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The Mission of Poubalov

by Frederick R. Burton · English · Gutenberg #46774 · 433,886 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Mission of Poubalov

Author: Frederick R. Burton


        
Release date: September 5, 2014 [eBook #46774]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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THE MISSION OF POUBALOV

by

FREDERICK R. BURTON







[Illustration]

New York
Street & Smith, Publishers
29 Rose Street




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER                                    PAGE

       I--Her Wedding Morning                   7

      II--An Explanation Suggested             15

     III--An Imperfect Vision                  23

      IV--Clara's Search Begins                31

       V--The Agent of the Czar                39

      VI--Litizki at Work                      47

     VII--A Dangerous Man                      55

    VIII--In the Hands of the Enemy            63

      IX--Litizki's Lesson                     71

       X--Corroborative Detail                 78

      XI--Strange Exit of Poubalov             87

     XII--Litizki Breaks His Appointment       95

    XIII--What Became of Litizki              103

     XIV--A New Departure                     111

      XV--Louise Receives a Caller            119

     XVI--Lizzie White                        127

    XVII--How Litizki Saved Miss Hilman       135

   XVIII--The Key to Ivan's Prison            143

     XIX--The Ghost of Poubalov               151

      XX--The Little Front Room               159

     XXI--What Paul Palovna Saw               167

    XXII--Poubalov's Revolution               175

   XXIII--At One O'clock A.M.                 183

    XXIV--The New Clew                        191

     XXV--A Stubborn Antagonist               199

    XXVI--Hide and Seek                       207

   XXVII--Behind Closed Doors                 216

  XXVIII--Poubalov Succeeds                   225




A WEDDING BUT RATHER LATE




CHAPTER I.

THEIR WEDDING MORNING.


Ivan pulled aside the curtain and looked up at the sky. It was as clear
as crystal, as blue as the eyes of his beloved, the promise fulfilled
of a perfect day. On a window cornice across the street a tiny bird
perked his head toward the sun and chirped noisily. To a lively
imagination kindled by fond anticipations the twittering of the bird
would have seemed like music. So it was to Ivan. His heart responded
with unformed melodies, and some of their stray notes found their way
humming to his throat as he hastened his toilet.

A long process it was in spite of his haste. Every outer garment,
though but yesterday brought by the tailor, had to be brushed with
exquisite care, and when it came to adjusting his tie, what with
finding in the light of this beautiful morning that not one of the
numerous assortment seemed to be bright enough for the occasion, and
having rejected all in turn, and having selected one at last that might
be made to do, and having found the knot and loosed it--well, time
had passed, and under ordinary circumstances patience might have gone
with it. Ordinary, the circumstances were not, and if they had been I
presume any tie could have, and would have been thrown together in a
shape not less pleasing than that which finally caused him to turn from
the mirror in cheerful despair and ring for breakfast.

Mrs. White was prompt in responding to the summons, for she had been
expecting it with quivering anxiety for the last half hour. Good soul!
With eggs at thirty-five cents a dozen she nevertheless plunged two in
hot water every four minutes, in order that her lodger might not trace
the slightest sense of disappointment, on this eventful day, to her.

"I do hope his last breakfast here will be a pleasant one," she said
when her daughter protested against the extravagance.

There was certainly nothing in the plain breakfast to call for
criticism. Ivan might not have noticed it if there had been, for his
thoughts were elsewhere, and his emotions were stirred by causes at
once more delicate and more powerful than appetite; but Mrs. White was
probably in the right. It would have been a pity to permit any chance
of a jarring note however slight in the harmony that pervaded his being.

Ivan greeted his landlady gayly, and attacked his meal as if there were
no such thing as love in the world, love that makes man melancholy,
that destroys the delights of good living, that drives him to the
production of gloomy wails in more or less eccentric verse. There
was no such love for him. Out of the storm and stress of an eventful
career, in which misfortune had rained its blows upon him with undue
severity, love had arisen like the comforting glow of a home hearth
fire, and it shone upon his exile with naught in its beams but serenity
and peace. Ivan was happy.

Breakfast was hardly begun when Mrs. White again appeared.

"There's a gentleman to see you, Mr. Strobel," she said hesitatingly;
"I didn't like to disturb you, but he seemed very anxious, and so I
said I would see if you were at home."

She laid a card upon the breakfast table and waited.

Ivan glanced at it and frowned. So, there must needs be a cloud upon
this day to remind him, as if he needed it! how surely the sun of
happiness was shining for him. Alexander Poubalov! What could he be
doing in America, and what could have led him to call at just this
juncture? Bah! there could be no significance in it, nothing but a
memory of troublous experiences could be evoked by his presence,
nothing connected with that past could possibly intervene now between
him and the new life upon which he was joyously entering.

Mrs. White was sorely distressed, for she saw that her lodger was
disturbed, and in her motherly heart she wished that she had told the
stranger below one of those white lies that have come to be regarded
as not sinful in that they effect at least a postponement of evil. She
might have said that Mr. Strobel was engaged, or that he had given up
his room a week before. Both statements would have been true enough for
the Recording Angel's book, goodness knows!

"If you had only just gone, or if he had come an hour later," she
murmured plaintively.

"Oh, there's nothing the matter," cried Ivan, lightly; "I was simply
wondering what in the world he could want with me. I haven't seen him
for five years. Show him up, please."

Not half satisfied that nothing was the matter, Mrs. White obeyed,
and presently Alexander Poubalov stood upon the threshold. He was a
distinguished-looking man, tall, swarthy, middle-aged, a remarkable
contrast to his fair-haired fellow countryman, Ivan Strobel.

"I am indeed glad to see you, Strobel," he said, his deep tones vibrant
as a church bell; "may I come in?"

"I received your card and I sent for you," replied Ivan, coldly. He had
risen and was standing by the breakfast table.

"I shall be sorry if I have disturbed you, for I had no such purpose in
calling upon you. Pray go on with your breakfast," and Poubalov took a
step or two forward, as if waiting for an invitation to sit down.

"To what purpose, then, may I attribute your call?" asked Ivan, without
stirring.

"You are in haste, my friend," replied Poubalov, smiling; "you have
probably learned the American habit of putting business ahead of all
other things; but I see, too, that there may be some especial reason
to-day for hurry. You are dressed to go out, and you have packed your
trunks----"

"It is quite like you," interrupted Ivan, "to note every detail and
attach some significance of your own to it. You are right, however, on
this occasion. Time is precious with me to-day. I am to be married at
noon."

"Ah! married! Strobel," and Poubalov made as if he would extend his
hand, "I wish you would permit me to congratulate you."

"It is unnecessary," responded Ivan, remaining like a statue by his
chair.

Poubalov shrugged his shoulders and looked disappointed.

"As you will," he said, "and perhaps it would be as well to postpone my
call, as it seems you regard it as an unhappy intrusion."

"If you have any business other than that attending to a spy in
general," said Ivan, "I shall be pleased if you will dispatch it now.
If, on the contrary, you still have any interest in my movements, I
will give you my itinerary, and you can follow me if you like. I will
only suggest that we are not in Russia, and that it is not my intention
to go outside the jurisdiction of the United States."

"You need only tell me, if you have no objection," replied Poubalov,
"where I may look for you some time after your wedding journey."

Ivan picked up Poubalov's card and wrote an address upon it. "I shall
live there," he said, handing the card to his caller. "I expect to
return in two weeks."

Poubalov read the card and thoughtfully placed it in his pocketbook.
"If I knew how to, Strobel," he remarked gravely, "I would assure you
that you need have no anxiety on my account during your honeymoon, or
afterward; but I see clearly that now, as heretofore, you will place no
reliance whatever upon my words, and that you discredit my motives."

"You speak truly," said Ivan; "but we will not discuss the reasons
for my distrust. You know them even better than I do. You may spare
yourself any words. I shall not be disturbed by anxiety."

"On another occasion, then, I may hope for a somewhat extended
conversation. Good-morning. My good wishes would doubtless be repugnant
to you."

Ivan bowed silently and Poubalov withdrew.

"Strange that I should be pursued after all this lapse of time, and to
this far country," thought Ivan; "but I have done right. I have nothing
to fear from Poubalov or the government whose paid spy he is."

He looked at his watch, and, resuming his place at the table, hastily
swallowed a cup of coffee. Mrs. White's eggs remained unbroken.

A carriage was waiting for him at the door and it was time that he
should go, for the wedding was to take place at Rev. Dr. Merrill's
little church in Roxbury, four miles away. With moderate driving and
no accident he would be there in time to meet the bridal party at the
door. A happy farewell to his landlady and her daughter, and he was off.

He did not notice that as his coupé turned into Somerset Street from
Ashburton Place, a closed carriage left its position not far from Mrs.
White's door and followed. If he had observed it he would have thought
nothing of it, for in Boston other persons besides bridegrooms employ
public conveyances, and it is not always that a cabman is employed to
drive a fare to a wedding.

Ivan's coupé rolled gently down Park Street, and just as it reached the
corner of Tremont, one of the forward wheels came off. The passenger
was precipitated forward, and the driver with difficulty kept his
seat. He climbed down in a moment, angry and bewildered. He could
discover no break about his vehicle, but there was the wheel upon the
ground, there was the body leaning forward, straining upon the shafts,
disconcerting the horse----

"Open the door!" cried Ivan, imperatively; "I can't be shut up here!"

The driver got the door open after a little trouble and Ivan crawled
out.

"I don't see how it happened," began the driver.

"No matter. It can't be helped in a minute, can it? I must have another
conveyance."

A crowd was quickly gathering, and as Ivan looked around him he caught
the eye of the driver of the closed carriage.

"Are you engaged?" called Ivan. Then, as the driver signified his
willingness to take a fare, Ivan recoiled. The carriage looked as if
it were on the way to a funeral. He hated presentiments and despised
himself for the momentary feeling of discomfort.

"You can pull down the curtains, sir, after you get in," said the
driver as if he had noticed his prospective passenger's discomfort.
"Where to, sir?" he continued with his hand on the door.

Ivan told him and with a "Hurry, please," bolted into the carriage.

The driver sprang to his seat as if his salvation depended on his
speed, lashed his horse heavily, and the carriage fairly leaped through
the crowd and down Tremont Street. It was a beautiful June morning and
the passenger was on his way to his own wedding, but he did not lower
the curtains of the gloomy carriage.

       *       *       *       *       *

A gentle quiver of excitement stirred the congregation that filled
the little vine-covered church on Parker Avenue as the clock tolled
the noon hour and the organist began to play softly, his fingers
weaving scraps of melody into a vague but pleasing harmony like the
light that filtered through the stained glass windows. This was but
the suggestion of a coming outburst of harmony, for presently, as
the joyful procession would be ready to move, he would open all the
gates of sound and flood the edifice with the triumphal strains of the
Wedding March, strains that seem light and music, too, to all listeners
and beholders. Within the vestibule the bridal party awaited the coming
of the groom. There, too, were Ivan's two friends, to do him honor by
marching with him; one a Russian like himself, the other an American.
With smiling faces they all endeavored to conceal annoyance that was
speedily turning to anxiety over Ivan's delay.

Clara Hilman, as lovely a bride as ever donned the orange-decked veil,
stood with palpitating heart beside her uncle and guardian, Matthew
Pembroke. With awkward words he was trying to soothe what he felt must
be her fears. All about them were pretty children dressed to follow the
bride, and Clara's dearest girl friends. Within the chancel Dr. Merrill
waited, wondering a little, but not permitting himself to attach hasty
blame to anybody for this embarrassing hitch in the proceedings. The
organist looked inquiringly at the group that had found places in the
choir loft and they returned his gaze by shakes of the head.

"You are more nervous than I am, uncle," said Clara with an attempt at
bravery, though her trembling lips betrayed her; "he will be here."

"There he is!" cried Ralph Harmon, one of Ivan's friends, as a carriage
was seen to turn into the avenue from a street a little way off, and
come hurrying toward the church. "Be ready to tell the organist," he
whispered to a boy who stood near.

The waiting procession fell into partial disarray as every one craned
his or her neck to see the bridegroom step from the carriage which now
halted at the steps. All, nearly all, could see through the open doors
as the driver dismounted and opened the door.

A shiver of disappointment passed over the wedding party. An old, bent
man issued from the carriage, leaning heavily on a cane and hobbled up
the steps.

"This is stranger than Ivan's delay!" exclaimed Harmon in a whisper
to his Russian colleague; "I don't believe old Dexter ever went to a
wedding before unless it was his own, and I never knew he was married."

"Who is he?" asked the Russian.

"Old Dexter is all I can say. He's a kind of miser and money-lender
combined, I think. I don't believe he's any friend of Ivan's."

"No. He's bowing to Mr. Pembroke."

Very ceremoniously but with a halting movement, the old man had taken
off his hat to Mr. Pembroke and passed on into the church. Mr. Pembroke
had bowed stiffly in return and then bent over his niece to speak to
her.

Clara was by this time plainly disturbed. It was a quarter past the
hour, and the congregation itself was getting nervous. A few persons
came out into the vestibule to learn what caused the delay. The
organist's flitting harmonies became monotonous, intolerable, and the
rector within the chancel was not so impatient as alarmed.

A few minutes later the organist stopped altogether. The rector joined
the wedding party in the vestibule. Clara had been taken to a room in
the vestry by her guardian.

"If he should come now," said Mr. Pembroke, gravely, "I don't believe
we could go on. The strain has been too great for Clara."

Dr. Merrill spoke to her as only a clergyman can speak to a
parishioner, and minutes dragged along.

At last when an hour had passed, and there was yet no word from Ivan,
the rector dismissed the congregation, and the members of the wedding
party went homeward, wondering and sorrowful.




CHAPTER II.

AN EXPLANATION SUGGESTED.


"Wait for me a moment, Paul," said Ralph Harmon as the people began to
pour out of the church.

He went to the room in the vestry where Clara Hilman sat pale and
tearless. With her were Mr. Pembroke, his daughter Louise, and two or
three other young ladies who were intimate friends of the unfortunate
bride. Ralph did not approach the group, but paused at the door and
looked significantly at Miss Pembroke. She went to him at once, and,
unseen by the others, he took both her hands in his and said:

"I am going to Strobel's room and shall take Palovna with me. If I find
any trace or news, as I undoubtedly shall, I will go directly to your
house and report. You may tell Miss Hilman so if you think it will
relieve her."

"Clara, dear!" exclaimed Miss Pembroke, impulsively, "Ralph is going to
find Ivan, and will come back as quickly as he can to tell you."

For several minutes the bride had been sitting as if petrified, making
no answer to the well-meant questions of her friends, unconscious
apparently of their tearful sympathy, but at this announcement her eyes
were lit by just a gleam of gratitude and she tried to speak to Ralph.
Her lips quivered with unformed words, and she turned appealingly to
her uncle.

"Come," she faltered, "let us go home."

Ralph bowed and returned immediately to the vestibule, where Paul
Palovna waited for him. Both were accosted by many of the outgoing
audience, but they shook their heads and hurried down the steps and
up the street to the nearest line of cars. They said little to each
other on the way to Ashburton Place, for they were oppressed with
forebodings, and the consciousness that they had nothing upon which to
base speculation.

Once Ralph exclaimed desperately, "What can have happened!" and Paul
answered, "He must have fallen violently ill." Both hoped that this
might be the case, and neither believed it. Mrs. White knew them both,
for they were frequent callers upon her lodger, and her surprise,
therefore, passed all bounds when she met them at the door and heard
them ask as with one voice, "Where is Strobel?"

"Where?" she repeated, "where should he be? Haven't you seen him?"

"No," replied Ralph, "he did not come to the church, and the rector
dismissed the congregation."

Mrs. White threw up her hands and sank into a chair. "Why--why--" she
stammered, "he left here all dressed and gay as could be."

"Did he seem quite well?" asked Paul.

The good lady remembered her surprise and disappointment at finding
Ivan's eggs unbroken, his breakfast almost untasted and she told the
young men about it.

"That signifies nothing," said Paul; "I don't wonder he didn't care to
eat. Did he appear to be troubled about anything?"

"Not when he went away," answered Mrs. White; "I thought he seemed put
out when the strange gentleman called."

"There we have it!" exclaimed Paul, eagerly. "Who was the caller and
what was his business, if you happen to know?"

"I don't know either. I never saw the gentleman before. He was here
only a few minutes. He sent up his card, and though I looked at the
name, I couldn't remember it, for it had a strange look, something like
yours."

"May we go to his room? The card may still be there."

"I don't think it is," said Mrs. White, rising to follow the young men
who were already half way up the stairs; "I don't remember seeing it
when I cleaned up."

When Ralph and Paul had vainly examined the catch-alls, the vases,
and every probable place into which a visitor's card might have been
tucked, the Russian asked what had been done with the contents of the
waste basket.

"My daughter Lizzie helped me," replied Mrs. White, "and took the waste
papers downstairs. I'll ask her to find them and look for the card."

She left the room, and while she was gone the young men moved about
nervously, repeatedly asking who the caller could have been, what
possible connection his call could have had with Ivan's failure
to appear at his wedding, and all manner of questions, vain and
irritating, that arise when men are confronted by an emergency that
teems with mystery. Mrs. White reported that her daughter had gone out
and that the waste paper from Mr. Strobel's room had been burned.

"Lizzie may have seen that card," she said, "and I'll ask her when she
comes in. I can't think where she can have gone."

"Was she here when the stranger called?" asked Ralph.

"Oh, yes, and until after Mr. Strobel started away. I didn't know that
she had left the house, and I can't imagine what she went out for.
Perhaps she'll be back soon."

"Do you know where Strobel hired his carriage?" inquired Paul.

"No, I don't. Lizzie might, for I remember he said something to her
about it the day before. I wonder where she----"

"He probably ordered his carriage from Clark & Brown," said Ralph to
Paul. He had no intention of ignoring Mrs. White's motherly anxiety
about her daughter, but he saw no reason for attaching significance to
her absence, and his mind was burdened with a growing conviction that
something serious had happened to his friend.

"Suppose we make some inquiries," responded Paul. "If you will go
to Clark & Brown's office, I will take a run around all the hotel
cab-stands in the vicinity. He might have left his order at the Tremont
House or in Bosworth Street, you know."

"I'm agreed," said Ralph. "We must get hold of the man who drove him.
One of us is likely to succeed. Suppose, as Strobel may after all turn
up at any minute, we meet here as soon as we can. I'll take in the
Revere House as well as Clark & Brown's."

"I wish you would meet here, gentlemen," interposed Mrs. White; "Lizzie
may be back then."

"I hope she will be, Mrs. White," said Ralph. "She may be able to tell
us something about Strobel. It seems strange that he hasn't sent some
word."

"I begin to fear that we shall find him at a hospital, badly injured,"
remarked Paul.

"Oh, I hope not!" exclaimed Mrs. White. "I declare! it makes me feel
dreadfully about Lizzie."

The young men departed at once upon their errands. It was Paul Palovna
who came upon a clew. He found where Ivan had engaged his carriage, and
he went to the livery stable, which was in the South End, to find what
had become of the driver and his passenger. He arrived there just after
the driver had come in with his damaged carriage.

"I started in with the gentleman," said the driver, "but I broke down
at the corner of Tremont and Park Streets and he went along with
somebody else."

"Who was it?" asked Paul.

"I don't know. I never saw the cabman before."

"Whose rig was it?"

"I don't know that, either. I never saw the horse before, and the
carriage was like hundreds of others that you might see in Boston any
day."

