money from the
discredited Baron von Weiler in the case of----"

"Excellency, enough!" said Liederman chokingly.

"How do you vote?" thundered Von Stromberg.

"For--Excellency," muttered Liederman.

"Quite right.  You see how the wind blows?"  And
then, with a smile, "Zoya Rochal!"

Madame Rochal approached and her eyes and Rowland's
met.  The look in his compelled her and she faced
the General with desperate coolness.

"Ah, Madame.  And you----?"

"I vote No----" she said firmly, her lips compressed,
her eyes closed.

"One moment, Madame, in case you should feel any
uncertainty--you are a Russian by birth, the daughter
of Alexiev Manuilov, a dealer in hides in Odessa.  You
were a very beautiful child.  At the age of seventeen,
you ran away from home with an English gambler
named----"

"Is my *dossier* necessary, Excellency?" she muttered,
with bowed head.

----"named Wishart," he continued relentlessly.  "You
were next heard of in Constantinople, where you were a
part of the household of Mustapha Bey----"

"Excellency----!"

"In Paris, whither you fled with a French rug agent
named Dunois, you met the Duc de Noailles----"

"Excellency, I pray that you----"

----"who shot himself, when you ran away to Austria
with----"

"For the love of God, Excellency----"

----"with Baron Meyerling of the Embassy.  But he
repudiated you when he discovered that his secretary----"

"Excellency, enough.  I will vote----"

"How--Madame----?"

Rowland caught one glimpse of her face in this moment
of her disgrace.  Her glance met his and fell, she seemed
in a moment to have grown years older.

"Your vote----?" Von Stromberg laughed.  "How--Madame?"

No one heard her reply but General von Stromberg
announced quite coolly,

"*For*, Herr Hochwald."

And Zoya Rochal sought her seat, her head bowed,
broken and defeated.

Baron von Stromberg was greatly enjoying himself.
He leaned against the edge of the table and as each man
came up, transfixed him with a look, hypnotic and deeply
suggestive of the power of his malice.

But in another moment a change was to come--one
of those astonishing shifts of the psychology of a crowd.
For one man voted "No" defiantly, the big man in the
blouse who had been so violent earlier in the evening.

"Stand aside, Herr Borsch," snapped Von Stromberg.

"With *me*," cried Rowland, joyously.  He might have
been shouting "Montjoie!" with his famous namesake in
defiance of the Saracens.

"And me," cried another nearby, rising from his seat.

"And me----!"

"And me----!"

The crowd had leaped to its feet as though with one
accord, the chorus swelled and the rooms rocked with
the tumult.  Von Stromberg straightened and his right
hand which held the whistle moved slowly toward his lips.

Rowland bent over Tanya and whispered something.
The movement caught Hochwald's eye.

"Excellency!" he shouted.

As Von Stromberg turned, the whistle already in his
lips, he gazed straight into the muzzle of Rowland's
automatic.

"Blow, Excellency----"

The shrill whistle and the shot sounded at the same
moment.  Von Stromberg seemed to stumble and fall.
As Hochwald reached for a weapon Borsch fell upon him
and bore him to the ground by the sheer weight of his
body.  Other shots rang out further down the rooms.
A woman's scream punctuated the roar.  A rush of feet
in the hallways outside--doors flew open, and soldiers
appeared, the lamplight glinting on helmet, spike and
bayonet.  At the sight of soldiers there was a roar of
fury.

"Down with the soldiers!  Kill!  The hour of
deliverance is here!  Kill!  Kill!"

There was a crash of glass as one of the lamps went
down--another.  The rooms were in darkness except for
the flashes of the lightning through the dirty windows.
Rowland seized the suit-case and pushed through the
crowd which surged toward the door, his arm around
Tanya.  The soldiers were trying to keep the crowd inside.
A furious struggle followed, shots were fired and men fell.

"It is impossible--that way," cried Rowland in Tanya's
ear.  "Come."

A few had escaped by a rear window which let upon the
roof of an adjoining house.  Outside, too, above the roar
of the thunder, came the sharp note of firearms.  But
there was no other chance.  Rowland went first,
stumbling over a figure that had fallen just outside and as
he reached the roof there was a flash in the darkness
and a bullet crashed into the woodwork of the window.
He stood still, sheltering Tanya with the black suit-case,
while she descended, his weapon in line, waiting for the
flash of lightning to reveal the whereabouts of the sniper.
A gleam of light.  A German officer at the top of the
slanting roof above him, deliberately reloading his weapon.
Fortunately the roof had a low pitch.  Rowland waited
a moment until Tanya was behind him and then clambered
upward, the suit-case clasped in front of him, firing as
he went.  The officer toppled, caught at the
chimney-breast beside him, missed it, and falling, slid head first
down the slippery roof and disappeared.  Rowland
gained the top, a flat space buttressed by chimneys which
adjoined a larger building upon the right, hauled Tanya
up beside him and then hurried along toward its further
end, hoping to find a roof adjoining.  But as he did so,
his toe struck a projection and he fell sprawling, just
as two soldiers clambered up and began firing.  Rowland
heard Tanya's cry of dismay.

"All right," he cried reassuringly.  "The other
chimney--hide."

She obeyed.  And Rowland waited until the nearest
soldier had almost reached him when with the last shot
in his weapon he fired point blank into his body.  The
man crashed down, his rifle falling just beside Rowland's
hand.  With a cry of joy he seized it and rose.  The
other man fired.  Rowland felt the bullet pass through
his clothing somewhere and was surprised that he felt no
pain and did not fall.  Instead he found himself erect,
standing quite firmly upon his feet, his keen gaze seeking
the point of the bayonet of his adversary.  This was a
game he knew.  He aimed at the approaching figure and
pulled the trigger of his rifle but there was only a harmless
click.  The chamber was empty.  But the other man had
not fired again.  A flash of lightning revealed him--a
mere boy, very pale and uncertain.  It seemed a
pity--he was so young.

And then he heard the boy's voice.

"*Kamerad!*" it said.  "*Kamerad!*"

And Rowland waited a moment.

"Hold up your hands."

The boy obeyed, whimpering.

"I do not want to kill my own people," he said.

"You are sure?"

"Yes, yes."

"Good.  Nor do I."  And then, after a moment more,
"Go thou then and tell them that the roof is cleared."

In a moment Rowland had dropped the rifle and joined
Tanya by the chimney.

"You're not hurt?" she whispered in a lull of the
storm.

"No, I think not.  And you?"

She reassured him quickly.

"Thank God for that."

The rain was still pouring in torrents.  Behind them
the tumult of the baited crowd, but upon the roof upon
which they hid there was no one.  The boy had been true
to his word.

He took the weapon of Herr Förster which he had not
had time to draw from his other pocket, picked up the
suit-case and looked around.

"Come," he said.  "There must be some way out of this."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A SAMARITAN`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium

   A SAMARITAN

.. vspace:: 2

Beyond them at one side was another roof, and
beyond it again, through the driving storm they
could see the chimneys of others.  Rowland slid
down to the lower level.  Tanya handed him the
suitcase and in a moment in obedience to his orders she
had swung herself over the edge of the eaves and into his
arms.

But their situation was precarious for the new roof
had a deeper pitch and the tiles were loose, but they
climbed to its peak, along which they made their way
on their hands and knees, Rowland leading and dragging
their precious booty toward a group of chimneys fifty
or sixty feet beyond, a defensible position should their
means of escape be discovered.  They reached it at last,
their clothes and fingers torn, and halted a moment here,
while Rowland reloaded his automatic while he watched
the dim profile of the house above them.

"It was horrible--I can never forget----," Tanya
was whispering.  "Like rats in a trap.  That dreadful
man!"

"I shot.  There was nothing else to do.  But I could
swear I missed him--the uncertain light--the crowd all
about----"

"But he fell--I saw him----"

"Yes," dubiously, "but they say he has as many lives
as a cat.  Sh!" he whispered suddenly.

They crouched lower in the darkness, while Rowland
peered up at the dim shapes along the roof of the
building from which they had descended.  Two soldiers--for
he could see the rifles in their hands--but they looked
down upon the sloping roof, exchanged a few words and
then, evidently changing their minds, disappeared again.
The roar of the storm had now drowned all other sounds,
for the shooting had ceased, but a dull glow now appeared
defining the window from which they had escaped.  The
glow was too red for lamp light, and then a smell of
smoke was borne down toward them upon the storm.
Fire!  Rowland pointed and Tanya saw.

"The lamps," he said.  "Unless they put it out it will
soon be so light that we can be seen from the street.
Risky footing in the dark, but we've got to chance it,"
he said grimly.  "Can you follow?"

"Try me," she said bravely.

He pressed her hand, caught up the suit-case, and they
went on, now at a higher elevation, now at a lower one,
until Rowland stopped again by another group of
chimneys to rest and listen.

"I don't know how far these roofs go, but there's a
river over here somewhere.  There's a dormer window
just beyond.  We can't go much further.  We'll have to
slip in and take a chance.  Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes."

In a lull of the storm they heard loud outcries from
the now distant hall.  Smoke and sparks were coming
from the windows, and at last a tongue of flame shot
upward.

"If we can get down----"

But the descent was precarious, for this roof was
steeper than the others.  In the street below the eaves
they now heard the rumble of heavy wheels upon the
cobbles, the clang of bells and shouts of excitement.

"If we can reach the street we might slip away in the
confusion," Rowland muttered, and had already begun
the dangerous descent to the roof of the dormer window
when a word of warning from Tanya made him pause.

"Someone--is following us," she whispered.

Rowland lodged the suit-case in the angle by the
chimney and turned, weapon in hand, peering into the
darkness.  The glow of the sparks and flame from the
burning building now shed a faint illumination along the wet
roofs and he made out a figure crawling toward them.
He waited a moment until the figure reached the gable
of the house on which they sat when he lowered his
automatic and frowned in uncertainty.

"I can't make out----" he whispered.  And then in a
guarded tone, "Who's there?"

There was a moment's pause and then a faint voice
came to them--a woman's voice.

"Philippe!"

With an exclamation, Rowland slipped the weapon in
his pocket and crawled back along the roof.

"Philippe--thank God!" And then faintly, "You
must help me.  I--I am--hurt----"

"Zoya!"

He helped her up and along the roof while she clung
to him in weakness and in terror, but he managed to
reach the safety of the chimneys, where Tanya helped him
support her.

"You are wounded?" he whispered.

"I saw you go.  I tried to follow.  Someone shot at
me in the dark.  I fell....  Then I knew that I--I must
go on and--and when the soldiers went--I crept--up--the
roof--I don't know how.  In the glow of the fire I
saw you and--and came.  But I am so dizzy----"

She stared down into the dark chasms on either side
and then her head fell sideways on Tanya's shoulder.

"She has fainted," muttered Rowland.

"We must get her down there in some way," said
Tanya bravely.

"Stay where you are.  I will see."

And putting the suit-case beside him he sat and went
carefully down to the roof of the dormer window, where
he lodged the suit-case again and then slid down.  There
was a broad ledge here and he crouched, peering around
into the window of the room beneath.  It was dark inside
but the window was open.  There was no time to spare,
so, weapon in hand, he entered without ceremony.  His
matches were wet and he had no means of making a light,
but he felt around with his hands and found a door, which
he opened cautiously.  There was a dim light in the hall
and by its light he made out the objects within the
shabby room, a trunk, two beds, a bureau and
wash-stand.  One of the two beds had been occupied and the
disorder of the room indicated that it had been suddenly
deserted.

Rowland scratched his head in a moment of uncertainty,
and then closed the door and locked it.

"Sorry, old top," he muttered, "but our need is greater
than yours."

As he emerged the flames from the burning building
had burst through the roof and the figures of Tanya and
Madame Rochal by the chimney were deeply etched in
silhouette against the glow of the heavens.  The
downpour had ceased and only a slight drizzle remained of
the storm which had been so friendly to them.  Even
now, if anyone chose to look upward they could see.
And so he crouched and crawled up again.

"It's got to be managed some way," he muttered to
Tanya.  "Come."

But she shook her head.

"I will follow," she said firmly.  "See, she has revived
a little."

With words of encouragement they got Madame Rochal
upright and the perilous descent began, Rowland with one
arm around her, the other hand clinging to a projection
of the roof.  They moved slowly down, Rowland fearing
another fainting spell which might cause her to lose
her balance, but the assurance of her companion gave
her the use of the last remnants of her strength, and
they reached the ledge in safety, where she clung to the
woodwork of the window while Rowland entered and then
half-dragged, half-lifted her within.  He carried her then
to the couch upon which he laid her and then returned
for Tanya.  But just outside the window he met her
coming down alone and in a moment had her in his arms
and safe with the suit-case within the room.

But safe for how long?  The security of their hiding
place depended upon their unknown host or hostess.
What sort of a house was this and who was the
occupant of the disordered couch?  While Tanya knelt
beside Madame Rochal, unfastening her clothing and trying
to learn the extent of her injuries, Rowland cautiously
unlocked the door and peered out down the stairs.  A
light burned on a lower floor, showing a shabby hallway
with torn wall-paper, a broken chair or two, but no
person in sight.  Then he made out the sound of voices
below, talking excitedly, and he realized that the
commotions of the street had entered here.  Outside he could
still hear the hoarse cries of the men in the street.  The
story of the raiding of the hall above must now have
reached all the neighborhood.

Leaving the door open, he returned to the bedside of
Zoya Rochal.  In this new care so suddenly thrown upon
her, Tanya had forgotten her own danger and Rowland's.
She had loosened Madame Rochal's clothing, and
had found the injury, a flesh wound in the side below
the arm-pit.

To leave Zoya there--to go down with Tanya and
lose themselves in the crowd outside--the thought
occurred to Rowland, but when Tanya spoke, he dismissed it.

"We must do something--make a bandage, get some
water, some restoratives," she whispered.  "We can't let
her die."

"But----"

"We'll be discovered by the one who sleeps here sooner
or later.  We must take our chances," she said quietly.

She shamed him.  From what new source had she
drawn the moral and physical courage to meet this new
test of her womanhood?  Even Rowland was weary and
anxious, yet here beside him undismayed by her night of
terror sat this woman he loved, calmly ministering to one
who, though perhaps not her enemy, had tonight been
proclaimed of a class beyond the pale of decent women.
He could not know that perhaps it was Zoya's very
frailty that had given Tanya strength.  And yet to know
what sort of woman she was he had only to remember
Tanya there in the hall of the committee, standing pale
but fearless while she defied the terrible von Stromberg.
This was the girl who now commanded the situation, the
mistress of his will as well as his heart.  He wanted to
tell her all that he thought of her, to live for another
space this one joyous moment of communion, so soon
broken; but her tone was urgent.  There was nothing but
to obey.

He had managed at last to find matches and a candle
which he lighted and placed upon the dressing stand
at the head of the bed.

"Now," said Tanya, "there must be water in the
pitcher--tear the sheet on the other bed for a bandage."

He was moving to obey when the door of the room
was pushed quietly open and a man carrying a lamp
in his hand stood upon the threshhold, gaping with
astonishment.  He was a very tall man, with a long
neck and a face tanned a deep brown which brought into
contrast the whiteness of his hair.  He was collarless and
very shabby, and peered first at Rowland, then at Tanya,
and the figure on the bed, as though he couldn't bring
himself to believe the evidence of his eyes.  But
Rowland's quiet tones cut the silence clearly.

"Come in, please--and shut the door."

It was not until then that he saw the weapon in
Rowland's hand, started a little,--then obeyed--still silent
and not a little perturbed.  But to make sure of him
Rowland crossed to the door behind him and locked it.
Still unable to comprehend, the tall man stared at the
dark figure on his bed and at the girl kneeling beside
it, for Tanya had turned and was looking up at him in
passionate appeal.

"We escaped over the roofs from the hall--where the
fire is," said Rowland quickly.  "The woman on the bed
has been shot.  If you are friendly you will help us.
Otherwise----"  He frowned and fingered his weapon.
suggestively.

"A friend----yes," said the tall man.  "It is horrible,
what has happened yonder.  I would have gone to help,
but the soldiers have cleared the streets.  You need have
no doubt of me, my friend," he said with a smile.  "You
may put your weapon away."

His voice was deep, resonant and suggestive of a life
in the open.  He spoke German with a slight Czech
accent and even in his shabby surroundings had an air of
distinction not to be denied.  Now that his astonishment
was gone, he went forward and put the lamp on the
dressing stand and turned facing Rowland, who had put his
pistol into his pocket and was examining their host with
growing confidence.

"The woman there needs attention," said Rowland.
"She has bled a great deal--some clean bandages and
medicine.  Can you get them?"

"Yes.  It is little enough.  I will help and thank God
for the chance.  I have some skill--if you will permit
me----"

Rowland nodded and Tanya moved aside and took up
the lamp as the man knelt beside the bed and bent over
the prostrate figure.  As Tanya brought the lamp over
the bed, she saw him start back and then peer more
closely at the features of Madame Rochal.

"God in Heaven!" his deep tones muttered.  "You!"

Emotion mastered him and his voice vibrated as he
asked,

"This woman--how did she come here?"

"She was a member of the committee which met there.
You know what happened--the soldiers came.  She was
shot in escaping.  You know who----?"

Their host held up his hand.

"No matter what I know.  But I must save her.  I
must--must----"

With Rowland's help, he turned the injured woman, his
long bony fingers quickly exposing the wound.  The
bullet had entered the side below the arm, and had passed
through the muscles at the back.

"It is not so bad as I supposed," he muttered.  "She
has lost much blood but the hemorrhage has ceased."

He rose and crossed quickly to the washstand and
brought a basin full of water and a clean towel.

"If you will wash the wound, Fräulein, I will get some
dry clothing and medicine."

Rowland opened the door and their host hurried out,
while Tanya obeyed his injunctions.

"He knew her," said Rowland.  "You saw----?"

"Yes."

"What do you make of him?"

"He has been born to better things--gentle once,
gentle always.  You need have no fear."

"It's of you, Tanya, that I'm thinking.  There has
been too much----"

"We are still free," she smiled up at him, "still
victorious.  I am no weakling, Philippe."

"But we are still in great danger.  I wouldn't mind
taking a chance in the street alone, but with you----"

"Where would you go?" she asked quietly.

"To Georg Senf, to Yaeger--to Weiss--to----"

"To arrest," she said with a smile.  "We don't know
what has happened.  There was fighting--shooting.
Georg Senf may be dead.  If the streets are cleared the
soldiers are in command, that is certain.  We can gain
nothing by going now."

"But they will search this house----"

"Why?  The soldiers were on guard upon the roofs.
They missed us in the darkness.  Those frightful roofs!"  She
glanced at Zoya.  "How she ever managed to follow us!"

"Poor Zoya!" he said, and she understood what he
meant.  And then after a pause, "But we have another
duty."

Her look questioned.

"To get out of Germany, with this!" and he kicked
the black bag that had been the cause of all their
troubles.

"Yes," she said quietly, with a smile.  "Of course.
But something will happen to help us.  I'm sure of it.
Wait."

Her courage was of the quiet kind, patient, enduring,
and her words reproved the hot impulses that were
surging up against his own better judgment.  Soft footsteps
on the stair outside and the tall man entered again,
bringing some clean soft linen, a nightdress, and several
bottles.  Between them they managed to remove her outer
clothing and then Tanya completed the arrangements for
her comfort.  The stranger set to work at once, silently
anointing and bandaging the injury.  The sting of the
iodine as it entered the wound aroused her and she opened
her eyes and looked around the room, meeting Rowland's eyes.

"Philippe!" she whispered softly.

Rowland, holding the lamp, felt rather than saw the
slight tilt of Tanya's head upward and noticed the face
of the tall man who turned his gaze up to Rowland's in
grave inquiry.

"You are quite safe, Zoya," he found himself saying,
"and in good hands.  You will sleep now."

They gave her an opiate, and, with a weak smile, she
obeyed him.

