A DANGEROUS MAN.
For some minutes after Poubalov left the house Clara sat motionless,
reviewing the strange discourse of the Russian, trying to persuade
herself one moment to trust him, and the next impulsively throwing
aside the theories so finely spun from his innuendoes and
circumlocutions. She shuddered at the thought of Ivan in the hands of
such fanatics as she knew were included in the most rabid enemies of
Russian polity, and as promptly felt such a solution of the mystery to
be impossible. Equally impossible seemed the solution that premised
a fear on the part of Ivan so great that he dared not let even his
intended wife know of his whereabouts.
Removed from the influence of Poubalov's magnetic personality and his
subtle arguments, Clara felt that it was to him rather than to the
Nihilists that she must look for implacable hostility to Ivan. Yet why
should Ivan, resident in and prospective citizen of the United States,
fear him, an "official agent of a friendly government"? Fear? That was
not like the Ivan she knew and loved! Was it not again impossible that
her lover should have been so stirred by fear of anybody or anything as
to take flight and conceal his hiding-place from her?
On the other hand, how could she know what influences had been
suddenly applied to Ivan to make him take a seemingly indefensible if
not impossible course? And what was more impossible, in any of the
suggested solutions, than his very disappearance, which was a painful
fact, although hard to realize even after nearly twenty-four hours had
passed since the time set for his wedding?
The dining-room door was softly opened, and Mrs. White put in her head.
"Has he gone?" she whispered.
"Yes," replied Clara, starting up as if she had been aroused from
sleep. "Come in."
Louise approached her cousin solicitously.
"We have had such a fright!" she said taking Clara in her arms; "I
didn't know whether to be more alarmed when we could hear his deep
voice than after the sound of it had ceased altogether."
"Why should you have feared?" asked Clara; "you couldn't suppose that I
was in any danger in Mrs. White's house, could you?"
"No," answered Louise, "but the air is full of excitement; and while
Mr. Poubalov was talking, another Russian came in who is friendly
to Ivan. Mrs. White says he is a tailor, a very poor man whom Ivan
befriended, and an exile like himself. He recognized Poubalov's voice,
and declared positively that his presence here explained Ivan's fate.
He was terribly agitated and refused to stay, saying that he must
follow Poubalov. We couldn't tell what to make of it."
This little narration came as a new shock to Clara. She had told
Poubalov that among all of Ivan's friends there was but one Russian,
and she had in mind, of course, Paul Palovna. She had never heard of
this tailor, and although it might not follow that Ivan would count
among his friends a poor man whom he might have befriended, was it not
a reasonable inference that this poor man was a Nihilist? and that if
there were one brought to light, that there might be many others whose
identity would ever remain unknown to her? Had she not heard how the
great body of the nihilistic society was made up of the poor? and this
man had recognized Poubalov! That was significant, surely; but just
what inference of value she should draw from it was anything but clear.
While these thoughts and questions were chasing through her brain,
Litizki and Paul Palovna arrived at the house, coming from different
directions. Paul approached Clara with marked constraint.
"Do not be afraid, my friend," she said, extending her hand; "I am
quite strong and hopeful. I have read the papers, all of them, and they
do not disturb me. I cannot thank you enough for what you did for me
yesterday."
"I am glad to hear you speak so bravely," responded Paul; "you mustn't
feel indebted to me, however, for Strobel is the best friend I ever
had, and it would be strange indeed if I did not try to find him. I
suppose it is almost unkind to ask if there is any news?"
"There is none exactly, and yet I have heard some things that you can
advise me about better than anybody else."
"Miss Hilman," interposed Mrs. White, "this is Mr. Litizki, the man
Miss Pembroke was telling you about."
Clara, intent upon referring Poubalov's suggestions to Paul, had not
seen the little tailor come in. Now she turned and confronted Litizki
with mingled hope and alarm; hope that this man, whose positive
utterance had been reported, might give her a definite clew; alarm
lest he be one of the most irreconcilable of revolutionists, a man who
would sacrifice friends and family for a cause that he imagined just.
Her doubts increased as she saw the wild gleam in his small eyes, that
lit up his sallow face and made it glow with fierce intensity. Ivan had
befriended him; must she distrust him, too?
