_The situation becomes acute_
Maurice Wallion had gone down the winding staircase just as the
gardener came into the kitchen, and from his hiding place he heard
Rosenthal inquire in a low voice:
"Where is Rastakov?"
A gruff voice, which obviously belonged to the man on guard by the
kitchen door, replied:
"He is at the lodge."
There was a little rustling sound, as Rosenthal threw the roses down on
a table, and he called out:
"Here are your roses, Lona Ivanovna. I hear you have visitors, and
Tassler and the baron are expected," and without waiting for an answer,
the gardener went out again. Wallion, who had remained motionless on
the stairs, heard a distant sound from the front of the house, and
hesitated over his next move. Presently he went up to the first floor
and, after listening a little, he opened a window at the back of the
house, and jumped softly down. He slipped into the shrubbery, and
skirted the wall of the terrace until he came in sight of the main
entrance. He heard the old lady request the gentlemen to follow her,
and saw them enter the house behind her. Rastakov and the young girl
remained together, and the former said shortly:
"What are you waiting for?"
She went up to him, and said, in a grave voice that contrasted oddly
with her girlish appearance:
"Justice must be done. That is what I am waiting for." She looked
straight at Rastakov's swarthy face, and he returned her gaze fixedly.
"Justice! That is a wonderful word, Sonia Andreievna. There is no
justice nowadays; the bayonets have put an end to it. The future is
blood-red, Sonia Andreievna; don't pin your hopes to it."
He spoke in a hard, bitter voice, then turned and left her.
The girl put both her hands up to her face, and ran down the terrace;
like some little lost animal, she stood still, then ran on again,
crying softly to herself. At last she threw herself on to a bench,
under the shade of the syringa trees, crouched down in the farthest
corner of it, and buried her face in her arms. A low murmur of voices
could be heard through the open windows of the dining-room.
Wallion, concealed by the trees, took a few steps towards the avenue,
and saw in the distance Baron Fayerling approaching, accompanied by the
lodge-keeper, Tugan, and two of the forest-guards. They were walking
briskly along, at the pace of a marching patrol. At the same moment,
the Problem-hunter made another, and far from reassuring discovery:
across the field on either side of the avenue, he noticed a number of
men, posted at equal distances from each other, and stretching as far
as the eye could reach ... a double "cordon" was being drawn round the
Copper House. Double, indeed: for when Wallion turned round, he saw
five or six fellows with guns file on to the terrace from the opposite
direction, and take up their position close to the house. No chance of
getting past them!
He was caught in a trap: the outer "cordon," which embraced a
considerable area, was being gradually contracted. He calculated the
number of men to be about forty.
"They have brought reinforcements," he reflected. "Something must be
going to happen; the gang is assembling--they only want the great,
invisible Gabriel Ortiz to make things complete"; and he looked all
round him, and bit his lips. A few raindrops were beginning to patter
on the dry leaves, and towards the sea, dark thunder-clouds were
gathering in heavy masses.
* * * * *
Lona Ivanovna appeared again; she went over to her niece and took her
by the shoulder.
"Come indoors," she said softly and gently; "Sonia, I believe that a
miracle _might_ happen, but we must keep a brave face, and never cry
for quarter."
The girl got up; her eyes were dry now, and she took her aunt's hand,
like a child, and went in with her.
It was very quiet in the dining-room, where the others were assembled.
Tassler was standing in the middle of the room, Leo by the window on
the right-hand side, and Rastakov--his arms theatrically folded--by the
door. No one was speaking, but it was evident that something had just
been said which astonished them, and they were all looking at the blind
man in his armchair, as though they expected him to say something more.
Andrei Bernin was sitting with his white head turned towards them: now
and then, he rubbed his hands as though they were cold, but he remained
silent.
"It is very strange," said Tassler at length, in a thick, grumbling
voice: "it is most extraordinary, Andrei Bernin, that you did not find
this out before. You state that you no longer wish to buy the Copper
House, because you are too poor! You owe both Mr. Grath and myself an
explanation."
"I never said that I was rich enough to buy the Copper House: it is as
much as I can afford to remain here as its tenant. Why do you ask me,
Marcus, when you know that you have always managed everything?"
"Exactly, I undertook to see to all your business for you. You--poor?
Why, man, you have been ill for so long, that your ideas have grown
quite hazy! Your money has multiplied enormously, invested in the
Finno-Russian Import and Export Company: don't you realize that?"
Tassler spoke rapidly and loudly, as though he anticipated some
interruption; he mopped his cheeks and forehead with his handkerchief,
and looked at Andrei Bernin with a very unwonted expression of
obsequious servility.