Paul tried to think what ought to be done next.

"Did Mr. Strobel have a second accident?" asked one of the stable
proprietors.

"I fear so," replied Paul; "we haven't seen him, and as he was going to
his own wedding, his failure to turn up is rather alarming."

"Going to be married, was he?" the stableman spoke thoughtfully. "Then
I guess you'll find that he has been made the victim of a practical
joke. I suppose he had plenty of friends who were aware of his
intentions?"

"Certainly, but I cannot imagine," said Paul with some indignation,
"that any of them would have carried a joke to the extent of keeping
him away from his wedding."

"Perhaps not," admitted the stableman, "but it looks as if some one
had deliberately tried to delay him. Don't you know how the accident
happened to our carriage?"

"No. What was the matter?"

"Somebody had loosened the nut of the forward right wheel so that it
was bound to come off before they had gone very far. The breakdown was
no accident."

"You are sure of this, I suppose," exclaimed Paul; "but when could it
have been done?"

"When Mike was waiting in front of the door to Mr. Strobel's place.
You'd better tell this gentleman what you told me, Mike."

"I waited there a good half hour before Mr. Strobel came out," replied
the driver. "And while I was there a fellow crossed the street and
spoke to me. He stood in the street kind o' leaning on the wheel.
'Go'n' to take Mr. Strobel to his wedding?' says he. 'I'm go'n' to
take a gent of that name,' says I 'but I don't know nothing 'bout his
wedding.' 'That's what 'tis,' says he, 'and a very fine man he is, and
a fine day it is for the ceremony; and that's a fine horse you have,'
and all that kind of palaver, till I thought he'd talk me blind. After
a while he said good-morning, and went on, bad luck to him."

Paul looked at the stableman in surprise. "Could the nut have been
removed then without the driver knowing it?" he asked.

"Yes, but it wasn't necessarily removed. It may have been started. You
get up on the seat and sit back indifferently, as a driver would be
likely to sit. Just try it. I want you to be satisfied."

Paul climbed to the driver's seat on the coupé, and the stableman
leaned over the wheel.

"You see," said the latter, "unless you bent over and looked down
sharply you wouldn't make out what I was up to, and not having any
reason to suspect a trick, you'd likely sit still; more likely than
not, if you was an ordinary driver, you'd look the other way most of
the time; and--but I don't need to talk any longer for here is the
nut!" and he held up a small wrench in which was the nut of the wheel
by which he was standing.

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Paul, smiling, in spite of his anxiety, at the
dexterous way in which the stableman had proved that the trick might
have been done. "What sort of man was this, Mike, who talked to you?"

"I dunno, sir. Medium sized, young, I should say."

"Would you know him again?"

"I would that!"

"By the way, did you see anybody call at the house while you were
waiting?"

"Yes, a gentleman went in. I heard him ask for Mr. Strobel, and he came
out again inside of five minutes."

"What was he like and where did he go?"

"I couldn't tell you what he was like. I paid no attention to him. He
went away toward Somerset Street. The fellow at the wheel was talking
to me as he went along."

This was all the information of value that Paul could obtain, although
he asked many more questions. He found Ralph waiting for him in Ivan's
room, and Mrs. White was there, overcome with anxiety on account of the
continued absence of her daughter.

"I think," said Ralph when he had heard his friend's report, "that we'd
better speak of this at police headquarters."

"Are you going to say anything about Lizzie?" asked Mrs. White.

"Certainly not, unless you wish it. She will doubtless come in before
evening."

"I don't know," murmured the landlady, despairingly; "she didn't say
a word about going out, and I'm dreadfully afraid! I can't find her
little traveling bag----"

She stopped suddenly as Paul wheeled about and glanced at her with a
startled glance. There was a moment of silence, and then the Russian
said quietly: "I will come back early in the evening, Mrs. White, and
if your daughter has not appeared, I'll help you to make inquiries. We
must look after Strobel now."

The young men reported the circumstances at police headquarters and
then went to Roxbury. It was five o'clock when they arrived at Mr.
Pembroke's house, and they cherished a hope that some word from Ivan,
if not Ivan himself, would be found there. They were disappointed.
Louise Pembroke told them that nothing had occurred except that Clara
had succumbed to the shock and strain, and was under the care of a
physician.

"About an hour ago she broke down and cried," said Louise, "and the
physician said it was the best thing that could have happened to her.
He would have been afraid to have Ivan return before that. Now she is
not in any immediate danger."

"Are you going to tell her what we have done?" asked Ralph.

"Yes. I'll do so now."

Louise found her cousin calm and hopeful.

"Ralph has come back," said Clara. "I heard the bell, and knew it must
be he. Well?"

"Ralph says, dear," replied Louise, "that Ivan started for the church
in a carriage, and that there was a breakdown on the way that appears
to have been caused by a trick. He then took another carriage, and
after that they do not know what became of him."

"Lou," said the sufferer, "I suppose people would expect that I should
feel humiliation most of all, but I don't, and if I did I should no
longer feel it now that I know Ivan started for the church. Don't
you see? He meant to come, of course! Something dreadful has happened
to him--" Her eyes filled with tears, and she paused a moment before
continuing: "There must be more details, of course, but I am not well
enough yet to hear them. Ask Ralph and Paul to come to-morrow morning,
will you, please? I must talk with them."

"I will," replied Louise; "Ivan may come before that."

Ralph went to his home immediately after leaving Mr. Pembroke's, but
Paul, who had no other home than a furnished room in a lodging house,
returned according to his promise to see Mrs. White. He felt that there
might be a chance that the daughter, Lizzie, could throw some light on
Ivan's movements, but he had no doubt whatever that she herself had
returned. He reached the house just as a postman was leaving it. Mrs.
White stood in the hall, the door remaining open, nervously opening a
letter. When she had read it she screamed, and would have fallen to
the floor had not Paul sprung forward to catch her. She recovered in a
moment sufficiently to sob:

"I'm so glad you've come. Lizzie has gone! Read what she says."

Paul took the letter which she tremblingly handed him and read:

  "DEAR MOTHER: I am going away and shall not come back for a long
  time. Do not be anxious, and do not try to find me. You are not to
  blame for anything, and I cannot now tell you why I go. Some time I
  may do so, and I may write to you. I don't know yet. Do not think
  unkindly of me. You will know some time that it is best. I love you
  and----"

Two words here had been laboriously scratched out. Then came the
signature, "Lizzie." Paul made out the erased words to be "I love."

In spite of himself a dreadful fear came over him, a fear of something
more painful for all of Ivan's friends to bear than an accident, no
matter how serious.




CHAPTER III.

AN IMPERFECT VISION.


Ivan Strobel had been a lodger in Mrs. White's house for more than two
years. During the greater part of that period he had been the only
lodger, and from the beginning his relations with his landlady had
been more as if he were a friend of the family than merely a tenant.
His evenings were not infrequently spent in Mrs. White's sitting-room,
where his strongly domestic nature found some comfort in reading aloud
to the old lady and her daughter, or in playing cards, or in telling
them stories of European life. Sometimes his friends would call, and
find him there instead of in his own room, and more than once he had
been the target for good-humored chaffing relative to his supposed
fondness for the landlady's daughter.

On such occasions Strobel laughed lightly, as if it were out of the
question that anybody should seriously harbor a supposition that he was
in love with Lizzie. That was in the comparatively early days of his
residence there; and one afternoon, about a year before his eventful
wedding morning, Ralph Harmon and Paul Palovna called together and
found him in his own quarters, serving Russian tea to Mrs. White and
her daughter. He was evidently delighted to see his friends, and he
promptly set glasses of the fragrant, hot beverage before them. Mrs.
White was enthusiastic in her praise of the tea, as well she might be,
for Russians are past-masters in the art of tea-brewing, and Ivan was
one of the most skillful; and she slyly intimated that the woman who
would have the first place in his future household would do well to
place him in charge of the kitchen.

Ivan smiled and blushed as if pleased at the allusion, and while his
friends commended the idea with noisy laughter, Miss Lizzie sat silent,
sipping her tea with downcast eyes. Shortly afterward the ladies
withdrew, and Palovna immediately began to tease Strobel about Lizzie.

"On my word, Ivan," he cried, "you begin very badly. If you show her
what a fine hand you have for kitchen-work, you'll never have any time
to yourself after you're married. It's a fine thing to serve tea to
your friends when you're a bachelor, but fancy a man setting the kettle
to boil for his wife! Great Scott! what a picture!"

Both visitors laughed heartily, but Strobel, with a grave smile, held
up one hand deprecatingly.

"I don't mind your raillery in the least," he said, "but it does
injustice to the young lady who is the innocent subject of it rather
than myself. I'm glad you came in as you did, for I have something to
tell you, and, in fact, it was to tell Mrs. White and Lizzie the same
thing that I invited them to take tea with me. I am engaged to Miss
Hilman."

"I'm mighty glad to hear it, and I congratulate you," exclaimed Ralph,
jumping up and grasping Ivan by the hand.

"And I, too," said Paul, not less sincerely; "pardon my joking. I
hadn't suspected that the wind blew from that direction. When is it to
be?"

Then Strobel told them about his plans, and from that day until this
minute, when Paul stood by the weeping landlady, with her daughter's
incoherent letter in his hand, he had never associated Ivan and
Lizzie in any other way than as ordinary friends. When, earlier in
the afternoon, Mrs. White had said something that seemed to suggest
the possibility that they had gone away together, Paul's indignation
had been aroused, and it was with an effort that he had mastered his
tongue, which fairly burned to deny such an outrageous assumption. He
had dismissed the thought later, with the conviction that Mrs. White
could not have realized the true significance of her words.

Now, utterly at a loss to account for his friends' absence, he was
compelled to face any suggestion that arose and make the best of it.

"There is at least some comfort in this, Mrs. White," he said,
unsteadily; "you know that your daughter is alive, and she says she may
write to you. She would not have written this had she meant to hide
herself completely from you."

The mother's anguish was not to be tempered with this argument. The
poignant fact remained that her daughter had gone away, deserted her
home, and neglected deliberately to take her mother into her confidence.

"How could she?" moaned Mrs. White; "why, oh, why has she done this?"

Paul had hard questions to ask, hard for him as well as for her.

"Mrs. White," he said, "you have shown me Lizzie's letter; will you let
me help you if I can?"

"Yes, yes!" she answered eagerly, raising her tearful eyes. The very
proffer of sympathy and assistance helped to restore her to some degree
of composure, and she opened the door to the sitting-room. "I forgot
where we were," she said apologetically; "please come in and sit down."

Paul complied, and, still with the letter in his hand, began: "I shall
have to ask questions that would be impertinent if you had not said
that I might try to help you. Do you--was Lizzie engaged?"

"Oh, no!" replied Mrs. White, with a little gasp; "what made you think
so?"

"I don't think so, and what I really tried to ask was whether she were
in love with anybody?"

Mrs. White looked doubtfully at him. Her eyes were dry now, and she
toyed nervously with her apron.

"My daughter didn't tell me she was going away," she answered slowly
after a minute; "if she wouldn't tell me that, how should you expect
that she would speak to me of her love--if she did love anybody?"

Paul was somewhat nettled at this apparent effort to juggle with his
question. The situation seemed to him too serious to admit of anything
but the most complete frankness.

"I don't ask how you know, or why you don't, Mrs. White," he said as
gently as he could; "I simply asked for a statement of fact."

The landlady looked down at the floor, evidently trying to frame an
answer. Paul would have dropped the matter right there, disgusted at
her reticence if not her indirection, had he not been determined to
learn everything possible that might throw light upon the fate of his
friends. So he began on another tack.

"Weren't you invited to Strobel's wedding, Mrs. White?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied promptly, not suspecting the ultimate aim of the
question; "both of us received invitations."

"Why didn't you go?"

"Lizzie didn't want to go. She said weddings always made her feel
solemn, and I didn't want to go without her."

"Wasn't there a deeper reason, Mrs. White, for your daughter's
reluctance to go to Ivan Strobel's wedding?"

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Palovna," said the landlady, glancing
at him and averting her eyes.

Paul wanted to tell her that she was trying to dodge him, but he
controlled himself and said:

"I mean that in my opinion your daughter was hopelessly in love with
Ivan."

This statement did not provoke the storm that Paul had expected. Mrs.
White's reserve had prepared him for an outburst of denials, indignant
tears and the like, but the old lady sat very still, her hands clasped
upon her lap, and after a little silence she spoke dreamily:

"Lizzie never told me, but I guessed as much long ago, poor, dear girl!"

Paul's heart sank as he felt his fears growing to conviction that the
flight of Lizzie White was closely connected with the disappearance of
Ivan Strobel. He was not disloyal to his friend even in his thoughts;
he kept insisting to himself that Ivan was not the man to play all
his friends double, but even as he rebelled against this possible
explanation of the matter, reason interposed its stern voice to say
that if, after all, Strobel had discovered that he loved Lizzie and not
Clara, this was the probable course he would take to avoid facing the
comments and criticisms of his friends; and although he repelled the
explanation with all his will, he nevertheless felt a dreadful sense of
doubt.

"Mrs. White," he said gravely, "have you any reason to think that
Strobel and your daughter went away together?"

The landlady started as if she had been shot.

"Of course not!" she cried; "how could you think such a thing? Why
should you insult my poor child----" and she broke down and sobbed
bitterly.

Palovna was miserable. He saw that he had utterly misinterpreted
Mrs. White's reluctance in answering his questions; that, far from
suspecting that Lizzie's departure might be an elopement with Ivan, she
had instinctively tried to guard her daughter's secret.

"I am exceedingly sorry that I have hurt you," said Paul, contritely,
"I don't think, cannot think that they have gone together; but, you
see, I am in such a maze of anxiety about Strobel, everything is so
strange and uncertain, that I--I hardly knew what I said."

He paused, and Mrs. White, still sobbing, uttered some words of which
the only one he understood was "cruel," and he promptly accepted it as
applied to himself.

"I can only repeat that I am sorry," he said. "Here is your letter. I
fear I can be of no help to you unless you want me to take some message
for you."

"No--you cannot do anything now--I know you didn't mean it. Please come
again to-morrow--when I can think--please, Mr. Palovna."

So Paul left the house, wondering whether Mrs. White felt any unhappier
than himself.

He turned into Pemberton Square, and went as far as the door to police
headquarters, halted abruptly and turned away. He could not be the one
to fasten a suspicion of such a character upon his missing friend. If
it were true that he had eloped, that ugly fact would be established
soon enough without his giving any hints to the police detectives who
were assigned to hunt for Ivan.

The doctor had ordered Clara Hilman to bed, and under the first
prostration of the blow she had willingly obeyed; but as evening came
on and her mind cleared, she felt stronger, and at supper time she
arose and dressed. She did not go down to the dining-room, and Louise
brought delicacies to her chamber. She wished that Ralph and Paul
would return, for she felt that she could talk with them now, and she
longed intensely for any word, however insignificant, concerning her
lover's movements. Louise sat with her, making well-intended efforts
to distract her attention from the subject that was so terribly
engrossing, and offering the comfort of hopeful assurances when it was
evident that Clara could think of nothing else.

The fact was that Louise disturbed Clara. Her thoughts were fixed
in their own channel, and so obstinately clung there that it grew
wearisome to attend to the interruptions that Louise was constantly
making. So Clara said at last:

"I think, dear, if you will forgive me, I would like to be alone a
little while. I will call if I want anything."

"To be sure, Clara," responded Louise, rising at once and putting her
arms affectionately around her cousin; "I will go to my own room, and
will come the minute you need me. Shall I get you anything to read?"

"No, I cannot do anything but think, and I must think. Don't be
alarmed. I am not going to let myself become ill."

There was a faint, sweet smile upon her sad lips as she spoke, and,
left to herself, she sat leaning slightly forward, her chin upon one
hand, the other clinched upon her lap, gazing intently at the wall
which she saw not. In its place was the carriage in front of Mrs.
White's house, and as she watched it she saw the house door open and
Ivan, her Ivan, come forth. She saw him turn to say good-by to the
kind-hearted landlady, saw the happy smile upon his face, saw him enter
the carriage, saw it start slowly away.

This much of her lover's wedding journey was as clearly before her as
if it were now occurring, and she were at a window in the house across
the way from Mrs. White's in Ashburton Place. Her nerves strained to
their utmost tension, she tried to follow the carriage. She could see
that it turned into Somerset Street, but when it seemed to be at Beacon
she could not tell which way it went. That it was still moving was
apparent, but there was a confusion of vehicles and persons, streets
and buildings, there was a pause--somewhere--was Ivan getting out? Was
that he taking another carriage? Oh! why was not Paul here to tell her
just what happened at this point, wherever it was? Why had she not
heard his report when he was there to make it?

Suddenly the confusion gave way, and the familiar wall was before her,
but still she saw it not. Now she was listening. Did she hear her
lover's name? Was it spoken in anger? It must be! it must be! They
were speaking of him; who were they? In this house? where else if she
heard it? Could it be that she had heard nothing? To her ear there was
no tangible sound save the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Clara
arose and crossed the room, staggering with weakness, and placed her
hand upon the door. One instant she waited as if in doubt, and then she
opened it very softly. Yes! there were voices below; they were in the
library; that was her uncle speaking. Had she a right to listen? She
stole to the head of the stairs and looked down. The library door was
closed. The voice was an unintelligible murmur, nothing more.

Down the stairs she crept and came to the library door.

"Are you money-mad?" It was her uncle who spoke. "Don't you know that
it hasn't come, that such a thing can't be effected in a moment?"

"And I tell you, Mat Pembroke," said a harsh voice, "that you've
got----"

The voice suddenly stopped, and the speaker, the infirm old man who
had arrived late at the church while the wedding party was waiting in
the vestibule, half rose from his big chair and pointed with a bony,
trembling hand over Mr. Pembroke's shoulder.

Mr. Pembroke turned about and saw Clara Hilman with wide-open eyes and
pale face standing just within the doorway.

"Forgive me, uncle," she said in a voice scarce above a whisper; "I
thought you were speaking of Ivan, and I--I came down to say that I am
going to find him."

She swayed slightly as she finished, and Mr. Pembroke ran forward and
took her in his arms.




CHAPTER IV.

CLARA'S SEARCH BEGINS.


Clara had not fainted in her uncle's arms, but she nestled against him
quivering and sobbing; and again it was fortunate for her that the
excited, pent-up forces of her brain had broken through in a flood of
tears.

"You see, Dexter!" cried Mr. Pembroke in broken accents, "how my poor
girl suffers. There, there, Clara, better get back to your bed and try
to sleep. I thought Louise was looking after you."

"She has been with me," replied Clara, "but I sent her away. I wanted
to think. Has nothing been heard from Ivan?"

"Nothing yet, my dear. You shall know it as soon as we do even if it
comes at three in the morning."

Attracted by her cousin's voice, Louise appeared at this moment and led
Clara upstairs, scolding her gently for having left her room. Clara
was greatly subdued, and urged no longer to be left alone. Through the
rest of the evening she sat quietly listening to Louise, and feeling no
return of that tensity of the nerves that had preceded and accompanied
her waking dream.

In the morning she was better, stronger in every way. She met her uncle
and cousin at breakfast, and although she was very quiet she seemed
more like her natural self than they had expected. Every newspaper
had something to say about the disappearance of Ivan Strobel, and the
reporters, apparently, had interviewed everybody directly interested
in him except the unhappy bride herself. The newspapers were in a pile
by her uncle's plate when she surprised him by entering the room and
taking her place at the table.