The dawn was creeping up over the roof-tops outside
and searched the dark shadows of the room.  Their host
had risen, tall and gaunt, staring down at the woman on
the couch.  His white hair had deceived them, and in
the pale light of day they could see that he was not as
old as he had seemed to be, a man not far from forty.
The lines in his cheeks were deeply graven as though
seared by sudden misfortune, but his somber eyes burned
steadily and the smile which parted his lips as he looked
at his handiwork was very gentle and very sweet.  For
the moment, it seemed that he had forgotten Rowland
and Tanya--in the spell of some memory that was not
all bitterness.

The early morning air was chill and for nearly two
hours Tanya had sat in her drenched clothing.  Her
sneeze, which she tried to repress, awoke their host from
his revery with a start.

"Fräulein, I am sorry my poor chamber affords so
little of comfort.  But you must sleep and have dry
clothing.  I am afraid, Herr----" he paused.

"Rowland."

"I am afraid, Herr Rowland, that I must take Frau
Nisko into our confidence."

"Who is Frau Nisko?"

"The amiable person who lets out these palatial lodgings,"
he said with a smile and an expressive gesture of
the hand.  "A compatriot of mine--Bohemian," he
explained.  "A lover of liberty and a woman to be trusted."

"We can pay well for silence."

"She is poor--as I am, God knows, but there are some
things, Herr Rowland," he finished gently, "that may not
be bought with money."

Rowland felt the reproof under this strange creature's
gentleness, and took him by the hand in token of
understanding.

"You know that I cannot thank you.  Necessity knows
no law.  We are desperate--hunted!  And if found will
be shot----"

"They shall not find you--I pledge you my honor.  I
too owe you something----" his gaze wandered to the
figure on the couch.  "And perhaps I can pay."

"There is then no danger of a search?"

"I think not.  The streets are now cleared.  There are
soldiers just outside keeping the lodgers in.  The scene
of the horror is several hundred meters away from here.
How you managed to cross the roofs so far--with
*her*----!"  And then moving toward the door, "It shall
be arranged.  There is another room just here in the
corridor.  I will return."

The wounded woman was now sleeping heavily.  For
the first time since they had left Starnberg See Rowland
and Tanya were alone with each other.

"Are you very tired?" he asked gently as he took her
in his arms.

"A little," she sighed, smiling, "but I'm very happy."

He held her more closely.  "And I.  You've got more
sand than any woman I have ever known."

"Brave?" she smiled.  "I'm afraid--not.  I----"

Her teeth chattered with the chill and reaction which
he knew must come.  And suddenly she sank more deeply
into the shelter of his arms, her shoulders shaking.

"Tanya----!"

She reassured him with a laugh.  "Oh, don't worry.
I'm not going--to give--way!"

"Sh--dear.  Presently you shall sleep.  Tomorrow--today--we
shall devise something.  You love me?"

"As much as possible--in--four days,--my Philippe."

"I have loved you all my life, Princess Tatyana," he
laughed.

"And yet you--you do not even know my name."

"I know what it's going to be."

"You have no curiosity?"

"You're a princess, you said----!"

She nodded.  "My name is Samarov."

"I like Tatyana better."

"What does it matter?"

"Nothing.  We have looked death in the eyes, we have
won life--together."

"God grant that may be true."

He kissed her gently and looked at the recumbent
figure on the couch.

"And if they find us here----?" she questioned.

"We have still this hour----" he whispered.

They sprang apart as the tall man entered.  He looked
at them for a moment in silence and then a smile broke
over his gaunt face.

"So," he said, "I ask pardon.  It has been arranged.
The room is ready, Fräulein.  A night-gown upon the
bed.  Your clothing shall be dried while you sleep.  If
Herr Rowland will permit----"

He stood beside the door bowing and following the
direction of his gesture, Tanya went out into the hallway
to the room adjoining, where Frau Nisko was awaiting
her.  In a moment his host returned and hunted about in
the drawers of the old dressing stand.

"You, too, Herr Rowland--some dry clothes----"

"I'm dry already.  It doesn't matter.  To a soldier
a little dampness----"

"A soldier----?"

"Of the French Legion----"

"Here!"

And briefly Rowland told him of the strange events
that had brought him into Germany.

"The Society of Nemi.  I have heard--And you----?"

"Its leader--but in Germany--merely an American, a
spy--rifle-fodder.  You understand.  I've told you
all--because I trust you, Herr----"

Rowland paused suggestively, then waited.

"My name?" the tall man said at last--"I am called
Markov.  Perhaps you will not believe that I was once
a gentleman.  But that matters nothing.  I was taken
ill with tubercular trouble and knew that I must live in
the open air."  He laughed a little bitterly.  "My
occupation will amuse you.  I travel with a hurdy-gurdy, a
piano organ drawn by my excellent Fra Umberto from
one end of Germany and Austria to the other."

"And who is Fra Umberto?" asked Rowland.

"A donkey, sir, the best, the only friend I ever had,
patient, enduring, honest, amiable, who asks nothing,
borrows no money and does what I ask of him without
question.  What more could one ask of friendship than that?"

Rowland laughed.

"Nothing, God knows.  And where is he, your friend?"

"In the stable nearby, with my precious instrument of
torture.  The Germans are a musical race.  In the cities
they chase me away but in the country--all Summer long
I gathered in the pfennigs, a harvest which lasts me
through the winter--here in this palatial habitation.  But
I am happy for my trunk is full of books.  I read, I
study, I dream----"

Herr Markov put his hand to his brow, gazed at the
silent figure of Zoya Rochal for a moment and then with
an abrupt gesture of abnegation, rose and closed the
door.

"I--I am selfish keeping you awake with my story,
Herr Rowland.  You have been through much.  We
cannot tell what may come.  You must rest.  Take off your
coat at least--a dry, warm garment--and sleep."

"But you--Herr Markov----?"

"I sleep little.  It's a farce even to lie down.  I will
watch, Herr Rowland."  And as the American protested
he pushed him gently toward the vacant cot.  "It is
sometimes occupied by another--but it is quite clean.
*Bitte*, Herr Rowland."

And so with a sigh Rowland obeyed.  But it was a
long while before he slept for the events of the day and
night had brought high nervous tension which refused
to diminish.  But at last, admitting the wisdom of his
strange host, Rowland relaxed and closed his eyes.  The
last waking memory he had was of Markov, sitting in the
chair beside Zoya's bed, bending forward intently, like
a mother at the bedside of a sick child.





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   CHAPTER XX


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   ESCAPE

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Rowland slept lightly and was awakened by a
sound overhead, a scuffling upon the tiles of the
roof.  Herr Markov already stood upright by the
window, listening.  Rowland started, wide awake at once,
but a gesture from his host halted him.

"Under the couch," he whispered, "the covers will hide
you."

And Rowland obeyed quickly, aware that the sound of
shots would soon have the hornets about their ears.

Whoever was upon the roof was slowly sliding down to
the window.  Soldiers!  They had followed the wounded
Zoya.  Even the rain...?

He heard Herr Markov's voice out of the window.

"What the devil do you do up there?"

Another voice replied, and then questioned, for he heard
Markov's reply.

"In here?  What should anyone do in here?"

The other voice came nearer at the window-opening
itself--a young voice, sharp, peremptory.

"What is this house?"

"A lodging house, Herr Lieutnant.  You see--of the
poorer class."

"Who keeps it?"

"Frau Nisko, Herr Lieutnant.  It is number sixteen."

"No one entered by this window last night?"

"Last night!  By this window!" in excellent bewilderment.
"No, Herr Lieutnant.  That would have been impossible.
Besides, you may see for yourself--who would
wish to enter here?"

"Someone may have passed through while you slept."

"I was awake all night with my wife yonder, who is very
ill of tuberculosis."

"Ah--then you are certain?"

"Positive--but if the Herr Lieutnant will enter----?"

Rowland wondered at Herr Markov's temerity--also
wondered what he would do if the Herr Lieutnant accepted
the invitation.  But fortunately the ingenuousness of Herr
Markov had stopped the gap.  The young officer withdrew
and presently they heard his boots scrambling up the tiles
overhead.

"Pfui!" said Markov, wiping the sweat from his brow as
Rowland peeped out.  "That was a close shave, Herr
Rowland.  He would have entered if I had not invited him to.
Human nature is the great paradox.  It always desires
that which is denied it and scorns that which is proffered.
Had the Herr Lieutnant been older the thing would have
been difficult."

Rowland crawled out from his place of concealment
and examined his host with a new interest--a new respect.
An attic philosopher!  He grasped Herr Markov by the hand.

"A friend indeed!" he murmured.  "And what would
you have done if he had come in."

Herr Markov shrugged.  "I do not know.  Waited,
perhaps.  He might have gone again."  He glanced at
Madame Rochal and set his jaws.  "My hands are very strong,
Herr Rowland.  Besides, I have pledged you my word."

"It is a fearful danger into which I have brought you----"

"I have welcomed it--you need not worry."

"But if they come again----?"

"I think they will be satisfied with this.  But it will not
do to stay here too long.  We will see.  At present, since
you are awake, I will go down and make some inquiries."

The sun had been up many hours, a brilliant summer
day of blue and gold.  Rowland cautiously brought his
head up to the level of the window-sill, looking out, but
the houses upon the opposite side of the street were small
and this window was in no danger of observation.  So he
straightened and went over to Zoya, for the sound of
voices had awakened her and she had turned on her bed.
He felt her pulse and at the light touch of his fingers she
turned her head and opened her eyes.

"Ah, Philippe," she sighed gently.

"You are feeling better?" he asked cheerfully.

"I--I am not sure," she murmured.  "I ache--how I
ache--from head to foot--Oh--!" She tried to move her
bandaged shoulder and gasped, "I remember--him!"

"You are quite safe," he said reassuringly, "in the
hands of friends."

"Safe--no, not safe, Philippe----" she muttered, "not
safe while *he* is alive."

"Who?"

"Von Stromberg."  She started up feverishly.  "He
fell.  But as I went out of the window, I--I saw him rise.
It--it is impossible to escape him----"

Her voice gained strength and Rowland soothed her
gently.

"You must be quiet, Zoya.  They have been here--over
the roofs--but they went away again.  They won't come
back----"

"But he--he--is--is the devil incarnate----"

Her eyes stared at the wall above her--as at a specter
of their enemy.  The terror of last night had come over
her again.

"Quite so.  I agree with you.  But I'm no longer
alarmed.  Why should you be?  A swallow of water--and
then sleep again, Zoya.  You're going to be quite all
right."

"I was shot----"

"Through the arm-pit--nothing serious.  A few days
and----"

"Whose room is this?" she asked suddenly, looking
round at the bare walls and shabby furniture.

"A friend's.  A Samaritan, Zoya.  He has nursed you
while I slept--a stranger----"

"Oh," she gave a little shrug and turned her face
toward the wall.  He poured out a glass of water and
brought it to her.  She drank it eagerly and then sank
back with a sigh.

"A devil incarnate," she repeated.  "And the
money----?" she asked suddenly.

"Here," he laughed.  "Like a millstone around my neck."

"You have it still--here?"

"Well, rather.  But I wish it were in Jericho."

"You are a man, *mon Phili*----"

She had thrown her sound arm impulsively over his,
but at a sudden sharp memory she withdrew it and turned
her head toward the wall.  There was a moment of silence
and then he heard her voice, hard, expressionless.

"I wanted to--to vote as you wished, but--but I
betrayed you.  His eyes were burning me, his
words--scorching--my--my very soul."  And then, almost in a
whisper, "You heard what he said----"

"What does it matter now?" he asked softly.

"He scourged me," she whispered again, "stripped me
bare for those animals to look at.  If he had killed
me--if this shot had been a few inches lower----"

"But it isn't," said Rowland cheerfully.  "Buck up,
Zoya.  The worst is yet to come.  I hoped the old pelican
was dead, but we'll outwit him--some way."

She turned, smiled feebly and gave him her hand again.

"You forgive me?" she asked.

"Forgive--what for?  The thing was hopeless from the
beginning.  I was a fool to try to start anything, but it
made me sore--to see the old rooster walk off with this
money--under my very eyes--and he hasn't got it yet,"
he finished boyishly.

"What are you going to do?"

Rowland rose and put the glass on the washstand.

"I'm going to get out of here if you don't stop
talking--at once--or tell your nurse."

"My nurse?"

"The Johnny whose bed you're lying on.  *He'll* make
you keep quiet."

"What will he do?"

"Give you more dope, for one thing----"

A knock upon the door, and Tanya, clad in a gray
dressing gown much too large for her, entered and came
quietly forward.  Her glance met Rowland's as she gave
him her hand.  She looked a little tired but smiled as
she knelt beside the bed and took one of Zoya's hands in
both of hers.

"You are better, Madame?" she inquired.

"I think so.  You are very good."  The tones were
listless--indifferent.

"We are safe for the present," said Tanya.  "The
soldiers at the front of the house have been withdrawn."

"Who told you this?" asked Rowland quickly.

"Frau Nisko.  She answered all their questions
satisfactorily."

Zoya Rochal stirred uneasily.

"Nevertheless," she said hopelessly, "they will find us."

"Don't lose courage."

"He never fails.  I know."

"Who?" asked Tanya.

"Von Stromberg," she muttered.  "He sees everything,
knows everything.  You can't escape."

Rowland shrugged.

"We're at least willing to try.  And now you must
sleep again, Zoya.  Herr Markov----"

He paused, for Zoya started at the sound of the name,
and just then the door opened and Zoya's gaze turned
toward it quickly.  He saw her eyes look, then stare,
closing perplexedly.

"She is awake?" Herr Markov asked.

At the sound of his voice Zoya moved upon her pillow
and opened her eyes again.  But their strange host had
come forward and laid his hand quietly over hers.

"It is I, Mariana--Matthias Markov.  The good God
has sent you to me----"

"Matthias!" she gasped, still looking at him.

He bowed his head gravely and raised her hand to his
lips, but at the contact she closed her eyes and lay back,
breathing deeply.

Tanya had taken Rowland by the hand and led him out
of the room into her own.

"His moment----" she whispered.  "Let him have it--with
her--alone."

There was much to say and in a few words Tanya told
him what Frau Nisko had learned about the disastrous
results of the riot in the hall.  There had been shooting--six
men and a woman had been killed, and many wounded
and burned in the hall and on the stairs.  Four soldiers
were dead, amongst them an officer.  There had been
fighting in the streets but the soldiers, where they could,
had permitted many to escape.  Order had not been
restored until the early hours of the morning, when fresh
companies of troops had arrived and were now patrolling
the neighborhood.

"And Von Stromberg----?"

"No one knows--he has not been seen."

"Hochwald----?"

"He either--Senf, Liederman, Fenner, Weiss--were
taken away----"

"Benz?"

"I don't know.  He may have escaped----"

Rowland paced the floor thoughtfully.

"We can't stay here, Tanya," he said at last.

"I know----"

"It means prison or worse for Herr Markov and Frau
Nisko.  We've got to do something."

"But Madame Rochal----"

He frowned.  "I'm thinking of her.  She voted as Von
Stromberg wished----

"At what a cost!"  She hid her face in her hands a
moment.  "It is horrible to see a soul stripped bare!
Poor Zoya!"

He was silent a moment, thinking deeply.

"We must do what is best for the greatest number.  If
you and I are taken with the money, your work in
Germany is finished forever.  Don't you see?  Our power--our
influence, are gone.  We must get this money out--some
way.  If Hochwald has escaped he is probably already
on his way to Switzerland.  The *dossier*--the papers
you have----"

"I had forgotten----"

"They must go, too----"

She thought a moment and then raised her head
joyously and laid her hand in his.

"Whatever you say, *mon* Philippe," she said bravely.

He took her in his arms and kissed her, but she drew
away from him quietly.

"The plan----?" she questioned.

He frowned and smiled in the same moment.

"It requires another--Herr Markov--but it is a brave
plan," he laughed, "a wonderful plan.  You shall see."

"Why can't you tell----?"

"Because without Herr Markov it fails.  He may refuse----"

"I don't understand--

"A woman's curiosity!" he laughed.  "Trust me.  And wait."

At this moment there was a quiet knock upon the door
and Frau Nisko entered with Tanya's dry clothing.
Rowland was introduced and seized the woman warmly by the
hand.  But when he tried to thank her she demurred.

"I was born free, Herr Rowland.  I would rather die
than believe I shall not be free again."

"But we can't endanger you longer--tonight we must
go----"

"They suspect nothing yet.  But Matthias Markov is
no fool.  He will think of something.  You do not know
Herr Markov----!" she finished quietly.

"We know only that he is risking his safety and yours
for strangers--

"It is not the first time.  He sets no value on his life."  She
shrugged.  "Nor I on mine.  It's a pilgrimage--soon
over.  His life has not been a happy one--a man of
wealth, of family, position--reduced through misfortune,
suffering and ill health to take to the roads with a
music-box.  Herr Gott!  And yet he pays his way--always the
same, with the courage of a man and the heart of a child.
Patience, forgiveness, gentleness.  That is Matthias
Markov."

"But why has he chosen this strange vocation?" asked
Rowland.

Frau Nisko shrugged her plump shoulders again.

"He says it is because of his health, because he cannot
stay indoors.  But I know----"

She paused while with intense interest they waited for
her to go on.

"It is not my secret, but you are his friends.  His wife
deserted him--ran away with another--a beautiful
woman--faithless.  He searches for her from one end of Europe
to the other----"

Rowland and Tanya exchanged a quick glance of
comprehension.  Rowland stepped forward and laid a hand on
Frau Nisko's arm.

"His search is ended, Frau Nisko," he said gently.  And
then, with a gesture toward the door of Matthias Markov,
"He has found her.  She is there!"

The woman gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

"Frau Markov!" she whispered.

"Madame Rochal----"

"You are sure----?"

"We left them there--alone."

Frau Nisko peered out at the eloquent panels of the
closed door and they heard the deep rumble of Herr
Markov's voice and Zoya's in a low tone answering him.
There could be no doubt about it.  Herr Markov's
pilgrimage was ended.  And Zoya's----?  Rowland's lips set
in a thin line and his glance and Tanya's met in silent
communion.

In a moment there was a commotion below and a lodger
came up the stairs in some excitement.  Frau Nisko went
out to meet him.  There was a soldier at the door who
wished to ask Frau Nisko a few more questions.

"Very well," she said coolly.  "Tell him that I will
come down at once," and the lodger departed.

She signaled them to follow and silently they reëntered
the room of Herr Markov.  He was sitting beside
Zoya's bed, her hand in both of his, and started to his feet
as they entered.

"Soldiers again, Herr Markov.  They may mean to
search the house.  Herr Rowland and the Fräulein must
go in your closet.  There is a narrow opening under the
eaves at the further end where two boards have been
displaced.  Enter, and I will hang some clothing before it.
We must take the chance.  We will leave the door open."

Rowland and Tanya obeyed quickly, taking the black
bag; Frau Nisko, thrusting Tanya's clothing after them
and hiding all traces of their presence.  This was the
test that Rowland had been expecting and Frau Nisko
had met it with a calmness that argued for success.  So
Rowland and Tanya crawled through the aperture and
crouched upon the naked beams of the house in the
darkness, listening for the footsteps of the searchers.

"What shall you do if they find us?" whispered Tanya,
her hand in Rowland's.

"Nothing," he said.  "The game is up.  I could shoot
one man--two perhaps--but not the entire Landwehr.
We won't think of that, though.  It's devilish black in
here--but fearfully cozy."

He drew her into his arms and silently they listened to
the tramp of heavy boots upon the stair and the sound
of gruff voices.

"A woman ill, you say?"

"Very ill, of lung trouble, and in high fever.  My wife,
Herr Lieutnant.  I hope you will not find it necessary to
disturb her for long."  This in Markov's voice, somewhat
tremulous in the depth of its appeal.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Markov.  I was refused for service on
account of permanent illness.  My papers are here."

"*Gut!*"

A silence in which the officer examined them.  Then the
steps of the officer to and fro in the room.

"This trunk----"

"Contains merely some books--Herr Lieutnant."

"The closet----?"

