William Murray Graydon
Exiled to Siberia
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Table of Contents
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CHAPTER I
It was November in Paris.
The proverbial gloominess, however, was entirely lacking in the estimation of Colonel Hercules Hoffman, as he looked down on the gay and crowded boulevard from his apartment in the Hotel Bristol.
Colonel Hoffman was a New Yorker, a man of wealth, position, and prominence, and in spite of the seductive attractions of the French capital, he was congratulating himself on the completion of the business that had taken him abroad and the prospect of a speedy return home.
In Paris Colonel Hoffman was an atom, a mite; in New York he was—somebody.
He turned from the window and strolled softly across the room.
A faint smile hovered on his features as a huge mirror brought him face to face with his own reflection.
What he saw was a tall, finely-formed man, with a pleasing face, becomingly adorned with a light moustache and English side-whiskers.
As the colonel turned again to the window, a sharp rat-tat-tat echoed on the panels of the door, and a servant entered with a card on a silver salver.
"A gentleman for monsieur; he waits below."
Colonel Hoffman raised the card with his thumb and forefinger, and carelessly read the inscription.
"VLADIMIR SARADOFF
Nevskoi Prospekt,
St. Petersburg."
A dusky pallor passed swiftly over his ruddy features, and the card trembled in his fingers.
"Show the gentleman up," he said briefly, and then muttered under his breath. "Vladimir Saradoff, of all men. What ill wind brings him here to-day?"
Warned by approaching footsteps, he hastily composed his features.
A moment later the door was thrown open, and Vladimir Saradoff appeared in person.
The Russian was a typical representative of his race.
Huge of stature, yet graceful in every movement, his patrician bearing and aristocratic features awoke Colonel Hoffman's deepest admiration. His hair was coal-black, and his moustache and beard were trimmed and pointed in French fashion.
A huge cloak, richly trimmed with fur, was thrown loosely over his shoulders, and he held a cap of the same material in his hand. He glanced sharply at the colonel under his gold eyeglass.
"Colonel Hoffman, of New York, I believe," he said, in perfect English, and then the two gentlemen shook hands.
The Russian tossed aside his coat and cap, and took the chair that his host handed him.
Colonel Hoffman seated himself opposite, and then ensued a brief, embarrassing silence.
An attentive observer would have promptly concluded that the interview about to take place would be no friendly one.
The Russian's features were stern, and his eyes were fixed on the American with an intensity of gaze that made Colonel Hoffman ill at ease.
He shuffled to and fro in his chair, glanced from one part of the room to the other, and at last in desperation drew out a cigar, and lighting it began to smoke furiously.
A faint smile flitted across Vladimir Saradoff's features.
"Pardon my intrusion," he said, abruptly; "by mere chance I became aware of your presence in Paris, and have thus spared myself the fatigues of a voyage across the Atlantic. I presume I am not mistaken. You are the guardian of my—my nephew, Maurice Hammond, the son of my dead sister?
Colonel Hoffman inclined his head.
"Yes, I am."
"Where is the boy now?" asked the Russian.
"Travelling in the western states of America with a college mate.
"When does he come of age?"
"In a little more than two years. He will be nineteen in December."
Vladimir Saradoff leaned forward in his chair.
"By my sister's will," he said, slowly, "all her property was left to her husband, in trust for their only child Maurice. In case the boy died unmarried, the whole of the property reverted to me. Am I right?"
"Yes; precisely right."
"Now," continued the Russian, in soft tones, "on the death of Frederick Hammond ten years ago, you were appointed guardian of the boy. May I ask what is the extent of the property entrusted to your care?"
Behind the curling cigar-smoke Colonel Hoffman paled visibly.
The Russian was watching him closely.
"In rough figures," he said, with assumed carelessness, "the estate would possibly amount to two hundred thousand dollars."
"Very good," replied Vladimir Saradoff. "Your memory is not bad. I have here," he continued, pulling a small note-book from his inner pocket, "a copy of the inventory which you filed as guardian; the estate consists of negotiable bonds and stocks to the amount of two hundred and ten thousand dollars; in Russian money, four hundred thousand rubles.
