THE GRIP OF BRITISH LAW
It was night in Winnipeg, a night of such radiant moonlight as is
seen only in northern climates and in winter time. During the early
evening a light snow had fallen, not driving fiercely after the
Manitoba manner, but gently, and so lay like a fleecy, shimmering
mantle over all things.
Under this fleecy mantle, shimmering with myriad gems, lay Winnipeg
asleep. Up from five thousand chimneys rose straight into the still
frosty air five thousand columns of smoke, in token that, though
frost was king outside, the good folk of Winnipeg lay snug and warm
in their virtuous beds. Everywhere the white streets lay in silence
except for the passing of a belated cab with creaking runners and
jingling bells, and of a sleighing party returning from Silver Heights,
their four-horse team smoking, their sleigh bells ringing out, carrying
with them hoarse laughter and hoarser songs, for the frosty air works
mischief with the vocal chords, and leaving behind them silence again.
All through Fort Rouge, lying among its snow-laden trees, across the
frost-bound Assiniboine, all through the Hudson's Bay Reserve, there
was no sign of life, for it was long past midnight. Even Main Street,
that most splendid of all Canadian thoroughfares, lay white and spotless
and, for the most part, in silence. Here and there men in furs or in
frieze coats with collars turned up high, their eyes peering through
frost-rimmed eyelashes and over frost-rimmed coat collars, paced
comfortably along if in furs, or walked hurriedly if only in frieze,
whither their business or their pleasure led.
Near the northern limits of the city the signs of life were more in
evidence. At the Canadian Pacific Railway station an engine, hoary
with frozen steam, puffed contentedly as if conscious of sufficient
strength for the duty that lay before it, waiting to hook on to
Number Two, nine hours late, and whirl it eastward in full contempt
of frost and snow bank and blizzard.
Inside the station a railway porter or two drowsed on the benches.
Behind the wicket where the telegraph instruments kept up an incessant
clicking, the agent and his assistant sat alert, coming forward now
and then to answer, with the unwearying courtesy which is part of
their equipment and of their training, the oft repeated question
from impatient and sleepy travellers, "How is she now?" "An hour,"
"half an hour," finally "fifteen minutes," then "any time now."
At which cheering report the uninitiated brightened up and passed
out to listen for the rumble of the approaching train. The more
experienced, however, settled down for another half hour's sleep.
It was a wearisome business, and to none more wearisome than to
Interpreter Elex Murchuk, part of whose duty it is to be in
attendance on the arrival of all incoming trains in case that some
pilgrim from Central and Southern Europe might be in need of
direction. For Murchuk, a little borderland Russian, boasts the
gift of tongues to an extraordinary degree. Russian, in which he
was born, and French, and German, and Italian, of course, he knows,
but Polish, Ruthenian, and all varieties of Ukranian speech are
alike known to him.
"I spik all European language good, jus' same Angleesh,"
was his testimony in regard to himself.
As the whistle of the approaching train was heard, Sergeant
Cameron strolled into the station house, carrying his six feet
two and his two hundred pounds of bone and muscle with the light
and easy movements of the winner of many a Caledonian Society medal.
Cameron, at one time a full private in the 78th Highlanders, is now
Sergeant in the Winnipeg City Police, and not ashamed of his job.
Big, calm, good-tempered, devoted to his duty, keen for the honour
of the force as he had been for the honour of his regiment in other
days, Sergeant Cameron was known to all good citizens as an officer
to be trusted and to all others as a man to be feared.
Just at present he was finishing up his round of inspection.
After the train had pulled in he would go on duty as patrolman,
in the place of Officer Donnelly, who was down with pneumonia.
The Winnipeg Police Force was woefully inadequate in point of
strength, there being no spare men for emergencies, and hence
Sergeant Cameron found it necessary to do double duty that night,
and he was prepared to do it without grumbling, too. Long watches
and weary marches were nothing new to him, and furthermore, to-night
there was especial reason why he was not unwilling to take a walk
through the north end. Headquarters had been kept fully informed of
the progress of a wedding feast of more than ordinary hilarity in
the foreign colony. This was the second night, and on second nights
the general joyousness of the festivities was more than likely to
become unduly exuberant. Indeed, the reports of the early evening
had been somewhat disquieting, and hence, Sergeant Cameron was
rather pleased than not that Officer Donnelly's beat lay in the
direction of the foreign colony.