The officer's steps sounded again nearer them.

"Merely some old clothes, Herr Lieutnant," said
Markov's voice.  "Will you enter?"

A terrible moment of suspense.  But at last the
footsteps turned and moved away.

"And this other room here?" asked the voice.  And
Frau Nisko replied coolly, "My daughter's.  She works in
the Kraus Locomotivfabrik."

"*Ach, so!*"

"And these other rooms?"

"No one.  Search, Herr Lieutnant."

And presently they heard the heavy steps go thumping
down the stairs.  Rowland drew a long breath.  It
seemed that he had been holding it for hours.

This visit was a warning to them all.  Rowland and
Tanya crawled out of their hole in the wall, somewhat
pallid, and covered with dust, but determined that an
effort of some sort to escape must be made at once.  Herr
Markov agreed with them and a council was held.
Rowland, who had been doing some serious thinking, at once
startled them by revealing what was in his mind.

"If Herr Markov will sell his donkey and piano-organ,"
he said, "I will give him ten thousand marks for them."

Zoya Rochal turned on her pillow and looked at him
curiously, while Frau Nisko threw up her hands and
repeated the fabulous sum.

But Herr Markov had straightened.

"So you had thought of that, too, Herr Rowland?"

"There is nothing else," shrugged Rowland helplessly.
"Whatever happens I must get this money through to
Switzerland--and in the machine there is perhaps
room----"

"Yes, yes--there is room," said Markov thoughtfully.
"We could make room.  My poor instrument of torture!
And Fra Umberto!"

"You do not wish to part with them?"

"It is not that.  But I would not sell them, Herr Rowland.
What I give, I give,--in the fullness of my heart."

"I can't ask more of you.  Perhaps it will be but a
loan----"

"Wait----," said Markov, his hand to his brow.  "I
am thinking."  They watched in a moment of silence,
when Herr Markov rose and took a pace or two toward
the window.

"Yes.  Yes.  It could be done.  It shall be done.  My
poor machine!  We shall disembowel it--take out all its
poor noisy entrails.  It can be done in a short while.  And
the Fräulein shall sit inside, and travel in state to the
Swiss border."

"A stroke of genius," cried Rowland excitedly.  "I
hadn't thought of that.  And the money----?"

"A soft cushion of bank notes to sit upon."

"Ten thousand marks--a hundred thousand if you will
but do it."

Matthais Markov looked at him reproachfully.

"Herr Rowland does not understand," he said gently.
"It is not my poverty--but my heart--that consents."

Rowland bowed his head and caught Markov by the hand.

"Forgive me, my friend," he muttered.

Markov waved his apologies aside.

"It shall be done.  The Fräulein shall go and----"

Zoya gave a hard little laugh.

"And what becomes of me?" she asked.

Markov rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  The question it
seemed for the moment had stricken him dumb.

"It will be some days, Zoya," said Rowland quickly,
"before you can be moved----"

"In the meanwhile you will leave me here at the mercy
of Baron von Stromberg?" she asked querulously.

Frau Nisko looked pained but spoke up bravely: "They
have done what they could--you were not recognized----"

"But if *he* should come----" she shuddered.

"The chances are one in a hundred----"

"But that one chance----!  It is the one he never
neglects."

Another silence in which Zoya relaxed again upon her
pillow, groaning.  Markov crossed to the side of the bed
and bent over her.

"What is it that you wish--Maria----" he paused in
a significant confusion, and then finished painfully,
calling her by the name they knew--"What can we
do--Madame Rochal?"

She straightened again and sat up in bed, her eyes
flashing feverishly.

"Who is to stay here with me?" she asked.  "Am I to
be deserted, flaunted, cast aside into the gutter for my
enemy to step upon?  Am I no longer of any value--any
account in your reckonings?"  She laughed hysterically.
"Go!" she whispered.  "Go!  I don't care."

"Sh--!  Mariana!  Sh--!  Madame," whispered Markov
soothingly.  "There is no danger.  No one can harm
you.  Did you not vote as Von Stromberg wished?  He
can have nothing against you.  What can he do?  In
less than a week I will return----"

"You!" muttered Frau Nisko.

Zoya slowly raised herself on one elbow while Tanya
looked at Rowland uncomprehendingly, the nature of the
sacrifice Markov was making slowly dawning on her.

"Who else?" said Markov quietly.  "It would be suicide
for Herr Rowland.  I have my papers.  It is simplicity
itself.  In four days I shall be at Lindenhof.  It is a mile
from Lindau, on the Bodensee--Lake Constance.  The
Fräulein and the money shall cross into Switzerland from
there at night in a boat.  It is a village I know well.  It
can be arranged.  Then I shall return by train to Munich."

Tanya had said nothing and her lips were tightly
compressed with a meaning that Rowland had learned to
understand.

"And you, Philippe?" she asked quietly.

"What I have done once before," he murmured
soberly, "shall be accomplished again."

His look silenced the protest that was rising to her
lips.  She only clasped her hands nervously a moment,
but said nothing.

"And you will stay here--*mon ami*, for a few days--until
I am better," questioned Zoya eagerly.

"There's nothing else," he said with a shrug.

Pain clutched at the hearts of at least three persons
in that room, but Matthias Markov suffered the most.
Rowland could see it in the lines of his eyes, which had
suddenly made him seem quite old again.  The years that
had parted Markov and the woman who bore his name
had only served to widen the breach between them--a
breach that all the love and tenderness in the world from
such a man as he could never hope to fill.  Even on her
bed of pain Zoya remained the *mondaine* while Matthias
Markov, to her at least, was only the hurdy-gurdy man.
She had repudiated him, had forbidden him to use her
name.  It was piteous.  But Herr Markov shrugged his
lean shoulders and managed a smile for Rowland and
Tanya, in which they both read a new meaning of
abnegation and sacrifice.

Zoya had sunk back upon her pillow, so Herr Markov
gave her another opiate and presently she slept.  Then
while Frau Nisko went down stairs to reassure herself
that all was well below, Rowland and Tanya listened to
Markov's itinerary between Munich and Lindau.  Fra
Umberto could travel thirty miles a day if he had to.  It
was nothing--if the Fräulein would not get tired within
the instrument of torture--Landsberg tomorrow night,
Memmingen the night after, then Weingarten and
Lindenhof--four days at the most.  He, Markov, had been over
the road often and knew it well.  At Lindenhof he had
a great friend, a fisherman and a vine-grower named Gratz
who lived with his poverty like a prince in the ruined
schloss of Kempelstein.  There they would go.  And
there take boat from the very walls of the *schloss* to
Switzerland and freedom.

In the meanwhile they must decide upon a simple code
of numerals and letters for the telegraph, to be sent to
Weingarten in case of important information or warning.
When that was arranged, Markov went down stairs to
find a screw driver, wrench and hammer to "disembowel"
the dear "machine of torture."

They followed him out of the room with their glances
and then with one accord gazed at the sleeping woman.
She lay breathing deeply, one graceful arm under her
head and her lips were smiling.  Tanya's mood toward her
had changed.

"You saw?" she asked in a whisper.  "She repudiated
him.  She is not worth waiting for."  And then
impulsively she threw her arms around Rowland's neck,
whispering tensely, "Come, Philippe--tonight, with me.  He
should stay here--it is his place----"

Rowland kissed her gently.

"It would not be safe, dear.  You must get through to
Switzerland--with the money.  Don't make things too
hard for me----"

"Ah, Philippe," she whispered.  "I am nothing
without you.  His papers--a disguise----"

But Rowland shook his head.

"It is dangerous.  We should both be lost and that
which I came to save.  In this way you at least shall get
through surely----"

"But you?  We have found life together--I am frightened
for you."

"Don't worry.  I'll pull through--some way."

"Come, Philippe," she whispered again.  "Life or
death--together!"

He held her close in his arms, aware that the moment
of her weakness should be his for strength, and soothed
her gently.

"This way means life for both of us--success.  I am
not afraid.  I will follow soon.  Would you have me less
noble than he?" he asked.

She was silent and after a while she raised her head
and he saw that the moment of her uncertainty had
passed.

"I will go," she murmured, and he kissed away the
moisture that had gathered at her eyes before it fell.

"Princess Tatyana!" he laughed, "if you will only wave
your wand--no evil can come to me."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

And so it was that that evening, just after dark, a
very tall man and a very small donkey hauling a
hurdy-gurdy, passed southward along the Sommer Strasse and
were soon lost in the darkness of the night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE VISITOR`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium

   THE VISITOR

.. vspace:: 2

For three days the President of the Order of Nemi
had sat in the room upon the third floor of
Number 16 Schwaiger Strasse, keeping the convalescent
Zoya company, sleeping at night on a pallet of straw in
the dark hole under the eaves.  Frau Nisko brought food
and water and dressed Zoya's wound, which was of a
much less serious character than had been supposed.
Rowland had at last prevailed upon Frau Nisko to
accept five hundred marks from the roll that he had
abstracted from a package of the bank notes--legitimate
traveling expenses on this extraordinary commission.
Nothing had disturbed the quiet of his imprisonment but
the itching desire to be on his way, and the impatience
of his difficult companion, who with her improvement
showed growing symptoms of a gayety which Rowland
could not share.  Frau Nisko had reported that all was
quiet in the neighborhood, the guard of soldiers
having been withdrawn, and from his view from the dormer
window, the peaceful streets were tempting.  Rowland
longed to go down the stairs and carelessly saunter forth
under the very eyes of the police.  That was the sort of
an escape that appealed to him--something simple,
something obvious and then--to the woods and fields by
night--they'd never catch him there.  He knew that game.

But Zoya Rochal bothered him.  With convalescence
had come a desire for cigarettes and companionship.  She
was now quite reconciled to her situation and except for
the fear of Von Stromberg which she continually
expressed, seemed to be suffering no great hardship.  It
was perhaps unfortunate that Rowland thought of Tanya
and Matthias Markov, followed them in his mind's eye in
their long pilgrimage to the Boden See, for Zoya Rochal
was clever and with returning spirits discovered the
restraint in his manner which was so different from that
to which she had been accustomed.

"*Mon pauvre* Philippe," she said at last, with a smile
at the lighted candle, "you are never quite contented
unless you are shooting somebody.  Come, let us be happy.
I am getting very strong.  See, I move my arm easily.
Tomorrow, tonight even, I should be able to go away with
you."

"Tomorrow!  But you were to wait for Matthias Markov!"
he said in surprise.

"Pouf!  It is precisely because of Herr Markov that I
do not propose to wait.  Herr Markov is--well--a friend
of my girlhood----  But one outgrows one's early
associations, *n'est-ce pas*?  He is very kind, but oh! so
tiresome."  She gave an expressive shrug and frowned.  "I
do not like to look back.  I might be turned into a pillar
of salt.  The future is difficult enough without thinking
of the mistakes of one's past."

She cared for nothing, thought of nothing--but herself.
But whatever his own opinion, Rowland had no curiosity,
no wish to encourage confidences that might be painful.
He knew what she was....

"Escape?" he questioned.  "That is easily said.  But how?"

"That we shall walk forth, arm in arm, *mon ami*, take a
train like a newly wedded couple and be off----"

"And be arrested at the Bahnhof----?"

"The chance is worth taking----"

"You have passports--you might get through----"

"And you--where is your resourcefulness?  Are you
not the President of Nemi?  Give Frau Nisko your coin
to take to Herr Yaeger.  He is not unlike you in
appearance.  His papers would serve----"

But Rowland shook his head.

"Impossible.  My faith in your associates has failed.
When Markov returns he will help you to freedom and
I----"

"You would desert me, *mon brave*?" she said softly,
one hand upon his arm.  "Can it be true that after all
my admiration for you, my aid in your cause, my faith,
my devotion, you will turn against me?  Don't say that,
*mon* Philippe.  You do not know the depths of the heart
of a woman of my kind.  You are a man of experience.
You know what a woman who has come from nothing
must suffer to rise in the world."

"Oh, I say, Zoya," he broke in with a smile, "I haven't
reproached you----"

"Perhaps I should be more happy if you did.  For then
I would know that you cared.  But you say nothing--say
nothing and only smoke and smile."  She broke off
with a bitter little laugh.  "You do not flatter me, *mon
vieux*."

"Is this a time for flattery, Zoya?  Over a hundred
miles of hostile country to be passed----"

"We will not pass them more quickly by losing
confidence in each other----"

He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips.  "Have
I not remained----?" he asked.

She made a grimace at the hand that he had released.

"Such a cold little kiss!" she smiled.  "What has come
over you, *mon* Philippe?  A few days ago you were so
different.  I had begun to hope that you cared as--as I
do.  Have I grown ugly because of my wound?  Or was
your devotion only a means to an end--the rescue of
Fräulein Korasov?"

"Zoya, what's the use.  You know----"

"I am no fool, *mon vieux*," she went on coolly.  "I have
a seventh sense.  Fräulein Korasov--she is very pretty.
You are her D'Artagnan.  You play the hero in the piece.
You rescue her--she adores you----"

She waved a hand in protest as he began to speak.

"Oh, I have eyes in my head.  And you, *mon* Philippe,
you are filled with pity--beauty in distress--you care for
her a little, perhaps, and you forget your great pact of
loyalty and friendship with Zoya Rochal----"

"It is not true----"

"You send her away with Matthias Markov and the
money of Nemi.  What do you know of the honesty of
Matthias Markov or of her?  And you keep me here to be
taken by General Graf von Stromberg and to be shot
perhaps against a wall."

"There was nothing else to do.  You were in no condition----"

"Ah, yes, but you might at least have given me the
privilege of your confidences."

"I did what I thought was best," he said shortly.  "Do
I not share your danger?"

She shrugged.

"With regret, with impatience, but without tenderness,
*mon brave*.  Do you suppose that I cannot see?  I am
merely an impediment.  I hold you back while you long
to be off yonder--to escape and leave me here----"

"Zoya----"

She laughed and rose.

"Beware of the fury of the woman scorned, *mon vieux*.
Tell me that you love me, tell me that you hate--but
indifference--that, at least, I will not bear!"

There was nothing for it but to mollify her.  He put
his arm around her and kissed her.

"Hang it all, Zoya!  You ought to know me by this
time," he muttered.  "Desperation and sentiment won't
mix.  I'm not going to be caught here if I can help
it----"

She relaxed a little in his arms.

"Philippe," she murmured, "you know the worst of me.
Don't judge me with those terrible accusing eyes of yours.
I want to begin--again.  Give me my chance to forget.
I love you, *mon* Philippe, since the first----"

She paused, startled, for Rowland had released her
suddenly, a warning finger at his lips.  And then they heard
clearly again a thin voice in the hallway below, a man's
voice that they both knew--and the sound of footsteps
upon the stairs.

The color had all gone from Zoya's cheeks and she
stared helplessly at Rowland.

"Von Stromberg!" he whispered.

He snatched up his cap and vanished out of the
window into the darkness upon the roof.  Hurriedly he
crawled up astride the peak of the dormer window where
he lay forward listening.

A loud knock upon the door.

"Where is this sick lady?" said the voice.  "I would
like to see her----"  A pause, and then, "Ah!  And so it
is you after all, Madame Rochal!  This is most
extraordinary--most extra-or-din-ary!"  He caressed the words
as if they were something good to the taste.  "You have
nothing to say.  You are very pale.  I have frightened
you?  I am sorry.  *Bitte*, lie down again upon the bed
from which you have arisen and be quite composed.  I
will not harm you.  Why should I?  Did you not vote
for my wonderful resolution?  *Ach so!*"

The tones of the voice were eloquent--cynical and soft
by turns, and Rowland did not need to see the cadaverous,
leering face, the air of sardonic condescension, the deep
baleful eyes which glared and charmed by their very
malignity.

"Ach, you are feeling better, *nicht wahr*?  A swallow
of water.  So.  We will now have a quiet amicable chat.
Will you not ask me to sit down?  Will you not ask
after my wound?  I have no wound," he laughed dryly.
"Herr Rowland is a bad shot.  *Danke*.  But if there is
one thing in the world that irks me, it is the climbing of
stairs....  Now we will begin.  Will you now have
the kindness to tell me how you managed to come here...?"

A low murmur scarcely distinguishable in reply.

"Over the roofs?  Wounded?  There is some negligence
here.  My men searched."  And then more quietly, "You
were always resourceful--most resourceful, Madame.
Wounded too.  That is a pity.  I trust not seriously....
That is good.  It would be a pity....  Your beautiful
neck, in a ball dress.  But it is not possible that you
could have accomplished this escape alone....  In the
storm! ... a desperate venture...."

Rowland heard her murmur again.

"Ach.  It is unbelievable.  Alone--you, Madame
... so frail--and wounded, too."

"I was hurt and frightened, Excellency," Rowland
heard her say as her voice gathered strength.  "But it was
not difficult."

"Very easy.  So.  It is a pity I am such a credulous
old man, *nicht wahr*?  I am growing old.  I am losing my
cunning.  What a pity!"

"I tell you the truth, Excellency."

"You surprise me.  But I am suspicious.  It is my
trade--to believe in the universality of the lie, which is
the basis of all successful intrigue.  You will pardon me,
Madame, but I do not believe you."  And then in a quick
concentrated tone, menacing--vicious, "Who helped you
across those roofs, Madame?  Herr Rowland, *nicht wahr*?"

"No."

"Herr Rowland----!"

"I did not see him."

"You lie!  Answer me."

"Excellency!  You are hurting my arm."

"Answer me."

A long silence, then a murmur of pain.

"You shall----"

It was with an effort that Rowland controlled his will
to descend ... but he clutched at the tiles and did not
move.

"*Ach, so*----" came the triumphant voice.  "It was
he----"

"But he has escaped--gone yesterday.  I swear it!"

"So--and the black bag?  It was here?  Answer me!"

"Yes, it was here."

"And Fräulein Korasov----?"

"She, too."

"A nice party--and they have all escaped?  Some one
shall suffer for this."

Rowland could hear him stamping to and fro, heard his
voice at the window, while he peered out and Rowland
had even prepared to risk discovery by crawling up to
the shelter of the chimneys above, when Von Stromberg
turned back into the room again.  Rowland heard him
call to the man in the corridor who had accompanied him
and between them find the loose boarding into the loft.
And after a while the malicious voice again.

"So it was there he slept?  While these pigs of
officers played tag upon the roof tops."  And then to the
soldier, "Go.  Wait below!"

Just above his head, Rowland grinned to himself and
breathed more freely.  Luck!  Sheer luck!

There was silence in the room for a long moment.

"So!  Escape--and you have helped to accomplish it.
Accessory to treason, Madame.  You know the penalty
of that."

"Excellency, I had nothing to do with it.  I was
under the influence of morphine.  I slept."

"You do not then know how it was accomplished?"

"No, Excellency----"

A silence and then the quiet tones that were so
dangerous.

"It will not pay you to be stubborn, Madame.  It is my
habit always to find out what I want to know----"

"But if I am ignorant----?" she appealed.

"Who is this Herr Markov who occupies this room?
Markov!  A name not unfamiliar.  Markov!"

She was silent.

"Who is he?  Speak!"

"He is--my husband, Excellency."

Rowland heard the thin raucous laugh.

"You lose a lover only to find a husband!  A real
husband?  The long arm of coincidence?  Or another lie?"

"The truth----" in a lowered voice.  "I had not seen
him for years."

"Well, and if--I believe you?  Herr Markov helped our
birds to escape?"

"We came.  What could he do?  Give me up to the
police after all these years----?"

"But--the others--the black bag----"

A silence, and then----

"Have I not told you, Excellency, that I was
sick--sleeping----?"

"You have told me many things.  I shall believe what
I choose.  How much of this did Frau Nisko know?"

"Nothing--except that I had come to him.  She did
not know how.  She believed that I came up the stairs.
We all shared the food of two.  The others went out into
the streets at night and escaped----"

"With the black bag?  Impossible.  There is not a
black suit-case in Germany that we do not know about."

He broke off suddenly and a change came into his voice.