"I'd like to see the papers, uncle," she said after responding to his
greetings.

Mr. Pembroke glanced nervously at his daughter, and laid his hand
irresolutely on the pile.

"I am afraid you won't find anything of comfort in them, my dear," he
said.

"No matter," she replied, "I don't expect to. Don't try to keep them
from me. I shall get them later if I do not read them now."

Mr. Pembroke passed them all to her except one which he opened and
pretended to read himself. He had already been through it, and he did
not intend, if he could help it, that she should see it.

Clara intently read the account of the interrupted wedding in the first
paper she took up, pausing only once to exclaim, "Then the reporters
were here last evening!"

"Yes," said Mr. Pembroke, "they were coming and going until long after
midnight."

"I almost wish I could have seen some of them," murmured Clara as
she continued to read. The report told with fair accuracy about the
break-down at Park and Tremont Streets and the explanation of it given
by the stableman. Mrs. White was quoted, and as much as the reporter
could imagine was made of the visit to Strobel by the mysterious
stranger. Then there were interviews with the missing man's employers,
State Street bankers, and the highly gratifying intelligence was set
forth that there was no reason to suppose that Strobel had tampered
with the funds or in any way betrayed his trust. Clara blushed with
indignation as she read that the books would be examined in the
morning, with a view to discovering whether Strobel had been guilty of
any irregularities.

"The idea that Ivan should be suspected of dishonesty!" exclaimed
Clara, laying the paper down and taking up another.

"People will think anything and everything," said her uncle, "and you
must be prepared for the worst insinuations and speculations."

Clara read the next account in silence. It was much longer than the
first, and a great deal of attention and imagination had been devoted
to the romantic aspect of the situation. Clara was described as
utterly prostrated by the blow, dangerously ill, refusing to see her
most intimate friends; and the intended union of the beautiful orphan
with the Russian exile was dwelt upon with appropriate grace and
picturesqueness. She blushed for herself this time and laid the paper
down impatiently.

"I shall show them," she said, "if they pay any further attention to
the affair, that I am not prostrated by the blow, hard as it is."

"What do you mean, Clara?" asked Mr. Pembroke and Louise together.

"Just what I said last evening, uncle. I am going to find Ivan."

"Why! dear, what can you do?" cried Louise, pityingly.

"Do? I don't know yet what the details will be, but I can search for
him. What better, what else could I do? If we had been married, and
Ivan had disappeared, would it not be my duty as well as my inclination
to turn the world upside down to find him? Should it make any
difference just because the formal word had not been spoken that was to
make us husband and wife?"

Her voice trembled a little at the end of this brief speech, and her
eyes were moist, but she took up a third paper resolutely and began
to read. She had debated her situation thoroughly in the long hours
of the previous day and evening, and her determination to devote
herself to the search for her lover was not the effect of a temporary
hallucination. Her uncle and cousin said nothing for the present
either to dissuade or encourage her, Louise, at least, feeling that in
due time Clara would see the futility of attempting anything on her
own account as long as experienced detectives were in the field. Mr.
Pembroke left the room for a moment, and when he returned the paper he
had been reading was folded and hidden in his pocket. There was still
another before Clara, and when she had read it she pushed them all
away, saying:

"They're as much alike as if the same man had written them all."

Mr. Pembroke was relieved that she did not notice that one of the
morning papers was not included in the lot she had read.

Hardly had they finished breakfast when the bell rang, and a reporter
for an evening paper inquired for news of Mr. Strobel and Miss Hilman's
health. Mr. Pembroke frowned with annoyance, but Clara was for seeing
the young man.

"I don't want to be pictured as a useless, waiting, tear-drenched
weakling!" she cried when uncle and cousin remonstrated. "Publicity?
notoriety? what could be worse than the notoriety I have already
acquired? Let me see him, please, so that he may have no excuse for
describing me as a broken-down, useless incumbrance."

"I will speak to him first," said Mr. Pembroke, hastily. "Wait here a
minute. I'll send for you when I have heard what it is he wants."

So Clara and Louise remained at the breakfast table, and a few minutes
later Mr. Pembroke opened the door and said with an assumption of
cheerfulness:

"There! you see, sir, the young lady is bearing her trouble more
bravely than the morning papers announced. This is Miss Hilman, Mr.
Shaughnessy, and my daughter, Louise."

Mr. Shaughnessy, thus introduced, entered the room bowing with
old-fashioned extravagance. His head was bald as an egg, and his face
was three-fourths concealed by a grizzly beard. The "young man" could
no longer look forward to his sixtieth birthday. He wore gold-bowed
eyeglasses, and in one hand he held hat and note-book and in the other
a stub of a pencil.

"Char-r-med, ladies," he said, "to see you looking so fine upon this
gr-rievous occasion. May I ask, Miss Hilman, how you passed the night?"

What with surprise at her uncle's maneuver in bringing the reporter
to the breakfast room, and amusement at the courtly yet business-like
manners of the "young man," Clara could not have repressed a smile
if she had tried; and before she could reply, Mr. Shaughnessy had
whipped his note-book to the top of his hat and written the significant
mnemonic, "smile."

"I slept quite as usual, thank you," replied Clara.

"I am delighted to hear it," said Shaughnessy; "health, Miss Hilman, is
the greatest pr-rop in time of trouble. Have you any obser-rvation to
make upon Mr. Strobel's absence? Any theor-ry to account for it?"

"No theory, Mr. Shaughnessy, though I hope to have one some time later
in the day. I should like to have you tell your readers that I have
absolute faith in Mr. Strobel, and that I expect any theory as to his
disappearance to accord with honorable conduct on his part."

"Yes, yes," said the reporter, scribbling away for dear life, that he
might not lose a word of this important utterance. "Do I understand you
to say that you expect to have news of your--Mr. Strobel before the day
is over?"

"I shall devote all my time to searching for him."

"Clara!" exclaimed Louise, while Mr. Pembroke turned away with a
despairing shrug.

Shaughnessy looked doubtingly at Mr. Pembroke, and then said:

"May I have the honor of calling on you later, then?"

"I shall be glad at any time," replied Clara, "to give you any
information in my power."

Shaughnessy made a note.

"I hope you will pardon me seeming imper-rtinence, Miss Hilman," he
continued, "but me city editor commanded me to obtain photographs of
yourself and Mr. Strobel."

Louise sighed and looked genuinely alarmed; but Clara thought a moment,
and answered that she would loan the reporter pictures if he would be
sure to return them uninjured.

"I shall be sure to do so," he answered, "and I commend your decision.
It saves me a lot of trouble, for, of course, I must obey me city
editor; he's a tyrant, Miss Hilman, and if you did not give me the
pictures, I should have to get them elsewhere."

Clara smiled as she left the room to get the photographs, and when she
had given them to Shaughnessy he took his departure, promising to call
again.

"How could you give him the pictures, Clara?" asked Louise
reproachfully.

"Mine will do no harm," answered Clara, quietly; "didn't you hear him
say he was bound to get it anyway? Moreover, it may help in discovering
Ivan, if only they will print a good likeness of him."

Clara was right in one respect at least. Nearly every evening paper
published pictures of herself and Ivan, and nobody at the Pembroke
house could have told where the originals were obtained.

"Now I must keep my word and begin the search," said Clara after the
reporter had gone.

"You're not going to leave the house, I hope?" exclaimed her uncle.

"Certainly, uncle," she replied; "I feel quite well, and I will not
overtax myself. I can stand anything better than staying idle here."

"I am strongly disposed to forbid you," said Mr. Pembroke, anxiously;
"you are sure to have a most disagreeable and painful experience."

"Please don't go!" cried Louise, who had read the paper that Mr.
Pembroke had concealed.

"I am sorry to displease you both," returned Clara, "but if I am
forbidden to go I shall have to disobey."

"Then Louise must go with you," said her uncle.

"I should like to have her. Will you, Lou, dear?"

Louise was only too anxious to accompany her cousin, and accordingly
they left the house together just in time to escape a squad of
reporters representing the other evening papers. Clara had arranged
her programme the night before, and left word at the house for Ralph
and Paul, should they come in her absence, to go to Ivan's room. Mrs.
White had seen Clara on the few occasions when Mr. Strobel had served
afternoon tea to his intended and other friends, and she fell into a
great flurry of agitation when she recognized her at the door.

"Come in," she stammered as she led the way; "of course I am glad to
see you, for I am certain you cannot believe it."

Louise tried to check the landlady from making the inevitable
revelation, but Clara laid one hand on her cousin's arm and asked:

"Believe what, Mrs. White?"'

"Why, what's in the paper," replied the landlady; "you've read the
papers, I suppose? I presumed that was why you came."

"I read the papers," said Clara, "and I came to inquire about Ivan. Do
you refer to the suggested irregularities in his accounts? Of course I
do not believe anything of that kind."

"Dear, no! I didn't suppose you did. I meant about my daughter Lizzie."

"Your daughter!" exclaimed Clara in a low voice, while Louise hid her
face in her hands. "What do you mean? Let me see the paper."

More agitated than ever, Mrs. White produced a copy of the paper that
Mr. Pembroke had withheld from his niece.

"I must have overlooked this," said Clara, wonderingly, as she saw that
the account differed in style from those she had read. The reporter of
this paper, sharper than his rivals, had somehow discovered that Lizzie
White had left her home, and he set forth the circumstances with every
delicate turn that language would allow to suggest a connection between
her flight and Ivan's disappearance.

"It is shrewdly suspected by the friends of Strobel," so the story ran,
"that as the time of his marriage approached, he found his fancy for
Miss White stronger than his love for Miss Hilman, and that he chose
elopement with the former as less dishonorable than marriage with the
latter."

The writer then proceeded to an elaborate explanation of how Strobel
might himself have arranged the wheel of his coupé so that it would
fall off, and how he might then, by previous understanding with the
second cabman, who was also conveniently missing, have been driven to
the Park Square railroad station, where he waited for Miss White. It
was entirely possible that they might have taken the one o'clock train
for New York, if not the noon train.

Clara was very pale when she laid the paper down, but her faith in Ivan
was not so much as touched by doubt.

"It's an outrage," she said quietly.

"I knew you wouldn't believe it!" exclaimed Mrs. White.

"Believe it! of course it isn't true! It's not possible!"

There was a ring at the door just then, and Mrs. White excused herself
to answer it.

She opened upon Ivan's mysterious visitor, Alexander Poubalov.




CHAPTER V.

THE AGENT OF THE CZAR.


"Good-morning," said Poubalov, gutturally; "this is Madame White, I
believe?"

"Yes, sir," replied the landlady, impressed at once by the stranger's
deferential manner, and believing that through him the mystery would be
cleared away; "won't you come in?"

"Thank you, yes. I have called to inquire for my friend Strobel."

"You are not the first, sir," said Mrs. White, opening the door to the
sitting-room. "There are two here now who will be glad to see you.
Miss Hilman, this is the gentleman who called on Mr. Strobel yesterday
morning. Miss Hilman was to have married him, you know, and this is
Miss Pembroke," and having thus awkwardly initiated a new scene, Mrs.
White took refuge in the nearest chair.

Poubalov was as near to showing surprise as he ever permitted himself
to come, and Clara, rising impulsively, went directly to him and said:

"Then you can tell me something about Mr. Strobel, can you not?"

"I can tell you nothing," he answered gravely; "I came for information
myself."

Clara looked into his eyes searchingly, and went back to her chair
feeling that her greatest hope had been dashed to the ground.

"I feel the awkwardness of my position, ladies," continued Poubalov
(I make no attempt to suggest his dialect, which was at times almost
unintelligible, as there was nothing of a humorous or trivial character
in his conversation). "Every newspaper makes me out as a possible foe
to Mr. Strobel, a mysterious ogre going about seeking to destroy young
men, and perhaps I should not blame anybody for supposing that I might
have been concerned in preventing Mr. Strobel's marriage, but I assure
you that I was not. I did not know of his intentions until yesterday
morning, when he told me about it himself. I am as much surprised as
anybody to read of his disappearance."

Poubalov paused and with marked deliberation took out his card case.

"It was but natural," said Clara, tremulously, "that we should hope
that you could throw some light on his movements, for knowing nothing
except that somebody had called on him unexpectedly, we could not fail
to attribute something significant to the visit."

"Especially," put in Mrs. White, "as the young men and I hunted the
house over for your card and couldn't find it."

"All very natural," responded Poubalov, imperturbably, "and it was a
circumstance of the utmost triviality in itself that lent color to my
mysterious coming and going. You remember, Mrs. White, do you not, that
you took my card to Mr. Strobel?"

"Yes, indeed, and he--I don't want to give offense--he didn't seem
particularly pleased to see it."

"So you told the newspaper men. I am not in the least offended. Here
is the card you took to him. I asked Mr. Strobel where I might call
upon him after his wedding tour, and he wrote that address upon my
own card. Of course I took it away with me." He handed the card to
Clara, adding: "I want you to see that I am concealing nothing, and
if my voluntary return to this house did not signify anything, your
suspicions should certainly be relieved by seeing that Strobel himself
made a semi-appointment with me at his future home."

"I hope, Mr. Poubalov," said Clara, with her eyes upon the card, "that
you will forgive us for cherishing any unjust suspicions. At the
worst, they were vague, and everything is so confusing."

"I feel that there is nothing to forgive," began Poubalov, graciously,
when Mrs. White interrupted, her mind naturally intent upon her own
trouble:

"And such horrid things as they say, too! You said you had read the
papers?"

"Yes, all of them."

"Did you read about my daughter?" and the distressed mother rose,
and, taking the newspaper from Clara's lap, thrust it into his hands.
Without looking at it, Poubalov answered:

"I read it."

"And what do you think of it?" cried Mrs. White, stemming a fresh flood
of tears.

Poubalov's brows contracted slightly as a sign that he disapproved
forcing this question forward at the time, and with a grave glance at
Clara he replied:

"I do not think. I watch, ask questions, and listen."

Clara hardly knew whether to be encouraged or depressed by this answer.
Unless this man were an intimate friend of Ivan, it was perhaps not to
be expected that he should see the folly of supposing for an instant
that the missing man had eloped with Lizzie White.

"Mr. Poubalov," she said, "the reports in the newspapers do not throw
the least light on this matter. I have no criticism to make on their
statements of fact, but their conjectures of every kind are idle. They
do not even disturb me."

Poubalov bowed as if to signify that he heard and understood.

"The cause of his disappearance," she continued after a moment, "it is
yet to be found. The newspapers have not even hinted at it."

"You have an idea, then," he said, "as to the correct explanation?"

"No, not one," she answered; "I can only think of accident; but had
there been any accident so serious as to render him unconscious and
helpless, the police would have discovered it and reported it by this
time, would they not?"

"They would if your police are nearly as efficient as those of European
cities," said Poubalov, "and I have no doubt they are so to the extent
of such emergencies as this case presents."

"Then, don't you see, the whole mystery is confined to two general
solutions; either Mr. Strobel was seized by enemies and carried away;
or he had some powerful reason for absenting himself, and disappeared
voluntarily."

The Russian was surprised and deeply impressed by the young lady's
clearness of vision, and Louise, listening with rapt attention, was
simply amazed to hear her cousin reason so calmly when every word she
uttered must have cost her pain.

"And which of these hypotheses," asked Poubalov, guardedly, "do you
consider the more probable?"

"I have no means of judging between them," replied Clara, "for I have
no fact except the disappearance to justify either one. It seems as if
there must be some other theory, if I could only think what it is."

"There is no other," said Poubalov, "if you eliminate accident, as I
think you properly do."

"Then I must consider what grounds there might be for supporting both
hypotheses. As I discard as utterly worthless all the suggestions in
the newspapers, I must suppose that Mr. Strobel had enemies, and that
these enemies were powerful enough either to abduct him in broad day
on a crowded thoroughfare, or cause him such sudden fear that he felt
obliged to go into hiding."

Again was Poubalov surprised, for he could not himself have reasoned
more clearly, or have stated his conclusions more concisely; but he
simply nodded gravely, expressing neither convictions or emotions.
Clara wished that he would speak. She had expressed her thoughts as
they came to her there in Mrs. White's sitting room. It was thinking
aloud rather than a statement of previously formed conclusions. Now
she saw to just what end her arguments were bringing her, and she
almost shrank from it. Summoning her utmost resolution she looked
straight at the sombre face of the Russian and added:

"I have no knowledge of Ivan's enemies, Mr. Poubalov; isn't it possible
that you can give some information on that phase of the case?"

"Yes, it is," replied Poubalov, without hesitation. Then he paused
a moment before he continued: "Were not the case so serious and for
you so distressing, I should feel that I must compliment you on your
unusual faculty for analyzing a situation. Far from taking offense at
your continued suspicion of me, I am really pleased."

"I have not said that I suspected you."

"You did not need to, Miss Hilman. Your reason tells you that Mr.
Strobel was happy and confident of the future until suddenly one
Poubalov appears before him like the ghost of past misfortunes and as a
prophet of new ones."

"I assure you," interrupted Clara again, "that I did not know that you
were not an intimate friend of Mr. Strobel's; I spoke simply of natural
inferences."

"My dear young lady," said the Russian, "you were helpless in the hands
of your own reason."

Clara was silent. She felt instinctively that her analysis was correct
and that she was facing, if not one of Ivan's enemies, at the least a
man who represented all that might be hostile to him; and when she had
endeavored to withdraw some of the force of her reasoning, he himself
had held her to her conclusions and clinched them.

"It was my intention," continued Poubalov, "to learn from Mrs. White
who you were, that I might solicit the privilege of calling upon you
and laying before you what is in my knowledge concerning Mr. Strobel,
for I fear that I may----"

He stopped abruptly and looked from one to another of the wondering
ladies.

"Go on, please," exclaimed Clara, now stirred by a growing agitation;
"if you can give us the faintest light it would be cruel to withhold
it."

"May I hope that no offense will be taken," said Poubalov, "if I say
that I planned to tell these things to you only? I will be pleased to
call at your own convenience."

"No, no!" replied Clara, rising; "I must know now. Tell me here. Mrs.
White, may we step into your dining-room?"

Louise and the landlady had risen at the same moment, and Mrs. White
said:

"If Miss Pembroke doesn't object, she and I will go out. Only,
Mr.--sir, if you have anything to say about my daughter, I wish you
would let me hear it!"

"It was not my intention to mention her, madame," replied Poubalov.

Louise went to Clara's side and kissed her.

"You are so brave, dear!" she said.

Clara gave Louise a grateful look as she and Mrs. White withdrew, and
turned expectantly to the Russian.

"Pray sit down, Miss Hilman," he said; "what I have to say may not be
as important and useful to you as you hope, but I preferred, and with
good reason, as I think you will see, to discuss the matter with you
alone. It was on my tongue to say that I may have been innocently a
part of the cause that sent Mr. Strobel into hiding."

"Yes," whispered Clara, eagerly; "go on!"

"Miss Hilman, I am an agent of the czar."

Poubalov paused as if he expected this announcement to disturb, or
otherwise impress his listener seriously, but she merely looked
straight at him, as she did when he began to speak.

"Strobel knew me in that capacity," he continued, "years ago when we
were in Russia. Has he ever told you about his life there?"

"A little," replied Clara, very doubtful how much she ought to reveal
to this man who represented the autocratic, relentless power that had
destroyed the fortune of the Strobel family and made Ivan himself an
exile.