"Now, Monsieur Hoffman," he added, with a sudden change of voice, "what did you do with the malachite box of jewels?"
Had a bombshell exploded in the apartment that instant it could not have produced a more startling effect upon Colonel Hoffman.
Trembling in every limb, he sank back in his chair.
The Russian looked on calmly.
"Sit still," he added, sharply, as the colonel made a feeble effort to rise, "and don't attempt to deny your guilt. It is useless. I am in possession of all the facts. I knew of the existence of those jewels and of my sister's intention to leave them to her son. I procured a copy of your inventory on the death of Frederick Hammond. The jewels were not included. The rest was simple. Ten years ago you were a man of moderate circumstances. To-day, enriched by those stolen jewels, you are a man of wealth and renown. Relying on the fact that the boy knew nothing of them, you hoped to escape detection."
Colonel Hoffman rose and staggered to the table.
"Spare me," he whispered—"spare me! I will make restitution—I will——"
"Sit down," commanded the Russian. "I know all, even where the stones were disposed of, and what became of the malachite box. They were old family jewels, and they netted you the sum of nearly two hundred thousand rubles. I possess all the proofs of your guilt."
Colonel Hoffman threw himself in his chair, and buried his face in his hands.
"Yes," continued the Russian, in the same cutting tones, "I hold in my hands your reputation, which I am told stands high in your American city. I can consign you to a felon's cell.
He paused impressively, and then added: "But I have concluded to take no action. Your secret is safe with me."
Colonel Hoffman rose to his feet in surprise.
"Do you mean it?" he cried, "can it be possible?"
"Be seated," added the Russian, and the colonel obeyed.
For a moment or two, Vladimir Saradoff surveyed his victim with an inscrutable expression.
When he spoke again, his voice was unnaturally harsh.
"I will spare you," he said—" on one condition. In what light does young Hammond regard me—his uncle?"
"Unfavourably, I am sorry to say," stammered the colonel, with an effort. "You must be aware— —"
Yes," interrupted the Russian, "of course, he believes that I treated his mother cruelty. His father taught him that. There was a time when I would gladly have given a hundred thousand rubles to lay my hands on Frederick Hammond. From the day that Anna Saradoff left Russia with that vile, scheming American, she ceased to be a sister of mine."
With eyes flashing he waved his hand, studded with diamonds, before the colonel's countenance. Then his anger suddenly passed off, and his face assumed a crafty expression.
"Monsieur Hammond," he said abruptly, "do you know I have taken a fancy to that young nephew of mine. I did not forgive my sister, it is true, but I still think of her tenderly, and perhaps this boy resembles her. At all events, I should like to see him. I would have him visit me. Now, this is what you must do . Give him to understand that I am not the savage he has been taught to believe me. Tell him that you have seen me, that I spoke tenderly of his mother, of his father, that I am lonely amid the grandeur of my Russian home, and that I want him for his mother's sake to come to St. Petersburg.
Vladimir Saradoff leaned forward in his chair, and stared coolly in the face of the American.
Colonel Hoffman breathed hard and fast.
"Yes," said he, "I understand, and the double meaning of his reply was obvious to the Russian. Their eyes met, each conscious that the innermost secret of his soul stood revealed to the gaze of the other.
"Suppose I refuse?" remarked the colonel, finally.
"Do so at your peril," said the other; "I will pursue you to the very limits of the law. I will hunt you to a felon's cell."
A period of silence followed.
Colonel Hoffman rose and walked to the window. The Russian drew a cigarette-case from his pocket and began to smoke, confident of his victory.
Fearful indeed must have been the colonel's emotions as he stood looking vacantly down on the crowded boulevard. His crime had found him out.
Two alternatives confronted him, each equally terrible at first contemplation.
On the one side was long imprisonment, with loss of fortune, position, reputation, everything.
On the other was absolute immunity from punishment, a continued enjoyment of his ill-gotten wealth, without fear of detection; but, to secure these benefits, he must consent to be the passive actor in a crime so dreadful that he dared not frame it in words, for Vladimir Saradoff's demand admitted no misconstruction.
Ten minutes passed in silence; and then Colonel Hoffman moved back to his chair.