"Come, Madame.  You and I have worked together
before and you have not found me ungenerous.  I will make
a bargain with you.  Help me to find the black bag and I
will give you--say--two hundred thousand marks.  Ah,
you are tempted?  The woman who is tempted falls."

"I know nothing," she murmured.

"Perhaps three hundred thousand will sharpen your
intelligence."

He laughed and chose another method.

"How was the money taken from this room?"

"I do not know.  At night while I slept."

"Who took it?"

A long silence.  And then another change of tone.

"You are young, Madame, and still beautiful.  It would
be a pity----"

She understood what he meant.

"Excellency!"  Her tone was raised now in fear, in
horror.  "What, Excellency?"

"Death!  Tomorrow!"  The words fell from his lips
sharply.  "Will you speak or will you not?  On the one
hand--what I have promised--on the other--a military
trial--a matter of minutes, and then--a stone wall--a
volley--and a tumbled heap of soiled clothing upon the
ground.  Zoya Rochal--the most beautiful woman in
Europe.  I paint a true portrait.  I have seen----"

"Excellency----!"

"You will speak?"

Her voice had sunk to a murmur and Rowland could not
distinctly hear but he felt suddenly very ill.  She was
telling.  Zoya was betraying Tanya and Matthias
Markov.  A sudden fury possessed him.  He gripped the tiles
in a struggle to control the impulse to murder that was
in his heart.  But the fever passed.  Tanya!  He must
get word to Markov--a hurdy-gurdy--a donkey--their
trail from Munich was wide and long and the expedient
that had seemed so certain of success was now doomed to
sudden disaster unless he could reach Markov before von
Stromberg's men were put upon the track.

Did Zoya know which way the pair had gone?  He tried
to think.  Only Markov and he knew the itinerary--he
listened intently.

"I do not know, Excellency," said Zoya in a
suppressed voice.  "I do not know more.  To Switzerland,
by the nearest route.  A piano-organ, a donkey.  You
promise?"

"Herr Markov and the Fräulein shall meet with no
harm.  I give you my word, as Councilor of the Empire.
He shall go free.  For your sake I will merely send him
to Austria and you----"  He broke off with a laugh,
"You, Madame, shall have the rest of Europe to yourself."

"Thanks, Excellency," she murmured.  "And I am free?"

"As the air.  Once a day you will report at the Police
Headquarters of Munich until further notice."

Rowland heard his footsteps and the sound of the door
latch.

"My compliments, Madame Rochal, upon your discretion.
I hope that your beautiful neck may not be scarred.
I will indeed see that a doctor is sent to you at once.  In
the meanwhile--*au revoir*."

The door closed with a bang and Rowland heard the
heavy footsteps going down the bare stairs.  And in a
little while from a perch in the shadow of the dormer
window he marked the tall figure with his soldier
attendant enter an automobile and drive swiftly away.

Rowland waited a moment, desperate--uncertain--sure
only that he must find some means of getting a message
over the wire to the luckless Markov and Tanya at
Weingarten, where they would have arrived tonight, but in a
grim apprehension as to his ability to reach a telegraph
office.  But there was no time to delay.  The moments
were precious.  In half an hour--perhaps less--Von
Stromberg would have instructions wired to his agents in
every town between Munich and the Swiss frontier.  And
so, reckless of his silhouette as he crawled in at the
window, he again entered the room.  Zoya was standing,
facing him, pale, expectant, terrified at the look she saw in
his eyes.  She caught at his arm but as he strode to the
door she seized him again and held him fiercely.

"Where are you going----?"

"Away from here--from the sight of you----"

"You heard----?"

"Yes.  You've betrayed us--for money----"

"That is not true, Philippe," she whispered wildly, as
she fought to keep his hand from the door knob.  "You
did not hear what passed----"

"I heard enough----"

"I lied to him,--told him that you had gone.  He
believes it----"

"But the others.  You told----"

"It was merely to gain time.  They are far away.  We
can reach them.  It was you that I was thinking of--you--all
the time.  You--out there on the roof.  All that
I wanted was for him to go away so that you would not
be discovered.  I did it to save you----"

"To save me--*you*!"

"I threw him off his guard.  He believes that you are
gone.  You shall escape now,--I too--we will escape to
freedom--in a few days it will be arranged.  Herr Markov
and the Fräulein will come to no harm even if they are
found.  He promised.  You heard?"

"I've heard enough.  Let me go."

He shook himself free of her but she seized him again.

"No--you shall not go.  I did what I could to save
you.  I told him as little ... merely that they had gone
upon the road ... that was all.  His eyes were burning
into my brain, Philippe.  He compelled me.  He may
not find them.  And even if he does, he will not harm them.
It is only the money of Nemi that he wants.  That will
satisfy him.  Let the money go.  What does it matter
now?  I do not want the money--I only want--you,
Philippe.  In a few days I will get you passports and
we will leave together.  Not tonight, Philippe--wait.  I
will explain----"

"Out of my way----"

He had pulled the door open and thrust her aside.  She
stumbled and fell to her knees, still clinging to him.

"I will not--let you go.  You will be killed.  Just a
moment.  Listen to me, Philippe.  I swear to you that
you have misunderstood.  I did not----  Oh God!"

.. _`"Listen to me, Philippe!  I swear to you that you have misunderstood"`:

.. figure:: images/img-314.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Listen to me, Philippe!  I swear to you that you have misunderstood."

   "Listen to me, Philippe!  I swear to you that you have misunderstood."

He drew away and she fell prone upon the floor, trying
to follow him.  His fury had turned to contempt and
now to pity.  He turned, picked her up in his arms and
carried her to the bed, releasing himself gently, for she
had no more strength to fight him.  And then he left her
and went slowly down the stairs.


For a while she lay there motionless, her head buried in
her arms.  Once her shoulders moved convulsively but she
made no sound.  Her face when she raised it toward the
candle light was haggard, but tearless.  Her lips were
compressed and she even smiled a little.  But her eyes
were unusually bright.  With an abrupt movement of
decision she straightened, and getting up went to the door,
where she paused a moment, gazing down the stairs.  Then
went to the landing below, clinging to the railing, and
called Frau Nisko.  There was no reply.  She crept down
to the lower floor and out to the kitchen.  There was a
woman there by the window fanning herself with a newspaper.

"Where is Frau Nisko?" asked Zoya.

The woman turned a heavy bovine gaze.

"She has gone," she replied.

"Where?"

The woman shrugged.

"Did a man come in here a while ago?"

"A man--yes."

"They talked?"

"Yes--yonder," pointing to the door of the dining room.

"Did they stay there long?"

"Yes."

"Where is he now?"

"I do not know.  He went out yonder," pointing to a
rear door.

"There is a gate at the rear?"

"Oh, yes."

"Did you hear what they said?"

The woman laughed mirthlessly.

"What business is it of mine?"

"Where has Frau Nisko gone?"

"Have I not said that I did not know?"

She had merely the politeness of cooks and now turned
her back resolutely, faced the window and fanned herself
again with a view to ending the discussion.

There was nothing for it but to await Frau Nisko's
return and so, leaving word that she wished to see the
landlady when she returned, slowly Zoya climbed the stairs
again and went into her room, where she sat on the bed
in deep thought.  After awhile she got up and lighting
the lamp, searched for her clothing in the drawers of the
dressing stand.  She took the garments out one by one,
examining them and preening them with her fingers.  Then,
discarding the old wrapper that she wore, she dressed
with some care and attention to detail, and then lay down
upon the bed and waited.

But when Frau Nisko knocked some moments later, she
straightened and questioned rapidly.

"Herr Rowland has gone?"

The woman was somewhat shaken by the events of
the evening and more than surprised at Madame Rochal's
appearance.

"Yes, God be thanked!  He went safely from my house.
It has been almost too much.  But the Herr General said
nothing when he went out.  I can't understand----"

"I explained matters to his satisfaction.  He will not
bother you----"

"You are very kind--but it mystifies me greatly.  You
are in terror of your life in one moment and then
suddenly--all is well.  And now you go somewhere----?"

"Frau Nisko," said Zoya, ignoring the question, "you
were sent out with a message to the telegraph, *nicht
wahr*?"

"It was at Herr Rowland's orders----"

"What was the message?"

"I didn't understand.  It was written in a code."

"He wrote it--here?"

"Down stairs in the dining room.  It was dangerous to
be there.  I told him so.  But he did not care."

"What did the message say?"

"It was about the price of some second-hand furniture
to be shipped to Weingarten."

"Yes, yes.  Where was it sent?"

"To Weingarten----"

"But to whom?"

"To a Herr Liedenthal at the Zweisler Waldhaus----"

"Ah.  You are sure of the names?"

"Positive."

"And Herr Rowland, did he tell you where he was going?"

Frau Nisko's amazement had been increasing.

"Did he not tell *you*, Madame?"

"No.  He--he was frightened at the Herr General and
has left me.  Where did he go?"

"Into danger, I'm afraid.  He seemed reckless.  He
asked if I knew the time of the night-trains for
Lindau----"

"Lindau--and you told him?"

"I found out from a lodger upon the second floor who
is in the Railway Service.  There is but one train.  It
leaves the Haupt Bahnhof at thirteen minutes past
eleven."

Madame Rochal hesitated a moment, and then:

"Frau Nisko," she said, quickly, glancing at her watch,
"I have been given my freedom.  I am going out.  I do not
know when I shall return----"

"But Herr Markov----!"

"I will communicate with him."

She glanced around the room and then went quickly
down the stair, Frau Nisko following, still bewildered at
the turn of events.

"What shall I say to Herr Markov?" she repeated helplessly.

"That I--I am going to seek him," said Zoya.

"And if the Herr General should send?"

"You need not worry.  That has been arranged.  He
believes that you knew nothing of the others.  Good by,"
she finished at the street door.  "You shall be
rewarded----"

"*Im Himmel*," muttered Frau Nisko cynically, as she
watched the slim figure of Zoya Rochal go swiftly down
the street toward the bridge.  "And Matthias
Markov--he also."

Then she slowly turned and reëntered the house.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PILGRIMS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium

   PILGRIMS

.. vspace:: 2

It was with trembling limbs and a heavy heart that
Tanya had followed Herr Markov carrying the black
bag down the stairs of the house in the Schwaiger
Strasse, through the rear door to the small street and the
stable which sheltered Fra Umberto and the "instrument
of torture"--alas! now the instrument of torture no
longer, for all its insides had been removed during the
early afternoon and hidden in a box under a pile of hay.
Herr Markov had sighed as he gazed at the empty case,
but there was no time to be lost and after having assured
themselves that they had escaped observation, Tanya
had unpacked the black valise, transferring its contents
to the body of the machine and concealing the luckless bag
in a dusty crib under a pile of lumber.  Then as they wished
to be well beyond the city before sun-down, Markov had
hitched Fra Umberto, Tanya had clambered in, sitting on
the pile of bank notes and they had silently driven away.

The escape had seemed simplicity itself, and with the
passage of the last post of soldiers at the edge of the city
Tanya had gathered hope that their perilous venture
would be successful.  She had tried not to think of
Philippe Rowland.  She had hoped when their plan was
first spoken of, that Rowland was to impersonate Herr
Markov, and using his papers make the desperate effort
to get through to Switzerland alone with her.  But Herr
Markov had willed otherwise (and wisely perhaps) and
Philippe had been left there--alone with Zoya--sharing
a terrible danger, but yet terrible as the danger was,
Tanya could not help thinking that she would much have
preferred anyone else to have shared it with Philippe
than Zoya Rochal.

During the first night of their pilgrimage Tanya had
been very miserable.  The confined space had cramped her
muscles and the jolting of the vehicle seemed to be jarring
every nerve in her body, but Herr Markov had evidently
deemed it of the utmost importance to cover as many miles
away from Munich in the early hours of the evening and
night as was possible for man and beast.  Occasionally,
when the way was clear, he had conversed with her
cheerfully, bidding her keep up her courage and asking after
her comfort; and to all of his questions she had answered
bravely, changing her position as she could and patiently
awaiting the hour of her deliverance.  And it had come
at last toward midnight when Herr Markov had halted
the donkey and invited Tanya to get out of her box.  The
invitation, welcome though it was, had not been easy of
acceptance, and it was only with the help of Herr
Markov's long arms that she had been able to climb over the
sides of her prison and descend.

She had found herself in a dim country lane which led
to a small farm-house.  With an encouraging show of
confidence Herr Markov had led Fra Umberto toward this
building and after some difficulty had succeeded in
arousing the occupants, an old man and woman, who had
stuck their heads out of the windows in some alarm until
they learned the identity of the pilgrims and saw Fra
Umberto and the hurdy-gurdy, when they had come down
and made the visitors welcome.  This house, it appeared,
was one of the stopping places of the hurdy-gurdy man,
the old farmer and his wife, his good friends, for whom in
better times he played his whole repertoire in payment
of board and lodging.  Tanya's presence Herr Markov
had glibly explained--his niece, bound to Leutkirch, to
visit a sister who was about to be married, and so Tanya
had found a bed of which she was in real need and had
slept the sleep of utter weariness.

But Herr Markov had called her at daylight and they
were now again upon their way.  Fra Umberto's legs were
short but they moved rapidly and in the by-roads and in
thinly settled places the thoughtful Markov invited Tanya
to descend which she did gratefully, glad of the chance
to loosen the kinks in her cramped muscles.  And when
she got down, the donkey, relieved of her weight in the
vehicle, frisked along at a rate which showed her that they
had lost no time.

They went through Landberg, passed the night in another
farm-house on the Igling road and by the following
afternoon had reached Memmingen.

It was beyond Memmingen upon the road to Weingarten
that Tanya, waiting for the darkness to fall so that
she could escape from her hiding place, heard Herr
Markov exchanging greetings with a traveler afoot.  This was
not unusual, for Herr Markov, as she had already
discovered, carried his politeness all about the world with
him, but Tanya, who had been sitting long in her cramped
position, had been hoping to be able to get out and walk
beside her fellow pilgrim, for whom she had developed the
deepest sympathy and appreciation.  But this person to
whom he had spoken, it seemed, was bound in the same
direction as themselves and all immediate chance of
escape from her prison was out of the question.  She heard
the deep boom of Herr Markov's voice and a reply, quiet
and muffled as though at a distance.

"A fine evening--yes"--said Markov.  "A rare evening
indeed which makes one bless God for a life in the open
under the stars.  You are bound for Weingarten, Father,
or beyond?"

"Beyond," replied the quiet voice.

"Ah, yes--to the monastery at Rothenbach, perhaps?
No?  You will forgive my impertinent curiosity, but the
road is my life and those who walk it are my friends and
companions.  We are sociable people, Father, Fra Umberto
and I, and since one of us is denied the privilege of
speech, the other of us must needs make up for the
deficiency.  You will forgive my wagging tongue?"

"It is my mission in life to grant forgiveness," said the
other voice solemnly.  "It is my trade, Herr Musician."

Tanya understood now--a priest, a holy man, a vagrant monk.

"Then we are much of the same mind," continued Markov,
"for I, too, have forgiven much--my trade too," with
a deep laugh, "but there is little profit in it."

"Not to the body, but to the soul--it is that alone
which is immortal."

The voice came more clearly now and something in its
cadences caused Tanya to listen more intently.  It was
curiously like one that she had once known; but
where--when----?

"Aye, immortal----" went on Markov contemplatively,
"but to a hurdy-gurdy man the seat of soul is in the
stomach.  For without food the stomach sickens and thus,
the soul.  What becomes of your immortality then, holy
Father?"

She heard the priest laugh to himself--that laugh!

"Your philosophy and your theology are from the same
piece of goods, my son.  If it keeps you warm you are
wise to wear it."  And then in a change of tone, "You
came along the Landberg road?"

"Yes, Father."

"You see many people.  Has there been much talk
about the rising of the Socialist elements in Munich?"

"You've heard----?"  There was a pause, and then:

"Merely that a meeting was broken up--that there was
shooting, a fire, people were killed and some of
them--my friends--wounded.  And you, Father--what have you
been told?"

"The facts have been suppressed.  The newspapers say
nothing.  You were not questioned by the police when
you left Munich?"

"Oh, no.  I merely showed my papers.  I am well known
in these parts.  I--I had nothing to do with the
disturbance, though my heart is with those who have
rebelled--for I, too, am a Revolutionary."

"And since you left Munich--you have not been questioned?"

"No."  And then, "You have heard that the police are
after those who escaped?"

"Yes," muttered the voice.

No more for the present.  And yet to Tanya what she
had heard was enough, for the identity of the voice of the
man she could not see had slowly come to her and now
with a sickening and terrible certitude she knew that
Markov's companion of the road was Gregory Hochwald.

The hurdy-gurdy was now an "instrument of torture"
indeed, for in it Tanya sat a prisoner, helpless, while
along side her, all unconscious of the secret Markov
guarded, walked the one man most disposed to take profit
from her misfortunes.  And with a sense of an impending
disaster she heard Markov talk glibly on, every moment,
apparently, gaining more confidence in the integrity of
his companion.  And yet how was she to warn Markov?
The least sound, the least motion would betray her
presence and reveal the reasons for their flight.  She had a
morbid desire to peer out and see--to verify the unpleasant
testimony of her ears--but there was no way unless
she raised the lid of the machine and that, of course, meant
discovery.  And so she was forced to sit silent and listen
to Markov, who with every moment came nearer to
dangerous revelations.

"The end must soon come," the false priest was
saying.  "The world is weary of blood-letting.  Germany is
beyond reach---beyond help of the Church.  I have done
what I could, but I am going beyond its borders to
Switzerland--to escape its persecutions.  I have had enough."

"And I," said Markov; "it is there that I go too
with--with my good Fra Umberto."

"The weather threatens again.  Where shall you sleep
tonight, my son?"

"At the farm-house of some good friends of mine, a
mile or so from here.  We have had a long day."

"Good friends of yours?  Would they mind if I came
with you?  I have a purse well filled----"

Tanya was aware of Herr Markov's hesitation and the
long moment of silence that followed gave her the hope
that he would refuse.

"I am not so sure," he said at last doubtfully.  "Have
you no other plans?"

"None."

"There is an inn just beyond."

"But there are reasons why I do not wish to go to a
public hotel.  If you could help me in this----"

"But I can't understand----"

"Is it necessary that you should?  I will pay you well
for this service----"

Hochwald had struck the wrong note.  Herr Markov's
voice had a tone of dignity when he replied.

"I would require no pay, Father, for a mere act of
Christian duty.  But there are private considerations----"

"None so grave as my own need----"

"If you will tell me----"

Another long moment of silence.  And then:

"I've told you that my need is great.  When I also
tell you that I am no priest but a fugitive from the police,
you will understand.  I was one of those who were at the
meeting of the Socialists in the Hall in the Schwaiger
Strasse----"

"You!"

"One of its leaders.  In the confusion I managed to
escape, and with the aid of a friend procured these robes.
But I am in danger even now, and must avoid public
places--which are, of course, subject to frequent inspection."

"What is your name?"

"That need not matter.  If you are a Socialist--a
Revolutionary Socialist, we are brothers, and I am in
need of a place to rest safely."

Markov's voice fell a note as he replied:

"That puts a different color to the matter.  I can
help you--yes--if I know that what you tell me is
true."  Fra Umberto suddenly came to a halt--"How should I
know," Markov said, "that you are what you
claim--that you are not a member of the secret police of the
Empire?"

Tanya heard Hochwald's laugh.

"The police!  Then why except for the pleasure of your
company, Herr Musician, should I be wasting my time
talking to you?"

"H--m!  You are frank at least, holy Father.  Come--a
drop of rain.  We must get on.  At least for tonight
you shall have cover--in safety."

He chirped to Fra Umberto and the machine rumbled
on again.  Tanya, cold with fear of the consequences of
this generosity, sat trying to think what she must do.
And the result of her meditations was precisely nothing.
To rise and denounce him would do her cause no good.
And so she did not move, deciding to wait for what was
to happen, trusting that the secret of the money which
she and Markov shared would keep her companion silent
as to her hiding place in the vehicle.