At length Number Two rolled in, a double header, one engine alive
and one dead, but both swathed in snow and frozen steam from
cowcatcher to tender, the first puffing its proud triumph over the
opposing elements, the second silent, cold and lifeless like a
warrior borne from the field of battle.
The passengers, weary and full of the mild excitement of their long
struggle with storm and drift across half a continent, emerged from
their snow-clad but very comfortable coaches and were eagerly taken
in charge by waiting friends and watchful hotel runners.
Sergeant Cameron waited till the crowd had gone, and then turning
to Murchuk, he said, "You will be coming along with me, Murchuk.
I am going to look after some of your friends."
"My frients?" enquired Murchuk.
"Yes, over at the colony yonder."
"My frients!" repeated Murchuk with some indignation. "Not motch!"
Murchuk was proud of his official position as Dominion Government
Interpreter. "But I will go wit' you. It is my way."
Away from the noise of the puffing engines and the creaking car
wheels, the ears of Sergeant Cameron and his friend were assailed
by other and less cheerful sounds.
"Will you listen to that now?" said the Sergeant to his polyglot
companion. "What do you think of that for a civilised city? The
Indians are not in it with that bunch," continued the Sergeant,
who was diligently endeavouring to shed his Highland accent and
to take on the colloquialisms of the country.
From a house a block and a half away, a confused clamour rose up
into the still night air.
"Oh, dat noting," cheerfully said the little Russian, shrugging his
shoulders, "dey mak like dat when dey having a good time."
"They do, eh? And how do you think their neighbours will be liking
that sort of thing?"
The Sergeant stood still to analyse this confused clamour.
Above the thumping and the singing of the dancers could be heard
the sound of breaking boards, mingled with yells and curses.
"Murchuk, there is fighting going on."
"Suppose," agreed the Interpreter, "when Galician man get married,
he want much joy. He get much beer, much fight."
"I will just be taking a walk round there," said the Sergeant.
"These people have got to learn to get married with less fuss
about it. I am not going to stand this much longer. What do they
want to fight for anyway?"
"Oh," replied Murchuk lightly, "Polak not like Slovak, Slovak not
like Galician. Dey drink plenty beer, tink of someting in Old
Country, get mad, make noise, fight some."
"Come along with me," replied the Sergeant, and he squared his big
shoulders and set off down the street with the quick, light stride
that suggested the springing step of his Highland ancestors on the
heather hills of Scotland.
Just as they arrived at the house of feasting, a cry, wild, weird
and horrible, pierced through the uproar. The Interpreter stopped
as if struck with a bullet.
"My God!" he cried in an undertone, clutching the Sergeant by the
arm, "My God! Dat terrible!"
"What is it? What is the matter with you, Murchuk?"
"You know not dat cry? No?" He was all trembling. "Dat cry I
hear long ago in Russland. Russian man mak dat cry when he kill.
Dat Nihilist cry."
"Go back and get Dr. Wright. He will be needed, sure.
You know where he lives, second corner down on Main Street.
Get a move on! Quick!"
Meantime, while respectable Winnipeg lay snugly asleep under
snow-covered roofs and smoking chimneys, while belated revellers
and travellers were making their way through white, silent streets
and under avenues of snow-laden trees to homes where reigned love
and peace and virtue, in the north end and in the foreign colony
the festivities in connection with Anka's wedding were drawing to
a close in sordid drunken dance and song and in sanguinary fighting.
In the main room dance and song reeled on in uproarious hilarity.
In the basement below, foul and fetid, men stood packed close,
drinking while they could. It was for the foreigner an hour of rare
opportunity. The beer kegs stood open and there were plenty of tin
mugs about. In the dim light of a smoky lantern, the swaying crowd,
here singing in maudlin chorus, there fighting savagely to pay off
old scores or to avenge new insults, presented a nauseating spectacle.
