LITIZKI'S LESSON.
There had been no scuffle and almost no noise as the tailor fell to
the floor, but one of the chamber doors opened, nevertheless, and a
startled voice asked: "What's that?"
"Sorry you've been disturbed," said Poubalov; "a friend of mine, with a
little more of a load than he could manage, has stumbled. That's all. I
will look out for him."
The inquirer went back to bed grumbling, and as soon as the door closed
Poubalov whispered in Russian: "Will you keep quiet, or shall I have to
quiet you?" and he removed his hand from Litizki's mouth.
"It's all one to me, Alexander Poubalov," muttered the tailor, and,
feeling the pressure removed, he rose to his feet. Still speaking
Russian, the spy remarked:
"You are so good at finding your way in the dark that I will not pull
the slide of my lantern. I should dislike, for your sake, to have you
recognized. Go down and enter my room."
Litizki felt for the banister, and, guided by it, walked down the
flight and opened the door, as directed, into his captor's room. When
Poubalov came in he closed and bolted the door, then opened the lantern
and let its rays fall on Litizki from head to feet, and head again, as
if he were curiously studying the make-up. He laughed softly at last
and said:
"There's a chair just back of you. Sit down."
The tailor sank into it, and Poubalov lit the gas. In the general light
Litizki saw that the spy was fully dressed save for his coat, and that
the folding bed which was a feature of the furniture had not been let
down. Poubalov noticed Litizki's glance and understood:
"No, my friend," he said suavely, "I did not go to bed. I expected you,
and sat up to receive you."
Litizki groaned. Until then he had hoped desperately that even as a
prisoner he would be able to accomplish something; now, convinced
that the spy had prepared for his coming, he realized that his effort
had been in vain. The awful sense of the unshakable power this man
represented and wielded came over him as it did in those gloomy days
in Russia when he had to choose between voluntary exile and certain
banishment.
Poubalov drew a chair to a little table in the middle of the room, and
sat down opposite the tailor.
"Nicholas Litizki," he said, "you have surprised and grieved me! I
would not have supposed that even a residence of several years in
America could have made you forget that Alexander Poubalov never takes
a step until he is thoroughly prepared for it. I, who hardly know what
the word emotion means, am almost hurt. Surely it must be that contact
with republican institutions deadens a man's sensibilities and affects
his memory."
Litizki's small eyes had been fixed upon those of his adversary from
the beginning. They had relapsed to their customary dull expression,
but they glowed faintly with new life, for, the first edge of his
disappointment dulled, he recalled the two great purposes for which
he had invaded the house: vengeance and the rescue of Ivan Strobel.
Neither purpose might be lost, and if he must forego or postpone
vengeance, he would not prejudice what means others might have at
command for saving his benefactor.
"Poubalov," said the tailor, "I am an American citizen."
"I bow to your discretion," responded the spy, "but I knew it. You
think to hide behind the generous skirts of your adopted country's
goddess. Good! I admit the efficacy of the refuge, for the accredited
agent of the czar--whom God preserve, Nicholas Litizki--will do
nothing in a friendly country in violation of that country's laws. But
see, my friend, what a tower of strength a proper respect for the law
becomes: I not only knew you were coming, but I knew what you were
coming for, and I need not say that I knew what way you would take.
I have kept within the law, and yet I found out all about you and
your associates before I had been in Boston--no matter how long. Poor
fellow! did you really think that Poubalov's eyes did not penetrate
your flimsy disguise? I am sorry, Litizki; your patience and devotion
would fit you for service in the holy cause of the czar, and it is not
at all adapted to pursuing the steps of honest men."
"You do not frighten me," interposed Litizki; "I know your superlative
cunning and your crooked ways. Your speech nauseates me. 'Honest men!'
Bah!"
"We won't dispute over trifles, then. I simply call to your attention
the fact that you unlawfully invade a dwelling-house, prowling about
like a common thief and thus place yourself unreservedly in my power.
Of course, Nicholas Litizki did not enter here to commit theft. He came
to find his friend, Ivan Strobel."
