There could not be the least doubt of Sarichef’s identity. It was not
one of those curious cases of a double. All three actors in the drama
knew him at the first glance, with certain recognition not to be
mistaken. His clothes were rough and worn, but physically he was
unchanged since Pete had last seen him on the launch on the Savannah.
That fatal night! The thought was infinitely ironical. Here, in the
flesh, stood the man of whose murder he had believed himself guilty and
for which he had so dearly paid.
There was one instant of bewildered groping in the dark, and then he
knew the truth. He had simply been the victim of a cruel, relentless,
criminal mind. Ivan Ishmin, loving Dorothy with his Oriental ardor, had
schemed to win her away from her husband; and he had known no law but
his own. That he should have neither scruples nor mercy was wholly in
character; he was a strong, profound, relentless man, and he had never
been one to be swayed from his purpose. He had craved Dorothy with an
unholy fire, his genius demanded to prey upon her, and when a drunken
quarrel aboard the launch on the Savannah River had given him his
opportunity, he had been remorseless in taking advantage of it. Sarichef
had been told to disappear; Ivan had contrived the wicked lie that had
been Peter’s downfall. When Peter had wakened from drunken slumber he
had been easy to convince that he had actually committed the crime that
Ivan swore he had seen. Pete’s only amazement was that this remorseless
man had stopped where he did; that Sarichef had not actually been slain
to add plausibility to his story, or he himself—by cunning, deliberate,
carefully covered murder—wiped from his rival’s path.
The flood of vengeful rage that might have been expected did not at once
sweep over him, partly because the drama of the moment carried him above
it, partly from sheer amazement at this incredible, unexpected
visitation. He felt oddly cool, capable of deliberate thought. The
moment was inordinately vivid, rather than dreamy; his realities still
endured,—the clouds that hid the stars, the camp fire glowing dully,
the wide bed of straw at his feet and the caribou flesh drying behind
the camp stove. The moan of the sea carried through the moment,
unbroken; and the wind still yelled and blustered, flapping the canvas
with maniacal frenzy without an instant’s cessation. After one great
start which seemed to be wholly internal—one single, violent impulse
throughout the strong tree of his nervous system that showed not at all
in his face or frame—all his powers seemed to rally, vouchsafing him
not only perfect self-control, but a certain penetrative, infallible
quality of thought. Outwardly this was Dorothy and Ivan’s drama solely;
neither in look nor word did he give any sign that he recognized
Sarichef. Such action might immediately reveal his own identity. He
looked casually into Sarichef’s face, then stepped out into the
firelight. He waited, with devouring eagerness, for the other two
principals to speak.
To Dorothy the sight of that startled face that she recognized instantly
as that of her husband’s supposed victim was like a shattering fist at
her breast. Her throat froze and she could not cry out; but instead of
dullness and insensibility, a white light of super-consciousness seemed
to pervade the scene; to her also the whole truth became vividly,
cruelly manifest, and she was acutely sensitive, as in a death by fire,
of all its tragic phases. Her hands clasped, her face was deathly white,
ugly and haggard from unbearable pain.
At the same time her thought moved with a cruel clarity. She knew now
why Ivan had urged Peter’s flight instead of encouraging him in his
first intention to stay and fight the murder charge through the courts.
She saw now why Ivan had directed him south, clearing the way and
arranging for his concealment in the Brazilian fastnesses: he had known
that Sarichef had gone north and he had wanted to guard against a
possible meeting of the two men. She understood why he had been so moved
and stirred, like a man who has just come safely through an unseen
danger, when he had got the word that Peter had died in the North rather
than the South, and why he had opposed so bitterly and earnestly her own
venture into the North in search of her husband’s body: he had feared
that she might encounter and identify Sarichef. Over and above the fact
of this present meeting, it was a justifiable fear. The North has but a
comparatively small white population, and they all cross trails sooner
or later, particularly in this great, barren end of Alaska that was such
a refuge for missing men. He likely knew that Sarichef was located
somewhere in this immediate vicinity—probably on the other side of the
Peninsula—and therefore he had insisted on going himself on the
expedition after supplies, rather than send one of the guides who might,
not guessing the truth, encounter Sarichef, enlist his aid in his
employer’s behalf, and bring him back as one of a rescue party to the
camp.