In the farthest corner of the room, unmoved by all this din, about
a table consisting of a plank laid across two beer kegs, one empty,
the other for the convenience of the players half full, sat four
men deep in a game of cards. Rosenblatt with a big Dalmatian sailor
as partner, against a little Polak and a dark-bearded man. This man
was apparently very drunk, as was evident by his reckless playing
and his jibing, jeering manner. He was losing money, but with
perfect good cheer. Not so his partner, the Polak. Every loss made
him more savage and quarrelsome. With great difficulty Rosenblatt
was able to keep the game going and preserve peace. The singing,
swaying, yelling, cursing crowd beside them also gave him concern,
and over and again he would shout, "Keep quiet, you fools. The
police will be on us, and that will be the end of your beer, for
they will put you in prison!"
"Yes," jeered the black-bearded man, who seemed to be set on making
a row, "all fools, Russian fools, Polak fools, Galician fools,
Slovak fools, all fools together."
Angry voices replied from all sides, and the noise rose higher.
"Keep quiet!" cried Rosenblatt, rising to his feet, "the police
will surely be here!"
"That is true," cried the black-bearded man, "keep them quiet or
the police will herd them in like sheep, like little sheep, baa,
baa, baa, baa!"
"The police!" shouted a voice in reply, "who cares for the police?"
A yell of derisive assent rose in response.
"Be quiet!" besought Rosenblatt again. He was at his wits' end.
The police might at any time appear and that would end what was
for him a very profitable game, and besides might involve him in
serious trouble. "Here you, Joseph!" he cried, addressing a man
near him, "another keg of beer!"
Between them they hoisted up a keg of beer on an empty cask,
knocked in the head, and set them drinking with renewed eagerness.
"Swine!" he said, seating himself again at the table. "Come, let us play."
But the very devil of strife seemed to be in the black-bearded man.
He gibed at the good-natured Dalmatian, setting the Polak at him,
suggested crooked dealing, playing recklessly and losing his own and
his partner's money. At length the inevitable clash came. As the
Dalmatian reached for a trick, the Polak cried out, "Hold! It is mine!"
"Yes, certainly it is his!" shouted the black-bearded man.
"Liar! It is mine," said the Dalmatian, with perfect good temper,
and held on to his cards.
"Liar yourself!" hissed the little Polak, thrusting his face toward
the Dalmatian.
"Go away," said the Dalmatian. His huge open hand appeared to rest
a moment on the Polak's grinning face, and somehow the little man
was swept from his seat to the floor.
"Ho, ho," laughed the Dalmatian, "so I brush away a fly."
With a face like a demon's, the Polak sprang at his big antagonist,
an open knife in his hand, and jabbed him in the arm. For a moment
the big man sat looking at his assailant as if amazed at his
audacity. Then as he saw the blood running down his fingers he went
mad, seized the Polak by the hair, lifted him clear out of his
seat, carrying the plank table with him, and thereupon taking him
by the back of the neck, proceeded to shake him till his teeth
rattled in his head.
At almost the same instant the black-bearded man leaped across the
fallen table like a tiger, at Rosenblatt's throat, and bore him down
to the earthen floor in the dark corner. Sitting astride his chest,
his knees on Rosenblatt's arms, and gripping him by the throat, he
held him voiceless and helpless. Soon his victim lay still, looking
up into his assailant's face in surprise, fear and rage unspeakable.
"Rosenblatt," said the bearded man in a soft voice,
"you know me--me?"
"No," gasped Rosenblatt in terrible fury, "what do you--"
"Look," said the man. With his free hand he swept off the black
beard which he stuffed into his pocket.
Rosenblatt looked. "Kalmar!" he gasped, terror in his eyes.
"Yes, Kalmar," replied the man.
"Help!--" The cry died at his teeth.
"No, no," said Kalmar, shutting his fingers upon his windpipe.