"You find it difficult to be frank with me," said Poubalov, "and I am
not surprised, but you must remember that I am setting the example.
It is quite the habit of thoughtless persons to apply an opprobrious
epithet to my occupation and call me a spy. Well, then, I, Alexander
Poubalov, spy, paid by the government of Russia, tell you who I am, and
tell you that at one time Ivan Strobel had reason to fear me."

The door bell rang while Poubalov was speaking and Clara heard Mrs.
White pattering through the hall to answer it.

The man at the door was known to the landlady as Strobel's tailor, an
undersized, forlorn-looking man who seemed always to be struggling with
secret woe. She knew that Strobel had been kind to him, and helped him
in more ways than mere patronage, and she knew that poor Litizki was as
grateful and loyal as a dog. It was with sincere welcome, therefore,
that she greeted him, and asked him into the house.

"I only came," said the tailor, "to ask if there is any news of Mr.
Strobel? The newspapers say he has disappeared."

"We know nothing of him here," answered Mrs. White; "but come in, do!
There's no telling who may say the word that will put us all on the
right track. Miss Hilman is here, the lady he was to marry, you know.
She's talking with a gentleman now in the parlor. I presume she may
like to see you."

"I don't know that I can give her any help," said Litizki, following
the landlady into the dining-room, "but I'll wait a few minutes, for I
wanted to know something that the papers do not make clear."

He came to a sudden halt as he stepped into the dining-room, where the
voices of the persons in the front room were heard much more distinctly
than in the hall.

"Who is that talking?" he exclaimed in an excited whisper.

"It's a gentleman who called on Mr. Strobel yesterday," replied Mrs.
White; "I can't think of his name."

"I should know that voice," muttered Litizki as if speaking to himself.

The rooms were separated by folding doors with glazed glass panels. On
one of the panels there was a tiny spot where the opaque glaze had been
rubbed or knocked off. Litizki applied his eye to that spot, and shaded
the glass with his hand, straining to get a clear view of the man whose
deep voice came to him like the distant rumble of an organ.

After a moment he straightened up and turned about, his sallow,
depressed features gleaming with savage interest.

"I cannot see clearly," he whispered, "but if that is Alexander
Poubalov, then the whole mystery of Strobel's disappearance is cleared
away!"




CHAPTER VI.

LITIZKI AT WORK.


"It would have been perfectly natural," continued Poubalov, "for
Strobel to suspect me at first blush of evil intentions, and I presume
he did so; for, without inquiring what brought me to America and to
him, he took pains to remind me that he was within the jurisdiction of
the United States, and that it was not his purpose to set foot outside
the limits of your country, of which I presume he is by this time a
citizen."

"He has taken out his first papers," replied Clara.

"And, therefore, should have felt himself secure from one who,
supposing he were hostile, yet acted as the official of a foreign and
a friendly government. I give you credit, Miss Hilman, of drawing a
correct conclusion from that statement of relations."

Poubalov paused, and Clara responded slowly:

"It ought to mean that he had other enemies than you or those whom you
represent."

"Exactly; but why do you hedge--pardon the term--why do you set forth
the conclusion with reservation? 'It ought to mean,' is what you said.
Why not say it does mean?"

"Because I do not know whether you are telling me the truth."

Poubalov leaned back in his chair, and his dark face was momentarily
illumined by an amused smile.

"May I light a cigarette?" he asked in a tone that seemed to say how
patient he was under this continuance of suspicion that not even reason
could dissipate. It was as if he had said, "With all your unexpected
cleverness as a logician, Miss Hilman, you are yet a woman, and you
cling desperately to woman's reasonless intuitions."

"Oh, pardon me if I am cruelly unjust," cried Clara, as clearly the
woman in her quick relenting as she was in following her intuitions;
"have patience with me! You must know how distressed I am, and how hard
it is to think clearly. Your very admission that you are a paid spy
suggests deceit and trickery--I suppose I am making the matter worse."

"By no means, Miss Hilman," replied Poubalov, holding a cigarette
between his fingers; "we shall come to an understanding presently, I
am sure. I never take offense, not even when my loyalty to the czar is
doubted; and nothing you may say will prevent me from doing what I can
to clear away the mystery surrounding Mr. Strobel."

"Please light your cigarette," said Clara; "if you wouldn't make me
talk, we should get on better."

Poubalov smiled again, and when he had puffed a great cloud of fragrant
smoke from his lips, he resumed:

"I will proceed as if you cherished no doubts as to my sincerity. It
follows, from my analysis, that Mr. Strobel could have had no fear of
harm coming to him from an official of Russia. He never had reason
to fear me as an individual; in fact, the individuality of Alexander
Poubalov long since disappeared in the person of the official agent.
Poubalov has no enmities, no friendships; all men are hostile or
friendly to him, as they are the enemies or the adherents of the czar,
whom God preserve! The next step in the analysis is to suggest the
nature of Mr. Strobel's present enemies. You did not tell me so, but I
presume you are aware that when Mr. Strobel was younger he permitted
his generous sympathies to be enlisted in what he would then have
called 'the people's party' of Russia. Without going into details with
which every intelligent person is more or less familiar, I will remind
you that, incidental to the so-called democratic movement in Russia,
was the organization of a secret society the avowed purpose of which
was the disruption of the empire."

Poubalov paused, and puffed at his cigarette deliberately.

"You want me to say something," cried Clara in desperation, "and I
don't know what to say."

"Pardon me," said the spy, suavely, "a woman of your cleverness will
not resent it when I tell you that you misstate your difficulty. You
could say much, perhaps, but you are afraid to."

Clara's silence was an admission that Poubalov had spoken correctly,
and after giving her ample time to deny his accusation, he continued:

"You are afraid--and again you will pardon plain language--that you
will involve your lover in fresh difficulties. Let me point out again
that, so far as his offenses against the government of the czar are
concerned, they were purely political offenses, and he is therefore in
a perfectly secure asylum as long as he is on American soil, whether
he be simply a refugee or a naturalized citizen. You must seek for
his enemies, Miss Hilman, elsewhere than among the representatives of
Russian authority."

"You give me too much credit for cleverness," said Clara, "for I cannot
follow you."

"You know that the secret society to which I referred adopted the term
nihilism as a definition of its principles, do you not? And you must
know, even if Mr. Strobel never told you so, that the Nihilists were
bound by the most awful oaths never to betray the secrets of their
association."

"Do you mean to say that Mr. Strobel was a Nihilist?"

"Certainly; that was what I was driving at from the beginning. It was
for that he was compelled to fly from Russia, and that is why he cannot
return to his native land. The government has done much to stamp out
the curse of nihilistic propaganda, and many members of the society
have fled. Some are in Switzerland, some in England, others are here,
here in Boston. Far from the field of their evil machinations, they
cherish still their destructive ambitions as applied to Russia; and,
Miss Hilman, they still keep watch on one another. It would fare ill
with any Nihilist in America should he venture to betray his former
associates in any way."

"I suppose I understand you now" said Clara, slowly. "You mean that
I must look for Ivan's enemies among the Russian exiles who live in
Boston."

"Or elsewhere in America."

"If he really were connected with them in Russia, he would be the last
man to betray them."

"Doubtless; but would they credit him with such loyalty? May they not
have imagined that, under certain circumstances, he might be induced to
betray them? And may they not have conveyed such definite and fearful
threats that he found it necessary to disappear?"

"Do you mean by 'certain circumstances' his intended marriage?"

"No. I may not mean anything. We shall see some day whether I do or
not."

"You speak in a constant succession of riddles. Why not continue your
frankness, and be strictly open with me?"

Poubalov lit a fresh cigarette, and after a long scrutiny of the
ceiling, responded:

"That is not my way, Miss Hilman. I am sincerely trying to suggest the
clew to your difficult problem."

Clara took her own turn at reflection, and said at last:

"If Ivan felt obliged to disappear for a time, in order to escape his
enemies, he would have managed to let me know."

"It would seem so," admitted Poubalov, rising; "and that brings you to
your last alternative."

"Wait," exclaimed Clara, imperatively; "you bring me to the last
alternative as if that were the end of my difficulties. Suppose it
to be true that some Russian exiles, in a mistaken distrust of Mr.
Strobel, have abducted him. Can you not suggest how I am to proceed to
prove that and to rescue him?"

"I hope to be able to do so, Miss Hilman, in a short time, a few days
at most, and I assure you that I shall henceforth give my undivided
attention to searching for Mr. Strobel."

Clara knitted her brows in painful perplexity.

"A woman situated as I am," she said presently, "ought to be stirred by
nothing but gratitude; but the one thing I can think to say is, why do
you interest yourself so deeply in the matter?"

"Still distrustful," said Poubalov in his deepest tones. "Miss Hilman,
I might resort to sophistry and direct deceit in answering your
question. I might point out that the newspapers have placed me, though
not as yet by name, in a disagreeable position from which it should be
my earnest desire to extricate myself. I might declare that I was moved
by friendship or admiration for Mr. Strobel. But it does not please
me to practice arts of trickery with you. Public notoriety I care as
little for as for the fly that buzzes harmlessly about my head. I
never had friendship or admiration for Mr. Strobel, and I feel neither
sentiment now. Alexander Poubalov's one sentiment is loyalty to his
czar."

"You haven't answered the question."

"Because I cannot answer it without either deceit or the betrayal of my
trust. But I shall nevertheless use every endeavor to find your lover.
Will you care to hear from me from time to time?"

"Yes," replied Clara, after a moment's thought; "certainly, yes. I do
thank you for speaking to me as you have, and I wish I could trust you.
I almost do trust you."

"It would be too ungracious in me," responded Poubalov, "not to wish
that you could trust me, and not to hope that some time in the near
future you will find that in this matter you can do so absolutely."

"I suppose it would be vain to ask you what you are going to do?"

"As vain as for me to ask you to tell me all I would like to know about
Mr. Strobel."

"Mr. Poubalov," exclaimed Clara, earnestly, "there can be no reason why
I should withhold anything from you. Your own argument proves that;
and, besides, you know more about Ivan's connection with the nihilistic
movement than I ever dreamed of. You perceive the distrust that I
cannot conquer, but you believe me, do you not?"

"Implicitly, Miss Hilman."

"Then I assure you that, to my knowledge, Mr. Strobel has not had
anything to do with nihilistic propaganda in this country for three
years at least. He used to write some on Russian topics, but he
abandoned that when he went into business, and--I may say, when he
became acquainted with me. I think I know all his friends, all his
associates, and among them all there is but one Russian, a gentleman
like himself."

"I am very glad to hear this," said Poubalov; "and now I will see what
I can do. I cannot act as I would in Russia, but I can still accomplish
something, I think. I hope to have the honor of calling upon you soon.
I leave it entirely to you to speak of our conversation as you please,
but I will go out without disturbing Madame White and your friend. Au
revoir, Miss Hilman."

The distinguished-looking Russian bowed and left the room and
immediately afterward Clara heard the outside door close upon him.

When Litizki, the forlorn-looking tailor, mentioned Poubalov's name,
both Mrs. White and Louise Pembroke exclaimed "That's it!" and both
came forward as if their anxiety were about to be dissipated at one
stroke.

"Who is he?" asked Mrs. White, eagerly.

"He is--" began Litizki fiercely; "no! I must not speak. Let me go out,
that I may watch him. He shall lead me to Ivan Strobel. Do not tell him
that I have been here, do not mention my name."

"Dear me! it makes me more nervous than ever," said Mrs. White, laying
a hand on Litizki's arm to restrain him. "Do you think, Mr. Litizki,
that he has done anything to Mr. Strobel?"

"Think!" exclaimed the little tailor who seemed on fire with
excitement, "it is the next thing to knowing! Not a word, remember!"

He tip-toed his way through the hall as if it were night and he were
a thief, and cautiously opened the outside door. He touched his hand
dramatically to his lips as he closed it behind him, leaving Mrs. White
terrified and Miss Pembroke bewildered.

Litizki, even in a tumult of rage and desperation, was not a very
impressive man to look at. It would have seemed that his fury could
be quelled by a gentle cuff with the open hand, and that his whole
being could be snuffed out with a vigorous pinch; but if ever man was
terribly in earnest, he was, and a close observer might have noted the
danger signals in the formation of his head and in the hang of his
lips. This was a man who might be stirred to such depths that his whole
shallow nature would be in commotion, when discretion would be cast
off like flecks of foam from an on-rushing wave; and then let an enemy
be wary, for even a slender arm, like that of the little tailor, may
strike a fatal blow!

It seemed a long, long time to Litizki that Poubalov continued his
conversation with Miss Hilman. He dared not linger near the house lest
the spy should see him from a window, or emerge suddenly from the
doorway and so discover that eager eyes were directed to his movements.
Litizki slunk into one doorway after another, never staying long in
one, lest he be warned away with sufficient outcry to alarm Poubalov,
whose ear, he believed, was acutely tuned to the slightest sounds, and
who found untoward significance even in the vagrant breeze.

At last the door opened, and Litizki dodged into an open hall, only to
flit out again as soon as he saw Poubalov turn toward Somerset Street.
Arrived there, he turned down the hill, and then Litizki ran forward
to the corner around which he peered cautiously. It would not have
surprised him if his face had touched that of Poubalov as he did so,
for it would have seemed to him but natural that the spy should think
that he was followed and should wait there for the purpose of trapping
his adversary. But, no; Poubalov was progressing calmly down the
street, and at Howard he again turned to the left.

Litizki ran after, fearful of losing his man in the more crowded
street, saw him cross Bulfinch into Bulfinch Place, and finally open
the door of a lodging house with a latch-key.

"So!" thought the tailor, noting the number of the house and turning
back, "he chooses his room within a stone's throw of Ivan Strobel's,
and then takes a roundabout way to go from one house to the other. That
is like him. Alexander Poubalov could not be direct in conversation
or action even if he were intent upon a good deed--which would be
impossible."

The suggestion was so grotesquely absurd that Litizki laughed and
shuddered at once.

"Now," he reflected, "shall I tell the police where to look for Ivan
Strobel, or shall I consult with his lady? I will go back and see her
first."




CHAPTER VII.

A DANGEROUS MAN.


For some minutes after Poubalov left the house Clara sat motionless,
reviewing the strange discourse of the Russian, trying to persuade
herself one moment to trust him, and the next impulsively throwing
aside the theories so finely spun from his innuendoes and
circumlocutions. She shuddered at the thought of Ivan in the hands of
such fanatics as she knew were included in the most rabid enemies of
Russian polity, and as promptly felt such a solution of the mystery to
be impossible. Equally impossible seemed the solution that premised
a fear on the part of Ivan so great that he dared not let even his
intended wife know of his whereabouts.

Removed from the influence of Poubalov's magnetic personality and his
subtle arguments, Clara felt that it was to him rather than to the
Nihilists that she must look for implacable hostility to Ivan. Yet why
should Ivan, resident in and prospective citizen of the United States,
fear him, an "official agent of a friendly government"? Fear? That was
not like the Ivan she knew and loved! Was it not again impossible that
her lover should have been so stirred by fear of anybody or anything as
to take flight and conceal his hiding-place from her?

On the other hand, how could she know what influences had been
suddenly applied to Ivan to make him take a seemingly indefensible if
not impossible course? And what was more impossible, in any of the
suggested solutions, than his very disappearance, which was a painful
fact, although hard to realize even after nearly twenty-four hours had
passed since the time set for his wedding?

The dining-room door was softly opened, and Mrs. White put in her head.

"Has he gone?" she whispered.

"Yes," replied Clara, starting up as if she had been aroused from
sleep. "Come in."

Louise approached her cousin solicitously.

"We have had such a fright!" she said taking Clara in her arms; "I
didn't know whether to be more alarmed when we could hear his deep
voice than after the sound of it had ceased altogether."

"Why should you have feared?" asked Clara; "you couldn't suppose that I
was in any danger in Mrs. White's house, could you?"

"No," answered Louise, "but the air is full of excitement; and while
Mr. Poubalov was talking, another Russian came in who is friendly
to Ivan. Mrs. White says he is a tailor, a very poor man whom Ivan
befriended, and an exile like himself. He recognized Poubalov's voice,
and declared positively that his presence here explained Ivan's fate.
He was terribly agitated and refused to stay, saying that he must
follow Poubalov. We couldn't tell what to make of it."

This little narration came as a new shock to Clara. She had told
Poubalov that among all of Ivan's friends there was but one Russian,
and she had in mind, of course, Paul Palovna. She had never heard of
this tailor, and although it might not follow that Ivan would count
among his friends a poor man whom he might have befriended, was it not
a reasonable inference that this poor man was a Nihilist? and that if
there were one brought to light, that there might be many others whose
identity would ever remain unknown to her? Had she not heard how the
great body of the nihilistic society was made up of the poor? and this
man had recognized Poubalov! That was significant, surely; but just
what inference of value she should draw from it was anything but clear.

While these thoughts and questions were chasing through her brain,
Litizki and Paul Palovna arrived at the house, coming from different
directions. Paul approached Clara with marked constraint.

"Do not be afraid, my friend," she said, extending her hand; "I am
quite strong and hopeful. I have read the papers, all of them, and they
do not disturb me. I cannot thank you enough for what you did for me
yesterday."

"I am glad to hear you speak so bravely," responded Paul; "you mustn't
feel indebted to me, however, for Strobel is the best friend I ever
had, and it would be strange indeed if I did not try to find him. I
suppose it is almost unkind to ask if there is any news?"

"There is none exactly, and yet I have heard some things that you can
advise me about better than anybody else."

"Miss Hilman," interposed Mrs. White, "this is Mr. Litizki, the man
Miss Pembroke was telling you about."

Clara, intent upon referring Poubalov's suggestions to Paul, had not
seen the little tailor come in. Now she turned and confronted Litizki
with mingled hope and alarm; hope that this man, whose positive
utterance had been reported, might give her a definite clew; alarm
lest he be one of the most irreconcilable of revolutionists, a man who
would sacrifice friends and family for a cause that he imagined just.
Her doubts increased as she saw the wild gleam in his small eyes, that
lit up his sallow face and made it glow with fierce intensity. Ivan had
befriended him; must she distrust him, too?

"I am glad to see you," she said with a quick resolution to win this
man, and she surprised the tailor and made him speechless for the
moment by grasping his hand warmly. "You have come to tell me something
about Mr. Poubalov, or Mr. Strobel, or both?"

Litizki, embarrassed and awed by this queenly young woman who looked
into his eyes so searchingly and withal so graciously, cleared his
throat, shifted about on his feet, and a faint tinge of red actually
found its way to his sunken cheeks.

"Yes," he answered after a moment, catching his breath with a gasp and
swallowing as if he took oxygen into his system by way of his stomach;
"yes, Miss Hilman, about both, if you please."

He paused, excitement and embarrassment making it difficult to say
anything coherently.

"Poubalov?" said Paul, whose brows had contracted ominously when he
heard the name, and who took advantage of the pause to ask, "What
Poubalov is that?"

"Can there be more than one who would hound a poor Russian the world
over?" rasped Litizki, turning upon Paul, intense excitement blazing
again in his usually dull eyes; "it is none other than Alexander
Poubalov, spy, informer, traitor!"

The little tailor trembled visibly as he hissed these words, and he
turned to Clara as if to make certain that they should impress her
deeply.

"What, in the name of all that is right, does Poubalov do here?" asked
Paul.

