HOW LITIZKI SAVED MISS HILMAN.
The ladies' entrance to the Travelers' Hotel was upon the same street
as the main corridor, almost next door to it. Clara glanced in as the
carriage slowly passed the open doors and she saw her uncle at the
further end, pacing slowly toward her. Two men were with him whom she
did not at the moment recognize, but so anxious was she to have a word
with him that when she alighted, instead of going in at the ladies'
entrance, she stepped over to the main doorway and stood there to
attract his attention as soon as he should come near.
He saw her immediately and quickened his pace. In that instant she saw
that one of the other men was Dexter, and that he wheeled abruptly
about, turning the third man around with him. Dexter hobbled back
toward the clerk's desk and led his companion out of sight into a
passage that terminated in the corridor. Clara saw this maneuver but
dimly, as her attention was fixed upon her uncle, whose face had the
haggard, anxious expression that she had noticed on it several times of
late. He was quickly beside her, and attributing his anxiety largely to
herself, she smiled bravely and said:
"There was no scandal, uncle, and very little of what you could call a
scene."
"You are back sooner than I thought for," he responded with something
of an effort. "Did you see anything?"
"Of Poubalov? No."
"I mean Strobel."
"Oh, no! I am convinced that Lizzie knows nothing of him, poor girl!"
"So am I," said Mr. Pembroke with a deep sigh; "I have had no time,
of course, to give the matter much thought, but my impression is, and
it grows constantly stronger, that you will eventually find Strobel in
Boston."
"And do you think I shall find him, uncle?" asked Clara, eager for
encouraging words.
"I hope so, my child, I hope so. It does not seem possible that this
affair will resolve itself into an unfathomable mystery. There are few
such things in real life, you know, and if the worst had happened to
Strobel, we would have heard of it."
"It gives me new courage to hear you say so," said Clara looking
wistfully at her uncle, "I wanted to speak to you simply to let you
know that nothing troublesome has happened, and that it is my intention
to return to Boston as soon as possible, though I don't know what I can
do after I get there."
"I would rest if I were you, Clara."
"I cannot think of rest now. We will see. Something may happen to give
me a fresh start, or I may discover a new clew in something I already
know, the significance of which I have overlooked."
"Don't try to do too much; rest if you can," pleaded Mr. Pembroke. "I
shall return myself to-night."
"Do you want me to wait and go with you?"
"I wouldn't," exclaimed her uncle, hastily; "you'll find the journey
nothing by daylight, and it might be fatiguing at night. You are
familiar with it, and don't mind traveling alone for so short a time,
do you?"
"Not at all. I merely thought you might want me to wait."
"No, Dexter will have to be with me. I will be with you at home in time
for breakfast. You'll take the noon train I suppose? Good-by."
Haste was evident in Mr. Pembroke's manner as well as in his words, and
Clara bade him good-by at once. She went to her room for her traveling
bag, and when she returned to the carriage Litizki was waiting for her.
"Is it the noon train, Miss Hilman?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered; "won't you ride to the station with me?"
"Do you wish it?" said the little tailor, hesitatingly.
"Of course I do. Come, there may be things we wish to tell each other."
So Litizki sat beside her on the way to the station, and after the
carriage started he said:
"Miss Hilman, I shrink from asking questions, and yet I think you will
admit that I have more than curiosity about the result of your call on
Miss White."
"You have every right to know," she responded; "we talked very frankly
after a while, and I came away satisfied that she is not an accomplice
of Poubalov's."
Litizki stared out of the window in silence for a time, and finally
spoke much as if he were addressing himself:
"When Miss Hilman says she is satisfied, it goes a great way to
convince me."
"You are still in doubt, then?" asked Clara.
"I cannot help being so. Poubalov grows upon me until he is ever
present in my mind, like a horrid nightmare. At every step we take it
is Poubalov. If ever anything is discovered, you discover Poubalov's
hand in it. Whenever we make an attempt to gain a point, we are
frustrated, and it is Poubalov who stands over and above, in and
through all, moving us with his master-hand, and setting up obstacles
when we would move of our own will. We are at the mercy of him who
knows no mercy, and so long as Poubalov remains--in America, we are
without hope, unless he accomplishes his purpose and has no further use
for Mr. Strobel."