"No noise. We are to have a quiet moment here. They are all too busy
to notice us. Listen." He leaned far down over the ghastly face of
the wretched man beneath him. "Shall I tell you why I am here? Shall
I remind you of your crimes? No, I need not. You remember them well,
and in a few minutes you will be in hell for them. Five years I
froze and burned in Siberia, through you." As he said the word "you"
he leaned a little closer. His voice remained low and soft, but his
eyes were blazing with a light as of madness. "For this moment,"
he continued gently, "I have hungered, thirsted, panted. Now it has
come. I regret I must hurry a little. I should like to drink this
sweet cup slowly, oh so slowly, drop by drop. But--ah, do not
struggle, nor cry. It will only add to your pain. Do you see this?"
He drew from his pocket what seemed a knife handle, pressed a spring,
and from this handle there shot out a blade, long, thin, murderous
looking. "It has a sharp point, oh, a very sharp point." He pricked
Rosenblatt in the cheek, and as Rosenblatt squirmed, laughed a
laugh of singular sweetness. "With this beautiful instrument I mean
to pick out your eyes, and then I shall drive it down through your
heart, and you will be dead. It will not hurt so very much," he
continued in a tone of regret. "No no, not so very much; not so
much as when you put out the light of my life, when you murdered
my wife; not so much as when you pierced my heart in betraying my
cause. See, it will not hurt so very much." He put the sharp blade
against Rosenblatt's breast high up above the heart, and drove it
slowly down through the soft flesh till he came to bone. Like a mad
thing, his unhappy victim threw himself wildly about in a furious
struggle. But he was like a babe in the hands that gripped him.
Kalmar laughed gleefully. "Aha! Aha! Good! Good! You give me much
joy. Alas! it is so short-lived, and I must hurry. Now for your
right eye. Or would you prefer the left first?"
As he released the pressure upon Rosenblatt's throat, the wretched
man gurgled forth, "Mercy! Mercy! God's name, mercy!"
Piteous abject terror showed in his staring eyes. His voice was to
Kalmar like blood to a tiger.
"Mercy!" he hissed, thrusting his face still nearer, his smile now
all gone. "Mercy? God's name! Hear him! I, too, cried for mercy for
father, brother, wife, but found none. Now though God Himself
should plead, you will have only such mercy from me." He seemed to
lose hold of himself. His breath came in thick sharp sobs, foam
fell from his lips. "Ha," he gasped. "I cannot wait even to pick
your eyes. There is some one at the door. I must drink your heart's
blood now! Now! A-h-h-h!" His voice rose in a wild cry, weird and
terrible. He raised his knife high, but as it fell the Dalmatian,
who had been amusing himself battering the Polak about during these
moments, suddenly heaved the little man at Kalmar, and knocked him
into the corner. The knife fell, buried not in the heart of Rosenblatt,
but in the Polak's neck.
There was no time to strike again. There was a loud battering,
then a crash as the door was kicked open.
"Hello! What is all this row here?"
It was Sergeant Cameron, pushing his big body through the crowd as
a man bursts through a thicket. An awed silence had fallen upon
all, arrested, sobered by that weird cry. Some of them knew that
cry of old. They had heard it in the Old Land in circumstances of
heart-chilling terror, but never in this land till this moment.
"What is all this?" cried the Sergeant again. His glance swept the
room and rested upon the huddled heap of men in the furthest corner.
He seized the topmost and hauled him roughly from the heap.
"Hello! What's this? Why, God bless my soul! The man is dying!"
From a wound in the neck the blood was still spouting. Quickly the
Sergeant was on his knees beside the wounded man, his thumb pressed
hard upon the gaping wound. But still the blood continued to bubble
up and squirt from under his thumb. All around, the earthen floor
was muddy with blood.
"Run, some of you," commanded the Sergeant, "and hurry up that
Dr. Wright, Main Street, two corners down!"
Jacob Wassyl, who had come in from the room above, understood,
and sent a man off with all speed.
"Good Lord! What a pig sticking!" said the Sergeant. "There is a
barrel of blood around here. And here is another man! Here you!"
addressing Jacob, "put your thumb here and press so. It is not much
good, but we cannot do anything else just now." The Sergeant
straightened himself up. Evidently this was no ordinary "scrap."
"Let no man leave this room," he cried aloud. "Tell them," he said,
addressing Jacob, "you speak English; and two of you, you and you,
stand by the door and let no man out except as I give the word."