"Do?" cried Litizki; "does he ever do anything but spy upon the poor?
Ask what has he done here, and I will tell you that he has captured our
Strobel, and has him bound in chains, waiting only a convenient and
safe opportunity to convey him from the country to the presence of the
little father[A] and then, Siberia, or----" and the tailor drew his
hand significantly across his throat.

[A] Russian familiar name for the czar.

Clara observed Paul, not the tailor, during this extravagant speech.
Would Palovna, an intelligent man, free from excitement, condemn and
ridicule Litizki's assertions as wild and imaginary? No; he listened
gravely and gave no sign that he discredited the tailor in the least.
Noticing Clara's inquiring look, Paul said:

"We Russians, Miss Hilman, are inclined to credit almost any
monstrosity in the way of crime, treachery and violence to men like
Alexander Poubalov. To us he stands as guilty of anything with which he
is charged until he incontestably proves himself innocent."

Clara's heart sank heavily, but she knew that she could trust Paul.

"May I tell you something?" she asked, and he followed her into the
dining-room. There she hurriedly repeated the substance of Poubalov's
discourse, laying especial stress upon his warning relative to
distrustful Nihilists.

"It's a splendid argument," said Paul when she had finished; "I suppose
you were attracted by his very frankness in admitting that he is a spy?
That was a characteristic move. Mind you, I never had trouble with
Poubalov; I wouldn't know him if I saw him, but I know about him. He is
a very prince of spies, a past-master in the art of deceit, and many,
many shrewd men have been the victims of his seeming candor. You may
be sure he masks some villainy beneath his frankness, for he never was
known to do a disinterested act."

"He spoke as if he were here upon some mission," suggested Clara.

"Certainly, but he wouldn't tell you what that mission was. That it had
to do with Strobel is certain. I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily,
Miss Hilman, but Poubalov is a most dangerous man. It may be well for
us that you have faced him, though we must necessarily have discovered
his presence soon, and to see him is to suspect. We at least know where
to look. Litizki is an impressionable, excitable man, but he may be
right, nevertheless. I am sure that you can trust him, whether or not
there is anything in Poubalov's nihilistic suggestions. And as to that,
I don't believe there is--not with him about. Plenty of false notions
prevail about the Russian revolutionists, and it would be to Poubalov's
interest to arouse dread of them in your mind. Anything to distract
attention and suspicion from himself."

They returned to the front room. Litizki had recovered from his
excitement, and was more like his customary, depressed self, but though
he spoke quietly it was with bitter emphasis and strong conviction.

"I believe," he said, "that Poubalov instigated if he did not take part
in the abduction of Mr. Strobel. I am convinced that he has him now in
hiding, and the question only is whether we are to inform the police or
take action ourselves."

"The police," responded Paul, "would not proceed against Poubalov on
the strength of our suppositions. He would intrench himself in his
official position, and insist on compliance with all forms of law; and
during the delay, if, indeed, he has Strobel in his power, he would
spirit him away."

"So I think," said Litizki, "and as he won't dare to remove Strobel
until the interest in his disappearance dies down, unless he were
openly attacked in the manner you suggest, I intend, if Miss Hilman
agrees, to hunt for our friend in my own way. I shall do so to-night. I
must find him."

He looked inquiringly at Clara.

"I cannot say yes or no," she replied; "you are a friend of Mr.
Strobel's and you will do what you think best. Only, let me know what
you find."

There was a gleam of pleasure in Litizki's eyes, followed by an
expression of sullen determination as he responded:

"You shall hear from me to-morrow."

"Lou," said Clara, "I think we had better go home now. I am feeling
very worn. If any of you hear the least word, I wish you would come to
see me."

As she prepared to leave she took occasion to whisper to Paul:

"I do not know that I do right in encouraging Litizki. My feeling is
that the more there are at work and the more various the methods, the
greater is the chance of success. May I leave it to you to prevent
Litizki, if possible, from any act that would be indiscreet, or worse?"

"I will do what I can," said Paul; "but he is, after all, an
irresponsible agent. I am inclined to think that good will come of his
investigation, whatever he does."

It was the luncheon hour when the young ladies reached home, and Mr.
Pembroke had arrived before them. His face expressed painful anxiety as
he greeted his niece.

"My poor child," he said, "you have heard everything, I suppose?"

"I have heard a great deal, uncle," replied Clara, "and appreciate your
motives in withholding the paper from me that published the wicked
rumor that Ivan had eloped, but you should have known me better. Do you
suppose, uncle dear, that that rumor disturbed me? I dismiss it more
lightly than anything that has been said."

"Poor child! poor child!" sighed Mr. Pembroke.

"Why do you say that?" asked Clara, sitting down wearily. "Of course, I
am sorrowful; nobody can realize what I suffer; but I am confident that
Ivan has done no wrong, and I cannot believe that we shall not find
him. I have returned to rest, not to give up the search."

"Clara, my dear girl," said her uncle, tenderly, "you'd best give it
up. You have a great sorrow to bear, but I know how brave you are.
There is no occasion for further search."

"No occasion! Uncle, what do you mean?"

"The detective assigned from headquarters to make an investigation has
been to see me."

"Yes, yes! what did he say?"

"The worst possible, Clara. He is convinced that Strobel went to New
York, if not with Lizzie White, then to join her there. It is the only
possible explanation of his disappearance."

"No! no! you know nothing about it, and the detective is a fool!" cried
Clara.

Mr. Pembroke was immensely surprised at this violent outbreak, when
he had expected tears, prostration, the deepest grief. It occurred to
him that perhaps his niece's mind had been unsettled by her trouble.
She sat looking at him with blazing eyes, her face flushed, her foot
nervously patting the floor.

"You are greatly excited, Clara," ventured her uncle, gently.

"Tell me what the detective said!" retorted Clara, imperiously.

"He has found that a closed carriage, such as we know Strobel took
at the corner of Park and Tremont Streets, halted at the Park Square
Station shortly after that time. The passenger was a young man who
answered the description of Strobel. He paid the driver, went into the
station, bought a ticket for New York, and immediately took his place
in the train. It is further known that Lizzie White took a train from
the same station at about the same hour."

"Is that all?" asked Clara, scornfully.

"My dear girl, is it not enough?"

"It is nothing, uncle, absolutely nothing. Has your detective seen the
driver of the closed carriage?"

"I don't know; I suppose so."

"I must see the detective then. No, I am not going now. After luncheon.
I shall not risk failure by neglecting to care for myself. Uncle dear,"
and she suddenly melted and put her arms around the old gentleman's
neck, "forgive me, please, if I am impatient and hasty with you. I know
Ivan as you do not; I know this accusation is not true. The detective
has been mistaken, and I shall show him so, and all the world besides."

Mr. Pembroke sighed sadly.

"Your loyalty, my dear," he said, "is deserving of a better subject and
a better fate."




CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY.


Nothing would deter Clara from a trip to police headquarters after
luncheon, and, as in the forenoon, her Cousin Louise accompanied her.
As they entered the building in Pemberton Square, they met the infirm
old man, Dexter, he who had arrived late at the church, he whom Clara
had interrupted in conversation with Mr. Pembroke. He bowed to the
young ladies with an attempt at graciousness, and reached for the
shapeless, soft cap that covered his head, but he only succeeded in
pulling the visor awry, and he passed them, mumbling about the weather.

"I am afraid," said Clara, "that my trouble is making me harsh toward
everybody, but that old man seems to me the most disagreeable and
repulsive being I ever saw. Who is he?"

"I only know that his name is Dexter," replied Louise; "he has some
business with papa, I believe."

Clara inquired for the detective who had been assigned to the Strobel
case, and after such delays as are naturally incident to strangers
making their first call at the offices of the department, she was
confronted by Mr. William Bowker, a commonplace-looking individual, who
said:

"Well, ladies, what can I do for you?"

"I am Miss Hilman," replied Clara.

"Ah!" and Bowker raised his brows regretfully, "I informed your uncle
this forenoon, Miss Hilman, of what I have done and found in the
matter."

"He told me about it, but I couldn't be satisfied with a report at
second hand. Won't you tell me just what you told him?"

"It will be very unpleasant for you, Miss Hilman, and if Mr. Pembroke
has told you the result of my investigation, that is really all there
is to be said."

"I won't trouble you to repeat that a gentleman answering the
description of Mr. Strobel alighted from a closed carriage at the
Park Square Station, shortly after the accident on Park Street and
bought a ticket for New York, or that Miss White took the same train.
I am willing to take it for granted that you have traced Miss White's
movements correctly. I want to know what makes you so certain that the
gentleman who took the train was Mr. Strobel?"

Detective Bowker stared at the young lady a moment; it was his delicate
way of expressing surprise.

"The description of the man and the time tallied with Strobel and his
accident," he answered, "to say nothing of the reasons for his running
away."

"Is that all, Mr. Bowker?"

"No, it ain't; that was what we found at first. Don't it look
reasonable----" and he proceeded to theorize on the matter until Clara
checked him.

"I could have heard all that from half the people in Boston," she said,
"if I had paid any attention to the rumor. I supposed professional
detectives would base their reports on something better than
conjecture."

Bowker shrugged his shoulders.

"What would you say," he asked with a little temper, "if an
acquaintance of Strobel's was to tell you that he saw the gentleman buy
his ticket and go to the train?"

"Have you such evidence as that? If so, who is it?"

"I can't answer the question, Miss Hilman. I have no right to make
public the workings of the department. I expect to get further evidence
this afternoon to prove that Strobel eloped. It's by no wish of mine,
you understand, that I tell you these disagreeable things."

"You needn't apologize, Mr. Bowker. I came for information. I
understand, then, that you do not regard your investigation as
finished."

"Well, not exactly. Of course we want to clinch it."

"Have you seen the driver of the closed carriage?"

"No. We have no means of identifying him except recognition by the man
who drove the coupé. If a man should walk in here and say that he drove
the closed carriage, we'd examine him, of course, but we've been unable
yet to find that man. The thing being in the papers, it may happen--in
fact, it's quite likely--that the missing driver will turn up to-day.
Cabmen are usually anxious to please the department. I suppose the
evidence of the cabman would be satisfactory, wouldn't it?"

"Quite, if I was satisfied that it was the man, and that he told the
truth."

"I guess you're hard to satisfy, Miss Hilman."

"Mr. Bowker," and Clara beamed on him with a smile so sweet and radiant
that he started with astonishment, "I think you are working hard and as
faithfully as you know how to prove a theory which you formed early in
your investigations, even before you had Lizzie White's flight to base
it on. I shouldn't think you'd do that, you know. Honestly, wouldn't
you rather find out the truth, even if it did upset your first theory?"

Bowker stared in undisguised discomfort.

"If you've got any facts," he said, "you'd ought to let us have them.
Of course we want to find out the truth. What is it you know, or think
of?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Bowker," responded Clara, rising, and still
bewildering him with her lovely smiles; "you work along in your way
and I'll work in mine. When I learn that you've found anything worth
considering, I may take you into my confidence; I might even co-operate
with you. Good-afternoon."

No one was more amazed at Clara's coolness than her Cousin Louise.

"I don't see how you can do it, Clara," she said when they were again
in Pemberton Square.

"Do you realize," returned Clara, "what might happen if I didn't do
something of this kind? Somebody must stir everybody else up, or else
the public will not only come to believe that Ivan was false, but we
shall never find him. I may be making mistakes, but I don't believe
that detective will be content to stop where he is. He'll look further,
and the further he looks the more certainly will he find that he has
been working at a wrong theory. Let's go somewhere and find a business
directory."

They went to the parlor of a neighboring hotel, where for an hour Clara
busied herself making a list of all the livery and hack stables in the
city. Then she hired a cab, and for hours the young ladies went from
one to another stable, Clara always with the same inquiry, seeking for
some trace of him whom for convenience she came to call the "second
driver."

There is no need to go into the details of her tedious search. It was
not concluded when evening came, and she had to desist from sheer
fatigue. She had found no clew that promised the discovery of the one
witness who could certainly be of use to her.

From Mrs. White's Litizki went to his shop and toiled patiently and
methodically for two or three hours. He hardly opened his lips during
the whole time, but his brain was busy with projects. That Poubalov
was responsible for the fate of Ivan Strobel did not admit of a shadow
of doubt; that he had concealed the young man in his lodgings was not
so certain, but Litizki deemed it altogether probable. The spy would
have plenty of money, he could have put up at a hotel; why had he not
done so? Because, according to Litizki's reasoning, he had uses for a
lodging to which the public conveniences of a hotel could not safely
be bent. Distrustful of all men, the spy would keep his prisoner under
his own charge, and in a lodging-house it would not be difficult
to purchase the discreet silence of a not too scrupulous landlady
concerning a mysterious co-tenant.

The more he thought about it the more firmly the idea took possession
of the tailor that Strobel was confined in the Bulfinch Place
lodging-house which Poubalov had entered by means of a latch-key.
If any one had suggested to him the spy's arguments to the effect
that as the agent of a friendly government he could not venture, if
he would, to violate American law, Litizki would have laughed, and
that would have been very significant of his immeasurable contempt
for the argument, for it was not in the memory of his associates that
the tailor had ever smiled. His nearest approach to it, in fact, was
when he manifested pleasure at the idea of being countenanced in an
investigation of Poubalov's doings in his own way. Respect American
law, indeed! Then would Poubalov be other than he was, and the leopard
might be expected to change his spots.

Litizki hated Poubalov with all the concentrated venom of his small
nature, a nature that had known little of good in the world save
in Ivan Strobel's kindness, that had felt the blows of tyranny and
the stabs of treachery at the hands of this same spy. A desire for
vengeance had smoldered long in his heart, and he had never expected
that any breeze of fortune would fan it into living flame; and now,
suddenly, it had burst forth a raging fire, and the possibility of
opportunity rose before his dull eyes as the one glad hope of his
wretched life. Poubalov in America! Poubalov at his treacherous work
against the one man who had inspired Litizki with confidence and
stirred his affections! and he, Litizki, knew Poubalov's secret, knew
where he could lay hands upon him! Fate must have placed him there in
order that Litizki's vengeance might be the more complete.

The tailor laid down his tools and bent his head upon his hands.
Poubalov must be checkmated, Strobel rescued; and if in accomplishing
this end, the spy should be--Well, what then?

Litizki put on a long coat with a high collar that he turned up about
his ears, and a soft hat that he pulled down over his eyes. At the foot
of the stairs that led to his shop he met Paul Palovna.

"Hello, Litizki," exclaimed the young man, "where in the world are you
going rigged out as if it were winter?"

The grotesque little figure looked sourly up at the inquirer and
replied:

"I am going to begin my work."

"See here, Litizki," said Paul, seriously, "you mustn't do anything
rash. I was just coming to see you to give you warning. Poubalov is
dangerous and very clever. Don't get yourself into trouble, and don't
spoil all chance of trapping him, if he has really got hold of Strobel,
by any premature act."

The little tailor reflected.

"For myself," he answered presently, "nothing matters. I will be
careful, Paul Palovna, as careful as man can be not to compromise
any chances. I shall act for myself alone. Nobody sends me, nobody
influences me. If I succeed, we shall all rejoice; if I fail"--he
shrugged his shoulders significantly--"I will be the only loser. I
promise you not to be rash, Paul Palovna, for the sake of noble Ivan
Strobel and his beautiful lady."

Then he moved away, and Palovna knew hardly whether to smile at his
ludicrous make-up, or shudder at the purpose that unquestionably lurked
in his thoughts.

"I hope good may come of it!" sighed Palovna.

Litizki went to Bulfinch Place, and shrinking as far as possible into
his long coat, walked along on the sidewalk opposite Poubalov's house.
Yes, there the villain was, calmly reading a newspaper! One flight from
the ground, front room. At the side of the room was a smaller one over
the hall. Litizki knew the arrangement of the houses in that vicinity,
and the blinds of that room were closed. Perhaps, though, the prison
chamber would be in some more remote part of the house. Time and the
night would tell.

The tailor went to the corner of Bowdoin Street, and stood there,
unmindful of the curious glances of passers until he saw Poubalov leave
the lodging-house. It was just possible that the spy had his prisoner
concealed elsewhere, and was now going to him. Litizki followed. It
occurred to him that now might be the time to get into the house
on some pretext and make a search, but he dismissed the thought as
ruinous. If Strobel were there, the landlady would be paid to be
watchful during Poubalov's absence. No; the night was the time when
nobody would be watching, and when every corner in the house could be
searched from cellar to garret.

Poubalov went to State Street, and entered the bank where Strobel had
been employed. He brushed past Litizki when he emerged, but apparently
did not see him. The tailor followed him from one place to another,
waited under a hotel window for an hour while the spy was dining,
saw him into a theatre and eventually back to his lodgings, where he
arrived at about eleven o'clock. It was evident that he went directly
to bed, for the light in his room was extinguished very shortly after
he went in.

Litizki then went to a cheap restaurant, where he appeased his appetite
and drank several cups of bad tea. It was after midnight before he left
the place, and his one wish was that he had a dark lantern. To make up
for his lack, he was plentifully supplied with matches.

A printer, whom Litizki knew by sight, lived in the house adjoining the
one where Poubalov lodged. The tailor knew that he ordinarily arrived
home at one o'clock. He was on time this night, and as he turned into
the tiny yard before the building, Litizki stepped down from the
doorway.

"I'm glad you've come," he said, "I left my key in the room and I can't
rouse anybody by ringing."

"No," responded the printer with a laugh, "they don't get up for
anybody. How long you been living here?"

"Only a few days."

The door was opened, and both men went upstairs. The printer, with a
cheery "good-night," entered a room on the second landing. Litizki
continued to the top floor, and thence through a skylight to the roof.
Fortune was, indeed, favoring him. He had supposed the skylight would
be raised for the sake of ventilation. There had been doubt whether
the steps leading to it would be in place.

He cared little whether the skylight on the adjoining roof would be
found open and the steps in place, or not; he would get in in any
event. Both were in just the condition most favorable to his project,
and a moment later Litizki had struck a match and was peering about in
an empty room on the top floor of Poubalov's lodging house.

The little tailor exulted more and more as he crept down the stairs
after examining every room. Not a sleeper had been awakened, not a door
had been found locked. He would search the whole house before trying
the door to the hall room adjoining Poubalov's. That would be found
locked. He had no doubt he should pick the lock, for he had skeleton
keys in his pocket, and if not--a vigorous shove and he would burst it
open. What cared he for details at the very end of his search?

He had come to the floor above the spy's room. Here, as before, every
door was unlocked, most of the rooms empty. He had just extinguished a
match preparatory to descending further, when from somewhere out of the
darkness heavy hands were laid upon him and he was borne to the floor.
Another instant and a hand was pressed upon his mouth and there was a
dazzling flash of light from a dark lantern held over him.

Litizki saw the cruel eyes of Alexander Poubalov glaring down, and then
the slide of the lantern was closed again.




CHAPTER IX.

LITIZKI'S LESSON.


There had been no scuffle and almost no noise as the tailor fell to
the floor, but one of the chamber doors opened, nevertheless, and a
startled voice asked: "What's that?"

"Sorry you've been disturbed," said Poubalov; "a friend of mine, with a
little more of a load than he could manage, has stumbled. That's all. I
will look out for him."

The inquirer went back to bed grumbling, and as soon as the door closed
Poubalov whispered in Russian: "Will you keep quiet, or shall I have to
quiet you?" and he removed his hand from Litizki's mouth.