"I am glad to see you," she said with a quick resolution to win this
man, and she surprised the tailor and made him speechless for the
moment by grasping his hand warmly. "You have come to tell me something
about Mr. Poubalov, or Mr. Strobel, or both?"
Litizki, embarrassed and awed by this queenly young woman who looked
into his eyes so searchingly and withal so graciously, cleared his
throat, shifted about on his feet, and a faint tinge of red actually
found its way to his sunken cheeks.
"Yes," he answered after a moment, catching his breath with a gasp and
swallowing as if he took oxygen into his system by way of his stomach;
"yes, Miss Hilman, about both, if you please."
He paused, excitement and embarrassment making it difficult to say
anything coherently.
"Poubalov?" said Paul, whose brows had contracted ominously when he
heard the name, and who took advantage of the pause to ask, "What
Poubalov is that?"
"Can there be more than one who would hound a poor Russian the world
over?" rasped Litizki, turning upon Paul, intense excitement blazing
again in his usually dull eyes; "it is none other than Alexander
Poubalov, spy, informer, traitor!"
The little tailor trembled visibly as he hissed these words, and he
turned to Clara as if to make certain that they should impress her
deeply.
"What, in the name of all that is right, does Poubalov do here?" asked
Paul.
"Do?" cried Litizki; "does he ever do anything but spy upon the poor?
Ask what has he done here, and I will tell you that he has captured our
Strobel, and has him bound in chains, waiting only a convenient and
safe opportunity to convey him from the country to the presence of the
little father[A] and then, Siberia, or----" and the tailor drew his
hand significantly across his throat.
[A] Russian familiar name for the czar.
Clara observed Paul, not the tailor, during this extravagant speech.
Would Palovna, an intelligent man, free from excitement, condemn and
ridicule Litizki's assertions as wild and imaginary? No; he listened
gravely and gave no sign that he discredited the tailor in the least.
Noticing Clara's inquiring look, Paul said:
"We Russians, Miss Hilman, are inclined to credit almost any
monstrosity in the way of crime, treachery and violence to men like
Alexander Poubalov. To us he stands as guilty of anything with which he
is charged until he incontestably proves himself innocent."
Clara's heart sank heavily, but she knew that she could trust Paul.
"May I tell you something?" she asked, and he followed her into the
dining-room. There she hurriedly repeated the substance of Poubalov's
discourse, laying especial stress upon his warning relative to
distrustful Nihilists.
"It's a splendid argument," said Paul when she had finished; "I suppose
you were attracted by his very frankness in admitting that he is a spy?
That was a characteristic move. Mind you, I never had trouble with
Poubalov; I wouldn't know him if I saw him, but I know about him. He is
a very prince of spies, a past-master in the art of deceit, and many,
many shrewd men have been the victims of his seeming candor. You may
be sure he masks some villainy beneath his frankness, for he never was
known to do a disinterested act."
"He spoke as if he were here upon some mission," suggested Clara.
"Certainly, but he wouldn't tell you what that mission was. That it had
to do with Strobel is certain. I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily,
Miss Hilman, but Poubalov is a most dangerous man. It may be well for
us that you have faced him, though we must necessarily have discovered
his presence soon, and to see him is to suspect. We at least know where
to look. Litizki is an impressionable, excitable man, but he may be
right, nevertheless. I am sure that you can trust him, whether or not
there is anything in Poubalov's nihilistic suggestions. And as to that,
I don't believe there is--not with him about. Plenty of false notions
prevail about the Russian revolutionists, and it would be to Poubalov's
interest to arouse dread of them in your mind. Anything to distract
attention and suspicion from himself."
They returned to the front room. Litizki had recovered from his
excitement, and was more like his customary, depressed self, but though
he spoke quietly it was with bitter emphasis and strong conviction.
"I believe," he said, "that Poubalov instigated if he did not take part
in the abduction of Mr. Strobel. I am convinced that he has him now in
hiding, and the question only is whether we are to inform the police or
take action ourselves."
