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Banished to Saghalien - Graydon. William Murray

CHAPTER I

The headquarters of the Imperial Club of St. Petersburg, a membership in which is equivalent to a certificate of high standing in society, are situated on the Grand Morskaia, the Fifth Avenue of the Russian capital.

During the week an average of eighteen or twenty habitués may be found in its gorgeous apartments, but Friday is par excellence the club day, and it is then no uncommon occurrence to see from one to two hundred members present.

On a certain Friday in the early part of March, 1890, the usual routine was followed without variation. From three to four o'clock the jeunesse dorée assembled at the broad windows to view and comment upon the procession of stylish equipages that passed and repassed in the street without, which was filled with the beauties of the Russian capital, who sat languidly amid the costliest of furs. At four o'clock the preliminary standing lunch was taken. An hour later the company sat down at the long tables, and after drinking the health of the Emperor attacked with gusto the joints of beef, the roasted pigs, sterlets from the Volga, and other appetizing dishes, washing them down with copious libations of kummel, French wines, and rye beer.

From the dining table the guests hurried to the whist room, there to take their seats for the night; and now, close to the morning hour, the play was at its height. Waxen candles spluttered in harmony with the hissing of gas jets, whose glare was dimmed by clouds of fragrant tobacco smoke. From all quarters of the room came a curious medley of sound — the blending of eager voices, the clink of glasses, the rattle of golden coin, and the soft fall of the cards as they dropped on the polished mahogany.

Around a table near the end of the room sat four persons, with one of whom, at least, the coming pages of this narrative will deal.

Maximy Petrov was a man of colossal stature, with broad shoulders and an immense chest. His face, of the purest Russian type, wore a not unpleasant expression. His evening dress became him well, and his short blonde beard had few gray hairs to testify to the fifty years of life he had seen.

Maximy Petrov belonged to an old and honored family. He was immensely wealthy, and his standing in St. Petersburg society was of the highest. A good judge of character might have concluded that his disposition was covetous and miserly, for tonight his eyes sparkled as they glanced from the cards he was holding to the stack of gold coins by his side. Perhaps his unconcealed high spirits were due to the fact that he was in the best of company. Directly opposite him sat Count Paul Melikoff, while on his right and left were Ilarion Reschagin, Minister of the Interior, and Captain Alexander Saltstein, of the Imperial Guard.

Each player had about him the surroundings necessary for his enjoyment — the glass of tea; the silver case chased with monograms and coronets and filled with cigarettes; the stick of chalk and the brush, for marking down losses and gains.

Conversation was limited to monosyllables as the game progressed, and all eyes were riveted on the cards. A clock stood on a mantel near by, and at the very instant that its hands indicated the half hour after eleven, a short, thick set man with a smooth face entered the apartment from the farther end, and after a hasty survey of the scene came straight to the table where Maximy Petrov and his companions sat. He tapped the former on the shoulder, and whispered a few words in his ear. Petrov turned visibly pale, and rose to his feet.

"You — you will excuse me, gentlemen?" he stammered confusedly, looking from one to the other.

His intended departure was viewed with consternation. It would upset the game. His friends were too polite to say so, but their faces expressed annoyance.

Seeing this Petrov added: "It is a matter of importance, gentlemen, else I should not—"

"In that case we forgive you," interrupted Count Melikoff.

"Yes, we shall have our revenge another time," said Captain Saltstein.

Petrov's face cleared a little. He bowed gracefully and left the room, followed by the stranger. They passed down a long hall, and entered a small richly furnished apartment at the other end, which was intended for private conversation.

Petrov drew the curtains and motioned his companion to a seat beside him on a couch.

"Now, Feodor Gunsberg," he said hoarsely, "what is the matter? Why do you try to frighten me?"

"I did not wish to frighten you," answered the other. "There is really no cause for alarm. I have strange news, though, and I thought it best to tell you of it without delay. Your nephew is in St. Petersburg."

"Impossible! You are mad!" cried Petrov, half starting to his feet. Then he dropped back, the picture of abject fear.

"Bah! I did not expect this of you," muttered Feodor. "There is nothing to fear. Be calm. It is true, though, what I tell you. He arrived this morning and is stopping at the Royal Hotel on the Nevski Prospekt; I saw the signature in his own hand — Ivor Petrov."

