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Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
That the Earl should have learned the true name and station
of my wife apparently disconcerted him. His complexion was
of ashen hue; all his arrogance had left him, for he saw
himself cornered. I stood glaring at him fiercely, for was not
I face to face with the man whom my wife had met times
without number, concealing from me all motive or duration
of her absences? Some secret had existed between them—
he was the man whom she apparently feared, and whose
will she had obeyed. I felt that now, at last, I should
ascertain the truth, and obtain a key to the strange
perplexing enigma that had held me in doubt and suspicion
through so many weary months.

His shifty gaze met mine; I detected a fierce glint in his

eyes.

“Well?” exclaimed his Lordship, as determined as myself

upon seeking a solution of the problem. “Now that you
admit these mysterious meetings with Her Highness,
perhaps you will explain their object.”

“I admit nothing,” he answered in anger, knitting his brows.

“Neither have I anything to explain.”

“See!” the Earl said, drawing Ella’s photograph from the

envelope. “Perhaps you will recognise this picture?” and his
bony hand trembled with suppressed excitement as he
placed it before him.

At sight of it my wife’s strange friend drew a long breath.

He was white to the lips. Never before had I witnessed such
a complete change in any man in so short a period, and
especially curious, it seemed, when I reflected that he had
been charged with no very serious crime.

“You may allege whatever it may please you,” he said at

last, with affected sarcasm. “But a woman’s honour is safe
in my hands.”

“My wife’s honour!” I cried, with fierce indignation, walking

towards him threateningly. I could no longer stand by in
silence when I recollected what Ella had said about being
compelled to act according to the will of another. She had,
no doubt, been under the thrall of this overdressed dandy.
“Now that we have met,” I exclaimed, “you shall explain to
me, her husband.”

With a quick movement he strode forward as if to escape

us, but in an instant I had gripped him by the shoulder with
fierce determination, whole the Earl himself, apprehending
his intention, placed his back against the door.

“Speak!” I cried wildly, shaking him in my anger. “You shall

tell us the true nature of the secret between you and my
wife, and prove your statement to our satisfaction, or, by
heaven, I’ll thrash you as a cunning, cowardly cur!”
 Chapter Thirty One.
Due East.

“Bah!” retorted the Earl’s visitor, contemptuously, shaking

himself free with a sudden twist, and standing before me in
defiance. “I understand,” he cried, glancing towards the
elder man before the door. “You believe, gentlemen, that
from me you can ascertain a key to certain curious
occurrences that have puzzled you. But I may as well
undeceive you at once. I can tell you absolutely nothing.”

“But you shall tell us!” I cried, angrily. “I found you walking
with my wife in Kensington Gardens, and followed you. It
was apparent from her demeanour that she feared you.”

He smiled sarcastically, and answered with a flippant air:

“Perhaps she did. If so, she certainly had cause.”

“Why? What power do you hold over her, pray?” I

demanded.

In his eyes was a mysterious glance. He was scarcely the

brainless young dandy that I had imagined.

“It is hardly likely that I shall divulge to you a secret.

Remember that your wife comes of one of the highest
families in Europe, and the slightest breath of scandal must
reflect upon them.”

“At what scandal do you hint?” I asked, in fierce, breathless

eagerness.

“At what is best kept quiet,” he answered, gravely.

His enigmatical words maddened me. I felt that I could
spring upon him and strangle him, for I knew instinctively
that he was my wife’s enemy—the man of whom she lived
in deadly fear. If only I could silence him, she might then
relate to me those long-promised facts.

“Then if you decline to prove that there is a concealed

scandal, utter no more of your lying allegations,” I blurted
forth.

He bowed deeply with mock politeness, and smiled grimly.

“Come,” exclaimed the Earl at last, in a conciliatory tone,

advancing towards him and laying his hand upon his
shoulder. “Let us get at once to the point. It is useless to
quarrel. You decline to reveal to us the nature of your
curious friendship with the Grand Duchess—eh?”

“I do,” he answered, firmly.

“Well,” said the tactful old Minister. “First carefully review

the situation, and you will, I think, admit that I have been
your friend. And how have you shown your gratitude?”

“By concealing from you a truth both hideous and terrible,”

he replied, with apparent unconcern.

“But you can, if you will, give us some clue to this

remarkable chain of circumstances. I appeal to you on
behalf of Deedes, her husband,” the old man said.

“I am well aware of the reason you yourself desire to know

the absolute truth, Lord Warnham,” he answered, after a
brief pause, “but, unfortunately, I am unable to tell you,
because of certain promises having been extracted from
me.”
“At least you can tell us from whom I may ascertain the
true facts,” I cried.

He looked at me for an instant gravely, then answered in all

seriousness:

“The only person who knows the truth is Sonia Korolénko,

the refugee.”

“Sonia!” gasped the Earl. “That woman is not in England,

surely?”

“I think not,” Bingham replied. “But if you would ascertain

the key to the enigma, seek her, and she may explain
everything. That is as far as I can assist you. Remember, I
myself have revealed nothing.”

“She has returned to Russia,” I observed. “Have you any

knowledge where she is?”

“No, there are reasons why her whereabouts should remain

unknown,” he answered, hesitatingly. “She is in fear of the
police.”

“Do her friends know of her hiding-place?”