"It is a lie, Alexander Poubalov! I sought him not."
"You know whether it is a lie, or not. So do I. Therefore we will not
argue the matter. Well, what are you going to do now that you are here?"
Litizki boiled with futile rage. He was trapped not only literally as
Poubalov's prisoner, but he felt how weak he was in any contest of
words with this shrewd master of deceit. He had spoken truly in telling
Paul Palovna that it mattered not what became of him, and although
those words were uttered under the influence of a desire for vengeance
that constant dwelling upon had turned to conviction that he would
succeed, he now felt them to be as true, for he despaired, as he had
been despairing for years, of accomplishing anything that would be
worth the doing. Why had he presumed to undertake the hopeless task of
outwitting Poubalov? He saw how wildly foolish had been his course,
but his conviction remained unshaken.
"Have it so, then," he hissed; "respect for law is not in your
character. You have unlawfully taken possession of Ivan Strobel."
"Yes?" responded Poubalov quietly; "you are very sure of that?"
"I know it, yes; I did come here to find him, to liberate, ay, to kill
you if need be!"
"Indeed! the same, familiar antagonism to the authority of Russia, I
suppose. The Russian agent is to you like the red flag to the bull.
Yes, very interesting. Well, Litizki?"
"Alexander Poubalov!" exclaimed the tailor, rising and speaking with
all his long-treasured bitterness, "you have Ivan Strobel, an American
citizen, in your power; you restrain him illegally of his liberty, with
what purpose it matters not. I, as an American citizen, demand that you
release him."
Poubalov looked with mock admiration at the fierce but grotesque figure
before him, and said:
"Good! very good! I am not certain but that demand is good law. I shall
have to think of it. When, Nicholas Litizki?"
"I cannot tolerate your smart language," returned Litizki; "give him up
now. It will be worse for you if you fool with me. You threw me down in
the dark because I was taken unawares. In the light I can make my own
fight, Alexander Poubalov! Come! Ivan Strobel is in that room, behind
that door, and if you have not stopped his ears as you have gagged his
mouth and bound his limbs, he hears my voice now and knows it. I should
be less than man should I not take even a desperate step to rescue him,
my friend, my benefactor!"
Even to the cynical spy the grotesqueness of the little tailor's figure
and make-up disappeared in the exaltation up to which his emotions bore
him. He took one determined stride toward the door to the little hall
room.
"Nicholas Litizki," said Poubalov, softly.
The tailor turned, such was the compelling power of that deep voice,
and for the instant his progress was checked. Poubalov had extended one
arm upon the table and his hand was toying with a revolver.
"I believe you, my friend," remarked the spy, hardly looking toward the
tailor at first, but later concentrating his gleaming eyes upon him,
"I believe you when you say by actions if not by words that you would
die for your friend, and that you do not care what becomes of you. But
you have some degree of cleverness, Litizki. We learned that years ago.
Listen, then, just a moment before you lay hand upon that door. It is
locked, Litizki. Before you could open it I could put a bullet through
your heart. Would I not dare? What should a peaceable lodger not do to
a man who stealthily enters his house by night? Who would disbelieve
me if I should calmly report to the police that you came as a burglar,
and that I shot at you in protection of property and life? Suppose,
however, that I prefer to avoid a disturbance. Before you could more
than wrench the knob of that door once, I could pierce your heart
silently."
Poubalov rose and stood towering over Litizki, a knife glistening in
his right hand.
"You know something of my resources," he continued, "and whether I
would be likely to find difficulty in disposing of your lifeless
body. Why! you have come so secretly that you and I alone know of
your whereabout. We would then have another disappearance to add to
the Strobel mystery, but one that would not be half as interesting,
Litizki, not half."
"You have killed Ivan Strobel!" whispered Litizki, shrinking away.
