He had barely time to replace the card in the inner pocket of his vest when Ivan came hurrying back with the tickets, and in twenty minutes they were rattling over the frozen land towards the city of Moscow.
The sleeping apartments were quite as comfortable as those on American railways, and the boys slept undisturbed until long past noon. Then they took theirs places by the window, eager to see the country they were travelling through. The landscape was flat and monotonous, relieved at long intervals by straggling villages and occasional lonely dwellings. Thus the afternoon wore on, and the short day came to an end.
Shortly after dark Ivan gave the boys their passports, which they placed in their pockets without examining.
"I have had them properly stamped," he exclaimed, "thus you will have no delay at Moscow."
"How near are we to the city?" asked Maurice.
"Half an hour's ride," was the reply, and after piling the boys' baggage on a seat in front of them, Ivan entered a rear car.
"It is difficult to believe that we are really approaching Moscow," said Maurice. "I feel quite reconciled already to leaving St. Petersburg."
"I've been thinking about Napoleon and the terrible retreat of his army all the afternoon," said Phil. "I wonder if any traces still remain of the great fire?"
Suddenly the train slowed up, and then stopped abruptly with a little jerk.
Looking out of the window, the boys saw a stretch of trodden snow, and the feeble glow from a couple of lamp-posts shone on a little group of gendarme officers with white caps ornamented with crimson cockades; and half a dozen mounted Cossacks in the back-ground with their dull green uniforms.
"Why, this is not Moscow," exclaimed Maurice; "there are no houses in sight. Why have we stopped, and what is going on?"
The other passengers in the car—half a dozen in number—flocked curiously to the window. At that instant the door was thrown open, and a grave, stern-faced man in heavy military cloak and cap strode in, followed by half a dozen gendarmes, who carried drawn swords.
The passengers—divining only too well the cause of this interruption—withdrew in fear to their seats.
The officer halted before the wondering boys.
"Passports," he demanded, sternly; and as they were handed to him, he glanced them over briefly and thrust them into his pocket.
He nodded to the gendarmes behind him, who instantly seized the pile of baggage, and then he clapped Maurice and Phil on the shoulder in a manner that was unmistakable.
"What do you want?" cried Maurice, in bewilderment. "Is anything wrong with our passport? Where is Ivan? He can explain this blunder."
But Ivan was nowhere to be seen. As the boys hesitated, the officer gave an emphatic command in Russian, and instantly the gendarmes closed in on them, and dragged them roughly from the car. Their baggage had already preceded them.
Reaching the ground, they had a brief view of a lonely, deserted street, two long rows of glimmering lamp-posts that dwindled to a point, and a gloomy, closed carriage with two gendarmes mounted in the box.
The door was flung open to admit them, and closed with a sharp click.
They had a glimpse of the train as it moved slowly forward again, with its curious passengers swarming at the windows, and the carriage rumbled noisily through the deserts outskirts of the city, surrounded by a cordon of mounted Cossacks.
In far-away St. Petersburg, Vladimir Saradoff, with a smile on his lips, is whirling a fair partner over the waxen floors of the French Legation, to the bewitching strains of the Grenadiers' band.
Thousands of versts to the east, the heartbroken Russian exiles are sleeping their sad sleep on frozen Siberian wastes.
Russia is the land of extremes.
* * *
CHAPTER IV
A gendarme had accompanied them into the carriage, when Maurice attempted to speak, he harshly enjoined silence.
The boys felt but little alarm or uneasiness. They were familiar with the strict system of espionage that prevails in Russia, and naturally supposed that something was wrong with their passports.
That it was a very remarkable proceeding for the police to stop a train on the outskirts of Moscow never occurred to them.
Thus, in happy ignorance of their fate, worried only on Ivan's account, who, they feared, was ignorant of what had happened, they rode on into the city, turning in and out through dark, gloomy streets, until a sombre stone building was reached, feebly lighted by a bunch of gas jets over the portal.
They were hurried across the sidewalk, through a gloomy hall, and ushered into a small apartment, where two severe-looking men were writing at tables. A couple of windows, crossed by heavy iron bars, seemed to open on the street.