“No. A short time ago I desired to communicate with her,

but was unable. The last I heard of her was that she was
living at Skerstymone, a little town somewhere in Poland.”

“If she can successfully elude the vigilance of the Russian

police, I can have but little hope of finding her,” I said,
doubtfully.

“Make the attempt, Deedes,” the Earl suggested. “I will give

you leave of absence.”
“I intend to do so,” I replied; and remembering my wife,
lonely amid all her splendour, I added, “The elucidation of
the mystery is, as it has long since been, the main object of
my life.”

In consultation we sat a long time. This caddish young man

of whom I had been so madly jealous had now grown quite
calm and communicative, apparently ready to render me all
assistance; yet to my questions regarding my wife he was
as dumb as others had been. Now, more than ever, the Earl
seemed anxious to solve the strange problem. With that
object he obtained from the library a section of the large
ordnance map of the Russian Empire, and with it spread
before us we discovered that Skerstymone was a little place
remotely situated on the bank of the Niemen river, within a
short distance of the German frontier. I had long ago
learned from Paul Verblioudovitch that my friend, the well-
known adventuress, had crossed the frontier at Wirballen,
or Verjbolovo, as it is called in Russian; but after that I
knew nothing of her movements. Bingham seemed anxious
to lead me indirectly towards the truth, and after assuring
me with a firm hand-grasp that the secret that existed
between himself and my wife was of a purely platonic
nature, and that he had throughout acted on her behalf, I
ate a hasty luncheon and again left the Hall on the first
stage of my long, tedious journey across Europe. As I
entered the carriage the old Earl and his guest stood out
upon the gravelled drive and heartily wished me “Bon
voyage,” and, waving them farewell, I was whirled away
through the great park that lay silent and breathless
beneath the scorching sun.

At the bookstall at Horsham station I bought an early

edition of the Globe, and on opening it in the train my eyes
fell upon the following announcement in its “Court and
Personal” column,—
“A marriage is arranged, and will shortly take place between
Mr Andrew Beck, the Member for West Rutlandshire, who is
well-known in connection with African mines, and Miss
Gertrude Millard, only daughter of Sir Maynard Millard, Bart,
of Spennythorpe Park, Montgomeryshire.”

This was not exactly unexpected, for I had already heard

vague rumours that news of Beck’s engagement would
shortly be made public, therefore I tore out the paragraph
and placed it in my pocket-book, with the reflection that my
friend’s marriage might be more happy than mine.

That evening about six o’clock I called at Chesham House,

the Russian Embassy, and obtained the signature of the
Ambassador, Monsieur Grodekoff, to my passport. I did not,
however, see Verblioudovitch, he being absent at Brighton,
therefore I left the same evening for Flushing, and after a
long and wearisome ride across Germany duly arrived at
Verjbolovo, one of the principal gates of the great Russian
Empire. The formalities troubled me but little, for I had
passed the frontier on several occasions when stationed in
St Petersburg. After getting my passport stamped I strolled
up and down the platform gazing about over the flat,
uninteresting country, contemplatively smoking a cigarette,
and watching the crowd of tired, worried travellers
experiencing the ways of Russian officialdom for the first
time. Among them was an elderly Russian lady who,
travelling with her three daughters, good-looking girls,
ranging from eighteen to twenty-three, had omitted to have
her passport viséd by a Russian Consul outside the Empire.
So stringent were the regulations that, although they were
subjects of the Tzar returning to their own country, the
officer would not allow them to proceed, and all four were
detained while the passport was sent back to the nearest
Russian consul in Germany to be “treated.”
At first it had occurred to me to travel on to St Petersburg,
and there endeavour to learn from a police official of my
acquaintance whether Sonia Korolénko had been heard of
lately, but on reflection I saw that every precaution would
no doubt be taken by her in order that the police should not
be made aware of her presence in Russian territory. A
strange vagary of Fate it seemed that through my own
action in obtaining for her a false passport she had been
enabled to escape, and that my own endeavours had
actually thwarted my own ends. As I paced the railway
platform, with the brilliant afterglow shedding a welcome
light across that dead level country so zealously-guarded by
the green-coated sentries in their black and white striped
boxes, and Cossack pickets, each with his “nagaika” stuck
in his boot, I remembered with failing heart how this
woman, whose fame was notorious throughout Europe, had
told me that once past this portal of the Tzar’s huge domain
all traces of her would be obliterated completely. This fact in
itself convinced me that she had never intended to travel
direct to St Petersburg, and it became impressed upon me
that in order to trace her it would be necessary to first visit
the little out-of-the-world town of Skerstymone, that was
situated a long way to the north along the frontier. With
that object I allowed the St Petersburg express to proceed,
and after an hour’s wait entered a local train, alighting at a
small town euphoniously termed Pilwiszki, where I spent
the night in an exceedingly uncomfortable inn.

Next day I learnt with satisfaction that this town was

situated on the main post-road between Maryampol and
Rossieny, and that about thirty miles due north along this
road was Skerstymone. The innkeeper, at an exorbitant
figure, provided me with a rickety old cart and a pair of
shaggy horses, driven by an uncouth-looking lad, wearing
an old peaked cap so large that his brow and eyes were
hidden. An hour before noon I set out upon my expedition.
Our way lay across the boundless Nawa steppe, a plain
which stretched away as far as the eye could reach without
a single tree to break its monotony, until at a wretched little
village called Katyle we forded a shallow stream, the Penta,
and presently passed through the town of Szaki. Soon
afterwards the road became full of deep ruts that jolted us
terribly, and for many miles we travelled through a pine
forest until at last we found ourselves at the ferry before
Skerstymone.

