Quick as lightning, Hartwig drew a big Browning revolver and thrust it
into the informer's face, exclaiming firmly:
"Another word and it will be your last!"
The fellow started back, unprepared for such defiance. He made a
movement to cross the room, where no doubt he had his own weapon
concealed, but the police officer was too quick for him and barred his
passage.
"Look here!" he said firmly. "This is a matter to be settled between
us, without any interference by your friends here. At word from me they
would instantly turn upon you as an enemy. Think! Reflect well--before
it is too late!" And he held the revolver steadily a foot from the
man's hard, pale face.
Danilovitch hesitated. He controlled the so-called Terrorist movement
with amazing ingenuity, playing three _roles_ simultaneously. He was
"The One," the mysterious but all-powerful head of the organisation; the
ardent worker in the cause known as "the shoemaker of Kazan"; and the
base, unscrupulous informer, who manufactured plots, and afterwards
consigned to prison all those men and women who became implicated in
them.
"If I withdraw my cry of alarm will you promise secrecy?" he asked in a
low, cringing tone.
From the landing outside came sounds of footsteps and fierce demands in
Russian from those he had summoned to his assistance. Two of us against
twenty desperate characters as they were, would, I well knew, stand but
a poor chance. If he made any allegation against us, we should be
caught like rats in a trap, and killed, as all police-spies are killed
when denounced. The arm of the Russian revolution is indeed a long
one--longer than that of the Secret Police itself.
"What has happened, Danilo?" demanded a man's rough voice. "Who are
those strangers? Let us in!"
"Speak!" commanded Hartwig. "Reassure them, and let them go away. I
have still much to say to you in private."
His arm with the revolver was upraised, his eyes unwavering. The
informer saw determination in his gaze. A further word of alarm, and a
bullet would pass through his brain.
For a few seconds he stood in sullen silence.
"All right!" he shouted to them at last. "It is nothing, comrades. I
was mistaken. Leave us in peace."
We heard a murmuring of discontent outside, and then the footsteps
commenced to descend the steep uncarpeted stairs. As they did so,
Hartwig dropped his weapon, saying:
"Now let us sit down and talk. I have several questions I wish to put
to you. If you answer frankly, then I promise that I will not betray
you to your comrades."
"What do you mean by `frankly'?"
"I mean that you must tell me the exact truth."
The man's face grew dark; his brows contracted; he bit his finger-nails.
"What was the motive of the attempt you made upon the Grand Duke
Nicholas and his daughter, and the gentleman here, Mr Trewinnard?"
"I don't know," he replied.
"But you yourself committed the outrage?"
"At the orders of others."
"Whose orders?"
He did not reply. He was standing against the small, cheap chest of
drawers, his drawn face full in the light of the hissing gas-jet.
"Come," said Hartwig firmly. "I wish to know this."
"I cannot tell you."
"Then I will tell you," the detective said in a hard voice. "It was at
the orders of your master, General Markoff--the man who, finding that
you were a revolutionist, is using you as his tool for the manufacture
of bogus plots against the Emperor."
Danilovitch shrugged his shoulders, but uttered no word.
"And you went again to Brighton last night at his orders. You--"
"I went to Brighton, I admit. But not at the General's orders," he
interrupted quickly.
"Why did you go? Why did you follow Her Imperial Highness and Mr
Trewinnard?"
"I followed them because I had an object in so doing."
"A sinister object?"
"No. There you are mistaken. My object was not a sinister one. It was
to watch and endeavour to make clear a certain point which is a mystery
to me."
"A point concerning what?"
"Concerning Her Imperial Highness," was his reply.
"How does Her Highness concern you?" I asked. "You tried to kill her
once. Therefore your intentions must be evil."
"I deny that," he protested quickly. "I tell you that I went to
Brighton without thought of any evil intent, and without the orders, or
even knowledge, of General Markoff."
"But he is Her Highness's enemy."
"Yes, Excellency--and yours also."
"Tell me all that you know," I urged, adopting a more conciliatory tone.
"It is outrageous that this oppressor of Russia should conspire to kill
an innocent member of the Imperial Family."
"I know nothing of the circumstances. Excellency," he said, feigning
entire ignorance.
"But he gave you orders to throw that bomb," I said. "What were your
exact orders?"
"I am not likely to betray my employer," he laughed. "If you do not
answer these questions, then I shall carry out my threat of exposure,"
Hartwig said in a hard, determined voice.
"Well," said the informer hesitatingly, "my orders were not to throw the
bomb unless the Grand Duchess Natalia was in the carriage."
"Then the plot was to kill her--but unfortunately her father fell the
victim of the dastardly outrage!" I cried.
"Yes," the man replied. "It was to kill her--and you, Excellency."
"But why?"
He shrugged his shoulders, and exhibited his palms in a gesture of
complete ignorance.
"And your present intention is to effect in Brighton what you failed to
do in Petersburg--eh?"
"I have no orders, and it certainly is not my intention," responded the
man, whom I remembered at that moment had deliberately killed the girl
Garine in order to preserve his secret.