Her husband had been wronged and, she believed, indirectly done to
death! He had been the victim of a wicked, deliberate plot of which she
herself had been an unsuspecting instrument. Her remorse had been
poignant before, but now it swept over her like the sea. The cruel
futility of it all, the torturing sense of bootless loss seemed more
than she could bear.
Ivan’s expression hardly changed. His face twitched once; and it might
have been that a mirthless, ironic half-smile hovered for an instant at
his closely pressed lips. He walked more fully into the firelight,
uttered one grim, subdued oath, then leered at his late secretary in
contempt. It was not that he failed to recognize what this sudden coming
meant to him and his. He knew that, except by Dorothy’s loyalty to him,
he could never go back to the civilized world again. He had risked
everything, and he was done for, if the truth ever came out; he had gone
on record in the Georgia courts as saying that he had seen Peter Newhall
throw this man into the river and that he had seen him go down for the
third time. He would be ruined socially and professionally, and in all
probability the law itself would seize him. Fortunately Dorothy was his
wife. Surely he would have vital need of her loyalty.
Himself, Dorothy, and Sarichef were now grouped about the fire; and Pete
stolidly piled on fresh fuel. The flame mounted higher, crackling; and
the head guide retired into the shadows just without the circle of
weird, ruddy firelight. Then he stood waiting, forgotten and unseen.
“You fool!” Ivan began contemptuously to Sarichef. “What are you doing
here? Blackmail, I suppose.”
The man’s blank face showed he was utterly baffled. He seemed to be
fearing a blow. “I don’t know—I can’t explain——”
“You knew I was here. Of course the squaw described me, and you guessed
who it was?”
“No. You know I wouldn’t have come if I’d known that, if I’d known it
was you. I don’t know why I came—except it was just because I couldn’t
help it——”
Ivan’s vivid eyes opened wide, then the lids dropped again. “Out with
it, man. You’ve cooked your goose and have done all the damage you can.
Is it blackmail? If not, what are you doing here?”
Sarichef straightened and sighed. “I was living on the other side of the
Peninsula. You knew that—and a few nights ago—I heard some one call
me—some one told me to come here——”
“You’ve good ears to hear across the Peninsula!”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Sarichef returned with some dignity.
“I’m trying to tell you—just how it was. A few nights ago I got the
idea that some one wanted me—here—that some one was calling me. It
came just as clear as an actual voice. I tried to turn away and
disregard it, but somehow I couldn’t. ‘Paul Sarichef, Paul Sarichef,’
the voice kept crying—and it told me to come here, to this very spot.
You know how a man obeys a hunch. That’s what it was, I guess—a
hunch—but I couldn’t disregard it.”
The grim smile flickered at Ivan’s mouth again. “How many nights ago was
this?”
“Four nights ago. I started the next morning, and halfway across I met
old Sindy, with her back loaded with grub. She told me there were people
here, needing help, and I offered to carry her pack on over and let her
go back.”
“Four nights ago!” Ivan turned and met the girl’s fixed, startled gaze.
“Dorothy, do you remember what happened four nights ago?”
“The _séance_!” the girl answered dully.
“The _séance_! You haven’t forgotten, have you, that you asked to speak
to Paul Sarichef—and that Fortune Joe called him? You remember how all
of us felt the tension as he broadcasted that silent call? Sarichef was
not in the spirit world, but he answered just the same. He came, and he
doesn’t know why. Was it hypnotism or some other occult thing, or was it
just blackmail—who can say?”
* * * * *
But the wonder of this mystery could not long obscure the real issues
that faced this baffled trio in the fire’s glow. They stood silent, as
if listening to the sea and the wind, but their thoughts moved in
sweeping circles. The two packers, curious but wholly failing to
understand, moved and rustled in the darkness like wild beasts; and
enveloped in a deep, strange calm that was reflected in his immobile
face and quiet eyes, Pete watched the slow unfolding of the drama.