She heard the two men talking again, a repetition of
what had been said before, but Herr Markov, in spite of
his acceptance of the statements of Gregory Hochwald,
gave her enemy no inkling of the truth and presently the
piano-organ was driven into a rough road and at last
stopped.  She heard Markov calling--voices in reply and
then his directions to Gregory Hochwald to go into the
house while he drove Fra Umberto and the hurdy-gurdy
around to the stable.  It was there in the dim light of a
lamp that Tanya, a very pallid, frightened but beautiful
Jack-in-the-Box, pushed up the lid of the machine and
emerged, confronting her weary companion with the
specter of his mistaken generosity.

"He!  That--Hochwald!" he muttered aghast when she
told him.  "Fräulein, you must be mistaken."

"No, no," she whispered.  "I would know his voice
among a thousand.  My bitterest enemy--the cause of all
our troubles."

"But you did not see his face."

"I did not need to see it, Herr Markov.  You must
believe what I say," she insisted.  "It is the truth."

He only stared at her, as at a damage he had done.
She could see that he was very tired.  Since early morning,
with but one period of rest, he had been upon his feet
and the lines of weariness in his face and at his eyes were
deeply scored.

"What could I do, Fräulein," he murmured.  "I did not
know and you----!  Herr Gott!  What a situation!"

"What had you planned?" she asked more gently after
a moment.

"To tell him--yonder in the house," he said guiltily,
"but I did not dare until I had spoken to you."

"That is impossible, Herr Markov," she said.  "We
must go on."

"Tonight?"

"Yes.  You shall sit and I shall walk----"

"But it is raining----"

"We must go on----"

"But what shall I tell them yonder?"

"Tell them--nothing.  Let us go."  She had clambered
down and stood beside him.  He seemed bewildered by
the disaster and when she caught his hand he pressed her
fingers gently but aimlessly, as though their common
misfortune had robbed him of all initiative.  Tanya's voice
aroused him.  "Come," she urged.  "We must go
on--further."

"There is no one that I know within ten kilometers----"

"I can walk it.  Get in, Herr Markov----"

She had caught up the reins of the unfortunate Fra
Umberto and was about to turn the wagon when a heavy
shadow from the lamp at one side of the door moved across
the stable floor.

"I came to see if I----"

The monk paused and stood staring at Tanya in a
kind of awe while she dropped the reins of Fra Umberto
and started back, her gaze fixed on the black cowl
beneath which was a pale smudge that she knew was Gregory
Hochwald's face.  Herr Markov looked from the one to
the other in dismay and then took a pace forward toward
the girl.

"You!  Tanya!----" said Hochwald, coming slowly
forward.  "What are you doing here?"

She seemed unable to reply.  The missing mustache
revealed ugly lines she had never seen.  He glanced quickly
at the open top of the piano-organ.

"I see.  You were----  You heard?  You knew that it
was I."

"I heard.  I beg that you will let us be on our
way."

"You were going--where?"

"Further on.  Herr Markov has done you a service.
Do me another by remaining here."

Hochwald hesitated a moment.

"I seek to do you no harm.  Nor could I if I wished.
I am at your mercy as you are at mine----"

"I beg your pardon, Herr Hochwald," broke in Markov's
deep voice.  "The Fräulein is at no man's mercy
while she is in my charge."

"A figure of speech," said the other with a smile, "but
I do not like to drive the Fräulein forth into the rain.
Of course rather than that, I shall go at once--or sleep
here with this good donkey in the stable."

Herr Markov and Tanya exchanged quick glances
which each read through the gloom.  Herr Hochwald
asleep within a few yards of the twenty-five millions of
Nemi, hidden beneath the blankets in the bottom of the
"machine of torture!" It was Tanya who first realized
that short of immediate flight nothing but a change in
her uncompromising attitude toward Hochwald was possible.

"It--it does not matter.  I--I do not fear you, Gregory
Hochwald--not now.  If you will go to the house I will
follow you.  Herr Markov can join us when the donkey is fed."

And with a quick glance at Markov she moved toward
the door and out into the raining night.  Hochwald joined
her at once and together they walked toward the lights of
the farm-house, leaving Markov alone to attend to the
needs of Fra Umberto and hide until the morning the
packages of bank notes in the straw of the stable.

Hochwald questioned and she answered frankly, telling
him of the manner of her escape which was obvious enough,
concealing from him only the secret of the hurdy-gurdy.
As to Herr Rowland he was still there in Munich--in great
danger.

There were no reproaches on her part--her injury was
too deeply seated for that, his venality too surely proven.
Nor did Herr Hochwald speak of the events at the Villa
Monteori; but Tanya felt that since he had found her and
that they must travel on for a way in company, some
grounds of mutual agreement or understanding must be
found which would disarm her enemy as to the precious
freight in the piano-organ.  And so when they reached the
protection of the portico:

"This situation is none of my choosing, Herr Hochwald,"
she said.  "We are both fugitives from a common
enemy--if I denounce you, I denounce myself.  But if
we are both arrested it is you who will suffer the full
extremity----"

"Perhaps----" he broke in quickly.  "I don't minimize
the danger of my position.  In Germany my life hangs
by a thread.  It is the penalty of my zeal in the cause
we both represent."

Contempt and surprise that he should have thought her
so dull were what she felt, but she managed to meet his
glance calmly, for she had much to gain but still more
to lose.

"We need not go into that.  We stand or fall together.
Tonight we shall protect each other--but tomorrow--we
part company."

"As you please," he said slowly.  "I will do as you wish.
You have suffered much because of me, Princess Samarov,
and I because of you----"

"We are enemies--political--personal----  Let there
be no misunderstanding."

"But you *do* misunderstand.  You have misjudged me
from the first----"

"Enough----"

"Will you hear me out?  I will not be long.  You do
not believe me when I say that the money of Nemi was as
safe in my hands as it would have been in yours.  I
mistrusted Herr Rowland--you did not.  I knew that in
Germany where I had power and influence, I could safely
bring the money through to Russia--with you--and I
should have succeeded had it not been for this cursed
American who has spoiled all my plans and betrayed me
to the Wilhelmstrasse, where my future usefulness in
Russia's service is now at an end."

His impudence amazed her but she smiled at him coolly.
"And you imprisoned me at Starnberg, subjected me to
nameless indignities, swore falsely against me in the
committee----"

"To save you from yourself," he broke in.  "You are
a woman, unwise, impressionable----"

"Thanks.  But not so unwise that I can believe in you."

"That is cruel.  But what I tell you is the truth.  You
do not know these people as I do.  Do you think that I
would dare confide the keeping of the twenty-five millions
of francs into the hands of an organization which can be
swayed as that one is swayed by the fear of military
domination?  You saw what happened.  One man--Von
Stromberg, held their destinies in the hollow of his
hand----"

He noticed the slight shrug of her shoulder.

"You may believe my motives what you choose, but I
have already written to Russia asking the release of your
father.  I swear to you that had I succeeded in deceiving
the committee as to the whereabouts of the money--had
not the American found my hiding place--I should
have left Starnberg before morning with you in a
machine and have been by this time well upon my way to
Russia."

"And I----" she broke in hotly.  "They would have
believed that I was the thief----"

"What would you have cared, if we had succeeded?"

"We could never have succeeded.  Come, Herr Hochwald,"
she said with an effort at a smile.  "We are wasting
precious hours of sleep.  Let us say no more."

She offered him her hand.

"I am very tired--so tired that I am even willing to
forget everything.  Tonight at least we are friends.
Tomorrow----" and she turned toward the door--"tomorrow
it's *sauve qui peut*--everyone for himself.  You understand?"

He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips.

"Tanya," he whispered, "forgive me----"

"I do--for tonight, Grisha Khodkine."

He looked up with a smile.

"My name--now--for all time--for Russia--and for you."

She closed her eyes as though she feared they might
read conviction in the smooth tones of this new insincerity
and turned away, just as Herr Markov came around from
the stable and reported the donkey safely bedded down
for the night, and together they went into the house
where arrangements were made for Tanya's comfort.  The
priest was given a couch in the living room.  Herr
Markov against their protestations chose a bed in the straw
by Fra Umberto.  Tanya understood and rewarded him
by a bright glance as she went up the stairs.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PRIEST`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center medium

   THE PRIEST

.. vspace:: 2

Tanya was again called at daylight and after
an excellent breakfast they were on their way,
Tanya afoot, until they neared the high road
when she coolly bade good-bye to Herr Hochwald and
without further words entered her prison to be driven
all morning steadily towards Weingarten.

"He has gone on," reported Herr Markov after a while.

"That is well.  But we must not trust him," she replied,
"until we are safe upon the other border of the lake."

"Will you forgive me, Fräulein?" asked Markov.

She raised the lid of her queer carriage and thrust out
her hand toward him.  "With all my heart, my friend,"
and then: "Do you think he has any idea of what we
carry?"

"I don't Know, but he shall not take it."

"You are armed?"

"Yes.  He must keep away from us.  Late tonight we
will be at the Zweisler Waldhaus near Weingarten.
There I am well known--among old friends--you shall see."

"Do you think there will be a message from Munich?"
she questioned anxiously.

"I hope so.  That we received none at Memmingen was
an indication only that all is well with Herr Rowland."

"I pray that may be true," she said earnestly.

A wagon was coming along the road in front of them
and so Tanya lowered the lid quickly and was silent.

Herr Hochwald did not approach them all that day.
Markov reported his figure in the distance two or three
times but it was not until dusk when the lights of
Weingarten leaped into view before them that they came upon
him suddenly at a turn in the road waiting for them.

"A long day," he muttered.  "I am weary.  Where do
you go tonight?"

Markov halted Fra Umberto and throwing the reins
over the donkey's back strode forward determinedly.

"We will come to an agreement here and now, Herr
Hochwald," he said with grim politeness.  "Our ways
hare parted--yonder.  The night is fine--your robe
heavy.  You will sleep quite comfortably under the stars.
As for us--whither we go is no concern of yours.  Is it
understood?"

Hochwald looked up at the tall figure for a moment,
then shrugged.

"As you please.  Drive on, Herr Musician."

Markov examined the man a moment in silence, and then
obeyed, but as they approached Weingarten Herr
Markov reported the dark figure a threatening shade in the
gloom following at a distance behind them.

But they reached the Waldhaus without further
incident.  It was an inn, built in a much earlier day, at
some distance from the high road and situated at the
edge of a thick forest of well-grown pine trees.  The
proprietor was a compatriot of Herr Markov's, a small man
with an expansive smile and a huge paunch upon which
the privations of the war had made little impression.
When Fra Umberto had been put into a stable and the
packages of notes brought into the house and safely
hidden in a room up-stairs, Tanya and Markov breathed
more freely, for though nothing had been seen of the
black cassock of Herr Hochwald for an hour or more,
Tanya knew that he could not be far away.

When all their arrangements for the night had been
completed, Markov despatched Herr Zweisler to the
telegraph office for messages for Herr Liedenthal, the name
that he and Rowland had agreed upon when they had
arranged their code.

It was midnight before Herr Zweisler returned but he
brought the message, which Markov and Tanya eagerly
deciphered by the light of the kitchen lamp.

In English it would have read somewhat as follows:

.. vspace:: 2

"Three beds at twenty marks, seven chairs at three marks,
two washstands, one bureau, forty-one marks, all used but in
good condition, bought to-day Munich and will be shipped by
Weingarten to Lindenhof when railway facilities permit."

.. vspace:: 2

Decoded, this meant: "Pursuit.  Leave donkey
Weingarten.  Am coming Lindenhof."

.. vspace:: 2

The hay-cart creaked up hill and down dale all the
long night.  From time to time Tanya, lying comfortably
in concealment, slept uneasily and in her waking
moments peered out over the tail board along the gray
stretch of road where she had last seen the figure of the
monk, a dark blot on the velvety night.  Once he had
come quite near until he walked only a few paces behind
the cart, but Markov had warned him away and at last
he had sullenly obeyed.  For an hour or more now they
had lost sight of him, but with the coming of the dawn,
they saw in the distance a market cart like their own and
upon its seat with the driver, the figure in black.  Herr
Hochwald was tireless and persistent.

The message from Rowland had been alarming.
"Pursuit!"  That meant immediate discovery unless they
deserted Fra Umberto and the hurdy-gurdy.  It meant
discovery perhaps even there at the Waldhaus of the
hospitable Herr Zweisler, if any agents of the police had
noticed them traveling that day toward Weingarten.
The rest of the message was explicit.  "Leave donkey
Weingarten--Am coming Lindenhof."  There was
nothing to do, weary as they were, but obey.  And so
negotiating at once with a neighbor of the inn-keeper, they
had managed for a proper consideration to hire the
hay-cart in which they were now approaching their destination.
Beneath the hay in an old bag that Herr Zweisler
had provided were the bank notes of Nemi.

No one had bothered them, at least no one but the
threatening figure of the false monk, and Markov seemed
fairly confident of dealing with that gentleman when the
time came.  The owner of their cart was a country lout,
too stupid to ask questions, content with a small bundle
of five-mark notes which were the excellent compensation
for the use of his cart, which was to be returned in a
few days.

But as the gray dawn spread over the heavens and
from the high hill over which their long road wound,
Tanya could see in the distance far below her the pale
mist rising from the lake.  She had for the first time a
feeling that success was within her reach.  To hire a
boat to sail across to the Swiss shore seemed simplicity
itself, for at Arbon or Romanshorn, she would throw
herself and her possessions upon the protection of the
Swiss authorities until a wire to Shestov or Barthou would
bring them to identify her and reclaim the property of
the Society of Nemi.  But success without the safety
of Philippe Rowland was not to be thought of.  "Am
coming Lindenhof," he had wired.  But how?  When?
The fact of his coming through from Munich by train,
covering in a few short hours the distance that she and
Herr Markov had taken four weary days to travel, seemed
almost unbelievable.  And yet Herr Markov was hopeful.
He had great confidence in the ingenuity of Herr
Rowland and the message had been explicit.  "Am coming
Lindenhof."  And since the code messages had been filed
at the Haupt Bahnhof before eleven o'clock last night,
Herr Rowland had planned in some way to take the night
train from Munich which would reach Lindau in the early
morning.  The reasoning was sound--too obvious indeed
to Tanya, who knew that the excellent Herr Markov
could do no less than encourage her in the belief that all
would go well.  She knew that already Philippe had
succeeded in accomplishing the impossible by the very
spontaneity of his daring, but to travel openly upon a train
from Munich bound for the Swiss border could be nothing
less in Tanya's eyes than the wildest desperation which
only courted the death he had so far miraculously
escaped.  She feared for him now--more than ever and
regretted painfully, as she had already done many times
upon her journey, that she had consented to leave him
in danger in Munich, while she had gone on in comparative
safety with Herr Markov.  And yet success seemed
so near.  The Swiss shore came out of the mists like a
pleasant mirage of a sought for oasis to the thirsty in
the desert.  An hour more to Lindenhof, an hour upon the
water and--safety!

But not without Philippe!  As to that she was
resolved.  The very imminence of their meeting, the chances
of failure, the danger of arrest for them all, the joyous
meaning of success--all these possibilities conflicting in
the turmoil of her thoughts, had tried her endurance to
its limit, and her nerves were stretched to the breaking
point.  But the patient face of Herr Markov was her
inspiration.  He merely smiled at her calmly and bade
her have courage, for he knew that she would still have
need of it.

As they approached Lindau the market-cart in which
Herr Hochwald rode, drew nearer and Tanya saw him
descend and hurry forward to overtake them.  Herr
Markov stopped the hay-cart and got down upon the ground.

"I've warned you, Herr Hochwald," he said coolly,
"that I will have no interference with the affairs of the
Fräulein.  We offer no impediment to your escape.  Go
your ways, but leave us in peace."

Hochwald smiled at Tanya who was sitting upright,
listening.

"Have I not avoided you?"

"We shall do better alone.  Do you go on, Herr
Hochwald--or shall we?"

"With your permission we will wait a moment and
discuss the matter.  Just beyond the hill ahead of us is
Bodolz.  It is a town upon the railroad and there we will
find officials, telegraph officers and soldiers from the
Lindau Kaserne who keep guard."

"And what of that.  My word against yours.  Prison
for us all----"

"Perhaps.  But not if you act the part of wisdom."

"What do you want?"

"Merely to accompany you across the lake----"

"Impossible----"

"It is very little that I ask of you.  Think a moment.
Suppose that I should reveal the real meaning of your
journey, the actual value of the truck load you haul to
market----!"

Markov and Tanya exchanged helpless glances.  He
knew--had known all the while.

"You see," continued Hochwald easily, "we have
indeed come to the parting of the ways.  Beyond Bodolz--safety,
if I go with you.  Refuse me now, Herr Markov,
and you will never pass the Bahnhof."

"And when I denounce you----"

Hochwald laughed.

"I shall merely say that I am an agent of the
Government who has followed you here from Munich.  They may
arrest me but His Excellency will forgive me much if I
bring him this excellent proof of my fealty."  He paused
with a shrug and turned to Tanya.  "If the Fräulein will
deign to advise--Herr Markov is somewhat undetermined."

With a sinking heart Tanya assented, crawling back
miserably under the hay.  Herr Markov climbed up to his
seat and they drove on, Hochwald following boldly some
paces in the rear.

At Bodolz, a soldier stood in the middle of the road.
And even while Herr Markov was wondering what he
should say to him, Herr Hochwald strode forward
toward a corporal who stood leaning against the railroad
gate smoking a pipe.

"Fodder and farm produce for the abbey at
Enzisweiler," he said soberly.  "I came up last night."

The soldier nodded, and then inquired, "You've seen
nothing of a man driving a donkey hitched to a piano
organ?"

"No--nothing."

"Pass, Father."

Markov drove on, across the railroad tracks down the
hill.  Was there an abbey at Enzisweiler?  He didn't
know, but he couldn't help admiring the skill with which
Herr Hochwald had guided them past a difficulty which
might have proved embarrassing.

Below the hill Markov gathered new courage for
familiar landmarks were all about him, and there on the
border of the lake not half a mile away was their destination.

"I hope that you know where you're going, Herr
Markov," said Hochwald with a laugh.

The words of Markov's reply were inaudible to Tanya,
but there was a world of meaning in his tone.  She lay in
concealment while the cart rumbled across more railroad
tracks over a rough road and finally came to a stop.
At a word from Markov she emerged from her place of
concealment and sat up looking around her.  She was in
a quadrangle or court yard paved with cobbles, the walls
and buildings surrounding it in tumbled ruins.  But in
front of her upon the margin of the lake was a tower,
once doubtless the keep of this ancient edifice, which still
stood defying the tooth of time and at the present
moment showed definite signs of occupancy, for upon a
clothes line beside the handsome Gothic portal hung a
variety of masculine undergarments, like Schloss Kempelstein
itself, in various stages of disrepair.  There were
fishing-nets in the sunlight on the small jetty and piles
of baskets and bottles under the protection of a wooden
lean-to against a broken wall.  Herr Markov had told
Tanya something of Herr Gratz, the eccentric owner of
this domain and so she was not unprepared for his greeting.

He emerged from the Gothic doorway almost immediately,
an unprepossessing creature, in soiled flannel
trousers and undershirt.  He had a pointed nose, small
eyes deeply set under shaggy gray brows and as he
strode forth from the door peering at his visitors, he
seemed far from hospitable.

"And what do you want?" he began.

"Food, Ludwig," said Markov.

Herr Gratz halted suddenly at the sound of Markov's
voice and stared at him, the ugly shadows in his face
lifting magically.

"You, Matthias!"

"The same----"

"But Fra Umberto--and the 'instrument of torture----'"

"Sh----More of that later.  For the present--the
Fräulein here is weary--a long journey----"

"A Fräulein--and a Priest!  Strange companions for
Matthias Markov, who has so long forsworn both."  He
burst into laughter, a dry cackle which indicated disuse.