In the mystic light of evening the place, standing on the

opposite bank of the Niemen, presented a novel and rather
picturesque aspect, with its wooden houses, their green and
brown roofs of painted sheet-iron, but when landing from
the ferry I was soon undeceived. It was one of those towns
best seen from a distance. The dirt and squalor were
horrible. For a fortnight I remained at the wretched little inn
making inquiries in all quarters, but could hear nothing of
the pretty dark-eyed girl who had earned such unenviable
notoriety, and who in Vienna spent such an enormous sum
in a single year that her extravagance had become
proverbial, even in that most reckless of cities. That she
had been here was certain from what Bingham had told us,
and somehow I had an instinctive feeling that here the
dainty-handed refugee had assumed a fresh identity, it
being dangerous for her to proceed further into Russia, so
well-known was she. Therefore, with fixed determination, I
still prosecuted my inquiries everywhere, until I found the
police regarding me with considerable mistrust, for the
officers of public order are everywhere ubiquitous in the
giant empire of the Tzar.

The hot July sun shone on the dusty streets; through the
open windows of the white-washed barrack-like Government
office the scratching of pens could be heard; the “factors,”
agents who offer their services to strangers, lolled in the
shade, keeping a watchful eye upon any stranger who might
happen to pass by, and looking out eagerly for a “geschäft,”
or stroke of business. The townspeople eyed me
distrustfully as I wandered aimlessly about the streets,
where tumble-down hovels alternated with endless
expanses of grey moss-grown wood fences and plots of
waste ground heaped with rubbish and offal. The place was
full of horrible smells, filth, rags, and dirty children, who
enjoyed themselves by rolling in the soft white dust. At
either end of the noisy, evil-smelling place, a post-road led
out along the bank of the sluggish yellow stream, and at the
entrance to the town on the German side was a
“schlagbaum,” a pole painted with the national colours that
served as toll-bar, in charge of a sleepy invalided soldier in
a dingy old uniform with a tarnished eagle on his cap, who
looked the very incarnation of undisturbed slumber.

Life in Kovno was by no means diverting. Truly Skerstymone

was a wretched, half-starved, miserable little place of
terribly depressing aspect, notwithstanding the brilliant
sunshine and blue sky.

The long, gloomy days dragged by, but no tidings could I

glean of Sonia Korolénko. It was evident that if she had
ever been there she had passed under some other name,
and that her identity had been lost before arrival there.

One warm morning, while seated outside a “kabák” moodily

watching the old women in the market selling their twisted
rolls of bread called “kalách,” an ill-dressed man approached
me, and, touching his shabby cap respectfully, pronounced
my name with strong Russian accent, at the same time
slowly sinking upon the wooden bench beside me. He was
tall and square-built, with coarse but expressive features.
His long grey hair was matted and unkempt; his low brow,
protruding jaws, and the constant twitching of his facial
muscles reminded me of a monkey, but the stern eyes
shining from beneath a pair of bushy, overhanging brows,
spoke of indomitable energy, cleverness, and cunning. They
never changed; and while the rest of his face was a perfect
kaleidoscope whenever he spoke, the expression of his eyes
remained ever the same.

His confidence surprised me, and I immediately asked him

how he had ascertained my patronymic, to which he replied,
not without hesitation,—

“I am fully aware of your high nobility’s object in visiting

Skerstymone. You are seeking Sonia Korolénko.”

“Yes,” I replied, in the best Russian I could remember. “Do

you know her whereabouts? If you take me to her you shall
have a handsome reward.”

He smiled mysteriously, and glanced so wistfully at my

vodka that I at once ordered for him a second glass of the
spirit so beloved of the Muscovite palate.

“Is your high nobility well acquainted with Sonia!”

I replied in the affirmative, offering him a cigarette from my

case. At last I had found one who had met the dark-eyed
girl of whom I was in search.

“You know her,” I said. “Where is she?”

“In hiding.”

“Far from here?”

“Well, not very,” he answered. “I could take you to her this

very night—if you made it worth my while.”
“Why not in daylight?” I inquired.

“Because the frontier-guards are here in swarms.”

Then, in reply to my questions, he admitted that he was

one of those who obtained his living by smuggling
contraband goods and persons without passports across the
frontier into and out of Germany. Along the whole of the
Russo-German frontier there are bands of peasantry who
live by smuggling emigrants, Jews, malefactors, and others
who have no permit to leave the country, across into
Germany by certain by-paths that remain unguarded,
notwithstanding the constant vigilance of the military.

“And what is Sonia doing at present?” I inquired, after he

had frankly related to me his position in a low tone so that
we might not be overheard by any eavesdropper or police
spy.

“She has always been a leader,” he answered, laughing

gaily. “She is so still.”

“A leader of smugglers!” I exclaimed, surprised that the

pretty girl who had been admired in every capital in Europe
should adopt such a hazardous, reckless life.