Litizki spoke with profound melancholy and just that touch of
extravagance in language that Clara had noticed the first time she saw
him in Mrs. White's.
"I don't wonder," she said, "that you estimate Poubalov's power for
evil so greatly, and it would be folly for the friends of Mr. Strobel
to underestimate him; and yet, with a woman's imperfect reasoning, I
feel that we shall some day outreach him."
"There is nothing imperfect in your reasoning, Miss Hilman," and for
once Litizki addressed her directly, his gloomy eyes fixed upon her
own; "but you are speaking from the kindness of your heart rather than
from the logic of your brain. This is not my first experience with
Poubalov. But no matter." He turned away abruptly and again gazed out
of the window. "It is nothing short of greatness in you," he continued
presently, "in the midst of your sorrow to try to throw a little
light into my life. Every kind word and every encouragement from you
hurts me almost as much as the oppression and injustice from which I
have suffered all my life. Until I knew Mr. Strobel I knew not real
kindness. I am yet unused to it, and so it seems sometimes as if you
had stabbed me. But there is this difference, Miss Hilman: Whereas
constant injustice deadens the heart, kindness quickens it, and I shall
yet do something, you may be sure, that will not only be evidence of my
sincerity and devotion, but that will actually help you."
"Mr. Litizki," returned Clara, disturbed by his morbid tone rather than
by his words, which were but characteristic of his point of view, "you
dwell too much upon these things, not only upon what has been evilly
done to you, but upon what seems to you as exceptional goodness. Let us
not think more about it until the time comes for action. Then we shall
be the better prepared to think quickly and effectively. See, here we
are at the depot. I will let you get my ticket for me, as you will have
to go to the window also, and I will avoid the nuisance of having to
wait in the line."
Litizki took her purse without a word, after she had settled with the
driver, escorted her to a seat and then went to the ticket window. When
he returned he displayed unusual coolness, for him, as he handed her
the ticket and said:
"Poubalov will go by the same train as you. He is even now in this
room, and he saw me buy the tickets. Of course I pretended not to see
him, but he despises me and cares not for all my efforts."
Clara felt no fear at this information, but it nevertheless aroused
a sense of discomfort. A presentiment of misfortune she readily
dismissed; this fact of being persistently "shadowed" by a man whom she
believed to be her enemy she could not dismiss, and she could not shake
off the irritation caused by it.
"Suppose," suggested Litizki, "that you pretend to take this train but
really wait for the next one."
"No," replied Clara, "I will not be interfered with in my movements by
Poubalov. I suppose it is his right to take the train, if he chooses to
do so, as well as it is mine. I will go to my car now, please, and if
he ventures to intrude upon me I shall know how to relieve myself of
his presence."
Litizki's eyes sparkled with exultant satisfaction for just an instant,
and then the fire that lit them subsided to a steady glow that would
have revealed a fixed and awful purpose had anybody seen it and read
it correctly. But he kept his eyes averted as he escorted Clara to
the car, thinking of her words, weighing them, repeating them to
himself. They sank deep into his brain, where his perceptions of life,
disordered by a rankling sense of injustice, distorted them and threw
them back to the surface of his thoughts with an interpretation all his
own.
"She has the nature of heroes," he said to himself, "and she is capable
of it! She is great, grand! How fitting that Alexander Poubalov should
meet at last a foe of infinite spirit, intellect as keen as his own,
courage unfaltering, and that foe a woman! But she is a woman, and
her place is beside my benefactor. She must be saved for him and for
herself. She must be spared this demonstration of her right to rank
with heroes. I know what she is, and Strobel shall know when, Poubalov
out of the way, he gains his freedom. She must be saved, and I must
save her. It is my fate!"
