第 3 页

Little did Ivor imagine that the sealing of that missive sealed his own fate.

A tap at the bell summoned a servant, who went off with the letter after receiving a whispered word of instruction from his master.

Maximy Petrov was now in a rare good humor. He exchanged his chair for an easy couch-and made Ivor sit beside him. They chatted for an hour or two without reserve, and Ivor was induced to speak freely of his life during the past twenty years. Then his uncle recalled various reminiscences prior to that time, and his frank geniality removed the last shadow of suspicion from Ivor's mind.

Dinner was served in great state, but the mellow wine — drawn from the dead man's famous cellar — counteracted what would have been otherwise a chilling ceremonial. Maximy Petrov showed at his very best. He was a man who lacked no outer evidence of culture and refinement. He was witty and entertaining, and before the meal was over host and guest were on terms of the closest intimacy. It seemed to Ivor that he had found a new home, and his face beamed with serene happiness as he contemplated the vista of possibilities that life in this frozen capital of the North opened before him.

After dinner cigars and cordials were served in the library, and then uncle and nephew parted with the understanding that a sleigh should be sent to the hotel an hour later for Ivor and his baggage.

That no conveyance should be offered to take him there did not occur to Ivor as strange. He would in any case have preferred to walk, for it was a clear, cold night, and he had dined heavily. He started in the best of spirits, and strolled gayly across the Admiralty Place, and thence into the Nevski Prospekt.

* * *

CHAPTER III

Ivor's thoughts were of the rosiest color as he walked along, smoking one of Maximy Petrov's fragrant cigars. A few hours before he had entered the Russian capital thoroughly out of heart with the distasteful task he was pledged to perform. And now, behold, his doubts had vanished and a new life was opening before him. He was delighted with Russia, with St. Petersburg, with his uncle most of all. He had received a graceful reception in his old home, and now he was going back to it — permanently, perhaps — back to the house where he had first seen the light, where his mother had taught his infant lips to lisp a prayer, and where he had learned to fear the tall, blond haired man who ruled the household with a rod of iron.

The blood of the Petrovs ran in Ivor's veins, and the Russian strain had survived even through twenty years of exile in the New World. The possibilities of his new life took fervent hold on his imagination. He saw himself the heir to his father's vast wealth, a member of the crack clubs, a prominent figure of the upper circles of Petersburg society, and finally a trusted confidant of the Czar — a power in the vast Slavonic empire. It was a bright dream, and it became still more dazzling when he remembered the humble toil and obscurity of his life in New York. His admission to the bar and his successes in the courts — of which he had lately been so proud — dwindled to insignificance now.

Perhaps Maximy Petrov's mellow wine had something to do with these visions, but even when the cold air had driven its fumes from Ivor's head he found the prospect little less attractive. He knew himself to be his father's rightful heir. He believed that the missing will would be found — nay, he felt that it must be found. He would not accept everything he told himself. No, he would insist that his uncle take half. That was what his mother would have wished him to do.

For his father's death Ivor felt a sincere regret. True, Alexis Petrov had been nothing but a brute to his wife and child, but there was some excuse for this, since lying tongues had poisoned his mind. And then he had repented and made restitution — if the letter could be believed.

The thought of the lonely grave thousands of miles away, where his mother was lying at rest, made Ivor's blood burn to revenge her sufferings. He resolved to make that his life object. He would seek out the guilty man, with his uncle's assistance, and bring him to punishment. There surely must be some way to discover his identity, if he was still alive.

Ivor's heart felt lighter on the strength of this resolve. His thoughts went back to their old channel, and he was so busy in making bright plans for the future that he walked half a block past his hotel. He retraced his steps, and throwing the end of his cigar away entered the building.

Had Ivor been less preoccupied he must have detected a change in the atmosphere that boded no good to himself. The hotel proprietor was in the office — a most unusual thing at this hour —and his greeting to his guest was curt and retrained. A tall man in a dark blue cloak was standing near, and the two exchanged significant glances.