"Then we are ruined. He suspects something. He has come, no doubt, to assert his claim."

"Absurd!" exclaimed Gunsberg. "He has not a shadow of a claim in the first place. What we did was only justice."

''But he may have information that we know nothing of," pursued Petrov in a shrill whisper. "It is even possible that he has the — the will." He brought out the last word with an effort.

The ruddy color faded from Gunsberg's cheeks, and for an instant he looked terror stricken. "That is nonsense, Maximy Petrov," he said firmly. "Only one man knows what became of the will, and he is far away in Siberia. If it ever turns up it won't be in the hands of your nephew."

"I wish I was sure of that," replied Petrov. "I think sometimes that we were hasty in fixing the theft upon Nicholas. Still, he is better out of the way."

"Yes, convicts in Siberia are like dead men — they tell no tales," muttered Gunsberg grimly. "If it comes to the worst —" He broke off suddenly and began to pace the floor.

Petrov rose, and catching him by the arm turned him about until they were face to face.

"Feodor," he whispered sharply, "we are in danger. Only one purpose can have brought my nephew to Russia. He may be armed in a way that we do not dream of. You know that as well as I do. It would be terrible if exposure should come now. We should both be ruined."

"True," assented Gunsberg. "Go on."

Petrov hesitated an instant.

"My nephew will doubtless seek an interview at once," he resumed. "Until then we can be sure of nothing. There is only one way out of the difficulty, and that way you hinted at a moment ago."

"I don't understand you," said Gunsberg. "Make your meaning plainer."

Petrov was trembling now, and beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. He brushed them away with a handkerchief, and began to speak in a jerky, agitated voice.

"See here, Feodor, you know what I mean. You are assistant to the Minister of Police. You have power and influence. It is an easy matter for you to send a man to Siberia. Do you understand me now? If my nephew proves dangerous he must he disposed of. That step is necessary for your safety and mine. I ask you plainly, is there a way?"

Gunsberg seemed anxious to evade the question. He paced the room several times with knitted brow, and then stepped in front of his companion.

"There is a way," said Gunsberg, "If your nephew proves dangerous let me know at once. There is too much at stake for hesitation. Candidly, I don't anticipate trouble. You assured me that your brother had no communication with his wife prior to his death."

"Not to my knowledge," answered Petrov. "He was closely watched, as you well know."

"It is not likely that he had," resumed Gunsberg, "else the nephew had been here long ago. It is quite probable, my dear Maximy, that he has come on a friendly visit to his uncle."

Petrov ground his teeth with rage. "I hate him," he snarled.

"Exactly! Just as you hated his mother before him," said Gunsberg coolly. "Well, keep an eye upon him."

"Yes, but suppose he has already begun the mischief," exclaimed Petrov with sudden uneasiness. "How do we know what he has been doing all day long? He may have influential friends in the city."

"Make your mind easy," returned Gunsberg. "I have had a spy upon his track since early morning. He has spent the day in strolling along the quays; and exploring the docks of Vassili Ostroff. Your nephew has a very inquisitive turn of mind. But come, Maximy, sit down until I give you more explicit instructions, We must go carefully over the ground in order to make no mistake,"

Side by side on the couch the two conspirators conversed in low tones for nearly an hour. They parted in the hall, Feodor Gunsberg going briskly down the staircase, while Petrov walked unsteadily to the buffet and quieted his nerves with a glass of vodka. Then he returned to the whist room, where he played with such marked inattention to the game that he rose from the table two hours later a thousand rubles poorer than when he sat down.

* * *

We must take the reader back to the early afternoon of the same day on which the members of the Imperial Club had their weekly banquet. Shortly after two o'clock a tall, slender young man, with light blue eyes and a drooping yellow mustache, emerged from a hotel midway on the Nevski Prospekt, and turned in the direction of the Neva, He wore a heavy cape coat and carried a cane, which he twirled carelessly in his hand. He walked slowly over the frozen pavements, surveying with keen interest the stream of pedestrians that surged past him, and the gay procession of sleighs that sped along the center of the street to the merry accompaniment of jingling bells.