"Surely you are capable of understanding as much of your business as
that," he continued ... "of course, I have done my best for you."
"Perhaps," answered the blind man; "perhaps you have, Marcus; but I am
not going to buy the Copper House."
Tassler lifted his small, plump hands, and turned to Lona Ivanovna.
"Always the same! This poor brother of yours hasn't the slightest idea
of business! I begin to think that you must have acted on your own
responsibility during his illness. Can't you make him see reason?"
"I don't think that is necessary," she answered quietly.
"You don't?"
"No, not since yesterday--when Sergius came here."
"Sergius!"
"Yes--Marcus, up to yesterday, I still believed in you, and allowed you
to act for us. That's all over. Now you must act for yourself."
"And that is the most difficult of all," added the feeble voice of the
blind man, philosophically.
Marcus Tassler turned distinctly paler; it was impossible to ignore the
challenge in Lona Ivanovna's tone and whole demeanor. Even Leo noticed
it, and to relieve the painful tension, he said pleasantly, and as
unconcernedly as he could:
"Yes, there we are agreed, my dear Mr. Tassler. When the purchaser will
not buy, nor the seller sell, the whole transaction comes automatically
to an end. For the exact details, I must ask you to be so good as to
refer to Mr. Burchardt."
Tassler turned to him, with the ponderous agility of a hippopotamus.
"I will do so, Mr. Grath."
"That will be all right, then."
"And I shall tell him that you have refused the best offer that has
ever been made for a property," continued Tassler. "_My_ conscience is
clear, at any rate."
"Not altogether, Marcus," said the blind man from his corner.
Tassler's obsequiousness cracked like a mirror at a blow from a hammer,
and behind the mirror appeared a very different face, with angry eyes,
distorted features, and lips drawn back in an ugly snarl.
"Listen to me, Andrei," he cried out quickly and breathlessly: "and
you too, Lona. I can see quite well that Sergius has bewitched you.
Take care! Sergius is not what he was, he has taken the wrong road, and
anyone who shelters him is bound to be ruined."
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I want to speak to him, before it is too late."
"It is _too_ late, now!"
"That's impossible!"
"Marcus Tassler, it is all over. You cannot alter things now."
"Not I, perhaps, but certainly...."
"Certainly who?" a voice interrupted him, and the baron came into the
room. "Can you mean me, by any chance?"
Tassler was silent. The baron had staged his entrance with the skill
and aplomb of an accomplished actor. He advanced with the friendly air
of a casual visitor, but no one could ignore the imperious gesture with
which he imposed silence upon his partner. The lash was inflicted with
a smile:
"By Jove, Tassler, how you do hold forth! Madame Ivanovna, don't let us
dispute over trifles. Be so good as to introduce me to your brother and
to the owner of the Copper House."
As the old lady did not move, he completed the ceremony himself, with
easy grace, pressing the blind man's passive hand, and bowing low to
Leo.
"You have a remarkably fine old property, Mr. Grath," he remarked, "but
it is very much out of the world, and all sorts of queer things might
happen here, without anybody having the slightest suspicion of what was
going on. I am thinking more particularly of the case of Bernard Jenin,
and what is likely to be the result of it."
He smoothed his D'Annunzio beard, looked from one face to another, and
repeated thoughtfully:
"What the results may be."
A pause followed these words. The blind man remarked:
"Logic teaches us that one of two results will follow: either Bernard
Jenin will be captured, or he will not. I incline towards the latter
hypothesis."
"Indeed!" replied the baron. "Logic is a wonderful science, my dear Mr.
Bernin; I also argue logically, and I say: Bernard Jenin certainly came
to the Copper House; he certainly did not leave it again: therefore he
must still be in the Copper House. It is as easy to prove as this other
little syllogism: Thieves deserve punishment: Bernard Jenin is a thief:
therefore Bernard Jenin deserves punishment."
"Are you not first bound to prove that he is a thief?" suggested Leo,
and Sonia flashed a grateful look at him.
The baron affected to be much surprised, and turned courteously to the
speaker:
"Certainly," he admitted, "but only to those whose business it is to
plead for the thief."
Leo colored.
"As the owner of the Copper House," he said more sharply, "it seems to
me that I have a right to know whether I am harboring a thief in my
house, or not."
"Most assuredly. Will it content you if I can show that the fellow
robbed me?"
Leo replied with a stiff bow.
"Well, Mr. Grath, allow me to inform you that an important paper--the
so-called Tarraschin memorandum--whilst on its way to me from Russia,
was stolen by Bernard Jenin, and is still in his possession. Tassler
and Rastakov are my witnesses; is that sufficient?"
