[Illustration: “MY BACK AGAINST THE DOOR, MY HAND ON MY
REVOLVER.”--_Page 94._]
IN THE CAUSE
OF FREEDOM
BY
ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT
AUTHOR OF
“BY WIT OF WOMAN,” “THE QUEEN’S ADVOCATE,”
“A COURIER OF FORTUNE,” ETC.
_With a frontispiece in colours by_
ARCHIE GUNN
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT
APRIL, 1907
_All Rights Reserved_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A CHANCE MEETING 3
II. ON THE DEVIL’S STAIRCASE 14
III. VOLNA DRAKONA 25
IV. A HORSEDEALING TRANSACTION 37
V. AT PULTA 49
VI. VERY SISTERLY 59
VII. THE LUCK TURNS 69
VIII. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE COTTAGE 82
IX. A VERY TIGHT CORNER 93
X. THE HAG TO THE RESCUE 103
XI. FATHER AMBROSE 115
XII. “SHE IS BETROTHED” 125
XIII. VOLNA IS A LITTLE REFRACTORY 135
XIV. THE ARREST 145
XV. A TASTE OF PRISON LIFE 158
XVI. I GET A BIT OF MY OWN BACK 169
XVII. “DO YOU LOVE VOLNA DRAKONA?” 181
XVIII. FOR FRIENDSHIP’S SAKE 190
XIX. TURNING THE SCREW 200
XX. DEFIANCE 212
XXI. A BLANK OUTLOOK 223
XXII. POLICE METHODS 234
XXIII. SPY WORK 245
XXIV. BLACK MONDAY IN WARSAW 254
XXV. NO. 17, THE PLACE OF ST. JOHN 262
XXVI. THE TABLES TURNED 271
XXVII. THE PLAN PROSPERS 280
XXVIII. FLIGHT 289
XXIX. IN THE STREET OF ST. GREGORY 298
XXX. AFTER THE STORM 308
CHAPTER I
A CHANCE MEETING
“Do you mean to take me for a spy?”
I had hard work to prevent myself laughing at the man to his face;
and it is no light matter to laugh at these self-satisfied, bullying
officials in Russian Poland. Some of them have too much power.
“Do I understand that you refuse to answer my questions and shew me
your papers?”
“And what if I do?” He had burst into my room in the little inn at
Bratinsk as I sat reading my paper over a cigar, and without any
preface had fired his questions at me with the peremptory incivility of
the average police agent. My temper had taken the intrusion badly.
He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “I am a police agent
from Warsaw and must know your business in Bratinsk.”
At that I saw light. I recalled a paragraph I had just read in the
Warsaw paper. I pointed to it. “Is this the key to your visit?”
“Ah, you have read it,” he replied with that offensive manner in which
these people always contrive to imply that everything you say or do is
a matter of suspicion.
“I’ll read it again now with more interest,” said I. I did so very
deliberately, to gain time to cool my temper and see how it could
possibly affect me.
“We are in a position to state that a raid was made two nights ago
upon a house in the Kronplatz, which has long been suspected to
be the Warsaw headquarters of a branch of the dangerous patriotic
society known as the ‘P.F.F.’ (Polish Freedom Fraternity). The house
was deserted at the time, but important papers were found which
revealed the existence of a conspiracy of wide and far-reaching
extent. The complete break-up of the powerful organization of the
Freedom Fraternity is likely to be the result of the raid, and several
well-known patriots are said to be implicated by the discoveries. Among
the names rumoured is that of Count Peter Valdemar, once well known as
the ‘Stormy Petrel’ of Polish politics.”
“Do you take me for Count Peter Valdemar?” I asked.
“I did not come here to be fooled,” was the angry reply. “If you will
not comply with my demands, you must accompany me to Warsaw.”
I saw the prudence of not angering him. “I am Robert Anstruther, an
Englishman, and have been here about three weeks, shooting over the
estate of my friend, Count Ladislas Tuleski.”
“Your passport?”
“Here it is. You have a very unpleasant manner,” I could not help
adding, as I took out my pocket book. By a curious chance I had three
passports; my own and that of my chum, Robert Garrett and his sister,
Margaret. They were to have come out with me on their way to Turkey,
but had been prevented at the last moment. I picked mine out and handed
it to him. “It’s properly viséd, you’ll see.”
He assumed a very profound air as he read it. “You speak Polish very
well for an Englishman,” he said.
“I speak also German and French, and some Russian.”
“You have no trace of the vile English accent.”
“Is that meant for a compliment?” I asked lightly. It was no use to get
angry again.
“And you are a friend of Count Ladislas Tuleski? You are, no doubt,
aware that he is a suspect.”
I smiled as I thought of my friend’s airy impulsiveness and almost
butterfly repudiation of responsibility. “I am surprised he should be
suspected of doing anything seriously.”