"It's all one to me, Alexander Poubalov," muttered the tailor, and,
feeling the pressure removed, he rose to his feet. Still speaking
Russian, the spy remarked:

"You are so good at finding your way in the dark that I will not pull
the slide of my lantern. I should dislike, for your sake, to have you
recognized. Go down and enter my room."

Litizki felt for the banister, and, guided by it, walked down the
flight and opened the door, as directed, into his captor's room. When
Poubalov came in he closed and bolted the door, then opened the lantern
and let its rays fall on Litizki from head to feet, and head again, as
if he were curiously studying the make-up. He laughed softly at last
and said:

"There's a chair just back of you. Sit down."

The tailor sank into it, and Poubalov lit the gas. In the general light
Litizki saw that the spy was fully dressed save for his coat, and that
the folding bed which was a feature of the furniture had not been let
down. Poubalov noticed Litizki's glance and understood:

"No, my friend," he said suavely, "I did not go to bed. I expected you,
and sat up to receive you."

Litizki groaned. Until then he had hoped desperately that even as a
prisoner he would be able to accomplish something; now, convinced
that the spy had prepared for his coming, he realized that his effort
had been in vain. The awful sense of the unshakable power this man
represented and wielded came over him as it did in those gloomy days
in Russia when he had to choose between voluntary exile and certain
banishment.

Poubalov drew a chair to a little table in the middle of the room, and
sat down opposite the tailor.

"Nicholas Litizki," he said, "you have surprised and grieved me! I
would not have supposed that even a residence of several years in
America could have made you forget that Alexander Poubalov never takes
a step until he is thoroughly prepared for it. I, who hardly know what
the word emotion means, am almost hurt. Surely it must be that contact
with republican institutions deadens a man's sensibilities and affects
his memory."

Litizki's small eyes had been fixed upon those of his adversary from
the beginning. They had relapsed to their customary dull expression,
but they glowed faintly with new life, for, the first edge of his
disappointment dulled, he recalled the two great purposes for which
he had invaded the house: vengeance and the rescue of Ivan Strobel.
Neither purpose might be lost, and if he must forego or postpone
vengeance, he would not prejudice what means others might have at
command for saving his benefactor.

"Poubalov," said the tailor, "I am an American citizen."

"I bow to your discretion," responded the spy, "but I knew it. You
think to hide behind the generous skirts of your adopted country's
goddess. Good! I admit the efficacy of the refuge, for the accredited
agent of the czar--whom God preserve, Nicholas Litizki--will do
nothing in a friendly country in violation of that country's laws. But
see, my friend, what a tower of strength a proper respect for the law
becomes: I not only knew you were coming, but I knew what you were
coming for, and I need not say that I knew what way you would take.
I have kept within the law, and yet I found out all about you and
your associates before I had been in Boston--no matter how long. Poor
fellow! did you really think that Poubalov's eyes did not penetrate
your flimsy disguise? I am sorry, Litizki; your patience and devotion
would fit you for service in the holy cause of the czar, and it is not
at all adapted to pursuing the steps of honest men."

"You do not frighten me," interposed Litizki; "I know your superlative
cunning and your crooked ways. Your speech nauseates me. 'Honest men!'
Bah!"

"We won't dispute over trifles, then. I simply call to your attention
the fact that you unlawfully invade a dwelling-house, prowling about
like a common thief and thus place yourself unreservedly in my power.
Of course, Nicholas Litizki did not enter here to commit theft. He came
to find his friend, Ivan Strobel."

"It is a lie, Alexander Poubalov! I sought him not."

"You know whether it is a lie, or not. So do I. Therefore we will not
argue the matter. Well, what are you going to do now that you are here?"

Litizki boiled with futile rage. He was trapped not only literally as
Poubalov's prisoner, but he felt how weak he was in any contest of
words with this shrewd master of deceit. He had spoken truly in telling
Paul Palovna that it mattered not what became of him, and although
those words were uttered under the influence of a desire for vengeance
that constant dwelling upon had turned to conviction that he would
succeed, he now felt them to be as true, for he despaired, as he had
been despairing for years, of accomplishing anything that would be
worth the doing. Why had he presumed to undertake the hopeless task of
outwitting Poubalov? He saw how wildly foolish had been his course,
but his conviction remained unshaken.

"Have it so, then," he hissed; "respect for law is not in your
character. You have unlawfully taken possession of Ivan Strobel."

"Yes?" responded Poubalov quietly; "you are very sure of that?"

"I know it, yes; I did come here to find him, to liberate, ay, to kill
you if need be!"

"Indeed! the same, familiar antagonism to the authority of Russia, I
suppose. The Russian agent is to you like the red flag to the bull.
Yes, very interesting. Well, Litizki?"

"Alexander Poubalov!" exclaimed the tailor, rising and speaking with
all his long-treasured bitterness, "you have Ivan Strobel, an American
citizen, in your power; you restrain him illegally of his liberty, with
what purpose it matters not. I, as an American citizen, demand that you
release him."

Poubalov looked with mock admiration at the fierce but grotesque figure
before him, and said:

"Good! very good! I am not certain but that demand is good law. I shall
have to think of it. When, Nicholas Litizki?"

"I cannot tolerate your smart language," returned Litizki; "give him up
now. It will be worse for you if you fool with me. You threw me down in
the dark because I was taken unawares. In the light I can make my own
fight, Alexander Poubalov! Come! Ivan Strobel is in that room, behind
that door, and if you have not stopped his ears as you have gagged his
mouth and bound his limbs, he hears my voice now and knows it. I should
be less than man should I not take even a desperate step to rescue him,
my friend, my benefactor!"

Even to the cynical spy the grotesqueness of the little tailor's figure
and make-up disappeared in the exaltation up to which his emotions bore
him. He took one determined stride toward the door to the little hall
room.

"Nicholas Litizki," said Poubalov, softly.

The tailor turned, such was the compelling power of that deep voice,
and for the instant his progress was checked. Poubalov had extended one
arm upon the table and his hand was toying with a revolver.

"I believe you, my friend," remarked the spy, hardly looking toward the
tailor at first, but later concentrating his gleaming eyes upon him,
"I believe you when you say by actions if not by words that you would
die for your friend, and that you do not care what becomes of you. But
you have some degree of cleverness, Litizki. We learned that years ago.
Listen, then, just a moment before you lay hand upon that door. It is
locked, Litizki. Before you could open it I could put a bullet through
your heart. Would I not dare? What should a peaceable lodger not do to
a man who stealthily enters his house by night? Who would disbelieve
me if I should calmly report to the police that you came as a burglar,
and that I shot at you in protection of property and life? Suppose,
however, that I prefer to avoid a disturbance. Before you could more
than wrench the knob of that door once, I could pierce your heart
silently."

Poubalov rose and stood towering over Litizki, a knife glistening in
his right hand.

"You know something of my resources," he continued, "and whether I
would be likely to find difficulty in disposing of your lifeless
body. Why! you have come so secretly that you and I alone know of
your whereabout. We would then have another disappearance to add to
the Strobel mystery, but one that would not be half as interesting,
Litizki, not half."

"You have killed Ivan Strobel!" whispered Litizki, shrinking away.

"In that inference," said Poubalov, contemptuously, as he laid his
weapons on the table and resumed his seat, "your madness reaches its
climax and you will speedily recover. You will not go to that door
now. You see how useless it would be. Live, and you may yet see your
friend, may yet assist in liberating him. Understand me, Nicholas
Litizki: I have not come to this country for nothing. I have a mission
to perform, and nothing shall prevent me from performing it, and in my
own way."

"You will then keep Strobel a prisoner," muttered Litizki, "until you
have wrung from him by cruelty what you have come for?"

"I shall perform my mission. Now it would be perfectly easy for me to
remove you, for you are making yourself an obstacle, a slight one, to
my plans. It pleases me better, however, that you should live, and you
may yet be an assistance to me. I will show you to the street door
whenever you feel ready to depart."

Litizki shot a glance full of evil at his captor, but Poubalov ignored
it, and calmly lighted the inevitable cigarette.

"Very well, Alexander Poubalov," said Litizki after a moment, "you may
let me go, but expect no gratitude from me. I know only too well that
you think to serve your foul purposes by my liberty, but, weak as I
am, I shall not rest until Strobel is restored to us or his fate made
known, and even after that I shall pursue you! You teach me a lesson,
Poubalov, a hard one, but I shall learn it."

"I hope you will. Life will be easier if you do. Must you go now?
Permit me," and with a fine pretense at courtesy he unbolted the door
and accompanied Litizki to the street door, which he also opened.

"Good-night, Nicholas Litizki," he whispered as he withdrew again into
the house.

It was Litizki's purpose to go at once to the house where Paul Palovna
lodged, rouse him, and tell him his experience, with all the admissions
that Poubalov had seemed to make, and all the inferences that were
to be drawn from his remarks and innuendoes; but as he hurried along
in the cool night air he felt as if something were leaving him. He
slackened his pace, halted irresolutely, went on a few steps, and at
last leaned heavily against a building and struck his hand angrily
against his brow, muttering:

"Fool, fool!"

What was this sense of loss but a relief from the dominating influence
of Poubalov's stronger personality? There, with all his desperation,
even at the height of his exaltation, when he seemed to tread the
border lands of heroism, he had halted at a single word from the spy.
He had stood and listened to threats and sophistry, and had been moved
by the one and convinced by the other.

No! he could not tell all this to Palovna, or to any other person
except Strobel; to him, if he should ever return, he would make a full
confession of his defeat. For the present he must keep it to himself,
and if he would still do something to effect his vengeance and rescue
Strobel, he must work in secret. And as he reflected that it was just
this course that Poubalov undoubtedly expected him to take, he groaned
and slunk abashed and mortified to his lonely room.

In the early morning, without waiting to read newspapers, or submit to
interviews from reporters, should they call again at the house, Clara
and Louise set forth to finish their search for the "second driver."
Again they had a tedious, fruitless experience. Now and again it seemed
momentarily as if they had come upon a clew to the man, but Clara's
keen questions invariably brought them to the same disappointing end.
By noon they had visited every livery stable in Boston.

"Don't think me unkind, Clara," ventured Louise, "but I fear we ought
to give this up. I don't know that I can say just why, for I sympathize
with you as deeply as ever, and, like you, I believe in Ivan; but
somehow I fear."

"There are the stables in Cambridge and Somerville," responded Clara,
absently; "we haven't been there. Forgive me, dear! I didn't mean to
ignore what you said. We are both tired. I had meant to call at Mrs.
White's before returning, but we will go home and rest, and see if
fresh thinking will help us. There may be some word at home by this
time."

There was, indeed, some word at home. The servant reported that
Detective Bowker had called and would be glad to see Miss Hilman,
should she care to go downtown during this afternoon; and there were
many letters from friends who had learned of her trouble. All except
one were more or less sympathetic, but in more than one there was a
veiled remonstrance against her taking such a vigorous and public part
in the case.

The exception was unsigned and without date. It read:

  "If Miss Hilman insists on being convinced with her own eyes that
  her 'lover' has been false, if she needs more proof to cause her to
  withdraw from the ridiculous attitude she has assumed, why doesn't
  she go to New York and find Lizzie White? The writer is certain that
  she would return fully satisfied."




CHAPTER X.

CORROBORATIVE DETAIL.


Clara had not come sufficiently in contact with the evil side
of human nature to ignore an anonymous letter. She felt all the
contempt for the writer that he or she deserved, and she spurned the
suggestion contained in the letter as utterly unworthy of a moment's
attention. Yet the sting was there. She might ignore the letter to
all appearances, and yet not be able to forget it. The cruelty of the
writer was what she felt, not the force of the blow.

"I cannot understand," she said, laying the letter down and taking a
newspaper, "how a person can go out of his way for the sole purpose of
doing an unkind thing."

"What is it, dear?" asked Louise, stopping on her way out of the room.

Clara started to show her the letter, but, overcome by a sense of
repugnance for it, answered:

"Let it pass until after luncheon. We shall have a great deal to talk
of then."

So Clara was left alone with the newspapers, and she read them with
amazement and consternation. At the very first there was a little
relief at finding no flaring headlines on the first page, for she had
no enjoyment in the notoriety that the case thrust upon her. She bore
it simply as one of the unavoidable features of the situation. As she
searched the first paper, the relief vanished, and in its place came
a growing wonder. The reports of the abandoned wedding had been set
forth in complete detail with every expansion that fertile brains could
suggest, as if every city editor had said to his reporter, "We'll stand
all you can write." It had been the important news feature of the day,
and to Clara it had seemed as if every newspaper in the city had
undertaken to solve the mystery. Where, then, was the long account of
the second day's developments?

Tucked obscurely away in the middle of a page devoted to a
miscellaneous assortment of news, she found at last a few paragraphs
setting forth the conclusions of the detective bureau, that there was
no financial irregularity to be attributed to Mr. Strobel, and that the
missing man had undoubtedly eloped with Lizzie White. Miss Hilman's
health was reported to be good, and it was noted that she had taken a
personal hand in the investigation with every appearance of confidence
in the loyalty of her betrothed.

Clara found longer reports in the other papers, and the one that had
published the first intimation of the elopement, continued to make it
the sensation of the hour, but it was a labored effort, devoted quite
as much to exploiting its own enterprise in beating the other papers as
to setting forth the news.

So, then, the community, of which the newspapers were the reflection,
had contentedly accepted the first solution that offered, and all her
work had gone for nothing, worse than nothing, for she found herself
pictured as a pitiable victim to her lover's faithlessness. The very
fact that the reporters refrained from bringing out the picture of her
misery in strong colors was evidence of the sincerity with which they
wrote. They were satisfied that Ivan had eloped! To tell how loyally
she had clung to him would be to put her in a ridiculous light before
all readers.

The tears that came to Clara's eyes were angrily dashed away at first,
but they would flow, and after a moment she gave full vent to them. Her
experience was one that comes only to those who have to suffer such
great calamities that for the time all life seems to be centered upon
them, and the awaking to the cold fact that all life runs along just as
before, and the great calamity speedily becomes an event of yesterday,
is almost as hard to bear as the original shock. This awakening with
Clara was coincident to a fresh determination to continue her search.
The world might laugh if it chose to be so cruel; she believed in her
lover and would yet find him.

The bell had rung for luncheon, and drying her eyes, Clara went into
the dining room. Her uncle was already at the table. His greeting was
constrained but not lacking in affection and sympathy.

"Don't you think it would be better, Clara," he said gently after they
had exchanged a few words, "to withdraw for a while from public view? I
am afraid you are doing no good, and I will not conceal from you that
I regard your loyal search as hopeless. I am getting to be an old man,
and I have seen a great deal of the world, as we reckon it by the human
beings who populate it. This blow that has fallen upon you has fallen
on others before your time, and it will fall again. This that seems to
you incredible has been no less incredible in the past----"

"Stop, please, uncle," interrupted Clara; "I cannot draw comparisons,
and if I could they would be valueless. I must judge my affair by its
own circumstances alone. I believe Ivan has done no wrong, and it is
nothing less than my duty to him and myself to right the wrong that has
been done to him."

"But tell me, my dear child, is there anything in the situation that
promises a solution other than that found by the detectives and the
reporters?"

"Yes, uncle, there is," replied Clara in a low tone, "and I am glad the
reporters have not found the clew, and I am not sorry that Mr. Bowker
missed it, too. I will tell you about it."

"Papa," said Louise, coming into the room at this moment, "Mr. Dexter
has called. I was coming downstairs when the bell rang, and I answered
it. I showed him into the library."

"I wish he would confine his calls to the office," exclaimed Mr.
Pembroke, impatiently. "You will have to excuse me, though, for I am
obliged to see him."

"I am afraid papa is having a serious time with his business," said
Louise, after he had gone.

"Everything comes at once, doesn't it?" responded Clara; "I am so
sorry! He wants me to give up trying to find Ivan, dear. It hurts me to
displease uncle, but what would you do? I think he would like to have
me go away for a time."

"Oh, I don't think that! I am sure he feels toward you as if you were
his own daughter."

"I am sure he does, Lou. A father couldn't be more affectionate and
kind; but in this matter, how can I yield to his wishes? He does not
know."

"Do you mean about Mr. Poubalov?"

"Partly, but I had more in mind that no one could know Ivan's character
as well as I do."

Louise thought of her own budding love. If Ralph Harmon were under
suspicion, could she fail to defend him? Could she think of him as
other than honorable and faithful?

A servant passed through the room, and left the door in the hall
carelessly ajar. Neither of the young ladies noticed it.

"Clara," said Louise, "I should try to do just as you are doing, but I
know I could not be so brave. I think if you should tell uncle about
Mr. Poubalov it might make him feel better."

"I intend to do so," replied Clara, "and would have done so last
evening if he had been at home."

They were interrupted by Mr. Pembroke's voice. He had stepped from the
library into the hall, and was speaking with ill-suppressed anger.

"I won't listen to anything you have to say on the matter," he said,
"and I will ask you to confine your talks to me to business matters;
and when you must see me, go to the office."

"Ugh!" grunted old Dexter in reply, "she'll make you as ridiculous as
she makes herself."

"Dexter," exclaimed Mr. Pembroke, "I think you're the worst villain
unhung!"

"H'm, h'm, h'm," muttered Dexter, "you're a fool, Mat Pembroke. I think
you're a fool!"

The front door closed loudly and Mr. Pembroke strode into the
dining-room, where the young ladies were looking at each other with
astonished eyes. Mr. Pembroke was flushed, and he bit his lip with
added vexation as he noticed that his daughter and niece had heard the
last words of his conversation with Dexter.

"I am sorry----" he began, his voice still shaking with anger. He did
not complete his remark, but sat down and tried to eat.

After a moment Clara rose and put her arms softly about his neck.

"I am sorry, too, uncle dear," she said, "that you have so much trouble
about me. Of course that vile man was speaking of me."

Mr. Pembroke shuddered violently at her first touch. He released her
arms abruptly and stood up.

"No, don't!" he said with an expression of the deepest pain; "you
continue your search in your own way, child. Don't mind about me or
anybody else, least of all that--that meddlesome Dexter."

"I was going to tell you some of the information I learned yesterday,
uncle."

"No, no! no, no! I don't want to hear it--that is, not now. Forgive me,
child; I am disturbed by business matters and cannot attend to it now.
This evening if you like. Good-by."

He hastened from the room, more agitated than when he had come in.

"It's a shame," said Clara, bitterly, "that any one who is in trouble
has to annoy all those who are near to her."

"I wouldn't think of it that way, dear," responded Louise; "papa is as
sympathetic as can be, and I am sure that when he gets over his anger
at this Mr. Dexter's interference, there will be nothing to regret. He
said himself, you know, that he would talk with you this evening."

"I hope I shall have something definite to tell him then," said Clara.
"Will you go downtown with me again this afternoon?"

Of course she would, and in due time, therefore, the young ladies were
again at police headquarters. Detective Bowker was evidently highly
pleased with himself, although he manfully tried to suppress any signs
of triumph.

"I called at your house this forenoon, Miss Hilman," he said, "to
inform you that the driver of the closed carriage has been found."

"What does he say?" asked Clara eagerly.

"He corroborates what I told you yesterday."

"Does he say that he drove Mr. Strobel to the Park Square Station?"

"Yes, just as I told you."

"Can I see him?"