In the centre of the room was a square pen surrounded by a railing, and, as the boys entered this, two gendarmes followed them in, and began to search their clothing.
No part of their person was neglected. Their handkerchiefs, pockets-books, card-cases, and watches were removed and placed on a large table, where their travelling-bags were already lying.
The gendarmes retired to a bench on the other side of the room; the officials at the tables ceased writings and presently the officer who had boarded the train entered by a private door, and sat down at a large desk facing the boys.
He took their passports from his pocket, and glancing over them, spoke a few words in Russian to the two assistants, who at once began to write.
A gendarme stood by his side, handing him the various articles from time to time, which he subjected to a minute examination. The money and watches were laid to one side, and then he opened the card-cases.
Maurice, who saw all that was going on, was amazed to see that they were empty cards, letters, and various memoranda that they had possessed were missing.
But a still greater surprise was in store for him.
The officer opened the travelling-bags, and turned the contents upon the desk.
He placed aside the various toilet implements—clothes, brushes, collars, and other articles of apparel—until there remained before him a collection of strange objects that neither Maurice nor Phil had ever seen before.
These comprised a bunch of what resembled handbills printed in strange characters, half a dozen letters sealed and addressed, and two or three books bound in yellow paper covers, the title of which Maurice was unable to read.
Forgetting all prudence, he sprang to his feet. "This is a mistake," he exclaimed; "those are not our things. Send for my uncle, Vladimir Saradoff, he can explain this—"
Before he could say more, two gendarmes jerked him back on his chairs a forcible manner of enjoining silence which Maurice was not slow to understand.
The officer inspected these strange objects with a grave countenance. He continued dictating to the assistants, who wrote as rapidly as their hands could travel over the paper.
It was evident that the situation had now assumed serious phase. The boys still believed that an error had been made somewhere. Not a glimmer of the truth entered their minds. Unable to speak a word of Russian, they were in a bad plight. How could they acquaint Vladimir Saradoff with their predicament? Maurice had fairly resolved to make another effort to speak, when the officer signalled to the gendarmes, and the boys were led into another apartment furnished with a rude bed, two chairs, and a small table. The heavy door was locked and they were alone.
"This is dreadful," exclaimed Phil, throwing himself on the bed. "I wish we had never seen Russia."
"Keep up your spirits," replied Maurice, "all will come right. My uncle will discover where we are before the night is over."
Unable to sleep, the boys discussed their strange situation for an hour or more, expecting every moment to learn that Vladimir Saradoff had arrived.
This was their belief, when at last the prison door was opened to admit the officer who had conducted the examination. But no such glad tidings awaited them.
The Russian seated himself on a chair, and sharply surveyed his prisoners before he spoken
Then he drew a card from his pocket, which Maurice recognised as the one given to him by the man he had saved from death.
"I speak your language," he said, in badly-accented English. "I may be able to mitigate your lot if you are sensible. This card was found in your possession. We have reason to believe that a conspiracy exists against his Highness, Colonel Jaroslav. Your own case is hopeless. Any information you may give will help yourselves, and will be used in secret
The officer looked inquiringly at the boys, who were quite at a loss to know what to make of this strange speech.
"I don't understand you," said Maurice; "I only know that a great mistake has been made, and with your permission I will try to explain."
The officer nodded, and straightway Maurice related everything that had had happened to them from the moment they left Berlin, dwelling especially on his relationship to Vladimir Saradoff.
As he proceeded in his narration, the Russian freely expressed a strange mixture of incredulity and anger. It was evident he did not believe one word that Maurice was saving.
"Stop," he exclaimed, impatiently. "I have listened to enough lies. You refuse my offer. You will repent it when too late. You deny, then, that you are the Englishmen, Cummings and Burton, named in the passports, that you are the agents of the Revolutionists in London, that you were bound for Moscow with Nihilistic placards and books, and letters addressed to dangerous and suspected persons. Our government is always alert. The Minister of the Interior had accurate knowledge of your movements, and by his instructions you were arrested on the train. I should have told you nothing, but I wished to offer you this chance of benefiting yourselves."