“He is,” was the snappy reply. “And his friends are naturally objects
of interest just now. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I heard of him last in London.”
“And you are from London? It is at least a coincidence. Do you know
Count Peter Valdemar?”
“I believe I met him once.” I remembered that I had seen him at my
friend’s hotel in London.
“Another coincidence,” he returned drily. There was a pause during
which he regarded me fixedly, pretty much as though I were a criminal.
“You would perhaps, like to shew me all your papers, to satisfy me of
the truth of your story.”
That was what an American would call “the limit.”
I got up and opened the door. “I have told you the truth and I don’t
allow any man to question my word. You’d better go before I lose my
temper.”
I stood six feet without bootheels; I had been the heaviest number five
in my college eight that Corpus had had for years; and was in the pink
of condition. He saw that I meant business and rose.
“I don’t question your word,” he began.
“Are you going?”
He went out into the corridor. “We shall probably require you to come
to Warsaw.”
“If you wish to arrest me do it, and be hanged to you.”
“You mustn’t talk like that, and had better leave Bratinsk. So long
as you stay here you will be under surveillance--” the rest of his
sentence was lost, for I slammed the door in his face.
The attempt at any kind of surveillance over my movements would
drive me out of Bratinsk like a shot; and I should have been much
more annoyed by the incident but for the fact that I had been daily
expecting my visit to be brought to a close by the weather. I had been
very lucky to hit such an open season; but it was late in December, and
the snow was so long overdue that by leaving at once I should miss very
little sport.
I determined to go, therefore. I had a pig-sticking fixed for the
following day; and that should be the last.
It was not at all unlikely, too, that Warsaw would afford me some
excitement. The papers were full of hints about impending troubles
from the strikers and revolutionary party, consequent upon the ominous
unrest in St. Petersburg; and I settled that I might as well go there
for a couple of days to see the fun, and then rush home for Christmas.
With this plan in my thoughts I strolled up to the railway station to
see about trains.
As I reached the building the stationmaster, a very busy little
official, named Blauben, came running up to me.
“Ah, mister, mister,”--he knew this one word of English and thought it
the correct way to address an Englishman--“you can do me a service. I
beg of you. I am in sore perplexity.”
“What is the matter?”
“A country-woman of yours. She sets me at defiance and does not
understand a word I say. The last train for three hours has gone and
the law is that I shut the station. She will not go out.”
“Do you want me to put her out for you?”
“No, no; you can explain to her that the law requires the station to
be shut now; and they are very strict because of this last conspiracy
they have discovered. No one is allowed to remain, mister. Besides, my
wife is waiting for me; and you know her. She is not patient when the
dinner is kept waiting. Ah, mister?”
“Where is she?”
I pictured to myself a typical strong-minded British matron, or
spinster, stern of feature, sturdy of will, Baedeker in hand, insistent
upon her rights, and holding the station grimly against the chattering
officious little Pole; and I looked for some fun. But, instead, he led
me up to a girl, who contradicted in every particular my anticipation.
She was some twenty years of age, well-dressed and as pretty as a
painting; straight, regular features, flaxen hair and blue eyes;
glorious eyes meant for laughter, but now clouded with trouble and
nervous agitation. A picture of pale, shrinking misery that went
straight to my heart.
“Here is an English mister who will explain,” said the stationmaster
with elaborate gesture.
I raised my hat and as she glanced at me, the colour flushed into her
cheeks and her large eyes seemed to dilate with a new fear connected
with my presence. In a moment it flashed into my thoughts that she had
understood him quite well.
“The stationmaster tells me you are a country-woman of mine,” I said in
English; “and has asked me to explain that the station is to be closed
now.”
There was a pause, her look one of blank dismay. She bit her lip and
then stammered slowly with a rich foreign accent, “Zank you, sir; I
cannot go. I wait for ze train and zomeone.”
I accepted this as though it were the purest English and gave a free
translation of it to the station master. But he was bluntness itself.
His wife was waiting for him, and he had the law on his side.
I turned to the girl again and said, trying German this time: “They
have curious laws in this country, and one of them requires the station
to be closed.”
Her face lighted with unmistakable relief and she answered in the same
language: “My servant has gone to make some arrangements, I only wish
to wait for a train.”
I interpreted this also; but the man was obdurate. “She cannot wait
here. No one is allowed--by law.”
“But I _must_ wait,” she broke in, and blushed vividly and trembled at
having given away the fact that she understood him.
“Let me offer a suggestion. I am an Englishman, Robert Anstruther, and
if you will permit, I will wait with you outside until your servant
returns. These officials are obstinate just now because of some plot
that has been discovered; and he will only send for the police if you
do not comply.”
At the mention of the police she rose quickly, all the colour left her
face and her lips quivered.