The two men took their places.
"Now then, let us see what else there is here. Do you know
these men?" he enquired of Jacob.
"Dis man," replied Jacob, "I not know. Him Polak man."
The men standing about began to jabber.
"What do they say?"
"Him Polak. Kravicz his name. He no bad man. He fight quick,
but not a bad man."
"Well, he won't fight much more, I am thinking," replied the Sergeant.
A second man lay on his back in a pool of blood, insensible. His
face showed ghastly beneath its horrible smear of blood and filth.
"Bring me that lantern," commanded the Sergeant.
"My God!" cried Jacob, "it is Rosenblatt!"
"Rosenblatt? Who is he?"
"De man dat live here, dis house. He run store. Lots mon'.
My God! He dead!"
"Looks like it," said the Sergeant, opening his coat. "He's got a
bad hole in him here," he continued, pointing to a wound in the
chest. "Looks deep, and he is bleeding, too."
There was a knocking at the door.
"Let him in," cried the Sergeant, "it is the doctor. Hello, Doctor!
Here is something for you all right."
The doctor, a tall, athletic young fellow with a keen, intellectual
face, pushed his way through the crowd to the corner and dropped on
his knees beside the Polak.
"Why, the man is dead!" said the doctor, putting his hand over the
Polak's heart.
Even as he spoke, a shudder passed through the man's frame, and he
lay still. The doctor examined the hole in his neck.
"Yes, he's dead, sure enough. The jugular vein is severed."
"Well, here is another, Doctor, who will be dead in a few minutes,
if I am not mistaken," said the Sergeant.
"Let me see," said the doctor, turning to Rosenblatt. "Heavens
above!" he cried, as his knees sank in the bloody mud, "it's blood!"
He passed round the other side of the unconscious man, got out his
syringe and gave him a hypodermic. In a few minutes Rosenblatt
showed signs of life. He began to breathe heavily, then to cough
and spit mouthfuls of blood.
"Ha, lung, I guess," said the doctor, examining a small clean wound
high up in the left breast. "Better send for an ambulance, Sergeant,
and hurry them up. The sooner we get him to the hospital, the better.
And here is another man. What's wrong with him?"
Beyond Rosenblatt lay a black-bearded man upon his face, breathing
heavily. The doctor turned him over.
"He's alive anyway, and," after examination, "I can't find any
wound. Heart all right, nothing wrong with him, I guess, except
that he's got a bad jag on."
A cursory examination of the crowd revealed wounds in plenty,
but nothing serious enough to demand the doctor's attention.
"Now then," said the Sergeant briskly, "I want to get your names and
addresses. You can let me have them?" he continued, turning to Jacob.
"Me not know all mens."
"Go on," said the Sergeant curtly.
"Dis man Rosenblatt. Dis man Polak, Kravicz. Not know where he live."
"It would be difficult, I am thinking, for any one to tell where he
lives now," said the Sergeant grimly, "and it does not much matter
for my purpose."
"Poor chap," said the doctor, "it's too bad."
"What?" said the Sergeant, glancing at him, "well, it is too bad,
that is true. But they are a bad lot, these Galicians."
"Poor chap," continued the doctor, looking down upon him,
"perhaps he has got a wife and children."
A murmur rose among the men.
"No, he got no wife," said Jacob.
"Thank goodness for that!" said the doctor. "These fellows are a
bit rough," he continued, "but they have never had a chance, nor
even half a chance. A beastly tyrannical government at home has
put the fear of death on them for this world, and an ignorant and
superstitious Church has kept them in fear of purgatory and hell
fire for the next. They have never had a chance in their own land,
and so far, they have got no better chance here, except that they
do not live in the fear of Siberia." The doctor had his own views
upon the foreign peoples in the West.
"That is all right, Doctor," said the Sergeant, despite the
Calvinism of generations beating in his heart, "it is hard on them,
but there is nobody compelling them here to drink and fight like a
lot of brutes."
"But who is to teach them any better?" said the doctor.
"Come on," said the Sergeant, "who is this?" pointing to the
dark-bearded man lying in the corner.
"Dis man," said Jacob, "strange man."