“Well, yes, if you choose to call it so,” he said, rather

resentfully, I thought. “We merely assist our countrymen to
escape the police, and they pay toll for our aid,” he added.
“She heard you were inquiring for her, here in Skerstymone,
and has sent me as messenger to take you to her. She fears
to come herself.”

I looked steadily at the man, and saw for the first time that,
although a moujik, he was nevertheless a sturdy
adventurer, whose brow was deeply furrowed by hardship.
“And you wish me to pay toll like the others?” I exclaimed
with a smile.

“If we act as guide we are surely entitled to something.

There are many risks,” he answered, puffing at his
cigarette, afterwards examining it with the air of a
connoisseur.

“How much?”

“The high nobility is rich,” he replied. “He was once at the

English Embassy in St Petersburg. Let us say two hundred
roubles.”

“Two hundred, to be paid only in Sonia’s presence,” I

acquiesced eagerly. Truth to tell, I would have paid five
hundred, or even a thousand for safe conduct to her.

“It’s a bargain,” he answered, draining his glass. “Meet me

to-night at ten o’clock at this place. I hope you are a good
walker, for we must travel by the secret paths. The post-
road would mean arrest for me; it might also go rather hard
with you to be found in my company.”

“I can walk well,” I answered. “To-night at ten.”

Then I ordered more vodka, and after drinking success to

our midnight journey, he rose and left me, bending a good
deal as he shuffled along the street in his old frieze overcoat
many sizes too large for him.

In any other circumstances I should have looked upon this

devil-may-care, shock-headed adventurer with gravest
suspicion, for his face was of distinctly criminal
physiognomy, and his speech was that of one utterly
unscrupulous. Yet when I remembered the allegations that
Sonia, the woman who lured the young Prince Alexis
Gazarin to his death, was an associate of the most
desperate thieves in Europe, the fact that she had sent him
as messenger seemed by no means remarkable. From what
he had told me it was apparent that this girl, whose beauty
had brought her renown and held her victims fascinated,
had returned to her own country and become leader of a
desperate band of nomads who drove a thriving trade by
guiding fugitives from justice out of the Tzar’s dominions,
and importing from Germany dutiable articles of every
description.

Sonia’s offences against the law did not, however, trouble

me much. I only desired to ascertain from her the truth
regarding my wife, the Grand Duchess, and in order to meet
her was prepared for any risk.

Thus I placed myself in the hands of this villainous-looking

rascal whose name I did not know, and who had come to
me entirely without credentials. My natural caution warned
me that from every point of view my midnight expedition
was fraught with considerable danger, yet thoughts of my
sad-eyed wife whom I so dearly loved aroused within me a
determination to ascertain some key to the enigma, and I
was therefore resolved to accompany the unkempt stranger
in face of any peril.
 Chapter Thirty Two.
On the Frontier.

The first hour of our walk in the bright balmy night proved
fresh and pleasant after the stifling malodorous town. My
unknown guide was, I soon discovered, a typical gaol-bird,
the fact being made plain by the scanty growth of hair on
one side of his head revealed when he inadvertently
removed his cap to wipe his brow with his dirty hand. His
strong knee-boots were well-patched, but he was out at
elbow, and his moustache and matted beard sadly wanted
trimming. He kept his appointment to the moment, and
declining my invitation to drink, we set off together,
ascending the low hill behind the town, and taking a
circuitous route back to the river bank. By no means devoid
of a sense of humour, he strode along jauntily, laughing,
joking, and making light of any risk of capture, until I began
to regard him with less suspicion. That he was no ordinary
moujik was certain, for he spoke of life and people in
Moscow, in Nijni, and even in Petersburg, his conversation
showing a more intimate acquaintance than could be
acquired by mere hearsay. Our way at first was through
narrow lanes of dirty wooden houses, where the foetid
odours of decaying refuse greeted our nostrils; then,
leaving the town, we ascended through some cornfields
until, suddenly descending again, we came to where the
Niemen flowed onward between its sedgy banks, its placid
bosom a sheet of silver beneath the light of the full moon.

Fully three miles we trudged along the post-road beside the

river, passing a solitary little hamlet. Not a soul stirred, not
a dog barked. The place seemed uninhabited. Now and then
we passed a country cart driven by some sleepy peasant
who had imbibed too freely of vodka, until we came to
where a striped verst-post stood at the junction of another
narrower highway.

“That’s the road to Jurburg, and to the frontier at

Poswentg,” my companion remarked, in reply to my
enquiry. “It’s too dangerous for us.”

“Why?”

“It swarms with frontier-guards,” he answered, with a low

laugh. “We have no desire to encounter any of these
gentlemen this evening, therefore we must presently take
to the paths. See!” and he nodded upward to the sky, “The
tail of the Great Bear points downwards. We shall have luck
to-night.”

“Is this the route you take with the fugitives?” I asked,
pausing to take breath, and gazing around upon the lovely
scene, for here the moonlit river flowed among its osiers
and rushes, across the great grass-covered steppe.

“Yes,” he answered. “This is the only portion of our journey

where there are serious risks of detection, so let us hurry.
On a bright night like this, a man can be seen a long way
off. The guards are too fond of hiding along the banks,
fearing that any German boats from Endruszen may creep
up the river.”