Ivor passed on and ascended the stairs. His room was on the third floor, and as he approached it along the corridor he was mildly surprised to see a light shining under the door. He was sure that he had extinguished the gas. But his surprise changed to shocked bewilderment when he turned the knob and entered. The gas was burning brightly and everything was in a state of confusion. Three men in the familiar uniform of the Russian police were ransacking the wardrobe, turning out the contents of the bureau drawers, ripping the clothes from the bed and even prying up the edges of the carpet. A tall, distinguished looking man with waxed mustaches and a pointed beard was standing beside; the open trunk, transferring to a black leather satchel a lot of letters, documents and pamphlets.

Before Ivor could find words to demand an explanation the man at the trunk, whose uniform denoted his high rank, turned sharply around. A few strides brought him across the room, and clapping one hand on Ivor's shoulder he said quietly:

"I arrest you in the name of the Czar. I warn you not to resist."

"You are mad," cried Ivor. "If there is any justice in Russia you shall be punished for this outrage. You are making a great mistake."

"Is this your apartment, and is your name Petrov?"

"Yes."

"Then you are the man I want. You will find that there is no mistake."

"But I tell you there is," persisted Ivor, "as you will find to your cost. What are you doing with those papers over there? They are not mine. I never saw them before."

"Perhaps you will deny the ownership of these, too," said the officer as one of his assistants brought him two heavy revolvers and a dagger, which had been discovered under the wardrobe. "You are well caught this time, my fine fellow."

Ivor's head swam as an inkling of the truth occurred to him.

"This is a vile conspiracy," he cried, "The criminal you are seeking must have concealed these things in my room in order to save himself. If you won't accept my explanation go to Maximy Petrov on the Court Quay. He will tell you what a blunder you are committing. I am his nephew."

The officer smiled incredulously.

"I have no time to parley with you," he replied. "I am Inspector Stamm,' and I am merely obeying orders in arresting you. You have nothing to gain by attempting to dispute my authority.

Realizing that resistance was in vain, Ivor wisely held his tongue. It was a hard task, though, and more than once he was on the point of a bitter outbreak as he watched the police making free with his property. "Never mind," he thought. "They will have to swallow their insults before long. I will teach them a lesson they won't forget in a hurry."

When every nook and corner of the room had been searched without any further discoveries, Inspector Stamm put the pile of papers and the weapons into the satchel, and his assistants hastily restored the furniture to its place. Then the door was locked, and the little procession marched through the corridor and down the back staircase to an exit on a side street. Snow was beginning to fall, and through the screen of white flakes a close covered sleigh was visible, standing by the curb. Ivor was hurried across the pavement and bundled roughly into the vehicle. The three men followed him, and the door was shut with a slam. The inspector lingered an instant to talk to the hotel proprietor, who had come around from the front entrance.

"Not a word about this, as you value your license," Ivor heard the former say.

"I understand, your honor," was the reply.

Inspector Stamm nodded and sprang up beside the driver, satchel in hand. The next instant the horses were galloping down the deserted street.

On account of the thick curtains Ivor could not see out. He expected to be taken to the main police station on the Nevski Prospekt and the length of the ride caused him some uneasiness. When the sleigh finally stopped he found himself in a square gloomy courtyard whence he was led through angular corridors to a damp and narrow cell.

The door was closed and bolted and as the footsteps of his jailors died away, Ivor made up his mind that a hearing that night was out of the question. He was convinced that his uncle would discover what had become of him, and would procure his release by morning. He even saw a spice of grim humor in the situation and so far mastered his indignation that he was able to sleep soundly on his hard bed.

Ivor's arrest took place at a late hour on Saturday night. On the following Tuesday morning one of the St. Petersburg papers, more daring than its contemporaries, published the following brief paragraph:

We learn from reliable sources that a Nihilist was arrested on Saturday night at a hotel on the Nevski Prospekt. Various deadly weapons were found concealed in his room, and his trunk contained incriminating evidence in the shape of inflammatory pamphlets and letters from famous Terrorists in London. The credit for the discovery and arrest of this dangerous conspirator belongs to Feodor Gunsberg, the efficient secretary to the Minister of Police. By this time the prisoner is probably on his way to Siberia.