"I have no doubt you will be able to do so. He is not here now. He has
gone about his work, but I can have him here at any time, or he will
call on you. He suggested that himself when I told him that you would
be pretty likely to doubt his story."

"I should like to see him," said Clara, her voice faint and tremulous
in spite of herself. "When did you find him, Mr. Bowker?"

"Well, as to that," replied the detective, reluctantly, "Billings came
in here early this morning. You know I said that might happen."

"Yes. What stable does he drive for?"

"What stable?" echoed Bowker with his stare of surprise; "why should
you ask that, Miss Hilman?"

"Because I have visited every stable in Boston to find whether any
employee could have been driving a closed carriage along Park Street at
the hour when the wheel of Mr. Strobel's coupé came off."

"Whew! you did mean business, didn't you?" exclaimed Bowker with
evident admiration. "It's a pity you had such a time of it. Billings
drove his own carriage. He wasn't connected with any of the stables."

"I am glad to know that my search did not fail through any lack of
thorough inquiry," said Clara, and she felt her courage reviving. "Will
you send word to this Mr. Billings that I would like to see him?"

"Certainly. When shall I tell him to call?"

"Any time this evening. And, Mr. Bowker, can you not give me the name
of the man who said he saw Mr. Strobel buy a ticket for New York?"

"I cannot do so. The fact is, we haven't the name. I expected to get
it, honestly I did, for I heard that Strobel was recognized in the
station by a friend; but that friend hasn't turned up; and, to tell you
the plain truth, we don't think it necessary to inquire for him."

"It seems to me----" began Clara, stopping and reflecting. She was
going to protest against the imperfect character of the investigation,
but she thought better of it. This detective unquestionably had no
interest to find other than the truth, and with his low conceptions of
character, due doubtless to his frequent contact with criminals, it
would be but natural for him to see no other explanation for Ivan's
disappearance than the one to substantiate which he had obtained a
certain amount of evidence. If even her good uncle were disposed to
view the idea of the elopement as a possibility, nay, as a probability,
what better could be expected of one to whom Ivan was merely a man
like other men? And the evidence of the "second driver" which was
undoubtedly straightforward---- Perhaps Ivan had gone to New York. How
could she tell? Not with Lizzie White, of course, but---- She would
talk with the driver.

"I shall be greatly obliged," she concluded, "if you will send me word
should any new development turn up. I don't suppose I can expect you to
pay any further attention to the case."

"We may hear from New York at any time," replied Bowker; "the police
there are on the lookout for Strobel, and if we hear anything I will
let you know."

Louise tucked her arm affectionately within Clara's, and asked:

"Where now, dear?"

"We will go to Mrs. White's," responded Clara, drearily. Her faith
was yet undisturbed, but the mystery seemed the darker, for if the
wily Russian had had to do with Ivan's departure, how much harder it
would be to find him in New York than in Boston! Then, had he gone
voluntarily, might it not be possible that he did not wish her to
search for him? Surely he would write if he could. With that thought,
and a renewed conviction that Ivan was somehow constrained of his
liberty, she arrived at Mrs. White's house.

"I'm so glad to see you," cried the landlady, "with all this talk in
the papers. I have heard from Lizzie. See! Here is the letter."

She handed a sheet of paper to Clara. It was not a long letter, but
what little there was was rambling in style. It was dated from Second
Avenue, New York, and stated that the writer had found a new home.

"I should be happy," she wrote, "if it wasn't for the way I had to go.
But there wasn't any other way. After a while I shall tell you all
about it."

Clara's quick perceptions told her that any person with the elopement
explanation in his head would see a significance in these words that
could not fail to reflect unfavorably upon Ivan.

"Mrs. White," she said tremulously, "you won't show this letter to
reporters, or detectives, or anybody else, will you?"




CHAPTER XI.

STRANGE EXIT OF POUBALOV.


"I had already shown it to Mr. Bowker," replied Mrs. White, anxiously;
"I thought it might convince him that Lizzie had nothing to do with the
disappearance of Mr. Strobel."

"It didn't convince him," said Clara, bitterly; "but no matter. May I
copy Miss Lizzie's address?"

"Of course. Are you going to write to her?"

"Perhaps so. Have you written yet?"

"I haven't had time, but I shall do so this afternoon. Is there
something you would like to have me say?"

Clara was intent with her thoughts.

"Mrs. White," she said presently, "if you write to-night, could you
omit any reference to Mr. Strobel?"

"Land sakes!" exclaimed the good lady; "whatever should I write about
then? With Lizzie's name in the papers, and everybody believing that
she ran away with Mr. Strobel, what should I say?"

"I suppose it would be hard to ignore it altogether, but couldn't you
omit saying anything of the rumors that have connected their names?"

"Why, I'll try to, Miss Hilman, but Lizzie will have to know about it
some time."

"Certainly, when you write to-morrow you can say what you please about
it. Just for to-day I wish you wouldn't. I'll come down early to-morrow
morning, and perhaps I will be able to tell you a great deal more than
you know now, more than any of us know."

"I do hope you will hear something definite," said Mrs. White, "for
you can't tell how much easier I am to know that Lizzie's settled
somewhere, that she's alive and in a home. If you only knew that Mr.
Strobel was sick in a hospital, now, it would be better, wouldn't it?"

"Nothing is so dreadful as uncertainty," replied Clara; "you'll be very
careful what you write then?"

"As for that, Miss Hilman, I don't see that I need to write at all
to-day. It's only a day more, and if you say it won't make any
difference to you what I say to-morrow, I'll put it off till then if
you like."

"I should be so much obliged! Have you seen Mr. Litizki to-day?"

"No, nor the dark gentleman, either. Mr. Litizki's shop is not far from
here, if you'd like to see him."

Clara inquired the way, and soon after the young ladies set out for the
little tailor's place of business.

Litizki was his own master in business, and he employed two or more
fellow-countrymen as assistants, the number varying with the demands
of his enterprise. On this day there were several men in the shop, but
they were not there as workmen. Most of them had come to talk with
Litizki about the Strobel case. He was not very communicative, but
that was his way. Nevertheless he had some things to say, and for this
reason his acquaintances found that he talked much more freely than
usual.

"I tell you," he insisted, his dull eyes glowing with hate, "Alexander
Poubalov is in Boston. I am not one to be mistaken in that man, and his
presence here means trouble for any, perhaps all of us."

"What could he wish to do against poor Russians, Nicholas Litizki, who
have no intention of revisiting their native country?" asked one of the
group.

"Better ask what has he done?" retorted the tailor. "Here is Ivan
Strobel, more prosperous than we, with more powerful friends, and what
has Poubalov done to him? Would that I knew!"

"As soon as Poubalov appears," remarked another, "Litizki will lay the
very next crime that occurs to his hands."

"Where Poubalov goes," said Litizki, "you will ever find treachery and
oppression. It is not for you, Peter, to make light of Poubalov. You
have felt his hand as well as I."

"Yes," admitted Peter, "but in the Strobel matter you do not forget
what the police have discovered, do you? Well might you suspect the
dirty spy, were it not that one does not go far, it seems, to find the
woman in the case."

"Bah!" sneered Litizki; "do you forget that there are two women in the
case? And have you seen either of them? No. Well, I have seen both. I
have no unkind word for Lizzie White, with whom they say he went away;
but I tell you, friends, Ivan Strobel could not have preferred her to
Miss Hilman." He pronounced the name softly as if it aroused a feeling
akin to reverence. "You should see her," he continued; "she is a very
angel of beauty and goodness. Happy would be the man whose privilege it
was simply to worship her; and as for him whom she would permit to love
her--Bah! talk to me not about the woman in the case until you have
seen Miss Hilman."

His friends listened gravely. They found nothing ludicrous in Litizki's
occasionally extravagant language. When he was stirred to something
like eloquence, it was almost always by a memory of the wrongs he had
suffered, and then no language could have been too imaginative to
express the bitterness with which his sympathetic hearers listened.

"Where did you see her, Litizki?" asked one of them.

"Never mind now," he replied; "I have seen her since Strobel
disappeared. She is bearing up bravely, and scorns the suggestion that
he eloped with Miss White. She is devoting her life to finding him,
and it is my opinion that every poor Russian in Boston ought to do the
same."

He looked furtively from face to face in the group, to observe the
effect of his words. Most of them stared at the floor.

"Strobel was a good man," said one, after a long pause; "but what could
any of us do?"

"Do?" repeated the tailor, and his indignant reply died on his lips
as he remembered with sudden distinctness the fiasco of the previous
night. "We could at least watch Poubalov, and I, for one, intend to
do so. I cannot sit, and cut, and sew, and think, while he is in this
country and my friend is in his power."

"Nicholas Litizki," said one who had not spoken previously, "if I were
in your place, I would let the Strobel case take care of itself."

The tailor glanced at the speaker.

"You speak as if we were still in Russia," he said, "and you had
authority to command me."

"You will do as you please," returned the other; "but if I were in your
place, I should keep quiet."

"Listen then, all of you," exclaimed Litizki, with energy; "I shall not
keep quiet. I shall pursue Poubalov, I shall do everything possible
to effect the rescue of Ivan Strobel, and if I have to sacrifice my
business and everything, and every chance I have in the world, I shall
do it."

The door of the little workshop opened, and Alexander Poubalov stepped
in.

"Good-day, to you, Nicholas Litizki, and friends," he said with easy
familiarity. "When one is in a foreign land, and has need of something,
he will naturally apply to a fellow-countryman, will he not?"

He looked around at the group, as if expecting a general assent. The
men looked darkly at him and were silent. If all had not seen him in
Russia, they knew who he was; and if there had been any doubt, they
would have but needed to glance at Litizki to see that he was facing
his arch-enemy.

The tailor rose from his bench, and his sallow face was deathly pale.

"Alexander Poubalov," he said determinedly, "this is no place for you.
You hear no words of welcome----"

"Gently, Litizki, my friend, gently," interposed the spy; "I call
simply on business. I want clothes. Will you make them for me?"

"Not for all the wealth of the czar!" returned the tailor, fiercely.

"Then we will waste no time discussing material and prices. Good-day
again," and Poubalov walked grandly out.

The group exchanged inquiring glances in silence for a moment, and then
Litizki exclaimed:

"You see, friends! you see! I was not mistaken in the man, and he
is the same here as in Russia--the spy who goes everywhere and does
nothing. I don't need to tell you that he wanted no garments. He
came here for a purpose, and he accomplished it. It is now my turn,
Vargovitch, to utter a warning. Poubalov's eyes are upon you, and if I
were you--Bah!"

Litizki had begun to imitate the serious tone in which his friend had
warned him to let the Strobel case alone, but it seemed superfluous to
suggest a warning to Vargovitch after he had himself seen the spy.

"Yes, I understand," said Vargovitch, "and I simply repeat that you'd
better keep out of the Strobel case."

"Vargovitch," cried Litizki, "you do not talk like a loyal Russian. Is
it you who would stand by and let this spy work his will among us?"

"I have no more love for Poubalov and his work than you have, Litizki,"
replied Vargovitch. "May there not be reasons for my counsel--reasons
that you do not understand?"

Litizki peered at the speaker silently and resumed his work. Vargovitch
left the room and shortly afterward the other visitors dispersed.

"I would do what Vargovitch says, Nicholas Litizki," remarked one of
the tailor's assistants.

Litizki worked away as if he had not heard, and his thoughts were not
pleasant or hopeful. It had seemed to him as if every compatriot of
his in the city would need but the suggestion to unite in an effort to
outwit Poubalov and rescue Strobel. Litizki could not understand it,
and he was disappointed. It was while he was meditating thus that Clara
and Louise called.

The little tailor almost blushed as he left his bench and went to meet
them.

"I should almost say," he began hurriedly, after he had awkwardly
acknowledged their greetings, "that you ought not to come here. Are
you aware that Poubalov may be, probably is, watching your every step?
That man has the eyes of a thousand, and if it were possible to throw
him off the track it would be best to do so. But it is impossible. If
you did not come here, he would find out that you know me, and he would
infer the rest."

"You seem troubled, Mr. Litizki," said Clara, kindly; "have you, too,
given up Mr. Strobel?"

"I? Never! It is because I do not give him up that--well, yes, I am
troubled. Why disguise the fact that Poubalov is a powerful enemy? I am
not a coward, Miss Hilman; my life is not worth enough to me to make
me care for it, but I fear that man's power will be too great for the
friends of Ivan Strobel."

"You have seen him, then?"

"Yes, I--" Litizki averted his eyes and continued: "He has been here,
to-day, not more than half an hour ago."

"I hope, Mr. Litizki," said Clara, "that you will not put yourself in
his power. If you feel that it is dangerous to help in the search for
Mr. Strobel, you must not do it."

"Dangerous? It is too late to think of that, if I cared about it. That
man has possession of Mr. Strobel, and will keep him until he has
accomplished some purpose. Strobel will not yield." Litizki paused and
looked gloomily away. "You see, it is a question of how to circumvent
Poubalov," he added.

"I am afraid, Mr. Litizki, that your loyalty to your friend will bring
misfortune upon you. I should be very sorry for that."

"Ah, Miss Hilman," muttered the tailor, and a sad wistfulness lingered
briefly in his eyes, "you are worthy of my benefactor. I could not say
more."

Clara was deeply touched, and her voice trembled as she said:

"Thank you, Mr. Litizki. I hope to be worthy of your kind thoughts. I
may learn something to-night that will put another light on the case.
Is it too much to ask you to call at my uncle's house some time during
the evening?"

"Not if you lived in Siberia, Miss Hilman. Where is it, and when shall
I come?"

Clara gave him the address and left him, begging him to come early.
When they were on the way home, Louise said:

"I am more and more amazed at your method every day, dear. Have I not
been good to listen, and ask no questions and volunteer no advice?"

"Too good, dear. I should often want advice, and ask it, but that I
fear hurting you by not following it. I must go my own way."

"Of course you must, but I was just leading up to this question: What
in the world do you want of Mr. Litizki this evening?"

"I hardly know myself, dear; but if that 'second driver' calls, I hope
to make Mr. Litizki useful. Will that do?"

It had to, for Clara fell to thinking, and her cousin saw that
questions would be irritating.

Mr. Pembroke sent word from his office that he should not come to
dinner, and he had not arrived when the servant announced a caller, and
handed a card to Clara. It was Poubalov.

"I suppose," said Clara, showing not the least surprise, "that
I'd better see him alone. Will you wait here" (they were in the
dining-room), "in case I should want you?"

Poubalov smiled and his face looked almost attractive as he rose and
bowed when Clara entered the drawing-room. At that instant Clara felt
that but for his self-confessed methods of deceit, she could have
trusted him, and this in spite of the black pictures that Litizki and
Paul Palovna had drawn of him.

"I am delighted, Miss Hilman," he said, "to observe that you endure
your sorrow and your remarkable work so well."

"I am told that nothing escapes you," replied Clara, "and so I suppose
you know all about my search for the driver of Mr. Strobel's second
carriage."

"Miss Clara," said a servant at the hall door, "a man who says his name
is Billings wishes to see you."

"Show him into the library, please," answered Clara, then to
Poubalov--"Will you pardon me? This is the man of whom I was speaking,
and I must see him."

"Pray do," responded the Russian; "my message can well wait until he
has gone."

Clara at once crossed the hall into the library. The minute she was out
of the room Poubalov went to the door and cautiously opened it a little
way. He closed it quickly and reflected. Clara had left the door from
the hall to the library wide open, and the street door would be easily
in view to anybody in the library.

Poubalov went from one to another of the several windows and looked
out. From one at the side of the room he saw a few yards of turf
bounded by a low hedge, and beyond that the park-like grounds
surrounding a large dwelling. This window was partially open.

The spy looked once more toward the hall door. He had given his hat and
stick to the servant, and they had been placed somewhere in the hall.
He shrugged his shoulders, pushed the window further up and stepped out.

A moment later, Louise, who was idly gazing out of the dining-room
window, was considerably startled to see a man, whom in the gathering
dusk she could not recognize, leap over the hedge into the adjoining
grounds, and disappear behind the shrubbery.




CHAPTER XII.

LITIZKI BREAKS HIS APPOINTMENT.


In the brief interval that elapsed between the time when she turned
from Poubalov and the moment she entered the library, Clara reflected
that while her loyal heart would rebel at the story to be told by
Billings, she must hear him patiently, and not permit her distrust of
him to manifest itself. One can think to good purpose in even so short
a time as it takes to walk across a room. Clara was fully resolved to
be guided by her reason alone in dealing with Billings, and not to
permit herself to doubt his story if it should prove, as was probable,
that what he had to say tended to corroborate the detective's theory.

Yet, when she looked at him, all her woman's intuition rebelled.
She saw a man perhaps twenty-five years old, with nothing whatever
remarkable in his appearance; but in his eyes and attitude there seemed
to be a consciousness of antagonism, as if he expected to be doubted,
sharply cross-examined, and as if he were determined that nothing
should shake his story. His sullen, dogged expression was a help to
Clara in conquering her immediate aversion to him, and she began the
critical interview with a move that surprised and embarrassed him.

He was sitting, holding his hat on his knees, at the farther side of
the room. Clara crossed directly to him with outstretched hand, saying:

"I am Miss Hilman. You are Mr. Billings, I believe. I cannot tell you
how glad I am to see you. Mr. Bowker may have told you how I hunted the
city over to find you. Sit down, please; let me take your hat."

Billings had risen awkwardly as he saw that she was coming toward
him, and, quite unaware of how she managed it, he found that she had
taken one of his hands in her own. In his confusion he let his hat
fall, picked it up hastily, and at last sat down again, feeling still
the warm clasp of Clara's hand, while with bewildered eyes he saw this
self-possessed, queenly young woman place his battered hat upon a table
and draw up a chair opposite to him. He had not said a word. If he had
come with any set phrases for beginning his story, they were completely
driven from his mind.

Clara looked at him for a moment, and he averted his eyes.

"Were you acquainted with Mr. Strobel?" she asked presently, speaking
in low tones that needed no art to color with the sadness that weighed
upon her heart.

"No'm, I wasn't," replied Billings, with a quick glance at her.

"I am sorry for that," said Clara, "and yet it shows how kind you are
to come here and tell me about this matter. I suppose you had to come a
long way."

"I live in the North End," said Billings, uneasily. "Bowker told me to
come."

"The North End is a long way off," she declared, "and I thank you just
the same. I suppose you may have told Mr. Bowker so carefully about
this that you are tired of the matter, but I should like very much to
hear you myself. Do you mind telling me just what you told him?"

"That's what I come for," and Billings seemed to be considerably
relieved. "I was driving down Park Street," he began, "when I saw that
the coupé just in front of me had got into trouble. I went slow because
people got around thick, and, besides, I wanted to see what was the
matter. As I was looking, the man in the coupé clumb out and asked
me was I engaged. I told him no, and he got in. He seemed to be in a
hurry."

"One moment," interposed Clara, gently. The narration struck her as
distinctly parrot-like, and if it were something that he had learned
to recite, she preferred to break the thread of his story before he
had come to the important part, rather than give him the advantage
of establishing a statement in smooth order. If he were telling the
truth, no manner of interruption could prevent him from eventually
making himself understood; if he were lying, she must involve him in
contradictions. So, without premeditation, Clara said:

"You are going just a little too fast for me, and I hope you will
forgive me. Every detail, you know, seems important to me. Where had
you been that morning, Mr. Billings?"

"Been to a funeral, miss," he answered promptly.