I started forward again, and we both quickened our pace. I

now saw from his demeanour that he feared an encounter,
for at each unusual sound he paused, his hand uplifted in
silence. At last, at a point where the stream made a sudden
bend, we left the river road and plunged into a great marsh,
where the reeds grew almost as high as ourselves, and
where our feet ever and anon sank deep into chill, slimy
mud. As soon as we had left the river, my strange guide
became as jovial as before, and spoke entirely without
restraint. Fear of detection no longer troubled him, for as
we held on our way over the soft clay, the silence of the
calm night was now and then broken by his coarse laughter.
On that flat, marshy land, each step became hampered by
huge cakes of yellow mud that clung to our boots, while
often I sank with a splash ankle-deep in water, much to my
companion’s amusement. Whistling softly to himself, he
laughed at all misfortunes, assuring me that we should very
soon find drier ground, and that before dawn I should meet
Sonia Korolénko, who was awaiting me.

“She is your leader—eh?” I asked.

“Well, of course,” he answered, with a grim smile. In the

moonlight he looked a shaggy, evil-faced ruffian, and more
than once, when I remembered that I had upon me a good
round sum in notes and gold, I regretted that I had trusted
myself with him unarmed. “The police drove her from
Vienna, from Paris, from London; so she has come to us.”

“And is yours a paying profession?” I asked interested.

“Generally,” he answered, with that frankness that

characterised all his conversation. “You’d be surprised how
many people seek our assistance. Some of our party are in
St Petersburg, Moscow, and Warsaw, and make the
contracts with the fugitives; then they hand them over to
us, and we do the rest.”

“You guarantee to put them on German soil, or bring

foreigners into Russia for a fixed sum?”

“Yes. You would open your eyes if you knew some of the
people I’ve guided over this very path. Sometimes it is a
Jew peasant who has no permit, and desires to emigrate to
London, or to America; at others, an escaped prisoner, a
murderer, or a revolutionist, who is being tracked down by
the Security Section. We always know why they are leaving
Russia, and make them pay accordingly. Not long ago I
brought a young titled lady across here; accompanied her
into Germany, and put her into the train for Berlin. We had
a narrow shave of being captured, but she gave me a
thousand roubles when we parted.”

“Why did she want to leave secretly?” I asked.

“She had poisoned her husband somewhere down in Minsk,

and the police were in search of her,” he laughed. “Never a
night passes, but one or other of us cross the frontier.”

“And you find it an adventurous game—eh?”

“Well, it is pleasant after ten years of Siberia,” he answered

grimly. “I let loose the red rooster and burned down the
barin’s house in a village in Tver. He well deserved it. I and
two friends got away with his money and jewels to Moscow,
but one night, a week later, I had an appointment to meet
my companions opposite the fountain in the Lubyansky
Square, and was arrested.”

“And you got ten years?”

“They made out that the barin got burned to death, so I

was packed off for life to Kara. After ten years I managed to
escape and become a ‘cuckoo.’ Then after a year’s
wandering I succeeded in returning to Moscow, where I
found one or two old friends, and we started together in this
business. We don’t intend to fall into the drag-net of the
police again,” he added with a sardonic grin, at the same
moment drawing from his trousers pocket a big army
revolver.

“Do the frontier-guards ever trouble you?”

“Sometimes,” he laughed. “When we meet we always show
fight. Three were killed in a brush with some of our party
not long ago. It will teach them not to interfere with us for a
little time.”

Long ago I had heard of a gang of desperate characters who

made the strip of zealously-guarded territory between
Germany and Russia a terror to travellers, and the utter
loneliness of the dismal place, and the swaggering
demeanour of my evil-faced companion increased my
mistrust.

We left the swamp shortly afterwards, and strode out again

across the boundless undulating steppe that stretched away
as far as the eye could reach. The moon had sunk lower in
the sky, and a whitish cloud appeared in the zenith which
seemed to shine with a phosphorescent light. Our trackless
path wound between low shrubs, and then, after another
hour’s weary, lonely plodding across the grass-covered
plain, we came to a clump of trees where the underwood
was thick and tangled.

I paused for a moment to gaze behind at the great expanse

of flat, uncultivated, uninhabited country we had traversed.
A mystery seemed to plane over the boundless steppe. The
night wind played among the dry grasses, and sad thoughts
awakened in my soul.

Hist!... there was a slight rustling! A reddish fur gleamed in

the moonlight so close to me that I could see the ears of a
fox and its bushy tail sweeping the ground. It disappeared
between the trees, and my heart beat faster as together we
went forward, bursting through the underwood. The twigs
struck me in the face; I stumbled, gasped for breath, and
halted. The wail of a night bird broke the silence.
At that moment I saw my companion bending at the foot of
a solitary tree that stood alone amid the tangled
undergrowth. There was a hole in its trunk from which he
drew forth something and placed it hastily in his pocket.
Then, turning towards me, he took out a cigarette and
calmly lit it, saying,—

“We have nothing now to fear.”

He allowed the match to burn much longer than was

absolutely necessary. Instantly the thought flashed upon me
that this light might be a signal to some of his nefarious
companions.

But together we went forward again; he jovial and amusing,

I moody and thoughtful. His actions had aroused my
suspicions. I glanced at my watch, and in the dim light
distinguished that it was just past two o’clock. We had
already been walking four hours.