"Yes, if no one takes exception to your statement, or to your
witnesses." Leo looked at Lona Ivanovna, but, to his surprise, she
turned her face away.
The baron smiled superciliously, and the young man, irritated, he knew
not why, said deliberately:
"No doubt you are right; and you are quite at liberty to call in the
police."
Rastakov made an involuntary movement, but the baron checked him with a
glance, and answered:
"The police? Yes, I would do so, if I had plenty of time to spare, and
if I was not unwilling to compromise my dear friends here----," and he
looked at Andrei Bernin and the two ladies. "As it is essential that I
should have the paper by this evening, I must unfortunately take the
matter into my own hands."
"Leave him alone!" interrupted Lona Ivanovna harshly, turning to Leo:
"haven't you had enough of his accursed conversation?"
Rastakov, Tassler and the baron burst out laughing.
"You are really _too_ delightful, Madame!" said the last named person;
"what do you say, Mr. Grath? Have we your leave to search for Bernard
Jenin?"
"I am of the same opinion as Madame Bernin," replied the young man,
with equivocal civility.
Baron Fayerling's smile vanished.
"Then we quite understand one another, Mr. Grath?"
"Perfectly, baron."
The baron stepped out through the open window, and shouted a few words
in Russian. A dozen figures hurried up from the terrace, and marched
noisily into the hall. The baron exchanged a couple of sentences with
Tassler, in a rapid undertone, and went out into the hall with Rastakov.
Marcus Tassler sat heavily down on a chair, and stared at Lona
Ivanovna, who, with unruffled composure, had returned to her place near
her brother; she went on with her crochet and took no notice of Tassler.
"What a cold-blooded woman you are, Lona," said the merchant, in a
rather faltering voice. "After all, this affects Sergius...."
"No need to tell me that," she replied, shrugging her shoulders; "you
may go to your lord and master: you have nothing to do with Sergius."
He was silenced by the caustic bitterness of her voice, and remained
with his mouth open, staring vaguely and irresolutely across the room
at the blind man and his sister.
Sonia went quietly up to her father, and leaned her head against his
shoulder; the blind man began to stroke her black hair clumsily.
Leo felt acutely distressed: these three unfortunate beings, whom he
already regarded as his friends, seemed so far from him, that he could
not summon up courage to say another word to them. They were withdrawn
into the intimacy of their home-circle, and he remained outside like
a stranger. With the agonizing sensation of being the witness of a
tragedy into whose inner meaning he had no right to intrude, he left
the room silently, without looking at them again.
As he came into the hall, which was empty, a new and alarming thought
struck him; what had become of Wallion? He heard the baron's voice,
echoing sharp and clear down the well of the staircase.
"Take each floor in turn, and keep guard whilst you search the rooms.
You, over there, don't pass over that corner--don't leave a stone
unturned. Rastakov, take a couple of men with you, and search the
attics thoroughly. Be sharp, now!"
It was evident that the searchers meant to leave nothing to chance
this time; the furniture was moved about, the walls sounded, and the
tramp of many feet was heard in each room in turn, till the whole house
seemed full of men. If there were really anyone hidden in the Copper
House, thought Leo, he would certainly be found within ten minutes:
what was the journalist doing?
The young man listened, his heart beating fast. Now they were on
the second floor, and coming to his room. He ran upstairs, with the
desperate intention of preventing them from entering, but he was too
late. As he came into the corridor, Rastakov was just leaving the room,
and Leo saw with indescribable relief, that the Russian's face was dark
with disappointment. They passed one another without a word, and Leo
shut himself quickly in.
He flung himself into a chair, and buried his head in his hands; what
should he do? His mind refused to work, and he stamped his foot in
impotent vexation.
Had the journalist been caught in a trap, and helplessly resigned
himself to his fate? Had he discovered Bernard Jenin's hiding-place?
"Did you look in here?" he heard the baron ask just outside the door.
"Yes," answered another voice further along the passage; "Rastakov has
been there."
"Go on, then."
The steps and voices grew fainter. Leo had not raised his head.
Suddenly he heard a slight sound on the floor close to his feet; a
paper lay there, wrapped round a pebble. He picked it up, and saw that
there was something written on the paper; he unfolded it, and read:
"Don't worry, things are going as I expected. I have concluded some
useful investigations, and shall soon make myself known. M. W."
Leo sprang up. The window, which had been closed earlier in the day,
had been opened later, and he realized that the little note had been
thrown in through it. But he could not see a sign of the journalist
outside. Only Rosenthal was walking slowly along, in his blue apron and
broad-brimmed straw hat.