Herr Markov brought forth the bag from beneath the
hay and followed their host into the tower, the lower
floor of which served as kitchen and living room.

"If you will go upstairs, Fräulein----" said Herr
Markov, "I will bring you food and coffee."

Markov, bag in hand, with the air of a familiar to the
premises, already led the way.  Hochwald watched him
narrowly for a moment.

"Our agreement holds here, Herr Markov," he flung
after him, "as well as upon the road."  Markov chose to
treat the remark with silence, but the millions of Nemi
weighed upon him heavily.  Though he was not a fighter
by nature, the situation perplexed rather than
intimidated him.  He knew that Hochwald was quite capable
of carrying out his threat to reveal their secret to the
authorities, and the experience with the guard at Bodolz
had convinced him that the slightest sign of trouble here
at Lindenhof, the firing of shots, the sound of cries which
could be heard upon the highway nearby or upon the lake
would mean speedy capture.  But he knew also that Herr
Hochwald's other plan to reach Switzerland safely with
the Fräulein and the money was the one he proposed to
carry out unless Markov could prevent it.  Hochwald's
own safety hung on silence too.  So long as they remained
in Germany Markov, Tanya, and Hochwald shared a
common secret and a common danger, any one of them
powerless without the silence and coöperation of the other two.
A strange partnership which Markov desired to terminate
at the earliest opportunity.  But how?  To kill, yes, but
he didn't believe in killing unless in self-defense.  This
was not his own quarrel, but his honor demanded the
protection of Fräulein Korasov.  He would protect her,
but the Fräulein was going to make it difficult.  She
would not embark until Herr Rowland appeared.
Suppose that he didn't come--that something had happened!
It was of this that Tanya spoke when they reached the
upper floor.

"It is eight o'clock, Herr Markov," she said nervously.

"Herr Rowland is doubtless moving cautiously.  Do
not become alarmed."

"That man....  He frightens me.  What do you
propose to do?"

"Are you fit to go on?"

"Yes--but not----"  She paused and searched his
face anxiously.  "Do you think that Herr Rowland could
have failed?"

He shrugged.

"How can I tell, Fräulein," he replied softly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A NIGHT ADVENTURE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center medium

   A NIGHT ADVENTURE

.. vspace:: 2

After clasping Frau Nisko warmly by the hand,
Rowland left Number 16 Schwaiger Strasse and
went out into the darkness of a small street at
the rear of the house.  The clock on the kitchen wall had
told the hour of ten and he realized that he had a little
more than an hour to accomplish his purpose of boarding
the train for Lindau.  It would be suicide to attempt
without a passport the purchase of a ticket at the Haupt
Bahnhof, and it was with a feeling of great uncertainty
as to the result of the project that he made his way
across the bridge and in the general direction of the
railway station.  He knew that any appearance of hesitation
in his manner in the streets would lead to questions and
arrest and so whistling cheerfully to keep up his courage
he went his way along the Sommer Strasse as far as the
Schwanthaler Museum (the very one of which he,
Prof. Leo Knaus, was curator) when, the Haupt Bahnhof
looming in sight, he turned to his left and followed a
street which ran parallel to the railroad tracks.  Having
come this far he felt more encouraged for he was now in
a region of breweries and factories where his rough
clothes were less conspicuous than in the fashionable
region through which he had just passed.  He realized
that he wasn't very pretty to look at, for there was a
six days' growth of beard upon his chin and the dust
of the garret had completed the damage to Georg Senf's
clothing, begun the other night upon the roofs.

Poor Senf!  It was prison for him--and for Weiss
and Benz.  The hour was not ripe for mutiny in
Germany--but there had been signs....  Next winter when
the pinch of hunger came....

But this was no time to be thinking of misfortunes of
the Munich Committeemen.  Prison for a while and then
conditional release, with a warning....  His own case
was more desperate and required a desperate expedient--to
board the eleven-thirteen train without buying a ticket.
He went on until he reached the edge of the brewery
district where he stopped in a small tobacconist's to buy
pipe tobacco and ask questions.  The man behind the
counter was old and querulous, but Rowland found out
what he wished to know--that he had already passed the
switches of the freight yards and that the straight double
track to Pasing began just here at Friedenheim.  Rowland
didn't wait to discuss the matter further, for a clock
upon the shelf indicated that the hour of eleven was near,
and so, leaving the old man staring after him, he went out
abruptly and strode rapidly eastward, crossing the tracks
and at last coming to a stop in the shadow of an
abutment close to the rails.

A train passed going toward the city and another
approached him going eastward, but it could scarcely be
the time yet.  So he waited and watched it pass--(a
train of goods-cars)--calculating its speed and figuring
on his chances of success.  If the speed of the eleven
thirteen was no greater than this....  But what if he missed
it--or boarded a train for Berlin by mistake?  He would
have to take that chance.  Silence except for the distant
rattle of the train that had passed.  He glanced around
him.  There was no one near, no lights, no watchmen--no
police.  He had chosen well.  There was a cinder path
beside the track--if for few seconds he could get up as
much speed as the train--that was all he needed, that and
a good grip on something....

Another train leaving Munich.  He could see its lights
and hear the rattle of its wheels as it crossed the switches.
He had tried to figure the passage of the minutes since
he had left the tobacconist's and was sure that the time
of departure of the train he wanted had long since passed.
This must be it then.  He pulled his cap down firmly
over his ears and peered out.  The exhaust of the
locomotive warned him that this was an express, slowly
gathering speed, but it was do or die now.  A light along the
rails--Rowland stepped back in the shadows, an arm over
his eyes to protect them from the glare.  Then a deafening
clank and roar as the engine passed, ever gathering
speed.  Rowland waited until one car passed--two--then
darted out, running furiously and sprang for the step
as it passed.  A wrench at his arm-pit, a moment of doubt
as he clutched at the rail, and then, he lay along the foot
board of the old fashioned car, for the moment quite safe.
There was no guard in sight but he could not tell how
soon one would appear--probably at Pasing, less than
five minutes away, and so clutching at the nearest guard
rail, he crouched and moved to the rear end of the coach.
There was one dark compartment but he did not dare
raise his head above the sill to look in, nor had he any
intention of entering it.  Indeed he had already made his
plan, and moving with great caution found an iron ladder
between the cars and climbed quickly to the top of the
coach, along which he crawled upon hands and knees and
finally lay flat with arms and legs extended, bruised and
breathless but quite happy.  He grinned to himself at the
ease with which the thing had been accomplished, and
thought of the mess he would have made of himself if he
had tried to take liberties of this kind with the Empire
State Express or the Manhattan Limited.

At Pasing he heard the call of the guard which
reassured him that he had made no mistake.  This was the
Lindau train, all right, and the Bodensee but eight or
ten hours away.  If they did not see him--if no one
looked up....  He crawled over to the side away from
the lights of the platform.  The travelers were all intent
upon getting into their places and the guards in putting
them there, so that the sprawling figure in the gloom
above them only a few feet away escaped notice.  But
Rowland saw and heard.  There was a delay of a few
moments while the officials waited for a tall man who had
gotten down from a machine alongside the platform.
Rowland heard his rasping voice, saw the guard salute
and take his valise; heard the obsequious "Excellency"
of the station agent and then the door of a compartment
just below him crashed to and the train moved off into
the darkness.  There was no mistaking Von Stromberg,
and his presence was reasonable enough,--even his
departure from Pasing instead of from the Haupt Bahnhof
where he might have been recognized by those who could
balk his plans.  Rowland wondered at his own stupidity
in not realizing that the Herr General would go to
Lindau rather than entrust so important an affair to a
subordinate.  And if to Lindau why not on the only train
which left for that place tonight?  And here he was, the
old villain, in the compartment Rowland might have
entered, not ten feet from where Rowland lay.  Zoya
Rochal had said of Rowland that he was never so happy
as when he was shooting at somebody and at this moment
Rowland confessed to a strong desire to justify the
statement.  He crawled along the top of the carriage until
he reached the ventilator which let into the compartment
Von Stromberg had entered, but of course could see
nothing.  There was an odor of a good cigar, the rattle of a
newspaper and then silence.  Rowland had seen no one
but von Stromberg enter the compartment and since there
was no sound of other voices below him Rowland knew that
the Herr General was alone.

While Rowland was planning how best to take advantage
of this extraordinary situation, the train came to a
stop again and he distinctly heard Von Stromberg's voice,
the caressing voice that Rowland remembered, giving
some orders to the guard.

"In the second compartment of the last car," he said
suavely, "you will find a very beautiful lady.  You will
recognize her by her hair which is as black as a raven's
wing.  Present my compliments and say that General
von Stromberg will be honored if she will share the
journey with him."

"*Zu befehl, Excellenz*," muttered the man and departed
toward the rear of the train, running.

Even now, Rowland did not realize just what the
message meant and until the guard returned accompanied by
a slender woman in dark clothes with a small hat set
rakishly upon her head, Rowland didn't know that the
beautiful lady with the dark hair was Zoya Rochal.
She stood for a moment in the glow of the open door,
it seemed looking up directly at the shadow where
Rowland was as their glances met.  Then he heard Von
Stromberg's voice welcoming her.

"*Ach*, Madame.  This is indeed a pleasure.  And I had
feared that I should be forced to pass this tedious
journey with no one but myself for company ... unless
an evil conscience....  I pray you to enter and make
yourself quite at home.  The guard will bring your
luggage....  So.  Of course I had forgotten that you left
Munich so suddenly," and then as she hesitated, his voice
more insistent, "Come, Madame, if you please."

Rowland heard her climb the steps, heard the door
shut behind her and then the shaken tones of her voice.

"Herr General--how did you know----?"

"Madame, do not pry behind my scenes.  It spoils the
effect.  I know everything.  It's my trade.  The thing
was so much more simple since there is but one train to
Lindau.  I was notified at Pasing the moment you
entered your compartment.  You do not object to the smell
of tobacco?  So.  Perhaps you will even condescend to
smoke a cigarette with me...."

The train was rumbling on into the darkness again and
Rowland for the moment could hear no more.  Indeed his
ears were filled with one phrase and he could hear no
other.  "I know everything--I know everything," even
the car wheels announced it, the exhaust of the
locomotive as the train went up grade.  If Von Stromberg
was omniscient, he was surely aware of Rowland perched
on the car-top just above his head, listening at the
ventilator.  Something of the terror that Zoya had expressed
for the old man's devilish ingenuity came over Rowland
at this moment.  He had seen something of Von
Stromberg's power of will.  He wasn't frightened in the
physical sense, for fear of that kind clogs the brain, the heart,
the muscles,--but the fact of Zoya's presence and the
old demon's knowledge of it had given Rowland a new
sense of Von Stromberg's skill in divination which
anticipated what it could not guess, and guessed what it could
not anticipate.  In all reason Von Stromberg could have
no possible means of knowing that Rowland had "jumped"
the train at Friedenheim and was now crouched upon the
top listening to this very interesting conversation.  Back
there in the Schwaiger Strasse Rowland had heard Zoya
Rochal swear to the old man that he, Rowland, had
escaped from Munich, but Rowland would have felt much
more comfortable if Zoya hadn't come.  What did her
presence mean?  Had she found out from Frau Nisko
that Rowland had inquired as to the trains for Lindau,
and, determined to repair the dreadful damage she had
done, had decided to follow Tanya and Markov to the
Bodensee and help them in the danger of Von Stromberg's
pursuit?  Or had she come seeking Rowland, trying in
helping him escape to atone for her treachery?  Or had
her mission some less pleasant purpose?

Whatever her intentions whether good or bad, the fact
of her presence alone with Von Stromberg in the railway
carriage below him was in itself a threat against
Rowland's security.  For Zoya *knew* that he planned to be
on this train or she wouldn't have come.  And what might
not the clever brain of the great Councilor succeed in
wheedling from this woman of uncertain quality by
persuasion, bribery, or threat during the long night journey
that lay before them?  Rowland lay flat upon the
cartop, his ear near the ventilator, but could hear nothing
except the low murmur of their voices.  Once he heard
Von Stromberg's laugh and then a little later Zoya's.
They seemed to be getting on famously for with the odor
of the masculine cigar came that of a Russian cigarette.
Rowland did not trust her....  Beneath the smooth
veneer that she had for years so carefully applied, she
had shown him tonight the rough grain beneath--the
Tartar grain--and he had scratched it....

Perhaps she would give him away to the old man who
would have the train searched.  At the next stop,
Rowland had half expected it, but when nothing happened he
breathed more freely.  At least so far she had held her
tongue.  There was some good in the woman--some
loyalty left--loyalty for Rowland at least that had
rightfully belonged to Herr Markov, whom she had betrayed.
Love--whatever it was that she had for Rowland--whatever
it was ... had kept her lips sealed.

As the hours passed and nothing happened, Rowland
gained confidence in his luck.  Barring new treachery in
Zoya Rochal, or some miraculous guess-work from his
enemy below, or the searching daylight, he would come
through safely to Tanya.  And if he didn't get through
safely to Tanya, he wouldn't be the only one who went
down.  It was going to be a "peach" of a "scrap" while
it lasted--a "peach," and the old pelican would be one
of those to keep him company in the last adventure.

But wasn't there something better than killing a lot
of railroad guards (old gentlemen, with white whiskers
for the most part with families of grandchildren at home)
to say nothing of getting killed one's self?  That wouldn't
help America much, or France, or even the Society of
Nemi.  What he had come into Germany for was to save
Tanya from Hochwald and bring the money back into
Switzerland.  He was on his way; and unless some unforeseen
disaster had occurred--unless Frau Nisko had failed
him, the money and Tanya were already nearing Lindau.
With success so near, he couldn't lose--he mustn't.

And then the train stopped at Kaufbeuren.  It had
been in motion for more than two hours, but the sound
of voices was still to be heard in the carriage below.
Rowland tried to make out what they said.

"My prisoner, Madame....  Well to submit with a
good grace....  I mistrust your generosity ... broken
faith....  Manage this affair alone ... pay you well
if I succeed.  But at Lindau ... the military prison
for a few days.  I will give especial instructions as to
your comfort."

"Not prison, Excellency----"

"For a few days only....  I am sorry.  I can't
forget your help in this affair.  A glass of wine--never
travel without it.  The ventilator?  Permit me."

"Excellency, I can reach quite easily from the seat."  Her
voice came suddenly very near Rowland's ear.  He
heard her fingers on the mechanism and as he peered in
through the hole in the roof a white object appeared
within touch of his fingers--a tiny scrap of paper!  He
thrust his fingers in carefully and seized it.  A message
from Zoya before Von Stromberg's very eyes....  But
he couldn't understand how....

He waited until the train moved on again and then
brought the paper close to the ventilator to read the
penciled scrawl.

"Patience," he read.  "Before daylight."

That was all.  But it was eloquent enough.  He lay
flat again, puzzled but jubilant.  She had been looking
for him as she came forward to Von Stromberg's
compartment and had seen him crouching in the gloom above.
She had guessed what he would do.  That was clever of
her.  The old pelican wasn't the only one who could
guess.  Rowland suddenly had a sense of doing Zoya a
great injustice, a great wrong.  He had been brutal with
her back there in the room in the Schwaiger Strasse,
because he had thought that what she had done was beneath
contempt--forgetting her wound, her weariness, and the
fear she had for this sardonic old brute who even now
was talking of committing her to prison.  She could be
no less weary now than she had been four hours ago
and yet he found her planning to save him and to save
those others from the results of her treachery.  What
was she going to do?  Not murder--that would be a
Boche vengeance.  He couldn't consent to that.  But even
if he wanted to prevent, what could he do unless he came
down and revealed himself and that would make an end
of them both.

And so Rowland waited, his ear close to the ventilator,
listening.  The sounds of their voices, Zoya's laugh, the
clink of glasses--was this the weak link in the old man's
armor?  "*Wein, weib*----"  And after a while he heard
no sound of any kind.  What was happening?  The train
was winding laboriously up through a narrow dark valley
beside a mountain tarn.  From time to time a red glare
shot from the furnace doors of the locomotive and then
a shower of cinders fell upon him.  The air was chill and
Rowland shivered with the cold.  A glance at the East
alarmed him, for the first signs of the coming dawn had
appeared.  It would not be long before daylight would
come and with it discovery of his position by some
switchman or station agent.  He crouched lower clinging to the
ventilator and listened again.  A sound, repeated at
regular intervals and growing in volume ... a snore,
a man's snore.  Von Stromberg slept.  And then he heard
Zoya's voice close at his ear.

"Philippe," it said.  "He sleeps.  You must come down.
But wait a moment.  I will see."

He waited breathless and in a moment heard her at the
window of the compartment.  Then her voice again.

"There is no stop for half an hour yet.  You must
descend."

"Where is the guard?" he asked.

"In the carriage in front.  Descend by the rear and
enter.  The window is open."

"Good."

With a glance around, Rowland raised his head and
slowly slid his body backwards until he found the iron
ladder by which he had climbed and descended, waiting
a moment at the corner of the car to peer out along the
guards and then bending down below the line of windows
swung himself along the steps to the window where Zoya
was awaiting him and in a moment had tumbled in head
first upon the floor beside her.  In the dim light of the
further corner Von Stromberg lay sprawled helpless, his
head back, his mouth open, snoring stentoriously.  He
was not pretty to look at.  But he wasn't in the least
formidable.  Teeth were missing.  He was only senility
asleep.

Rowland stared at him a moment in wonder.

"What has happened?" he asked.

"My medicine--the opiate--in his wine glass.  He
never knew."

"You didn't give him too much?"

"I hope not.  There was nothing else to do."

Rowland caught her by the hand.

"Zoya--you're four square.  It's fifty-fifty now.
Forgive me."

"And you?" she questioned.

"I'm sorry.  I'm a beast.  We'll beat him now.  But
the guard----"

"He won't bother us.  His Excellency gave orders that
he was not to be disturbed.  The guard has not dared
to look in since.  But we'll draw the curtain again."

They stood hand in hand and gazed at the prostrate
giant.

"To think that anything like that could frighten one,"
said Rowland with a grin.  "I think I could die happy
if I tickled his nose."  And then, "How did you know I
was there?"

"I didn't until I saw you.  I searched at Munich.  It
was a fearful risk for you to take."

"I had to take it.  But I'll confess I didn't know what
I was going to do when daylight came--unless I tumbled
off.  I'm not quite sure that I know now."

"The train stops at Weissenburg.  We must get off
there--by the opposite door and run for it."

"Are you up to it, Zoya?  You've had no sleep--the
excitement----"

"I'm no weakling, *mon brave*."

The daylight filtered slowly through the curtain of the
carriage and still Von Stromberg slept.  Twice the train
stopped and each time, by way of precaution, Rowland
crouched in a corner hidden under the traveling rug of
His Excellency, At the second station Zoya pulled up
the curtain and inquired of the guard the distance yet to
be traveled.  Herr Graf von Stromberg was asleep and
desired on no account to be disturbed even when they
reached their destination.  If he still slept, the car was to
remain in the station.  Was this understood?  She spoke
in tones of authority and the man bowed and said he
would repeat the orders.  Madame need have no fear that
they would not be obeyed.

Zoya's face was pallid and the cold light of the morning
was merciless, but she smiled at Rowland and sat calmly
beside their sleeping enemy, fully aware of the nature of
the sacrifice she had made.  Her fate was now bound up
with Rowland's, his with hers.  Failure now meant the
extreme penalty of this man's power for them both--and
his power was limitless.  But a change had come over
her since the scene in the room in the Schwaiger Strasse.
She was very quiet, very pale, smiling when he spoke but
making few comments and uttering no reproaches.  She
was like a soul already judged--already condemned and
awaiting punishment.  Rowland took her hand and held
it in his.  It was very cold and made no response to his
pressure.  It seemed that all the good in her, all the bad,
all the noble, all the selfish, all indeed that was Zoya
Rochal had been fused in the heat of a great emotion,
then suddenly chilled with disillusion.

"Zoya," he said softly, "I'm sorry."