"The police," responded Paul, "would not proceed against Poubalov on
the strength of our suppositions. He would intrench himself in his
official position, and insist on compliance with all forms of law; and
during the delay, if, indeed, he has Strobel in his power, he would
spirit him away."
"So I think," said Litizki, "and as he won't dare to remove Strobel
until the interest in his disappearance dies down, unless he were
openly attacked in the manner you suggest, I intend, if Miss Hilman
agrees, to hunt for our friend in my own way. I shall do so to-night. I
must find him."
He looked inquiringly at Clara.
"I cannot say yes or no," she replied; "you are a friend of Mr.
Strobel's and you will do what you think best. Only, let me know what
you find."
There was a gleam of pleasure in Litizki's eyes, followed by an
expression of sullen determination as he responded:
"You shall hear from me to-morrow."
"Lou," said Clara, "I think we had better go home now. I am feeling
very worn. If any of you hear the least word, I wish you would come to
see me."
As she prepared to leave she took occasion to whisper to Paul:
"I do not know that I do right in encouraging Litizki. My feeling is
that the more there are at work and the more various the methods, the
greater is the chance of success. May I leave it to you to prevent
Litizki, if possible, from any act that would be indiscreet, or worse?"
"I will do what I can," said Paul; "but he is, after all, an
irresponsible agent. I am inclined to think that good will come of his
investigation, whatever he does."
It was the luncheon hour when the young ladies reached home, and Mr.
Pembroke had arrived before them. His face expressed painful anxiety as
he greeted his niece.
"My poor child," he said, "you have heard everything, I suppose?"
"I have heard a great deal, uncle," replied Clara, "and appreciate your
motives in withholding the paper from me that published the wicked
rumor that Ivan had eloped, but you should have known me better. Do you
suppose, uncle dear, that that rumor disturbed me? I dismiss it more
lightly than anything that has been said."
"Poor child! poor child!" sighed Mr. Pembroke.
"Why do you say that?" asked Clara, sitting down wearily. "Of course, I
am sorrowful; nobody can realize what I suffer; but I am confident that
Ivan has done no wrong, and I cannot believe that we shall not find
him. I have returned to rest, not to give up the search."
"Clara, my dear girl," said her uncle, tenderly, "you'd best give it
up. You have a great sorrow to bear, but I know how brave you are.
There is no occasion for further search."
"No occasion! Uncle, what do you mean?"
"The detective assigned from headquarters to make an investigation has
been to see me."
"Yes, yes! what did he say?"
"The worst possible, Clara. He is convinced that Strobel went to New
York, if not with Lizzie White, then to join her there. It is the only
possible explanation of his disappearance."
"No! no! you know nothing about it, and the detective is a fool!" cried
Clara.
Mr. Pembroke was immensely surprised at this violent outbreak, when
he had expected tears, prostration, the deepest grief. It occurred to
him that perhaps his niece's mind had been unsettled by her trouble.
She sat looking at him with blazing eyes, her face flushed, her foot
nervously patting the floor.
"You are greatly excited, Clara," ventured her uncle, gently.
"Tell me what the detective said!" retorted Clara, imperiously.
"He has found that a closed carriage, such as we know Strobel took
at the corner of Park and Tremont Streets, halted at the Park Square
Station shortly after that time. The passenger was a young man who
answered the description of Strobel. He paid the driver, went into the
station, bought a ticket for New York, and immediately took his place
in the train. It is further known that Lizzie White took a train from
the same station at about the same hour."
"Is that all?" asked Clara, scornfully.
"My dear girl, is it not enough?"
"It is nothing, uncle, absolutely nothing. Has your detective seen the
driver of the closed carriage?"
"I don't know; I suppose so."
"I must see the detective then. No, I am not going now. After luncheon.
I shall not risk failure by neglecting to care for myself. Uncle dear,"
and she suddenly melted and put her arms around the old gentleman's
neck, "forgive me, please, if I am impatient and hasty with you. I know
Ivan as you do not; I know this accusation is not true. The detective
has been mistaken, and I shall show him so, and all the world besides."
Mr. Pembroke sighed sadly.
"Your loyalty, my dear," he said, "is deserving of a better subject and
a better fate."