"Any of you know him here?" asked the Sergeant.
There was a murmur of voices.
"What do they say?"
"No one know him. He drink much beer. He very drunk. He play cards
wit' Rosenblatt," said Jacob.
"Playing cards, eh? I think we will be finding something now.
Who else was in the card game?"
Again a murmur of voices arose.
"Dis Polak man," said Jacob, "and Rosenblatt, and dat man dere, and--"
Half a dozen voices rose in explanation, and half a dozen hands
eagerly pointed out the big Dalmatian, who stood back among the
crowd pale with terror.
"Come up here, you," said the Sergeant to him.
Instead of responding, with one bound the Dalmatian was at the door,
and hurled the two men aside as if they were wooden pegs. But before
he could tear open the door, the Sergeant was on him. At once the
Dalmatian grappled with him in a fierce struggle. There was a quick
angry growl from the crowd. They all felt themselves to be in an
awkward position. Once out of the room, it would be difficult for
any police officer to associate them in any way with the crime.
The odds were forty to one. Why not make a break for liberty?
A rush was made for the struggling pair at the door.
"Get back there!" roared the Sergeant, swinging his baton and
holding off his man with the other hand.
At the same instant the doctor, springing up from his patient,
and taking in the situation, put down his head and bored through
the crowd in the manner which at one time had been the admiration
and envy of his fellow-students in Manitoba College, till he
found himself side by side with the Sergeant.
"Well done!" cried the Sergeant in cheerful approval, "you are the lad!
We will just be teaching these chaps a fery good lesson, whateffer,"
continued the Sergeant, lapsing in his excitement into his native dialect.
"Here you," he cried to the big Dalmatian who was struggling and kicking
in a frenzy of fear and rage, "will you not keep quiet? Take that then."
And he laid no gentle tap with his baton across the head of his captive.
The Dalmatian staggered to the wall and collapsed. There was a flash
of steel and a click, and he lay handcuffed and senseless at the
Sergeant's side.
"I hate to do that," said the Sergeant apologetically, "but on this
occasion it cannot be helped. That was a good one, Doctor," he
continued, as the doctor planted his left upon an opposing Galician
chin, thereby causing a sudden subsidence of its owner. "These men
have not got used to us yet, and we will just have to be patient
with them," said the Sergeant, laying about with his baton as
opportunity offered, not in any slashing wholesale manner, but
making selection, and delivering his blows with the eye and hand of
an artist. He was handling the situation gently and with discretion.
Still the crowd kept pressing hard upon the two men at the door.
"We must put a stop to this," said the Sergeant seriously.
"Here you!" he called to Jacob above the uproar.
Jacob pushed nearer to him.
"Tell these fellows that I am not wanting to hurt any of them,
but if they do not get quiet soon, I will attack them and will
not spare them, and that if they quit their fighting, none of
them will be hurt except the guilty party."
At once Jacob sprang upon a beer keg and waving his arms wildly,
he secured a partial silence, and translated for them the Sergeant's
words.
"And tell them, too," said the doctor in a high, clear voice,
"there is a man dying over there that I have got to attend to
right now, and I haven't time for this foolishness."
As he spoke, he once more bored his way through the crowd to the
side of Rosenblatt, who was continuing to gasp painfully and spit
blood. The moment of danger was past. The excited crowd settled
down again into an appearance of stupid anxiety, awaiting they
knew not what.
"Now then," said the Sergeant, turning to the Dalmatian who had
recovered consciousness and was standing sullen and passive. He had
made his attempt for liberty, he had failed, and now he was ready
to accept his fate. "Ask him what is his name," said the Sergeant.
"He say his name John Jarema."
"And what has he got to say for himself?"
At this the Dalmatian began to speak with eager gesticulation.
"What is he saying?" enquired the Sergeant.
"Dis man say he no hurt no man. Dis man," pointing to the dead
Polak, "play cards, fight, stab knife into his arm," said Jacob,
pulling up the Dalmatian's coat sleeve to show an ugly gash in the
forearm. "Jarema hit him on head, shake him bad, and trow him in
corner on noder man."
Again the Dalmatian broke forth.