She smiled a little.  "As you have said, it's fifty-fifty,
*mon brave*.  But I am no fool.  I am aware of the
sacrifice I make--for Her."  She laughed aloud.  "My
sickness has made me weak.  My claws are sheathed, *mon*
Philippe.  I shall not scratch her.  I have paid--have I not?"

"Yes, Zoya--in full----"

She gave a sigh and a little shrug that seemed meant to
deny it.

"It is strange.  I seem to look upon you now as one
who happened a long while since.  You belong to a dream
of what might have been.  You are very young, *mon*
Philippe--also beautiful and brutal as a god----"

"Oh I say, Zoya----"

"I talk across a distance, Philippe--from a dream.
You threw me to the floor brutally.  I adored you.  It
was curious.  Never in my life before Philippe, I swear
it.  Not like this.  Even with this girl waiting for you
yonder, I knew that I had to--I had to save you--to
repair the damage and pay my debt--Fifty-fifty, as you
say, *mon* Philippe."

"You've paid already----"

"I have an idea that I shall pay more....  No.  You
do not know.  In the end the woman pays for all--with
interest.  The balance will yet be on my side of the
ledger."

"I'll square it, Zoya,--some way," he muttered.

Her fingers moved in his.

"You may square it now, *mon* Philippe," she whispered,
"for all time.  Kiss me....  No ... upon the brow,--a
Benedictus....  *Voilà*!  I am forgiven, *nicht
wahr*--cleansed--the new fire burns up the old."

She rose abruptly and peered out through the slit in
the curtain.

"Clean--cold--passionless--like the new day," she
muttered.  "It cannot be long now.  You shall succeed----"

"You too--we will cross the lake somehow--to freedom."

"Perhaps--at least I have done what I could, *n'est
ce pas*?"  She raised the hand of Von Stromberg and let
it drop upon the seat.  "He will do," she smiled, "but his
snore is like the ride of the Valkyries.  No one will dare
disturb him.  Have you ever been to Lindau?"

"No," he replied, "but it's on an island.  Lindenhof is
what we want--a village a mile to the west.  Do you
think you can make it?"

"Three miles from Weissenberg--Yes.  I don't seem
to be tired."

He looked at her anxiously.  Her face was paler even
than before in the cool light, but its expression was quite
calm and even smiling.

A sudden grinding of the brakes of the train as it drew
into a station, while the guards called out its name.
Rowland, stumbling over the legs of the prostrate Von
Stromberg, rushed to the left hand door, lowered the window and
peered out.  The train came to a stop.

"Luck!  Zoya!" whispered Rowland.  "A train of goods
cars just opposite.  We've got to start at once."

And without further words, he stepped on the seat and
swung himself out of the window to the step below.
Without a moment's hesitation, Zoya followed, feet first, and
Rowland lowered her beside him and after closing the
window of the compartment took her hand in his and
together they bent forward beneath the goods car, where
they paused in a moment of danger while Rowland whispered,

"I will go first.  Our clothing--we must not be seen
together.  Follow when I pause."

And with a slight pressure of the fingers he left her,
and crawled out upon the further side.  There was but
one person in sight--a gate woman, her back turned.
Rowland walked a few steps, then paused and Zoya
emerged and followed him.  He turned into a country
road to the southward, walking rapidly until he reached
a clump of trees where he waited until Zoya came up with
him, when he drew her into the security of the bushes
where he bade her sit down a moment to rest while they
planned which way to go.

In which direction was Lindenhof?  And where Schloss
Kempelstein?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`KEMPELSTEIN`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXV


.. class:: center medium

   KEMPELSTEIN

.. vspace:: 2

"Chère Zoya," said Rowland, in a moment as he
smoked a much desired cigarette, "this will not
do at all, we must never be seen together in these
costumes.  You look like the front cover of a fashion
magazine and I--like a coal miner up for the air.  But
we haven't any time to lose.  In ten minutes the Sleeping
Beauty will roll into the Bahnhof at Lindau waiting
for someone to wake him with a kiss.  They'll be getting
suspicious in fifteen minutes and after that they'll go over
this smiling land with a fine-tooth comb.  And if there
are no teeth out of it, they'll draw something.  There's
one way."

"What, Philippe--

"A bee-line for the lake----"

"How far is it?"

"Not over a mile or so, I think.  You can see the
water shimmering through the trees."

"Let's go then----"

"You're not too tired?"

"No.  Lead on.  I'll follow."

He peered out of their place of concealment and walked
in a leisurely way along the road.  Behind them at the
Railroad Gate the old woman still sat knitting.  Both
trains had gone.  The way to the lake was clear, a
country road, little traveled.  A fresh breeze had started
up and the sun had broken above the low hanging bands
of moisture and laid a pretty pattern of the shimmering
foliage across his path.  The business of escaping seemed
absurdly simple--only a few miles of water between
himself and freedom.

But the uncertainty about Tanya and Markov made
him grave.  Had they received his message last night
and if so had they heeded it and come on safely to
Lindenhof.  More "ifs" came suddenly into his mind than he
cared to think about.  Markov was clever, and with the
hurdy-gurdy could have been counted on to reach Schloss
Kempelstein without difficulty.  But without the
hurdy-gurdy, and surrounded by police and soldiers all of whom
had been notified of his passage across Bavaria, how
would he fare?  Was he equal to such an emergency?
That was the risk.  In a moment Rowland had proof of
the thoroughness with which Von Stromberg had done his
work, for at the next crossing two provincial policemen
awaited his approach, scrutinizing him carefully.

He nodded to them cheerfully and bade them good
morning, but they stood in his path and he stopped,
rather alarmed at the unexpected turn of events.  But
he kept his easy poise admirably and his grin disarmed
them.

"Your name please?" asked the older man.

"With pleasure," politely, "Leo Knaus."

"You are of the railroad?"

"Assuredly.  Do I not look black enough?"

"Quite so.  Where do you live?"

"In Kempten."

"Where do you go now?"

Rowland laughed.

"To the lake for a bath.  You would like to do the
same if you had spent the night upon my locomotive."

Here the younger man broke in, "The man described
has gray hair.  As you will see, that of Herr Knaus is
black."

"Aye, and his skin too," laughed Rowland.  And then,
"You were looking for someone?"

"A tall man with gray hair and a girl whose hair is
reddish brown.  You did not see by chance upon the
road, a hurdy-gurdy, a piano-organ on wheels, drawn by
a small donkey?"

"I am a fireman.  There is no time to examine the
scenery.  But wait----"  Rowland took off his cap and
scratched his head.  "A hurdy-gurdy you say?  With a
donkey?"

"Yes--yes.  You've seen----?"

"I think--I'm sure.  Yesterday near Immenstadt--a
donkey--a very small donkey?"

"Yes--a small donkey--and a man and woman walking----"

"At dusk last night, where the railroad and the
highway ran parallel near the lake of Immenstadt.  I am
sure.  There is no grade there and I was resting--leaning
against the side of my coal-box--My engineer, Duveneck----"

"That does not matter--you are sure of what you tell?"

"Positive."

"You will report to the Weissenburg Station when you
have had your bath?"

"Assuredly.  My engine is there.  I go on duty this
afternoon."

"Good----"

At this moment Zoya Rochal came up to the group
and, staring blankly, passed on.

"Reddish hair," repeated the older man.

"Of course I could not see the color of the woman's
hair----"

"We will see to this at once.  The telegraph, Nussbaum----"

And off they went, traveling back along the road by
which Rowland had come.  With a grin he watched them
depart on their wild-goose chase.  Immenstadt was east,
Weingarten west.  "And never the twain shall meet----"
he quoted cheerfully to himself, aware of the fact that
not yet had the net been closed around Markov and
Tanya.  And he, Rowland, had perhaps widened its
mouth by fifty miles or so.  But such expedients were
dangerous and made the necessity for his disappearance
and Zoya's from the immediate neighborhood a matter of
great urgency.  He went on toward the Lake following
Zoya Rochal, compelling his feet to move slowly, while
every impulse urged speed.  Already the sleeping Von
Stromberg must have been discovered and it would not
be many minutes before the alarm would go out for Zoya
Rochal.  Her trim dark figure moved steadily in front
of him a hundred yards away, slowly reducing the
distance to the water which Rowland could now see at the
foot of the lane.  There were boats there, he could see
them clearly now, boats of all kinds ... Zoya seemed
to move more slowly--more painfully ... she was tired
out.  He hurried forward and passed her.  "Courage,"
he whispered, "we are not suspected.  Can you go on?"  She
was very pale.  "Yes--yes--a little faint----"

"Courage," he repeated.

He strode on more rapidly now, passing through a
village of small frame houses of the poorer sort, reaching
the foot of the lane where there was a jetty, beyond
which several sail-boats were anchored.  There was an
old man on the jetty cleaning some fish which he had
taken out of a sail-boat alongside.  Rowland lighted a
cigarette and approached him leisurely.

"Good luck?" he asked.

The man looked up with the taciturnity of fishermen.

"Fair," he said.

"Any boats to hire?"

The man looked Rowland over from top to toe, his
fish-knife suspended in the air.

"You don't think I can pay because I am a workman.
I am off for a holiday, my friend.  See."  And Rowland
exhibited a hundred mark note with an air of great pride.
The fisherman became more interested at once.  But shook
his head.

"There is a new law about renting boats to strangers.
You must have a pass from the officer commanding at
Lindau."

Rowland laughed.

"Strangers!  That's pretty good.  And me working
between Weissenburg and Kempten for ten years."

The fisherman rose and took up his bucket of fish.

"I'm sorry.  Your money is as good as anyone else's,
but it can't be done."

Rowland looked around him quickly.  There was no
one in sight upon the shore and only the slender figure
of Zoya Rochal slowly approaching him along the jetty.
Alongside the raft to which the man had descended to
wash his fish was the sail-boat he had used.  The breeze
was fresh and from the South.  The boom swung noisily
to and fro.  Rowland's mind was working rapidly.

Zoya joined him.  "Courage," he whispered.  "Go down."

She obeyed him, descending the wooden steps to the
lower level.  The fisherman looked up indifferently and
rose, his fish strung.

"You're sure you don't want to change your mind?"
asked Rowland pleasantly.

"No--it is *verboten*."

"Is this your boat?"

"Yes--but----"

"A hundred marks, Herr Fisherman," said Rowland
bringing the money out and holding it before the man's
eyes again.

The man dropped his fish and scowled at Rowland.

"*Donnerwetter*!  Have I not said----?"

There was no time to waste.  Rowland had put both
their necks into a noose which this idiot would draw if
they parleyed longer.

"Get in the sail-boat, Zoya," he said coolly and the
bewildered fisherman watched her obey.  "Your money----"

"My boat----" the man shouted rushing forward.  But
he got no further for Rowland shoved him violently,
tripping him skillfully at the same time and he
disappeared into the water.

Zoya was already in the boat and before the fisherman
came to the surface Rowland had cast off the bow-line
and pushed away from the raft.  The fellow rose sputtering
and tried to clamber in but found himself looking
into the barrel of Rowland's automatic.

"*Herr Gott!*" the fellow muttered and dropped back
into the water.

By this time the sail-boat had swung off from the dock.
Rowland hauled in the sheet, pulled up the lug sail, and
a quick twist of the tiller sent her on her way.

"Silly fool," said Rowland half to himself.  "He's
merely out a hundred marks."

The craft heeled over and the foam rushed out from
under her counter, bubbling aft in a manner most cheerful
to see.  But before Rowland had worked clear of the
other boats at anchor, he heard a sound behind him and
looking over his shoulder saw the drenched figure of his
friend the fisherman, rushing along the jetty shouting
like a demon.  Figures emerged along the shore and stood
watching curiously and when the man reached them and
told his story there was a good deal of running around
and waving of arms, but the thing that interested
Rowland most was the fact that while he looked no one ran
out on the jetty or toward the row-boats.  They may
have disliked the taciturn fisherman as Rowland had done
or they may have thought that he dreamed.

"There may be a telephone in that dump," grinned
Rowland, "but I'll risk a hundred marks on it."

Meanwhile he steered for the open lake, sure that the
rule against the use of petrol which applied to motor
cars would also apply to power boats.  For the present
at least they were safe, and skimming along under a
quartering breeze which showed no signs of diminishing.
Zoya sat rigidly upon the hard bench, her gaze on the
town of Lindau, which, separated from the mainland by a
bridge, seemed to be slowly rising from the water.

"*He* is there," she said with a shudder.  "Imagine--when
he wakes!"

"Pfui!  The guard!  Poor devil."  And then joyously,
"Zoya--we've beaten them."

"Yes--the gods are good."

"Do you feel better?"

"Better--yes--but I am very tired."

"Will you lie down yonder and try to rest?"

"Yes, Philippe."

She was very submissive.  He covered her with his
coat and she thanked him softly.  But again he noticed
the air of indifference, of restraint, of passive acceptance
of the new relationship between them.

The breeze was life-giving and the craft, which bore
the name of *Elsa* seemed as deeply imbued as Rowland
with the exigencies of the occasion, for as the breeze
freshened she leaped joyously toward the distant shore
as though aware of an important mission which had
nothing to do with trout or felchen.  Rowland steered wide
of all other craft, fishermen's boats returning to Lindau,
a steamer just leaving the Hafen for Rorschach, and
having covered as he thought a sufficient distance from
his point of departure swung in again toward the Bavarian
shore.

Markov had described Schloss Kempelstein to him--a
solitary tower upon the shore of the lake, west of Lindau.
There was a small jetty too with boats.  Such a place
should not be difficult to find.  He searched the shore
with his gaze and found a tower--much nearer Lindau
than he had supposed.

At the sudden change in the motion of the *Elsa*
coming around on the other tack, Zoya Rochal started
up and looked at the rapidly approaching shore.

"It seems a pity," she said quietly.

He understood her but answered cheerfully enough.

"We'll come through, Zoya, don't worry."

"It's death, this time, Philippe----"

"Well----" he laughed.  "We'll go merrily.  There's
only one thing I regret."

"What, Philippe?"

"That I didn't tickle His Excellency under the chin."

"I hope he doesn't tickle us under ours, *mon vieux*,"
she said rather grimly.

The tower of Schloss Kempelstein grew in height and
now the ruined walls surrounding it appeared.  There
was a sail-boat moored alongside the jetty and one or
two smaller boats, drawn up on the shore by the tower.
Rowland watched the place eagerly and the *Elsa* rushed
on her bows dipping heavily into the cross seas,
drenching them both with foam.  Zoya leaned forward, her
hands clasped over the gunwale pale, calm, indifferent to
her discomfort, her wide weary gaze fixed like Rowland's
on the jetty beside the tower.  There was an arch which
connected the tower with a ruined building alongside and
it was in the shadow of this arch that they were both
suddenly aware of figures moving,--two men and two women.
The *Elsa* was still too far away for them to
distinguish faces but the figures stood for a moment as
though in conversation and then seemed to move toward
the jetty.  Behind the ruin upon what seemed to be a
highroad, there were men on horseback, riding in a cloud
of dust.

"There's something going on, Zoya," whispered
Rowland tensely.  "What does this mean?"

The *Elsa* was now rushing in headlong.  Rowland
was so eager to shorten the distance, that he had taken
no account of the possible dangers of the beach or of the
necessities of a safe landing, but he put the helm up now
and let the craft swing down the beach a hundred yards
or so while he watched the figures on the pier, now plainly
distinguishable.  One of the women was Tanya Korasov,
the other woman--Rowland stared in astonishment.  It
was no woman but a monk in a belted robe and while
Rowland and Zoya looked, they saw the monk direct
Tanya to the sail-boat alongside the jetty.  There was a
shout from the men in the shadow of the arch as they
rushed out toward the figure of the monk.  As they
emerged into the sunlight the monk raised an arm
gesturing, and then there was a loud report and one of the
men under the arch seemed to stumble and fall.  Then
they saw him half rise and crawl on toward the monk.
Another report and the crawling man sank to the ground
and moved no more.  The other man hesitated and then
ran back to the shadow of the arch.

"Good old Markov!" shouted Rowland.  "The monk
is Markov, Zoya----"  And then again wildly, "The
boat," he shouted to the monk; "they're coming,
Markov!--Behind you--from the road."

Zoya had started up at the beginning as the shots were
fired and had leaned forward, her eyes peering in horror.

"That's not Markov," she whispered now to Rowland.
"Not Markov," she repeated.  "It was he yonder."  She
sank down upon the seat and buried her head in her hands.

"Not Markov," he muttered--"then who----"

An inkling of the truth came into Rowland's mind at
the same moment for the man in the monk's robes turned
and catching up a bag that lay beside him upon the
jetty, caught Tanya by the arm, helped her abruptly
into the boat and pushed off from the jetty just as the
cavalcade of horsemen rode through the arch.  Rowland
saw them dismount and rush forward upon the jetty, but
the boat had swung off and her sail had caught the breeze
so that by the time the men in uniform had reached the
end of the jetty there was thirty feet of clear water,
quickly widening, between them.  The soldiers shouted
and one of them drew a revolver but the man in the monk's
robes had leveled his weapon again and fired.  Rowland
was now near enough to see quite clearly the features
of the monk.  Even without a mustache, Rowland
recognized the man who had done the shooting--Gregory
Hochwald.

The *Elsa* was now working up close hauled under the
lee of the other sail-boat which was making for the open
waters of the lake.  The soldier kneeled and Hochwald
pushed Tanya down below the gunwale.  The automatic
of the soldier spoke again and again but without effect
for Rowland saw Hochwald rise in his place and make a
derisive gesture.  The other soldiers fired also but the
bullets spattered harmlessly in the water.

Herr Hochwald had been so busily engaged in making
his escape that he had not been aware of the *Elsa* which
had come up under his lee not a hundred meters away,
but as he set his course for the open water he glanced
over his shoulder at the *Elsa*, where Rowland, crouched
at the tiller, was slowly overhauling him.  Rowland saw
him laugh and say something to Tanya who straightened,
her white face gazing across the space of water at
Rowland but without recognition.  Zoya lay face downwards
upon the seat, silent and motionless.

Rowland crouched lower, his cap pulled over his eyes.
The meaning of the events upon the wharf had come to
him slowly and not until he had seen Hochwald's face did
he realize what this escape meant to him and to Tanya.
But having grasped the facts, he planned quickly.  For
the present at least their common foe was baffled and
every mile that grew between the boats and the Bavarian
shore was so much to the credit of them both in a
defensive alliance which should not in the least cloud the
personal issue between Rowland and Hochwald.  There
was going to be a reckoning of some sort presently when
they reached the center of the lake--a reckoning which
would balance all grievances.  Rowland had suddenly
become quite calmly exhilarated, and Zoya raised her head
and looked at him in pallid astonishment.  As her look
questioned, he answered:

"It's Hochwald, Zoya--the priest is Hochwald."  And
as she straightened to look---"Keep down below the
gunwale.  He doesn't know, we're going to surprise him."

"What are you going to do?"

"Oh, just trail along."

He was silent again, thinking, and she questioned no
more.  Indeed from the look of her she was more dead
than alive, and Rowland found time to wonder how she
had managed to keep up for so long.  He marveled at the
look of sudden terror that had come into her face when
Matthias Markov had fallen.  It had been as though
suddenly in that dreadful moment she had had a vision
of the ghosts of her sins, against him ... Poor Markov....

But the memory of Tanya's frightened face in Herr
Hochwald's boat soon blotted all else from Rowland's
mind.  Tanya there with his arch enemy Hochwald,
escaping to freedom and Switzerland, with Tanya and the
treasure of Nemi!  What chance could have thrown them
together--for nothing but chance could have aided
Hochwald where such a man as Von Stromberg had failed.
Chance ... Chance should not avail him now.  The
*Elsa* was Nemesis and she seemed to be aware of it, for
she outfooted the heavy craft of Hochwald three to two.
But Rowland was not ready to come up with Hochwald
yet--not until they had passed the middle of the lake and
were safely over the Swiss line, so he eased the *Elsa* up
into the wind and let her hang there from time to time
until a mile or two had been covered when he hauled his lug
sail as close as he could and crossing the stern of
Hochwald's boat stole up the windward where he kept the
*Elsa's* sail between Hochwald and himself.