"Send for Vladimir Saradoff," cried Maurice, excitedly, "this is all a terrible mistake, I assure you. My uncle can help us."
The officer laughed disdainfully.
"His Excellency Vladimir Saradoff is in St. Petersburg; and as for this Ivan you speak of, no such person reached Moscow station this evening. You reject my offer. I wash my hands of you."
Refusing to hear another word, he hastened from the room, and the guard in the corridor banged the heavy door.
Up to this moment neither of the boys had even suspected the truth. It remained for Maurice to make that startling discovery; and as the realisation of his uncle's treachery forced itself upon him—dimly at first, but speedily strengthened by added proofs—he saw what stared him in the face. With a cry of despair he threw himself on the bed, and when, at Phil's entreaties he sat up, his face was pitiful in its hopelessness.
"We are lost, Phil," he said; "we shall never see America again What fools we were ever to venture on Russian soil! I see it all—the perfidy of that man who calls himself my uncle. He never came to Moscow at all. That was Vladimir Saradoff we saw in St. Petersburg. Ivan was his accomplice, and together they formed this conspiracy.
"Ivan stole our cards, our passports, every means of identification we had, and substituted false passports and those other things which were found in our bags. We are lost."
"But how can such a thing be?" exclaimed Phil, in bewilderment. "Our innocence must be discovered. You can prove your relationship to Vladimir Saradoff."
You know little about Russia," replied Maurice; "we are absolutely helpless, Phil. No one will listen to us, or believe us; we shall not be permitted to write letters; and on the strength of that evidence we shall be condemned without a shadow of a trial. Vladimir Saradoff will cover up his tracks too well. For myself it matters little, but you, Phil—your father and mother, your sisters—here Maurice broke down completely.
Phil bravely tried to comfort him, and presently he became more composed.
They discussed the situation from every conceivable point of view, but not a ray of light could be discovered.
It was really so hopeless that Maurice, who possessed a fair knowledge of the Russian police system, dared not hold out any encouragement to his companion.
The most puzzling thing to him was his uncle's motive for such a crime.
He was ignorant of the terms of his mother's will, or his quick wits would have divined the truth.
On reflection, however, he remembered what a fierce hatred Vladimir Saradoff had always borne his father, and allowing for the transfer of this enmity from father to son, the solution of the mystery became more clear.
"What do you suppose they will do with us?" asked Phil.
The answer was already trembling on Maurice's lips, but he checked himself. "We will know the truth soon enough," he thought, so he replied, evasively: " I don't know, Phil; perhaps a long confinement in some Russian fortress."
The hours of that night seemed interminable. Sleep was out of the question, and the first grey glimmer of dawn that crept into the dreary cell through a narrow aperture, high upon the wall, found the two boys wearily pacing the floor.
A fairly good breakfast was presently brought, which they barely tasted, and then appeared a gendarme officer and four men, who led the boys away.
Maurice begged for a brief interview with the commanding officer—hoping to convince him of the truth—but the guards refused to listen, and hurried them into the street, where a close carriage was waiting hemmed about by mounted Cossacks.
Through the grey mist they had a hasty vision of countless domes and spires of marvellous colours and fantastic shapes.
Then the heavy curtains cut off the view, and the carnage rolled away. It stopped before a huge brick building, and the boys passed quickly through the gloomy portals. The gendarme officer preceded them with a stamped document in his hand, which he delivered to a big, black-bearded man in blue uniform, who came forward to receive him.
A few words passed between them, and then the boys were led away to a small, whitewashed cell, furnished with a single bed and a chair. A grated door opened on a large corridor, which was constantly patrolled by armed sentries.
They were now in the great forwarding prison of Moscow, and the commandant, Captain Sasha, had just received the official documents that sealed their fate. Russian justice knows no delay.
During their two days confinement here, the boys attempted in vain to open communication with the commandant.
Not the slightest attention was paid to their entreaties, and no one came near the cell except the guards.