Presently, chattering and laughing as we proceeded, we left

the wide rolling steppe and plunged into a great wood. The
forest was still as death. The moss-grown fir trees stretched
out their huge arms as they waved slowly to and fro like
funeral plumes. Little light penetrated there, but now and
then we could see the bright stars between the branches as
we went along a narrow winding track, the intricacies of
which were apparently well-known to my guide, for he went
onward with the firm, confidential tread of one who know
the path, while I followed him closely, the dead branches
crackling beneath our feet.

Once or twice a noise fell upon his quick ear, and we halted,
he standing revolver in hand in an attitude of defence. Each
time, however, we ascertained that we had no occasion for
alarm, the noise being made by some animal or bird
startled by our sudden intrusion. Then we resumed our
midnight journey in single file.

During half an hour we proceeded, he leading the way,

directing his footsteps by marks upon the trunks of the
trees, so near the ground that they would have escaped the
notice of any but those who knew of their whereabouts.

Once I thought I detected a dark figure between the trees,

and fearing that it might be one of the sentries, whispered a
word of warning to my guide, but he reassured me by
telling me that we were skirting the frontier outside guarded
territory, therefore there could be no danger. Nevertheless,
as he turned to me, I thought his furrowed face looked
darker, and his teeth gleamed whiter than usual.

We walked on. The forest was silent, save for the soft
whisper of the pines. Without uttering any word I was
following closely the footsteps of my guide, when suddenly,
how it occurred I know not, I was conscious of being
stopped dead by my evil-faced companion, who, with a
quick movement, brought up his ready revolver to a level
with my head.

Fate had played me an ugly trick. One thought remained

uppermost in the chaos of wild, feverish fancies that seized
me—the thought of the woman who was my wife.
 Chapter Thirty Three.
Bad Company.

“Well,” I managed to ejaculate, standing quite still, without

moving a muscle. I saw that his attitude was one of
determination, and that he had been joined by a ruffianly-
looking companion who had emerged from the undergrowth
as if by magic.

My only thought was of my past life. How had I been able to

bear the suspicion and suspense so long? I had borne it
because the star of hope had glimmered in the darkness.
And now the star had vanished, and the hope was dead.
Darkness had fallen upon my soul, and a storm arose within
it like the chill whirling wind that swept across the steppe at
dead of night. I could not think; I forgot where I was, forgot
everything except my anger. My heart was full of blind
despair.

I was conscious that the gaol-bird spoke. He was

demanding my money, and threatening to put a bullet
through my head if I refused.

“I promised you money on condition that you took me to

Sonia Korolénko,” I answered. “I am ready to pay when you
have fulfilled your part of the contract.”

Both men laughed heartily.

“We have no knowledge of her,” declared the man who had

been my guide. “All we know is that you have money; if you
don’t hand it to us quietly your grave will be in yonder heap
of dead leaves.”
“He’ll be company for the others,” observed the man with a
fox-like countenance, who had joined us, and was leaning
upon an old Berdan rifle.

“Then I understand you have brought me here, to this spot,

on a false pretence. You mean to rob me?” I said. “You
assured me that you were Sonia’s messenger, and so
implicitly did I trust you, that I left my revolver behind at
the inn.”

“That is no affair of ours,” answered the old scoundrel,

shrugging his shoulders unconcernedly. “Hand us over your
money, and we are ready to guarantee you safe conduct,
either on into Germany or back to Skerstymone.”

“I’ll pay you nothing, not even a rouble, na vódkou, until

you take me to your leader,” I answered defiantly, for
somehow I had from the first been convinced of the truth of
the man’s assertion that Sonia was in that neighbourhood.

“As we are unable to conduct you to the lady, whoever she

is, we shall therefore be compelled to use violence,”
observed my guide, glancing at his companion, who nodded
approvingly. Then, still holding the muzzle of his weapon to
my face, he added with brutal frankness: “You’d better
make the sign of the cross now, if you want to. It will be the
last chance you’ll get. When a man’s dead and buried he
can tell the police nothing.”

Well I knew the desperate character of these brigandish

nomads, and fully recognised that they were not to be
trifled with.

“The people who come to us for aid never get across the
frontier unless they part with their money first,” he
continued. “If they don’t—well, we put them to rest quietly
and unceremoniously, and give them decent burial. A good
many of all sorts, rich and poor, lie buried in these woods.
You asked me whether it was a paying profession,” he
laughed. “Judge for yourself.”

He still spoke with that unaffected carelessness that had

impressed me when we had first met outside the dingy little
“tractir” in Skerstymone.

“Come,” cried the ragged, fox-faced man, impatiently, with

an accent of South Russia. “We have no time to waste; we
have many versts before us ere dawn.”

“Then you’d better be off, and leave me to find my way

back as best I can,” I said, endeavouring to preserve an
outward show of calmness.

Some noise, so faint that I did not distinguish it, caused

both outlaws to hold their breath and listen. They
exchanged quick glances. They had wandered thousands of
versts across the “taiga” and the steppe, and constantly on
the alert to evade Cossack patrols and police, knew every
sound of the forest. They had learnt to know the voice of
the wood; the speech of every tree. The great firs rustle
with their thick boughs, the dark, gloomy pines whisper to
one another in mystery, the bright green leafy trees wave
their dewy branches, and the mountain-ash trembles with a
noise like a faintly rippling brook. They knew, to their
disgust, too, how those spies of the frontier, the magpies,
hover in crowds over the track of the man who tries in
daylight to creep unseen across the bare open steppe.