Rowland could now see that Hochwald was puzzled by
the actions of this other boat which clung to him so
closely and tried to come closer up into the wind, but
Rowland edged away, all the while forging ahead and
choosing a position which would give him the advantage
when they came to terms.  The wind was now blowing
half a gale from the mountains to the southward and the
heavy clouds which had formed above their peaks came
rolling down deeper and deeper in shadow as a presage
of more wind to come.  But the *Elsa* was a good sea-boat
and had so far shipped little but the crests of foam.
Zoya lay upon the seat, leaning on one elbow, her eyes
dully watching the race.  From time to time she turned
and glanced at Rowland who smiled at her encouragingly
but said nothing.

The German shore was now hardly distinguishable
through the mist of flying spume and shadow.  There was
a steamer in the direction of Lindau; Rowland had
marked her for the last ten minutes and she was coming
fast, traveling under forced draught for from time to
time her stack belched clouds of black smoke.  And now,
there was a deep boom which rolled with sullen reverberations
across the water and at the same moment almost,
a column of spray shot up into the air two hundred yards
to the *Elsa's* left.  Zoya started upright and glanced at
Rowland who knew what this new danger meant.

"The Patrol-boat, Zoya," he said coolly.  "Somebody's
given our show away."

"Will they catch us?"

"I hope not.  A stern chase--and we're legging it
pretty fast."

"It's Von Stromberg," she said with the abstracted air
of the fatalist.  "One cannot get the best of the game
with Von Stromberg."

"We shall," cried Rowland triumphantly.  "Look,
Zoya.  The Swiss Patrol."

She followed the direction of his arm and saw, stealing
out from the Hafen of Romanshorn, over their starboard
bow, another steamer of about the same size as their pursuer.

There was no time to spare if Rowland's argument
with Herr Hochwald was to be concluded before the
interesting conflict of these new forces.  Another distant
boom and another geyser of water shot into the air, a
hundred feet nearer.

"Can you sail a boat, Zoya?" he asked of her.

"No--but I'm willing to try," she said with a strange
smile.

Rowland brought the *Elsa* up into the wind and held
her there until the boat of Herr Hochwald drew up on
even terms, then he eased up the helm and steered a course
that would bring the two boats together in a few
moments.  He saw Hochwald, who had by this time thrown
off his monk's robe, rise in the stern of the other boat
and scrutinize him eagerly, his sail meanwhile flapping
uncertainly.  But the *Elsa* bore down on him like an
avenging angel until only a few yards of water separated
the two boats.  By this time Hochwald who had guessed
that the actions of the *Elsa* boded him no good had put
his helm up to run for it.  But Rowland, his cap pulled
well down over his eyes, maneuvered skillfully, and
brought the *Elsa* alongside, and there they rushed for
a second or so, crashing together, the foam dashing over
them, the white water flashing between.

"Quick, Zoya," cried Rowland.  "Hold her--as she is----"

And leaving the helm he dashed forward seizing the
*Elsa's* bow-line, leaped into the air landing safely and
took a quick turn of the painter around the mast of
Hochwald's boat.

Hochwald had recognized him now and began firing as
Rowland saw Tanya rise from the bottom of the boat
where she had been lying.

"Keep down, Tanya," he cried triumphantly in the
voice that she knew so well.  "It's I--Philippe."

.. _`"Keep down, Tanya," he cried. "It's I--Philippe"`:

.. figure:: images/img-372.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Keep down, Tanya," he cried. "It's I--Philippe."

   "Keep down, Tanya," he cried. "It's I--Philippe."

She obeyed him--in a fascination of surprise and
terror....  Saw Zoya Rochal clamber from one boat to the
other and rise....  Heard the reports of firearms ...
saw Zoya's eyes widen, saw her clutch at her breast and
stumbling, fall just behind Philippe who had run aft
toward Hochwald, firing as he went.

Tanya hid her face in her hands for a second, then
rose, watching the two men swaying in a deadly embrace.
There was another shot from Hochwald's weapon, muffled
against the body of Philippe, but he still struck and
struggled, lifting Hochwald clear of the gunwale.  As
Tanya ran aft, Rowland fell half over the side, while
Hochwald hung a moment, his face ghastly, feebly gripping
for a hold and then disappeared in the green swirl
of water astern.

Tanya caught at Rowland's shoulder and hauled him
back into the boat and he sank into her arms, the smile
still on his lips ... a smile that now twitched painfully
... for upon his soaking shirt above the breast was a
dark spot--spreading rapidly.

"Tanya," he was muttering, "cast off--other boat--steer,
Swiss Patrol----"  And then his head fell forward
and he was silent.

She gazed at him in anguish but laid him gently down
and ran quickly forward.  The boats were thrashing
together dangerously and the other was half full of water.
With difficulty she cast off the line ... Zoya lay upon
it ... but at last she got it free and ran back to
Philippe, who was lying where she had laid him, the water
in the cockpit washing over him.  She sat beside the
tiller, raising his head in her lap, trying with her
handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood from his wound.
Was it to be death after all...?

"Steer--Swiss Patrol----"  She caught at the sheet
beside her, that Hochwald had pulled and fastened it to
the cleat.  A huge wave came over the bow and frightened
her, but she grasped the tiller and headed toward the
Swiss shore.  The Swiss Patrol boat loomed larger--larger,
but the other, the German boat, still came on, a
white cataract at its bows.

She did not seem to care now.  The rush of the waves--of
the growing storm--roared in her ears, as though
from a great distance.  Before her out of the gray of
the mist and rain came the loom of the shore.  She heard
the hails of men, they seemed to be all about her, but she
knew not how to obey and only sat clinging to the tiller
and to Rowland, whose head was against her body very
pale and still....

She was aware of a boat along side of her, manned by
men in smart uniforms--one of whom leaped over into her
boat, gave one quick glance around and then at first gently
and then with more force released the tiller from her hand.

"If the Fräulein will permit----" a voice said.

"You are----?"

"Lieutnant Hoffmeier of the Swiss Lake Patrol----"

She raised her head, blankly staring at him and then
as he caught her in his arms--suddenly relaxed.





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.. _`FINIS`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI


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   FINIS

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The navy of land-locked Switzerland has always
been a subject for jest among nations that go
down to the sea in ships.  But the patrol service
of Lake Constance, which guards the line running midway
down the length of the lake against illegality--the
smuggling of arms and ammunition, the use of improper
passports, and all the illicit dealings that are a part of the
secret operations of nations at war, has been and
continues to be a highly efficient force in the preservation of
neutral relations.

Herr Lieutnant Hoffmeier, no lover, in spite of his
name, of methods Teutonic, took as great a pride in his
craft as though she had been a twenty thousand ton
battleship, as much joy in his two small deck rifles as
though they had been thirty-eight centimeters in caliber.
It was his business to watch the lake for signs of
suspicious craft and especially to note the movement of the
German Government vessels at Lindau and Friedrichshafen.
So that when the German Patrol emerged from
Lindau, vomiting black smoke, he came out at once,
assured that the two small fishing boats that he had been
watching for some moments crossing in the storm were the
objects of German attention.  The round shots sent as
warning aroused him to greater interest, especially as now
it was clear that the sail-boats had reached Swiss waters.
over which Herr Lieutnant Hoffmeier had dominion.  He
was somewhat jealous of his authority and found himself
growing warm as the firing proceeded, quite in
contravention of international agreements.

And so, just to show that he was on the job, and not
lightly to be considered, he had his bow-gun cast loose
and fired one shot well to windward of the pursuing
boat.  The sail-boats were now easily visible to the Herr
Lieutnant with the naked eye and he noted with amazement
the crashing of the two boats together, the reports
of fire-arms and the fight that followed, in which one man
had gone overboard.  And so when he got within hailing
distance, he shouted to the occupants of one sail-boat
which had now swung clear, but got no answer.  So he
gave several quick orders and when his vessel lost way,
jumped into his gig, which was swung overside, and pulled
rapidly to the badly sailing lugger.

There was a girl at the helm, a very beautiful girl with
reddish-brown hair, who looked at him blankly and
refused to relinquish the helm.  She was bewildered and
terrified and after a brief question fainted in his arms.
In the bottom of the boat at her feet a man lay, bleeding
from a wound in his body, and forward, in the wash of
the water the boat had shipped, another woman, dead.

The Herr Lieutnant took the helm and brought the
lugger alongside the gangway of his craft, where with the
help of his gig crew the unconscious girl, the wounded
man and the dead woman were carried upon deck, his
boatswain also bringing up from the lugger a black robe
and a large valise which weighed heavily.  Lieutnant
Hoffmeier gave some brief orders--a restorative for the girl,
first aid for the wounded man, who though desperately
hurt, had a chance for life; then mounted his bridge and
took down his megaphone, for the German patrol-boat had
drawn up within a cable's length and was now lowering a
boat to come aboard him.

"I would inform you, Herr Lieutnant, that you have
already violated neutrality by firing over my line," he
roared.

He spoke of the international boundary with the casual
air of possession that was habitual with him.

"Escaping spies," came the reply, "we are within our
rights."

"You have no rights in Swiss territory," he snapped,
and lowered the megaphone, for his boatswain had
mounted the bridge beside him and saluted.

"The lady has come to, sir, and would like to speak
to you at once."

"Very good.  Take the deck and receive the Herr Lieutnant.
I will return."

And with a glance at the approaching boat, he went
below.

Tanya was sitting up among some pillows on a bench
in the cabin.  She was very pale, her skin, transparent like
onyx, blue-veined, her gray eyes dark and luminous.

"You wanted to see me?" asked the Lieutnant with
brisk politeness.

"Yes, Herr----"

"Hoffmeier----"

"Herr Hoffmeier.  I plead with you that you do not
give us up--I am a Russian, the wounded man an American.
We claim the protection of Swiss neutrality----"

"The German captain claims that you are spies----"

"It is not true.  I was taken into Germany against my
will, by the man who was drowned--an agent of the
German Government, with the money in the valise yonder
which we have recovered."

And breathlessly, in as few words as possible, she told
him her story.  He listened, attentively, aware of the
fact that his captive was struggling bravely against her
weakness, against terror of the horrors through which
she had passed.  In the midst of their conversation a
sailor entered, touching his cap.

"Herr Lieutnant Zapp of the Bodensee patrol and
His Excellency General Graf von Stromberg----"

Tanya stared past the man toward the door of the
cabin as though expecting to see the terrible old man
following the messenger.

"Herr Hoffmeier----" she pleaded, "his power is
without limit.  It is death for me----"

Hoffmeier turned and dismissed the man.

"I will be on deck in a moment."

And then to Tanya gently, "You are no spy?"

"No, I swear it."

"Nor he--the American----"

"Nor he--that also I swear----"

He caught the hands she extended toward him and
pressed them firmly.

"That's all I want to know.  Fear nothing.  Even the
German Emperor has no dominion over me."

"You will not let them----"

"No.  Be at rest."

And with a smile, he vanished through the door and
went up on deck, walking straight to where the two
visitors awaited him, then halting, saluted.

After formal introductions General von Stromberg smiled.

"It was most kind of you, Herr Lieutnant Hoffmeier.
We are thankful for your assistance.  We have come to
relieve you of our prisoners."

"*Bitte?*" said Hoffmeier.

"Our prisoners," repeated Von Stromberg.  "We have
come for them."

"There is doubtless some misunderstanding," said the
Swiss officer politely.  "I have no prisoners of yours.
As Herr Lieutnant Zapp will doubtless tell you----"

"Come, Herr Lieutnant," broke in Von Stromberg, "we
do not wish to delay you or indeed to be delayed.  Our
time is short."

"And mine.  I have a patient who must go to the
hospital at once."

"And you have the temerity to say that you will not
relinquish these prisoners to me?"

Hoffmeier bowed.

"You have not mistaken my meaning."

"And you are willing to accept the consequences of this
action?"

"Beyond doubt, or I would not take it."

Von Stromberg turned to his companion.

"Herr Lieutnant Zapp,--it cannot be that this
gentleman is aware of my power--my authority----"

"You are mistaken," broke in the Swiss quite coolly,
"You are Herr General Graf von Stromberg, Head of
the military sections of the Imperial German Secret
Service, Geheimrath, Privy Councilor of his Majesty,
Emperor William II."  He took two steps toward the brass
rail and pointed, "But your power--your authority--ends
yonder--a mile away.  If you are unfamiliar with
the treaties--with the law which governs the Bodensee,
Herr Lieutnant Zapp will doubtless enlighten you, on
your way back to Lindau."

"You are impudent, sir."

"I am merely obedient to those who command me."

"Those who command you, shall command your dismissal."

"This is not Prussia, Excellency.  Not while I do my duty."

Von Stromberg glared at the boy as though he would
have liked to strangle him.

"Do you realize that the money which these prisoners
have looted belongs to citizens of Germany?"

"That is a matter which the courts will determine,"
said the Swiss lightly.

Von Stromberg shrugged and laughed unpleasantly.

"You are a very foolish young man."

Then after a moment of hesitation he took a pace
forward, catching Hoffmeier by the arm and walking a few
paces along the deck with him, whispering.

In the midst of the conversation the Swiss suddenly
flung away.

"Bribery!" he cried hotly.  "You've found the wrong
man, Excellency.  I will give you one minute to leave my
ship, or I will take you to Switzerland and intern you."

And walking to the gangway he pointed down to where
the visiting boat lay, the men at their oars.

"Your boat awaits you, Herr Lieutnant Zapp.  I bid
you good morning, Excellency."

Von Stromberg scowled, bit his lip and scowled again,
but he followed his lieutenant down the ladder and silently
entered the boat, wrapping himself in his great cape and
was rowed away.

Lieutnant Hoffmeier mounted to the bridge and gave
the orders for full speed ahead.  Then he leaned over the
rail and watched the small craft approach the German
patrol-boat.

"Sacred pig of a Prussian bully.  On my own quarterdeck,
too!  Tish!"

And he spat to leeward.


For three weeks Rowland had lain in the hospital at
Rorschach, unaware of the storm that had raged about
his bed.  For a week he had been between life and death,
for the bullet of Herr Hochwald had passed through his
right lung and embedded itself between the ribs at his
side.  But careful nursing and the ministrations of an
excellent surgeon had pulled him through, and the danger
point had long since passed.  Modern firearms, unless
they kill outright, are not necessarily fatal, and modern
surgery, almost an exact science, is on the side of strong
constitutions.  And so Rowland, the bullet removed, was
now convalescent, sitting in a wonderful arm-chair, by a
sunny window, looking out across the lake that had come
so near being his grave, toward the Bavarian shore, where
in the distance he could just see the dim outlines of the
island of Lindau rising from the water.

Tanya had been to see him twice, Shestov once, each
for a few moments only, in the presence of his nurse, and
yesterday Tanya had told him that all was going well--that
influence had been brought to bear at Berne by
Shestov, Barthou and the Swiss Councilors of Nemi, and
that the money of the Society which he had fought so
hard to bring back was in the way of being restored to
its rightful Trustees.  Tanya was coming to visit him
again this morning and he had been promised a half hour
with her alone.  Thus it was that the sun of the morning
seemed so bright and the cloud-flecked sky so blue.  Also
he had shaved and was conscious of a supreme sense of
well being.

She came to him, all in white (as became a bride),
looking extraordinarily handsome, radiant with happiness
and glowing with the joy of his recovery.  The nurse,
who was a discreet person, smiled at them both and withdrew.

He held out his arms and without a word she came
into them, kneeling.

"Philippe," she murmured, "you are sure that you are
getting well?  It seems----"

"Right as rain.  The cough has stopped.  In a week
I'll be as strong as ever.  And then----"

He paused and she raised her lips to his, flushing adorably.

"And then----?"

She knew what he wanted to say, but she wanted him
to say it.

"You and I--Tanya--my wife."

"Whenever you wish, Philippe Rowlan'," she murmured.

"Today?" he urged.

"Whenever you wish.  We have won life together."

He was silent in a moment of soberness.

"We have a great work to do, Tanya."

"Yes.  We shall do it--together.  Russia!"  Her voice
sank.  "Oh, *mon* Philippe--my country--the cause seems
so hopeless--anarchy--nothing less----"

"Order will follow--reason--regeneration----"

"Honor cannot come from dishonor.  Russia is false--a
Judas among the nations----"

Rowland laughed.  "Cheer up, my princess.  Wave
your wand and all will yet be well."

"My wand!  A reed, Philippe--broken.  I have never
felt so weak--so powerless."

"But never have you been so strong--for in you I have
already found new strength,--new power--authority.
But there must be no more mediævalism in Nemi, Tanya.
I have been thinking much.  I have learned something in
Germany ... We must make a new fight--for the people
yonder.  They are not ready yet, but soon--soon.  In
the meanwhile we can work secretly.  Our giant with a
hundred arms has only been groping in the darkness.
But he has a giant's strength....  He shall use it.  If
you and I alone against Von Stromberg--all Germany--can
emerge victorious ... we can win again and again.
We have given the first blow and are unharmed.  There
are rumors of strikes--you have heard?  There will be
other strikes--more blood shed--until the people of
Germany arise in their might.  A dream?  Perhaps.  But it
is a good dream--for France, for England and America.
But of one thing I am resolved--that the Society of Nemi
shall not pass into the hands of the enemies of our
allies----"

"God forbid.  Hochwald----"

"Others will come--like him--from Russia--from
Germany.  But they shall not win--for we will know them."

"But if you are interned----?"

"They know nothing of my service in the French army.
I shall not tell them.  Barthou hopes for my full freedom."

"I was almost hoping----" she paused and pressed his
hand gently.

"What?"

"That they would intern you.  I am afraid of danger,
now, Philippe.  I never was before.  The legend----"

"There shall be no more legends."

He laughed, kissing her hands gently.

"And yet after all was it not a legend that brought me
Princess Tatyana?"

"But she is here to guard you against danger, Philippe
Rowlan'.  Death seems to me so much the more terrible
now that Life and happiness stretch before us both....
Poor Zoya!"

"And Markov.  But they went together--as he would
have wished."

She hid her face in her hands.

"Together?  Yes.  I can never forget him....  Never."

"Nor I."

"She ... loved *you*, Philippe----" she whispered.

He was silent, thinking.  And then----

"She did what she could--to atone.  One is judged, I
think--by one's whole life, Tanya--not a part of it.  Her
record is finished, but its last item is the most important.
She paid ... in blood," he finished soberly.

"And Grisha Khodkine--he too----"

Rowland shrugged.  "He was game----" he muttered.

She took from her hand bag some papers, much
wrinkled, soiled and water-stained.

"His *dossier*----"

"We'll hardly need it now----"

He caught her hands in his and the papers fell to the
floor, papers once so significant and now merely--soiled
papers.

"We have now this moment, Tanya.  Let us forget--everything
else.  Later we will give for others.  Now we
will take--for ourselves."

"It is too wonderful to be true----"

"Like the fairy tale.  Listen and I will tell it to you.
Once upon a time, there was a very small boy who lived
in a very large house in a very noisy city.  And there
came to him in his dreams a wonderful fairy who carried
a wand with a star at its end which had the property of
making all good things come true.  Her name was
Princess Tatyana and he loved her, for she was very, very
beautiful----"

Tanya laid her fingers across his lips.

"Is not our own fairy story more beautiful than this?"

He kissed her fingers and then, since her lips were near,
took them too, for fairy tales, beautiful as they may be,
are after all, mere creatures of dreams.  And Tanya's
lips were very real....

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   THE END

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large

   By George Gibbs

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium white-space-pre-line

   The Golden Bough
   The Secret Witness
   Paradise Garden
   The Yellow Dove
   The Flaming Sword
   Madcap
   The Silent Battle
   The Maker of Opportunities
   The Forbidden Way
   The Bolted Door
   Tony's Wife

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium white-space-pre-line

   D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
   Publishers New York

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.. pgfooter::