Every spark of colour had fled from his face, and in its stead was only an ashen pallor.
"I am at your mercy," he groaned. "I must consent to your infamous proposition. You still refuse to allow me to make restitution?"
"Absolutely," replied Vladimir Saradoff; "you know my terms. You know also what you are expected to do. You will have no difficulty. Suggest to the lad that he take a Continental tour before settling down. Let him start early in the spring, and see that he comes to St. Petersburg. You have my address. Keep me posted by cablegram. >i>I will attend to the rest.
"I intended sailing for America next week, but I saw your name in Galignani, and thus spared myself the trouble. And now, Monsieur Hoffman, I shall bid you au revoir. It pleases me to have made your acquaintance. We shall meet again, and should you ever come to St. Petersburg, you may be sure of a hearty welcome."
Smiling pleasantly, the Russian flung his coat over his arm and picked up his cap.
Slightly touching the colonel's cold, irresponsive hand, he bowed low in the doorway, and was gone.
Ten days later the New York papers announced that Colonel Hercules Hoffman, the well-known broker and financier, had returned from a short trip abroad.
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CHAPTER II
On a certain March morning of the year following the events related in the preceding chapter two young Americans left the office of the Russian Consul-General at Berlin, and an hour later were speeding as fast as steam could carry them towards the distant frontier of the Russian Empire.
Maurice Hammond and Philip Danvers were the names registered on their passports, and while they are hastening towards St. Petersburg, enthusiastic and delighted at the prospect of soon seeing this frozen capital of the North, we will take the opportunity of briefly acquainting the reader with the circumstances necessary to an understanding of the strange and startling drama upon which the curtain is even now rising.
Twenty years before, Frederick Hammond, a young American, an attaché of the United States Legation at St. Petersburg, met and fell in love with Anna Saradoff, a young Russian girl of wealth and position.
Such marriages are uncommon, but when Frederick Hammond returned to New York he took with him a Russian bride.
Anna Saradoff's only relative was her brother Vladimir, who, having other views for his sister, conceived a most intense hatred of this scheming American, as he chose to call him.
He never forgave his sister, and professed from that time to regard her as one dead.
Mrs. Hammond, in turn, well content with her husband's love, cut off all connection with her native land. Her Russian property was converted into American securities, and, without a shadow of regret for the brilliance and magnificence she had voluntarily abandoned, she entered upon the quieter occupations of her new life.
Five years later she died, leaving the one child, Maurice, at that time four years of age.
Six years later Frederick Hammond followed his wife, but in the meantime, embittered by her loss, he taught his son to detest his Russian uncle, whose cruel treatment had probably hastened his sister's death.
Frederick Hammond had few intimate friends. To one of these, Colonel Hercules Hoffman, he entrusted the care of his son and his son's fortune.
Colonel Hoffman was at that time a man of honesty and integrity—honest, because as yet he had not been tempted. That temptation came later, in the form of the malachite box of jewels; and how Colonel Hoffman resisted a base temptation we have already seen.
Maurice Hammond can be described in a few words.
He had inherited the ardent temperament of his mother, his father's intellect and good looks.
At nineteen he was tall, athletic, blond-haired, and ruddy-cheeked. His life had been passed at preparatory schools and colleges, while in the vacations he usually travelled—for Colonel Hoffman was unmarried; and, moreover, a coolness, fostered probably by instinct existed between guardian and ward.
When Colonel Hoffman returned from that trip abroad Maurice was travelling in the West with his intimate friend and college chum. Philip Danvers.
For several months Colonel Hoffman was the most wretched man in New York.
That diplomatic interview at the Hotel Bristol, which has been described word for word, possessed a sinister meaning that he could not fail to interpret.
He never dared admit to himself that his suspicions were correct, but constantly before his mental vision hung that clause in the forgiving Anna Hammond's will: "In case my son Maurice die unmarried, the estate shall revert to my brother, Vladimir Saradoff, of St. Petersburg."
The first sin ofttimes paves a smooth pathway for the second.
What was the welfare of his ward compared to his own interests—his fortune, his position, his reputation?
In January Maurice Hammond came East with his friend, and himself proposed a six months' Continental tour.