Doubtless the above article caused much conjecture and no little alarm in the Nihilistic circles of the capital. To all loyal citizens it was a source of gratification. Two persons at least it made supremely happy. These individuals were Maximy Petrov and Feodor Gunsberg. Their plot had proved a great success, and a burden of fear was removed from their minds. Petrov was delighted with what he regarded equally as an act of vengeance, and as a precaution against the discovery of a hidden crime.

How, meanwhile, had Ivor fared? The proceedings which followed his arrest were terribly brief. The first shock came to him when he awoke to see the gray dawn stealing through a crevice in his cell. He heard a bell ringing, and he recognized its strokes. It was the bell that hangs in the chapel of Peter and Paul, and he realized now that he was a prisoner in one of the casemates of the Fortress.

The day passed in a fever of doubt and dread. The guard who brought him food and drink could not be induced to speak. In the evening a grim faced official and two attendants entered the cell. They stripped Ivor's clothes off, and substituted a jacket and trousers of coarse gray material. In vain did he demand to know of what he was accused, and tried to explain that he was a nephew of Maximy Petrov. Not a word was spoken in answer. Finally he was wrapped in a long, dark cloak and taken out to the courtyard, where a covered sleigh was in waiting. Three Cossacks, thoroughly armed and equipped, got in with him, and the horses started off on a gallop. Presently the sleigh stopped before a great railway terminus, and the party passed in by a side entrance so as to avoid the crowd. A moment later Ivor found himself in a closely curtained compartment of the train, and before he realized the situation the wheels were in motion. The three Cossacks had been joined by an officer — a stern, smooth faced man — and these four were evidently to accompany the prisoner on his journey, for they removed their heavy cloaks, and spread blankets on the sleeping berths.

All night long the train rattled through the darkness, and Ivor lay on his hard couch in wakeful misery.

In the morning he fell asleep, in spite of the terrible uncertainty of his position, and when he awoke toward evening, he heard his companions talking in low tones. By lying perfectly still and feigning slumber he gathered from the conversation that he was bound for the island of Saghalien, and that his arrest was due to the astuteness of a certain prominent police official, by name Feodor Gunsberg.

Instantly the terrible, maddening truth flashed upon him. The mention of Feodor Gunsberg's name was the clew he needed. It was the key to the whole situation, and link after link fitted easily into the chain as Ivor, with the anguish of despair, called to mind the incidents of his brief sojourn in St. Petersburg. While he was visiting his uncle some wretch — hired by Feodor Gunsberg, no doubt — had obtained entrance to his room, and placed among his effects the deadly weapons, and the documents which proved him to be a criminal of some sort — in all probability a Nihilist. The note written and dispatched by Maximy Petrov must have been the signal for action. There had been plenty of time after that for Gunsberg to lay the fatal trap in readiness for Inspector Stamm's visit.

But what was the object of this infamous conspiracy? Ah! that was still clearer to Ivor's mind. Maximy Petrov and his confederate had purposely destroyed the will by which Alexis Petrov made reparation to his wife and son, and had forged another to suit their own ends. Little wonder they were willing to adopt any means to put the rightful claimant out of the way.

Knowing as he did how easy it is to send an innocent man to Siberia, Ivor was not slow to realize the desperate nature of his own plight. All his important papers had of course been carried off by the spy who placed the incriminating evidence in his room. Even the letter from his dead father he had left in Maximy Petrov's possession. Already sentence had been passed upon him, and he was on his way to life long exile. The higher authorities no doubt believed him guilty on the weight of the evidence. His friends in America would never know what had become of him — for the Russian government has a way of smoothing over inquiries, and as a political prisoner he would be carefully kept away from any one who might give ear to his story.

It is infinitely better to be sent to Siberia than to Saghalien, and Ivor knew this. The latter place is an island off the Siberian coast, where the Russians maintain a penal settlement for their worst criminals, and for those serving life sentences. Terrible tales of the cruelty and oppression that exist on the island had come to Ivor's hearing, and he knew that Feodor Gunsberg's influence would be used to make his own lot as hard as possible. It would be to the interest of the conspirators to insure their safety by causing his death.