"In that inference," said Poubalov, contemptuously, as he laid his
weapons on the table and resumed his seat, "your madness reaches its
climax and you will speedily recover. You will not go to that door
now. You see how useless it would be. Live, and you may yet see your
friend, may yet assist in liberating him. Understand me, Nicholas
Litizki: I have not come to this country for nothing. I have a mission
to perform, and nothing shall prevent me from performing it, and in my
own way."
"You will then keep Strobel a prisoner," muttered Litizki, "until you
have wrung from him by cruelty what you have come for?"
"I shall perform my mission. Now it would be perfectly easy for me to
remove you, for you are making yourself an obstacle, a slight one, to
my plans. It pleases me better, however, that you should live, and you
may yet be an assistance to me. I will show you to the street door
whenever you feel ready to depart."
Litizki shot a glance full of evil at his captor, but Poubalov ignored
it, and calmly lighted the inevitable cigarette.
"Very well, Alexander Poubalov," said Litizki after a moment, "you may
let me go, but expect no gratitude from me. I know only too well that
you think to serve your foul purposes by my liberty, but, weak as I
am, I shall not rest until Strobel is restored to us or his fate made
known, and even after that I shall pursue you! You teach me a lesson,
Poubalov, a hard one, but I shall learn it."
"I hope you will. Life will be easier if you do. Must you go now?
Permit me," and with a fine pretense at courtesy he unbolted the door
and accompanied Litizki to the street door, which he also opened.
"Good-night, Nicholas Litizki," he whispered as he withdrew again into
the house.
It was Litizki's purpose to go at once to the house where Paul Palovna
lodged, rouse him, and tell him his experience, with all the admissions
that Poubalov had seemed to make, and all the inferences that were
to be drawn from his remarks and innuendoes; but as he hurried along
in the cool night air he felt as if something were leaving him. He
slackened his pace, halted irresolutely, went on a few steps, and at
last leaned heavily against a building and struck his hand angrily
against his brow, muttering:
"Fool, fool!"
What was this sense of loss but a relief from the dominating influence
of Poubalov's stronger personality? There, with all his desperation,
even at the height of his exaltation, when he seemed to tread the
border lands of heroism, he had halted at a single word from the spy.
He had stood and listened to threats and sophistry, and had been moved
by the one and convinced by the other.
No! he could not tell all this to Palovna, or to any other person
except Strobel; to him, if he should ever return, he would make a full
confession of his defeat. For the present he must keep it to himself,
and if he would still do something to effect his vengeance and rescue
Strobel, he must work in secret. And as he reflected that it was just
this course that Poubalov undoubtedly expected him to take, he groaned
and slunk abashed and mortified to his lonely room.
In the early morning, without waiting to read newspapers, or submit to
interviews from reporters, should they call again at the house, Clara
and Louise set forth to finish their search for the "second driver."
Again they had a tedious, fruitless experience. Now and again it seemed
momentarily as if they had come upon a clew to the man, but Clara's
keen questions invariably brought them to the same disappointing end.
By noon they had visited every livery stable in Boston.
"Don't think me unkind, Clara," ventured Louise, "but I fear we ought
to give this up. I don't know that I can say just why, for I sympathize
with you as deeply as ever, and, like you, I believe in Ivan; but
somehow I fear."
"There are the stables in Cambridge and Somerville," responded Clara,
absently; "we haven't been there. Forgive me, dear! I didn't mean to
ignore what you said. We are both tired. I had meant to call at Mrs.
White's before returning, but we will go home and rest, and see if
fresh thinking will help us. There may be some word at home by this
time."
There was, indeed, some word at home. The servant reported that
Detective Bowker had called and would be glad to see Miss Hilman,
should she care to go downtown during this afternoon; and there were
many letters from friends who had learned of her trouble. All except
one were more or less sympathetic, but in more than one there was a
veiled remonstrance against her taking such a vigorous and public part
in the case.
The exception was unsigned and without date. It read:
"If Miss Hilman insists on being convinced with her own eyes that
her 'lover' has been false, if she needs more proof to cause her to
withdraw from the ridiculous attitude she has assumed, why doesn't
she go to New York and find Lizzie White? The writer is certain that
she would return fully satisfied."