It was evident that the noise had for an instant puzzled

them; yet, after listening a moment, both became
reassured, and re-demanded with many violent threats
whatever money I had upon me.
“I tell you I refuse,” I answered. “If you take me to Sonia
you shall have two hundred roubles each, with twenty more
na vódkou.”

“Then you do not wish to live?” exclaimed the man who had
so cunningly entrapped me.

“I will give you nothing,” I said resolutely.

“Then take that!” he cried, wildly, and at the same time his
revolver flashed close to my face.

The shot echoed far away among the myriad tree trunks,
but the bullet passed harmlessly by my ear.

Ere he could fire a second time I sprang upon him, and

clutching him by the throat with one hand, with the other
grasped the wrist of the sinewy hand that held the revolver.
It was a struggle for life.

Again my antagonist drew the trigger, but the weapon was

exploded in mid-air. Then his companion flung himself upon
me in an endeavour to drag me off. This he was unable to
do, and, apparently, fearing lest I should succeed in
wresting the weapon from his accomplice’s grasp and use it
against him, he sought to stun me by raining blows with his
clenched fist upon my head.

A third time the ruffianly assassin’s revolver went off with

loud report, but doing no harm. At that moment, however, I
was conscious that my strength was failing me. I was
muscular, but against this pair of hulking brutes I had no
chance in a contest of mere physical power.

The repeated blows upon my skull dazed me, but hearing

shouts resounding in the darkness, I held on with grim,
dogged courage, with the faint hope that they might be
Cossacks. In the dim light I could distinguish figures moving
rapidly beneath the trees. The forest seemed suddenly alive
with men, but at that instant the fox-faced ruffian, finding
his efforts unavailing, stepped back a pace or two, and
lowering his rifle, took deliberate aim at my breast.

I closed my eyes tightly and held my breath.

A shot rang out, followed by a burst of wild shouting, but

finding myself unharmed, I opened my eyes again. In terror
I glanced up, and saw my fox-faced assailant lying face
downward. The cowardly villain had evidently been shot at
the very instant he had covered me with his Berdan.

Half-a-dozen men sprang forward, and wrenching the

revolver from the scoundrel who had attempted to take my
life, seized him in their strong grasp, while I, breathless and
exhausted, struggled up from my knees, amazed at my
sudden and unexpected delivery.

Some twenty men, an ill-dressed, ruffianly crowd, in

patched cloaks and dirty grey caps covering their long hair,
surrounded me, talking excitedly, bestowing opprobrious
epithets upon the man who lay wounded and groaning, and
as I turned suddenly in wonder, I was confronted by a
peasant woman in a short skirt of some dark stuff, an ill-
fitting striped bodice, with a handkerchief tied about her
head.

She uttered my name. In an instant I recognised her. It was

Sonia.

“I arrived only just in time to save you,” she explained, half

breathlessly, in English. “The shots attracted us. That
villain, Stepanovitch, whom I sent into Skerstymone to
bring you here, no doubt intended to take your money and
decamp, but, fortunately, we caught him redhanded. He has
long been suspected of doing away with people entrusted to
his care for conduct across the frontier, but I never believed
him capable of treating any of our friends as victims.”

“He fired at me point-blank,” I said, “although I was

unarmed.”

“What shall we do with him, little mother?” cried the excited

crowd of burly malefactors, dragging the man before the
notorious woman, with pleasant countenance, sonorous
voice, and lively manners, whom they acknowledged as
leader.

“Tie him up to yonder tree and let him be shot,” answered

Sonia, pointing out a lofty pine. “Pick a marksman from
among yourselves, and do not shout so loudly. Only one
shot must be fired, for I believe the guards are lurking
about to-night, and more may attract them.”

With yells of execration the crowd hurried away the

unfortunate wretch who had so treacherously treated the
friend of their leader, and ere a couple of minutes had
elapsed he had been secured to the tree. Then they
commenced haggling among themselves as to who should
fire the fatal shot. It was a weird scene, this summary
justice directed by a woman. The choice fell at last upon a
tall hulking fellow in ragged coat and a hat of dirty
sheepskin, who, addressed by the nickname of “The Goat,”
on account of the shape of his beard, lifted his gun with a
jeering remark at the cowering wretch, and stepped back to
take more deliberate aim.

“No,” I cried, “don’t let him be shot on my account, Sonia.

Give him his life.”

She shook her head, saying simply: “He betrayed my trust.”

“I ask you to forgive him,” I urged. “At least grant me this
favour.”

She was undecided, and the outlaws hearing us speak in

English, called to their tall champion to stay his hand.

“Very well,” she said, at last. “I forgive him because you

plead.”

Without a word I pushed past the men surrounding us, and,

taking out my pocket-knife, severed the cord holding the
terrified wretch. The old scoundrel, dropping upon his knee,
kissed my hand amid the loud jeers of his rough, brutal
companions, then regaining his feet, took off his cap, and
looking towards heaven, made the sign of the cross.