The stationmaster beamed his thanks upon me as he bowed us out and
turned the key upon us.
“These little officials are very touchy,” I said, when we stood outside
and I saw she was quite undecided what to do.
She paused, and then said impulsively: “I don’t know what you will
think. I--I am so ashamed.”
“I hope not. There is no need.”
“I mean about--I am not English.”
“Are you not? You answered me in English,” I said gravely.
A little blush signalled vexation. “As if you did not know. It is no
subject for laughter.”
“God forbid that I should laugh. You are too evidently in deep trouble.”
“And you know that I understood him all the time.”
I bowed. “I ask no questions.”
“I should like to explain, but I cannot. Oh, how humiliating!” she
cried, and the distress and trouble in her tone touched me deeply.
“I am only a stranger, but if I can help you, I beg you to give me the
opportunity.”
“You cannot. You cannot; oh, I----” She left the sentence unfinished
and turned away to stare along the road leading to the village, her arm
resting upon a gate near. “If he comes back----” I heard her murmur;
but the rest of the sentence was lost.
She was a mystery, and a very fascinating mystery too. Who could she
be? Why travelling alone? What was her trouble? Why pretending to be
English? Why had she started so at the mention of the police? These
and a dozen other questions rushed into my mind in the minute or two
that followed. I cudgelled my wits for something to say; some way of
breaking down the barrier that prevented her making some kind of use of
me.
The visit of the police agent having turned my thoughts to the subject
of the conspiracy, I wondered whether she could be in any way connected
with it. A fugitive, perhaps? But the idea was preposterous. She was
surely the very incarnation of innocence; about as well fitted for a
conspirator as I was for a police agent.
She turned suddenly and broke in upon my thoughts by saying, hurriedly
and nervously, this time in Polish: “Thank you, sir, for what you have
done and also for your offer; but I must not detain you longer.”
I smiled. “You are not detaining me; but I will go, of course, if you
wish.”
She hesitated. I hoped it was from reluctance to dismiss me. Then she
put out her hand impulsively and said with an air of constraint and a
very wistful look: “My secret is safe with you, I know.”
“I should like to make it a condition of silence that you let me help
you further.”
“No, no. That is impossible; impossible,” she cried quickly. “My--my
servant will be back soon.” The fear in her eyes increased as she spoke
of him.
“Well, don’t forget the name--Anstruther. I’m at the _Petersburg Inn_,
should you--or your friends think me likely to be of any use.”
She shook her head. “No, no. Thank you. Thank you.”
I raised my hat and turned away. I would have given a lot to be able
to find some excuse for staying with her; and when I looked after
her, chance found me a reason to go back. She was walking slowly in
the direction of the village, her back towards me, and I saw her
handkerchief fall.
I picked it up and hurried after her. Hearing my step she turned so
quickly as to suggest alarm.
“You have dropped this,” I said, handing her the little dainty lace
trifle. As I held it out the initials “V.D.” embroidered in the corner,
lay uppermost.
She took it hurriedly, glanced from the initials to my face, and then
thanked me.
Just then a man came hastily round a bend in the path some twenty paces
ahead of us. She bit her lip at sight of him and her nervous confusion
increased.
“My--my servant. You must go, please.”
Surprised that she should shew such fear of a servant, I drew aside
with a smile and she walked on.
Then I looked at the servant; and the mystery about her at once became
clearer and yet deeper.
It is one of the freaks of my otherwise treacherous memory, never to
forget a face; and despite his disguise I recognized the man at once.
I knew him by his remarkable eyes--small, piercing and almost black in
hue.
It was Count Peter Valdemar, the “Stormy Petrel” of Polish politics;
the originator of a dozen conspiracies. He was dressed as a servant,
wore a close-cropped red wig, and was clean shaven.
I recalled the police agent’s words instantly; and the danger to the
girl appealed to me. For her sake I resolved to warn him.
They spoke together, and from his glances in my direction, I guessed
she was telling him what I had done. As I approached them, he assumed
the deferential air of a servant.
“A word with you,” I said.
He was full of surprise. “With me, sir?”
I drew him aside. “I have no desire to pry into your affairs, but I
wish to warn you that you are in great danger of discovery here.”
“Danger! Of what? Surely you are mistaken, sir?” He spoke with a
flourish of the hand and a bow, but his piercing eyes were fixed
intently upon mine.
“I am a friend of Count Ladislas Tuleski, and I met you once or twice
in his rooms in London a year ago. You are Count Peter Valdemar. This
morning a police agent from Warsaw visited me, and regarded me as a
suspect because of my friendship with the Count, and because I admitted
that I had known you. Take the warning from me as a friend; and be on
your guard. If I have recognized you, others may.”
It was safer for us both not to be seen together, so I walked off
leaving him a very much surprised Count indeed.