"He say he got no knife at all. He cannot make hole like dat wit'
his finger."
"Well, we shall see about that," said the Sergeant. "Now where is
that other man?" He turned toward the corner. The corner was empty.
"Where has he gone?" said the Sergeant, peering through the crowd
for a black-whiskered face.
The man was nowhere to be seen. The Sergeant was puzzled and
angered. He lined the men up around the walls, but the man was
not to be found. As each man uttered his name, there were always
some to recognize and to corroborate the information. One man alone
seemed a stranger to all in the company. He was clean shaven, but
for a moustache with ends turned up in military manner, and with
an appearance of higher intelligence than the average Galician.
"Ask him his name," said the Sergeant.
The man replied volubly, and Jacob interpreted.
"His name, Rudolph Polkoff, Polak man. Stranger, come to dis town
soon. Know no man here. Some man bring him here to dance."
The Sergeant kept his keen eye fastened on the man while he talked.
"Well, he looks like a smart one. Come here," he said, beckoning
the stranger forward into the better light.
The man came and stood with his back to Rosenblatt.
"Hold up your hands."
The man stared blankly. Jacob interpreted. He hesitated a moment,
then held up his hands above his head. The Sergeant turned him
about.
"You will not be having any weepons on you?" said the Sergeant,
searching his pockets. "Hello! What's this?" He pulled out the
false beard.
The same instant there was a gasping cry from Rosenblatt. All
turned in his direction. Into his dim eyes and pallid face suddenly
sprang life; fear and hate struggling to find expression in the
look he fixed upon the stranger. With a tremendous effort he raised
his hand, and pointing to the stranger with a long, dirty finger,
he gasped, "Arrest--he murder--" and fell back again unconscious.
Even as he spoke there was a quick movement. The lantern was dashed
to the ground, the room plunged into darkness and before the
Sergeant knew what had happened, the stranger had shaken himself
free from his grasp, torn open the door and fled.
With a mighty oath, the Sergeant was after him, but the darkness
and the crowd interfered with his progress, and by the time he had
reached the door, the man had completely vanished. At the door
stood Murchuk with the ambulance.
"See a man run out here?" demanded the Sergeant.
"You bet! He run like buck deer."
"Why didn't you stop him?" cried the Sergeant.
"Stop him!" replied the astonished Murchuk, "would you stop a mad
crazy bull? No, no, not me."
"Get that man inside to the hospital then. He won't hurt you,"
exclaimed the Sergeant in wrathful contempt. "I'll catch that man
if I have to arrest every Galician in this city!"
It was an unspeakable humiliation to the Sergeant, but with such
vigour did he act, that before the morning dawned, he had every
exit from the city by rail and by trail under surveillance, and
before a week was past, by adopting the very simple policy of
arresting every foreigner who attempted to leave the town, he had
secured his man.
It was a notable arrest. From all the evidence, it seemed that the
prisoner was a most dangerous criminal. The principal source of
evidence, however, was Rosenblatt, whose deposition was taken down
by the Sergeant and the doctor.
The man, it appeared, was known by many names, Koval, Kolowski,
Polkoff and others, but his real name was Michael Kalmar. He was a
determined and desperate Nihilist, was wanted for many crimes by
the Russian police, and had spent some years as a convict in Siberia
where, if justice had its due, he would be at the present time. He
had cast off his wife and children, whom he had shipped to Canada.
Incidentally it came out that it was only Rosenblatt's generosity
that had intervened between them and starvation. Balked in one of
his desperate Nihilist schemes by Rosenblatt, who held a position
of trust under the Russian Government, he had sworn vengeance, and
escaping from Siberia, he had come to Canada to make good his oath.
And but for the timely appearance of the police, he would have
succeeded.
Meantime, Sergeant Cameron was receiving congratulations on all hands
for his cleverness in making the arrest of a man who had escaped the
vigilance of the Russian Police and Secret Service, said to be the
finest in all Europe. In his cell, the man, as good as condemned,
waited his trial, a stranger far from help and kindred, an object of
terror and of horror to many, of compassion to a few. But however men
thought of him, he had sinned against British civilisation, and would
now have to taste of British justice.