“This, I hope, will be a lesson, Stepanovitch,” exclaimed

Sonia, sternly, in Russian, advancing towards him. “I forgive
you only because of the request of this Englishman.
Remember in future that the person of any friend of mine,
or any of our brothers, is sacred.”

“Yes, I will, matóushka,” answered the old villain, penitently.

“That I will. I owe my life to his high nobility’s intercession.
I will not again offend, little mother.”

“Very well,” she answered, abruptly; then, briefly explaining

how they had just returned from a hazardous trip across the
frontier, during which they were detected and followed by a
Cossack picket, she gave the order to return home, and we
moved forward in single file along the narrow secret paths
which wound with so many intricacies through the dark,
gloomy forest. As I walked behind her we chatted in
English, she telling me how she had been compelled to
leave London unexpectedly, and relating how she had fared
since we had last met. She, however, made no mention of
the nefarious trade she had adopted, and I hesitated to
refer to it.

When at length we emerged from the forest, the wounded

man being assisted along by his companions, it was near
morning. The darkness had gradually become less intense,
the stars shone more faintly, and a streak of dawn showed
on the far-off horizon. The pale light revealed grassy plains
as far as the eye could reach, and the fresh morning breeze
swept softly over the thick, green grass that promised an
abundant hay crop, such as the dwellers on the broad
Kovno plains had longed for for many years. Soon after
leaving the forest, however, the party separated, arranging
as meeting-place, when the moon rose on the morrow, the
third verst-post out of Wezajce, a small village five miles
distant. All her associates, Sonia explained, lived in villages
in the vicinity, scattering themselves in order to avoid
detection by the authorities. The villagers themselves,
although well aware of their doings, said nothing. To all
inquiries by Cossack frontier-guards or police spies they
remained dumb, for the simple reason that while
contraband trade could be transacted the village thrived,
each of these small, wretched little places receiving
indirectly a portion of the outlaws’ profit. In summer there
were no empty barns or thistle-grown threshing floors, and
in winter the stoves in the huts were always burning, and
the “borstch,” or soup, was never without its proper
proportion of buck-wheat gruel.

Many were the rumours of missing travellers and violent

deaths in that neighbourhood, but the villagers feared
nothing from this adventurous gang, who had grown more
bold now that they were led by their “little mother.” From
what I gathered from my fair companion as we pushed
forward together towards the dim line of trees that bounded
the steppe in the direction of the sunrise, it appeared that
the band had been in existence for several years, but that a
few months before, the leader, a well-known escaped
convict, was shot dead by a picket while creeping by day
across the Zury steppe, and that a proposal had been sent
to her at Skerstymone, where she was hiding, that she
should become their head. She admitted, with a smile, that
the men who had just left us to return to their various
occupations were all of bad character, and that, almost
without exception, all had served long terms of
imprisonment for robbery or murder.

“But is not the assassination of those who have paid for

guidance into Germany quite unjustifiable?” I exclaimed,
reproachfully, as we walked side by side across the long,
dewy grass.

“How can I prevent it!” she asked. “I do all I can to

preserve the lives of our clients, but with men of their
stamp it is impossible to stop it. Nearly every one of the
brotherhood would slit a throat with as little compunction as
lighting his cigarette: first, because it avoids the risk of
crossing the boundary, and secondly, because of the money
the victim has in his pockets. Again, persons who accept
our escort are not those persons after whom any inquiry is
made. When they are missed, their friends naturally
conclude they’ve fallen into the hands of the police, or have
escaped abroad and fear to write. Stepanovitch, for
instance, does not obtain the rolls of notes he sometimes
has by importing contraband goods, neither could he afford
to keep a snug house down in Ludwinow, where he spends
the winter, and is regarded as a highly respectable member
of the Mir.”

“He is an assassin, then?”

Sonia smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

We were approaching a small village with a background of
high pine trees, situated on the edge of the great treeless
plain. Its name was Sokolini, she told me. Once, in the days
of serfdom, it had been the property of a landowner, but
now, enjoying liberty, its emancipation was attested by its
half-ruined huts, whose bulging walls and smoke-blackened
timbers were supported by wooden props. There were not
more than thirty houses, all of a similarly squalid, miserable
character, and as we entered the tiny place the cocks were
crowing in the yards, for the sun had by this time fully
risen.

“Five miles through yonder forest as the crow flies brings us

into German territory,” she said, indicating the dense wood
behind the houses, then pausing before the door of one of
the tumble-down huts, pushed it open, and invited me to
enter.

The interior was one square room, with huge brick stove,
the flat top of which served as bed in winter, a low sloping
ceiling and two small windows with uneven panes of
greenish glass that imparted to the rays of light a
melancholy greyish tint. The bare miserable place was
poorly furnished with wooden chairs, a rickety table, and a
very old moth-eaten sofa covered with velvet that was once
red, but now of faded brown. Over the door was nailed a
cheap, gaudy ikon, and on the opposite wall was pasted a
crude woodcut of his Majesty the Tzar.

The room was, indeed, in strange contrast to the dainty

little drawing-room in Pembroke Road.

While I threw myself into a chair worn-out by fatigue, she

removed the ugly wrapper from her head, and disappearing
into a little inner den, the only other room in the house,
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