"Drive on, you idiot!" shouted Saradoff; "go on, I say! Why do you stop?"
The cab started— moved a few paces—and stopped again.
Vladimir Saradoff threw up the blind. A lamp across the way shed yellow light on the street. The driver was standing on the ground. Two dark figures held the horses, and a third was approaching the cab—a tall bearded man in a blue uniform, and a sword at his side.
A little distance off, other figures were visible in the shadow, and the lamp-light fell on gleaming rifle-barrels.
The cab door was thrown open.
"Vladimir Saradoff, I arrest you in the name of the Czar!" said the officer. "Here is the warrant , shall I read it?"
* * *
CHAPTER XXIX
But there was no reply. A few seconds passed in silence. Then a flash of light lit up the darkness of the cab, a sharp report echoed through the gloomy street, and the horses, rearing in air made a desperate attempt to break loose.
The police dashed forward, surrounding the cab, and a crowd, sprung from no one knows where, quickly blocked up the street. A lantern was hastily brought. and a surgeon summoned to the spot, but it was too late for medical aid. Vladimir Saradoff had evaded arrest and punishment.
He was taken back to his stately residence and borne through the startled group of servants to his chamber. There they left him alone, and an officer guarded the entrance.
The police took possession of the house, and drove curious spectators from the door all night long, for the news had spread rapidly. The morning journals announced in startling headlines the crime and death of Vladimir Saradoff, and St. Petersburg from the highest to the lowest circles was wild with excitement.
That day the boys were brought before Count Brosky, Minister of the Interior. The proof and testimony that Colonel Jaroslav was prepared to offer were unneeded.
Ivan, Vladimir Saradoff's servant, who had been arrested while escaping from the rear of the house, came forward with a full confession, made on condition that his punishment should be mitigated.
He told all—how the plot had been laid, the false passports and Nihilistic documents substituted for the boys' papers, and how, finally, by bribing an assistant at the mortuary, the genuine passports had been concealed on the persona of two unfortunate wretches found in the Neva.
At the close of the examination the boys were freed with a most profuse and elaborate apology from Count Brosky, and went off in a carriage to the residence of Colonel Jaroslav, whose guests they intended remaining for a few days.
The colonel had promised to do all in his power for them—a promise which he kept to the letter. Vladimir Saradoff's affairs were at once taken in hand by the government, and through Colonel Jaroslav's influence the fortune of two hundred thousand dollars' of which Maurice had been robbed, was preserved from the wreck, subject, of course, to legal formalities connected with the lad's guardianship.
Colonel Jaroslav advanced him as much money as he needed, and Maurice's first act was to pay the fine of twenty thousand rubles that had been imposed on Nicolas Poussin, and to write that worthy merchant a long and grateful letter.
Phil, meanwhile, wrote home to his father, fearing the shock that a cablegram might produce.
During their stay in the Russian capital. Maurice met Miss Melikoff, who had just returned with her father from the mines of Kara. They had a long and interesting interview, but the part which that young lady played in the boy's escape was kept a rigorous secret.
"Why, my father might actually send me back to work in the mines, if he knew what I had done," said Miss Lora; "he is so awfully strict, you know," and the old general confirmed that opinion on meeting Maurice.
"And so you are the fellow that struck an officer," he said, gruffly "and rescued my daughter, too? Well, young man, I would have shot you for the one and rewarded you for the other," and then he graciously shook hands with him.
The boys greatly enjoyed their stay in St Petersburg, for Colonel Jaroslav was a most delightful host; but their hearts yearned for America, and late in July they parted from their kind friend and the many other acquaintances they had made in the Russian capital, and started by rail across the continent, sailing from Havre a week later.
It was a clear and beautiful August morning when the "Grand Monarque" steamed majestically up New York Harbour.
At the foot of the narrow street which opened on the wharf a motley crowd was gathered, curious to see the two young .Americans who had tasted the horrors of Siberian exile, for the papers had proclaimed far and wide their expected arrival.