Wholly unsuspicious of the raving that was going on in her strange
companion's mind, Clara proceeded to the car and took the chair that
the porter pointed out to her. For just an instant it occurred to her
to ask Litizki to sit with her, but there was nothing Quixotic in her
character; she knew that the little tailor would be immeasurably hurt
if she should suggest paying his traveling expenses, and, withal, he
made her uncomfortable. She thought very kindly of him, but she felt no
need of his protection.
"We will meet again in Boston," she said, pleasantly, "and we may yet
do some work together."
"Perhaps so," responded Litizki. "I shall be on the train, and if you
like I will watch outside till it starts and let you know whether
Poubalov gets on board."
"It's hardly necessary," said Clara; "still, if you would rather do so,
I have no objection."
Litizki, therefore, loitered on the platform beside the train until
just before starting time. Then he went to Clara and told her that
Poubalov had taken a seat in the car just behind hers.
"I have no fear," she assured him, "but you may look for me when we get
to Boston."
She made this arrangement wholly for his sake, realizing the man's
devotion and anxiety to serve her. He bowed gravely and made his way
to the platform again, but instead of going to an ordinary coach he
climbed the steps to the rear platform of the parlor car in which
Poubalov sat.
"Can you give me a seat in this car?" he asked of the conductor as the
train started.
"There's just one left," replied the official as he consulted his slips
after a curious glance at the inquirer.
Litizki paid for the seat immediately. It was at the very back of the
car, against the partition of the smoking room wherein Poubalov was at
the time seeking the comfort he found in cigarettes.
The train had been in motion more than an hour when Poubalov appeared.
He saw Litizki, and raised his brows slightly, as if in mild surprise.
With no other sign of recognition he took his seat, which was in about
the middle of the car.
Hours passed slowly while the train rushed on as if madly intent upon
checking the flight of time. Poubalov occupied himself with a book.
Litizki could not have followed the words on a printed page had he
tried to do so. His brain worked over and over the idea that had found
its way there days before, and he could not, if he would, have thought
of anything else.
"The time matters not," he argued with himself; "as well now as at
another, but there must be provocation if possible. If there is no
provocation, then proceed without it. It must be done at all hazard.
And there must be no failure."
Somewhere between Westerly and Providence the train came to a stop.
There was trouble with the engine--what, it matters not. The train
could not proceed until the damage had been repaired. A brakeman was
sent forward to the next station to telegraph for assistance, and the
engineer busied himself in effecting a temporary adjustment of the
machinery, so that some progress could be made even though it were
slow. Poubalov went forward with many passengers to watch the work,
and Litizki followed him. Altogether nearly two hours were lost by the
accident, so that it was dark when the train rushed through the suburbs
of Boston.
Poubalov then rose and went into the car forward. Litizki went after
and saw the spy drop into a chair not far from where Clara sat, her
back to the window, her profile clearly in view. There were many
vacant seats in the car, some unoccupied at the moment because the
passengers, weary with the long journey, were standing up, making
early preparations for departure. All the men were at the forward end,
waiting their turns at the wash-room.
The train had just rolled past Roxbury crossing, two miles from the
terminus, when Poubalov rose again and sauntered forward, sinking
negligently into the chair back of Clara which had just been vacated
by a lady who was now submitting to the brush of the porter.
Litizki saw Clara start when Poubalov addressed her, and his hand
sought his pocket, but he withdrew it empty when he observed that the
spy had left his cane leaning against the side of the car near his
former seat.
"That will do better," muttered the tailor, and he went to Poubalov's
chair, took the cane in his hands, and, all unobserved by any of the
preoccupied passengers, released the catch and drew forth the long
blade. Concealing it by his side as he took the few remaining steps
that lay between him and his victim, he presently raised it high over
Poubalov's heart, and with the words, "I will do it for you, Miss
Hilman!" brought it down with all his force.
Poubalov fell into the aisle with a loud gasp, and Clara, uttering one
scream of terror, bent over him.
Litizki dashed to the rear platform. There was nobody in his way save
one or two frightened women. The brakeman had already opened the doors
of the vestibuled platform and before any one could lay hands upon him,
the little tailor had swung himself off into the darkness.