Ivor Petrov tried to feel thoroughly at home amid the bustling scenes of the Russian capital, but he did not succeed very well. Though the first six years of his life had been spent in St. Petersburg, twenty succeeding years of exile had blotted out his early recollections.

In the United States, where those twenty years were spent, he had been known as Ivor Halliday. When he left New York en route for Russia he assumed the name of Petrov — a transformation which he had a perfect right to make.

He had been in St Petersburg just twenty four hours. The mission that brought him there was of a strange nature. But for a sacred promise, made to one who was now dead, he would have turned his back on Russia and taken the first express train for Berlin. That promise checked him, but it did not make his task any the easier, and it was with a vague hope of finding a solution of the problem that; he had come out for a stroll on the Nevski Prospekt under the slanting rays of the coppery sun.

The long, snowy vista of the street, gay with life and color, banished sterner things from his mind. He gave his imagination full sway, and contemplated with pleasurable emotions the life he would lead if the Russian capital became his home — a contingency that was far from being remote.

The crowd seemed to increase as he neared the Neva, and presently strains of martial music burst upon his ear. Close ahead, from the street that led to the Admiralty Place, issued a body of lancers in red jackets, preceded by their regimental band. As they trotted slowly up the Nevski Prospekt a pair of coal black horses, drawing a handsome sleigh in which sat two men, took fright either at the music or the dazzling glitter of the equipments, and made a frantic dash for the sidewalk.

Ivor was directly opposite when the incident occurred. He saw the danger that menaced himself and the other pedestrians, but instead of running he stood his ground. As the maddened brutes leaped upon the pavement he sprang forward and seized the nearer one by the check rein. He was dragged a few yards, holding on with grim persistence, and then, aided by the half demoralized driver, he brought the panting horses to a standstill.

The occupants of the sleigh jumped out as Ivor released his hold. Both were distinguished looking men. One was wrapped in costly furs that came almost to his feet. The other wore a heavy military cloak, from beneath which protruded a sword tip.

"You are a brave fellow," exclaimed the latter, holding out his hand to Ivor. "Your presence of mind saved us from serious injury, if nothing worse. Here is my card. I beg that you will allow me to express my gratitude more fully at another time."

"And I, too, am equally grateful,'' said his companion, extending a card.

Ivor mechanically took the two bits of pasteboard in his hand. He felt that what he had done was very simple, and such profuse expressions of gratitude embarrassed him. He forgot to produce his own card, and could find no words to speak, though a thorough knowledge of the Russian tongue had been part of his education.

"I fear you overrate my services," he said finally. "It was a very easy thing to do."

"Not at all," said the officer; "it was a brave act. We shall meet again, I hope."

As an inquisitive crowd was now pressing closely about the scene the distinguished strangers stepped into the sleigh, which had been backed off the sidewalk, and pulled the rugs about them.

"Take the nearest cut to the Imperial Club, Lyapin. We are late now," cried the officer, as he pulled out his watch.

The driver touched the spirited horses with his whip, and they dashed down the street, scattering the crowd to right and left. Ivor, slightly unnerved, turned back toward the hotel. When he found himself out of the throng he examined the cards with some curiosity! On one was engraved "Ilarion Reschagin, Minister of the Interior," and on the other, "Captain Alexander Saltstein, Imperial Guard of Russia."

"By Jove! I have made two friends among the nobility already," he muttered aloud, as he put the cards in his pocket,

A few minutes later he took out his handkerchief, and the cards fell unnoticed to the pavement. He discovered the loss when he reached the hotel, but he deemed it of little importance since he remembered the names perfectly.

* * *

CHAPTER II

After his long walk and stirring adventure Ivor Petrov slept until noon of the following day. It was Saturday, and though very cold the sun was shining with unwonted brightness.. The merry jingle of sleigh bells filled the air, and from his window Ivor saw the motley crowd that was passing along the sidewalks. All doubt and irresolution seemed to have vanished from his mind, and he contemplated the future with a certain degree of pleasure. He dressed with unusual care, and went down stairs to breakfast. As he left his room a little man who was pacing the corridor suddenly vanished, and Ivor wondered at his precipitation. The little man hung about the dining room for, an hour, and when Ivor came out, and putting on his hat and coat started down the Nevski Prospekt, the stranger took the same direction, keeping slightly in the rear.