Off the Battery a tugboat put out to the steamer, containing a tall, grey-bearded man, whose actions evinced great excitement. He was hoisted on board the "Grand Monarque," and a moment later Phil was clasped in his father's embrace, to the delight of the passengers.
"My poor boy—my poor boy!" was all he could utter for a long while, but presently he became more composed, and extended Maurice an affectionate greeting.
"Your guardian is not here, my boy," he said, as he clasped his hand. "Colonel Hoffman could not come. You will know all later."
Maurice detected the strange embarrassment in his manner, but before he could ask an explanation the steamer was at the wharf, and they hurried across the landing to a cab that was waiting.
A wild cheer burst from the crowd, and half a dozen reporters sprang forward, note-books in hand.
Turning a deaf ear to the representatives of the press, the boys gained the cab, and Maurice already had one foot on the step, a strong hand seized his shoulder, and he turned half angrily, to meet the honest, tear-dimmed face of Paul Platoff.
With a cry of joy he staggered back, and would have fallen, but the sturdy Russian caught him in his arms, and they wept together, unmindful of the excited spectators, who cheered again and again, and pressed forward so impetuously that the indignant policemen could not drive them back.
Between the mingled embraces of the two boys and the jostling the crowd, Platoff was well-nigh suffocated, but finally they were all bundled into the cab, and were soon rattling up noisy Broadway.
In husky, broken sentences Platoff related how he had gained the shelter of an American sailing-vessel on that terrible night of his escape, and how the noble captain, on learning his story, hid him so securely that the Russian soldiers failed to find him. Two days later, the vessel left for home, and after a long voyage arrived safely at Boston.
"I knew you were safe." he said, "and I saw the papers that you were coming home on this steamer."
"I knew it," said Maurice—"I knew you were not dead. What did I tell you, Phil?"
That night Mr. Danver's up-town residence was brilliantly lighted in honour of the boys' return, and many friends called to offer their congratulations, and to shake hands with the brave Russian whose heroic conduct was now being discussed throughout the city.
One thing marred Maurice's pleasure. Colonel Hercules Hoffman had been thrown from his horse in Central Park a week before, and died two days later, leaving a sealed packet for his ward.
This Maurice opened on the first opportunity, and read with sorrow the shameful confession that threw still more light on Vladimir Saradoff's crime. The story of the malachite box of jewels, the interview at the Hotel Bristol in Paris, the later correspondence of Vladimir Saradoff—all was told without reserve, and the writer ended by expressing a hope of forgiveness, and willing his fortune to Maurice as a partial restitution.
It must be remembered that Colonel Hoffman, at the time of writing this, knew that the boys had been rescued from their fate, and it must have been a great relief to his burdened conscience to discover that they were not dead, as he, no doubt, had believed.
Maurice generously determined that his guardian's reputation for honesty and uprightness should not be blotted with this foul story, so he burnt the confession and locked up the secret in his own breast.
He was now possessed of a handsome fortune, for Colonel Hoffman had been worth nearly a hundred thousand dollars himself.
With great difficulty he compelled Paul Platoff to accept a sum that would make him independent for life; and, indeed, it was only through the most dire threats that the brave fellow could be induced to listen to such a proposition.
Platoff was, as we have stated, a man of education, refinement, and ability, and these attainments, which his own Government spurned, he now devoted to his adopted country, becoming a true American at heart.
So now, under the shadow of the stars and stripes—-a flag unstained by tyranny and despotism—Phil and Maurice settle down to a life of earnest work, such as makes existence rich in enjoyment. Yet to Maurice there was still a something wanting, he could not forget the noble young girl to whom he owed his freedom; and, ere a year had passed, he once more paid a visit to the Russian capital. He found the maiden still unwedded, [in] spite of the many brilliant offers she had had. Could it be that her heart still treasured the memory of the youth she had so befriended? It would seem so, for no great persuasion was needed—the father now dead, and so no opposition in that quarter—to induce the fair young Russian to cross the ocean with him for a new home—and there we leave them happy.
THE END
* * *
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