"Yes, so I understood; but where?"

"Out to Mount Auburn."

"That is quite a long way from Park Street, isn't it? It must be four
miles."

"Yes'm, 'bout that."

"It was about eleven o'clock, or a little after, when Mr. Strobel's
coupé broke down, and you had been to Mount Auburn and had just got
back. I see. Where did you leave your passengers, the persons you took
to the funeral, I mean?"

With a glance of sullen resentment Billings answered:

"At their house."

"Yes, Mr. Billings," and Clara smiled as if she were not in the least
annoyed, "but that isn't telling where. I didn't ask for the street and
number. Why should I? It was in Cambridge, was it not?"

After the slightest perceptible hesitation, Billings answered:

"No; 'twas in the West End."

"Ah, then you had come over Beacon Hill on your way somewhere. Where
were you going, Mr. Billings?"

As Billings hesitated more noticeably, she continued:

"Do you have some regular place where you wait for passengers, or do
you drive about picking them up where you find them?"

"I was going to the Old Colony Depot," said Billings, huskily.

"I see. Is it customary, Mr. Billings, for cabmen to leave the curtains
of their carriages closely drawn after they leave a funeral party?"

"No, 'tain't, not long, but you wouldn't have me stop in front of the
house to pull 'em up, would you?"

"Certainly not. You did quite right, doubtless. When did you first see
the coupé?"

"At the corner of Beacon. It turned into Park Street just ahead of me."

"Where did Mr. Strobel tell you to take him?"

"To Dr. Merrill's church, Parker Avenue, Roxbury."

Billings didn't know it, but his examiner came very near to breaking
down at this point. There was nothing as yet to show that the driver
was not telling the truth, although Clara had prepared a trap for him
that she intended to spring a little later, and the mention of the
church where she was to be married brought up such a flood of emotions
that it seemed as if she would choke. Then, too, whether Billings were
practicing deceit or not, it was certain that for this moment at least
she was following her lover's journey correctly, and she had arrived
at that critical point where the change in his intentions, or in his
power to act, occurred. So, it was in a very faint voice that she told
Billings to go on. He immediately resumed his parrot-like narration:

"He seemed to be in a hurry, for he spoke quick. I closed the door on
him, and got into my seat as fast as I could and whipped up. I wanted
to get along myself, you see, 'cause it was quite a long drive, and I
had to get back to the depot."

This last sentence sounded like a fresh thought interjected on the spur
of the moment, for Billings spoke it slower than the rest, and glanced
inquiringly at Clara, as if to see how she took it. She noticed the
difference, but simply nodded, and Billings went on.

"Nothing happened till we got to Elliot Street. Then the gentleman
opened the door and hollered 'Driver!' I pulled up a bit and turned
round to see what he wanted. 'Driver!' says he, 'I've changed my mind.
Take me to the Park Square Station.' 'All right, sir,' says I, and he
closed the door again. So I druv 'im to the station, and he got out and
give me a dollar and went inside, and that's all there is to it."

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Billings," said Clara; "I suppose
you went directly to the Old Colony Depot after that?"

"Yes'm. That's where I went."

He rose as if there could be nothing more for him to say, but Clara was
not done with him.

"Just one more question," she said; "sit down again, please. Did you
see Mr. Strobel speak or bow to anybody at the station?"

"No'm. There wasn't many people about, and he hurried inside like as if
his train was just going."

"Was there anybody there whom you knew?"

"Yes'm, and you can ask him. A feller named O'Brien, who works there,
was just at the door as we drew up, and he says 'Hello' to me. He'll
tell you he saw me land my passenger there, for he came forward,
thinking to get the gentleman's bag to carry."

"Mr. O'Brien may have noticed where Mr. Strobel went after going into
the station," mused Clara.

"Yes'm, he might. You might ask him."

"Thank you; I presume I shall. Now, Mr. Billings, I want to show you
in some way that I appreciate your kindness in coming here to tell me
this. I have had to drive about a great deal for two days, and shall
have to use a carriage to-morrow. I shall be glad to employ you."

Billings flushed and shifted about uneasily.

"I can't, miss," he muttered.

"Why not, Mr. Billings?"

The driver stole a glance at her earnest face, and saw nothing there
but sad surprise.

"Why not?" Clara gave the man no help by suggesting a possible excuse.

"My carriage is engaged--that is," he blurted, "I haven't got any
carriage that would be fit for you."

"What is the matter with the one in which you took Mr. Strobel?"

"It got smashed up and is being repaired. You see," and he mumbled his
words so that they were almost unintelligible, "the same day a party
of toughs hired it; they were kind o' swell toughs, and they got on a
racket, and the carriage was damaged. 'Tain't fit to use."

"Mr. Billings!" Clara spoke with a sudden energy that startled the
driver, "was Mr. Strobel in the carriage when it was damaged?"

"No'm, no'm, he wan't," stammered Billings.

The explanation suggested an entirely new thought to Clara. Before her
mental vision there came swiftly a picture of her lover struggling with
somebody--might it not be Poubalov?--in the carriage itself. She seemed
to see a violent conflict in which seats and fixtures gave way as men's
bodies fell heavily. And Ivan was overpowered, his enemies triumphed,
he was motionless, unconscious--perhaps fatally injured, and they had
hidden him away somewhere lest their crime come to the light!

This was wholly unlike the vision she had seen on the evening of what
should have been her wedding day; it had none of the aspects of an
hallucination; for as the alarming details shaped themselves in her
thoughts, she was conscious that Billings sat before her, looking
frightened, and that he rose again to go. In this instance she was but
following the suggestions brought out by her inquiry to what might be
their logical, natural conclusion.

"I am sorry you cannot drive me to-morrow," she said, recovering and
withdrawing her eyes, which had been fixed in a strained stare upon
Billings for a very brief period. "Before you go, tell me the names and
addresses of the persons you took to the funeral, please."

"I don't remember," replied Billings, uneasily. "I shall have to look
up my book; 'tain't here."

"Will you do so?" asked Clara, pleasantly, convinced now that the
man was lying; "and send the names to me, please. Will you do that
to-night?"

"Yes'm," replied Billings reaching for his hat.

"And what is your address?"

Billings told her, and she laid her hand gently on his arm. An idea
that had occurred to her vaguely when his name was announced as she
stood before Poubalov, now recurred to her in the shape of a plan.
She would have Billings confront the Russian, and watch their faces
narrowly for some sign of recognition, or alarm.

"Will you come into the next room a moment?" she said, "I have
something to show you."

There seemed to be a shade of suspicion in his eyes, but he made no
objection, and Clara conducted him to the drawing-room. It was dark.
With a premonition of disappointment, Clara found a match on the mantel
and lit the gas. After a hasty glance around she opened the door to the
dining-room.

"Lou!" she whispered eagerly, "have you seen Mr. Poubalov?"

"No," replied Louise, coming forward and entering the parlor; "has he
gone? Then it must have been he!"

"Who? What have you seen? Wait, come into the hall. Will you sit down
just a minute longer, Mr. Billings? I shall be but a moment."

Billings complied, and the young ladies passed quickly into the hall,
where the first thing that Clara saw were Poubalov's hat and stick
lying upon a table. She turned in the utmost wonderment upon her cousin.

"All I can say," said Louise, "is that I saw a man leap over the
hedge into Mr. Jordan's grounds a short time after you went into the
drawing-room to meet Poubalov. I couldn't tell who it was, couldn't
even see that he had no hat on. I feared he might be a tramp, but
thought then that he had been frightened away, and that there was no
danger."

"He was frightened away?" murmured Clara, feeling her blood run cold;
"he dared not face his man Billings!"

"I supposed," continued Louise, in agitation, "that Poubalov was with
you. I heard no voices, but thought perhaps that you had gone into the
library with him, for a door closed once."

"Yes, when Billings came. Oh! if Litizki were only here!"

"Why! what could he do?"

"I would have him follow Billings. Oh, I could cry! it is the one
opportunity for solving this mystery that we have found, and now we are
going to lose it!"

Louise was greatly distressed.

"Isn't there some way that you can detain Billings," she suggested,
"until Litizki arrives?"

"No. He's been trying to get away for several minutes. It is just
possible that Litizki may be near. I'll go out with Billings, as if to
call at a neighbor's, and if I see Litizki will put him on the track at
once."

She went upstairs for her hat, lingering over the preparation in order
to give Litizki all possible opportunity to keep his appointment, and
when she came down again Billings was in the hall.

"I can't wait no longer," he said gruffly.

"Very well," replied Clara; "I thank you again for calling. I am going
as far as the next house, and you can escort me."

Billings scowled with disagreeable surprise. At the gate he waited to
see which way she would turn.

"I'm not going that way, miss," he said, and started off at a rapid
pace in the opposite direction.




CHAPTER XIII.

WHAT BECAME OF LITIZKI.


Clara retired before her uncle returned, and when at last he appeared,
it was only to pack his bag and hurry away to catch the midnight train
for New York.

"I may be gone a week," he told Louise, "and I may get back in two
days. Telegraph me at the Travelers' Hotel, if I am wanted for
anything."

Mr. Pembroke's departure was a great disappointment to Clara. She
reproached herself that she had not made an opportunity to tell him
about her conversation with Poubalov and Litizki; it was his right to
know everything that could possibly bear upon the case, and could she
have told him, she would have besought him to advise her.

She was now in a bewildering maze of doubts and uncertainties. Billings
had lied to her; she was almost as sure of that as if she had already
proved it; but at what part of his story the falsehood began she could
only guess. There was no doubt that Ivan had taken Billings' carriage.
Did he give the driver orders to go to the Park Square Station? Did
Billings drive to the station? The latter question she could answer
with some degree of satisfaction by inquiry of the man O'Brien, and
that seemed the first thing to do; but what then?

Poubalov had called to say something, and had not only gone away
without saying it, but had gone in such wise as to leave no reasonable
doubt that he dared not face the driver of the closed carriage. Was
it not an inevitable inference that Billings had been hired by the
Russian? It was with evident difficulty that Billings had stumbled
through the story as it was. Would not Poubalov, recognizing the
driver's mental inferiority, have argued that if they were suddenly
brought face to face, Billings would have betrayed their complicity by
at least a start?

And Litizki, what had become of him? It was not to be thought of that
he had abandoned the case. Poubalov had called at his shop during the
day, unquestionably with some ulterior design. Could anything be more
reasonable than to suppose that in some way the spy had frustrated the
attempt of Litizki to help her?

The more she pondered the various puzzling aspects of the case, the
more everything seemed to center upon Poubalov, and she shuddered with
apprehension as Litizki's characterization of him recurred to her. He
was, indeed, a terrible enemy.

Having in mind only the known facts in the case, and disregarding
utterly all inferences and conjectures, she tried to reason along
various lines, in the hope that thus a theory might be set up
which should command sufficient respect to justify a new departure
in her search. She began with the fact that Ivan had made every
preparation for marriage--and there a new thought presented itself.
He had surrendered his room; he must, therefore, have packed his
belongings; had they been disturbed? This might be a matter of infinite
significance, and one that she would attend to without delay.

"Louise," she said (they were at the breakfast table and her cousin was
lingering over her coffee while Clara was absorbed in thought), "will
you go downtown with me again to-day?"

"Of course, dear," replied Louise; "I will be ready in ten minutes."

Louise was relieved at Clara's suggestions. She had been hopelessly
wondering what Clara could find to do next, and she dreaded for her
cousin's health should there prove to be no active work upon which she
could concentrate her faculties. She left the room to prepare for the
day's jaunt, and Clara resumed her thinking.

Every preparation for marriage, and a start actually made for the
church. Then an accident that somebody had prepared. Who? There must
have been somebody who had a great object to attain in preventing
the marriage, or in getting possession of Ivan. Suppose it were
Poubalov, what then? With the insight he himself had given her into
his character, would he not do everything possible to throw her off
the right track? If he had abducted Ivan, would he hesitate to abduct
Litizki if he found that the little tailor was in his way?

It was vain to speculate for a reason for Poubalov's main action; that
must lie in his capacity as a paid spy of a government with which Ivan,
apparently, had been at one time in conflict. His subsequent actions,
so far as she knew them, were all explainable on the theory that he had
had to do with Ivan's disappearance.

And so her thoughts revolved around Poubalov, finding at every turn a
trace of obliquity that was wholly in consonance with his character and
his confessed methods.

Clara felt that her reasoning was bringing her to no definite end,
although her brain teemed with courses of action that might have been
possible could she have commanded the services of a corps of shrewd,
faithful detectives. It is generally so with persons who have a
great task to accomplish; they find themselves with more plans than
resources, more brains than hands. Clara had just come to the sensible
conclusion that, compelled to work substantially alone, she would
undertake exactly one thing at a time, and, having chosen a line of
inquiry, would follow it uninterruptedly to the end, when a servant
announced that a man had called to see her.

"I couldn't catch his name, Miss Clara," said the servant, "but I'm
afraid he's a beggar, he looks so forlorn and seedy."

Clara knew who it was and she sprang from her chair with more eagerness
and animation than she had manifested at any time since the disastrous
wedding day. She fairly ran into the drawing-room, both her hands
extended, her face radiant with smiles, and completely overwhelmed poor
Litizki with the warmth of her greeting.

"I was so afraid something dreadful had happened to you!" she
exclaimed, "but I knew that you had not deserted me."

"Deserted you?" said Litizki huskily; "no, but I was afraid you would
think so. I didn't know what Poubalov might have told you, and unless
you thoroughly understand that man, that fiend, Miss Hilman, he is
likely to make you believe anything."

"Then you know that he had been here! You must have recognized his hat
in the hall."

"I saw it there and his stick, too, but I knew before then that he had
been here. I came to tell you."

Litizki paused, the look of grateful relief that had overspread his
features at first giving way to his customary depressed expression,
and he fell into his habit of speaking with averted eyes, or with but
occasional furtive glances at the person addressed.

"Do tell me," said Clara; "I have been very anxious about you."

Litizki thought a moment, and then asked:

"May I see Poubalov's cane?"

"To be sure," replied Clara, and she brought it to him from the hall.

Litizki took it, looked it over, felt along the top, and suddenly drew
forth the handle, from which a gleaming blade depended. Clara started
back with a low exclamation of alarm. Litizki touched the edge of the
blade with his thumb, as a man tests a razor.

"Alexander Poubalov," he murmured gloomily, "held this over my heart
once, not so long ago."

He thrust it back into its sheath, where it came to rest with an angry
click, and handed the cane to Clara.

"That is the kind of man he is, Miss Hilman," he said; "I thought you
might like to know."

If he had wished to impress Clara with the horrible gravity of the
situation, with its frightful possibilities, he succeeded beyond
measure. She held the cane, feeling that it epitomized the spy's
career, and a dreadful faintness depressed her which she at length
overcame with the utmost difficulty. Having returned the concealed
weapon to the hall, she sank into a chair and asked Litizki to tell her
what had happened to him during the previous evening.

"You asked me to call early," he began, "and I set out to do so.
Without going into unnecessary detail, I will say that I came up the
street that ends nearly in front of this house, a little after seven
o'clock. The exact time doesn't matter, for you will know as nearly as
you need to when I tell you that just as I was about to cross the road
I saw Poubalov in front of me. He had come by another route. I wasn't
surprised, for the man seems to read one's thoughts, and it was as if
he had known that I was coming, and had determined to prevent me.

"I doubted whether it would be wise to call as long as he was in the
neighborhood, but all doubts were set at rest when he himself went up
the steps and rang. Of course it would have been the height of folly
for me to enter the house then."

"You had the right to," interrupted Clara; "I had asked you to come,
and I needed you very much."

Litizki looked so miserable that Clara hastened to add:

"I didn't mean to reprove or find fault, Mr. Litizki. I forgot for the
moment everything except that eventually, after Poubalov had run away,
I wished you were at hand!"

"I hope I made no mistake, Miss Hilman," said Litizki; "at all events I
could see no other course at the time than to do what I did."

"I have no doubt you were right. Go on, please."

"I determined to wait until Poubalov went away. If I had been familiar
with the house, I might have found my way to the back door and sent
word to you by a servant, but I dared not venture, for I knew not from
what window Poubalov might be looking. The same reason induced me to
leave the street, which is clearly in view from some windows, and,
moreover, I did not care to risk questions from anybody as to why I
was loitering about. So I slipped into the adjoining grounds, where
there is a lot of shrubbery, and crawled under a tree whose branches
hung low.

"From where I lay I could see whether anybody entered or left the house
by the front door and I also saw all the windows on one side. I had
been there less than a minute when somebody went up the steps and was
admitted. I could not see who it was, for the evening was cloudy and it
grew dark very quickly."

"It was a man named Billings," said Clara; "he drove the closed
carriage which took Mr. Strobel from Park Street."

"Indeed! I wish I had known it. Well, events happened pretty quickly
just then, for it seemed to me that less than another minute had passed
when Poubalov appeared at one of the windows on the side of the house.
He raised it, stepped out, and leaped over the hedge, not five yards
from where I lay. He passed so close to me that I could have reached
out from under the tree and tripped him up! I lay very still, wondering
what his action could mean, for as you must know, he was bareheaded. If
I had dreamed then of going to the house, I could not have done so, for
he crouched down by the hedge near the street, and I could see that he
had his eyes on the door and that he was waiting. I then determined to
follow him wherever he should go, for of course he meditated villainy.
I may have prevented him in that---- Oh! I don't know!"

Litizki fairly groaned these words, and Clara was about to utter an
anxious inquiry, when he resumed:

"Don't let me disturb you, Miss Hilman; I will tell the whole wretched
story. How long we lay there I don't know, but you must, for at last
you, I think it was you, came out of the house and walked down to the
gate to say good-night to somebody who left you there--Billings I
suppose--and walked away in a direction opposite to us. You, was it
you? Yes, you waited a moment, and returned to the house, whereupon
Poubalov immediately got up, leaped over the hedge, darted across the
road as noiselessly as if he were a cat, and disappeared.

"I followed as well as I could, and, as luck would have it, I soon
overtook him, for he was strolling along slowly, as unconcerned as if
he owned a house near by and were out for a breath of fresh air. He
rambled on until he came to Washington Street, when he stopped at the
curb and looked idly about for several seconds. There were many people
about, and his bareheaded condition attracted attention. All the shops
were open, and suddenly he darted into one of them. It was not a hat
store, but when he came out, which was almost immediately, he had a hat
on. I suppose he bought it for an extravagant sum off the head of some
stranger. It would be like him.

"He idled about the neighborhood for as much as an hour, Miss Hilman,
and I did all that I could think of to keep him in view without
exposing myself. The man is a fiend with a million eyes! But wait,
I'll tell you. At last he moved along, and, of course, I followed
faithfully, noting every turn, that I might be able to go again by
the same way if possible, or at least to the same place, wherever
that might be. For in spite of my care I don't know what was his
destination, if he had any. It is for this reason that I say I may have
prevented him from some fresh villainy.

"At last, in a street to which I could readily return, he paused. I
was across the way from him, and I slipped into a doorway, where I
was wholly in the dark. I could see him, though, and for a long, long
time he paced slowly back and forth, never once speaking to anybody,
or looking about, or getting out of my sight. It didn't matter to me.
I would have stayed on till I starved in my tracks, but eventually he
crossed the street directly toward me. He could not see me, of that
I am certain, but of course he had seen me--and--I am a helpless,
good-for-nothing fool, Miss Hilman!"

"Why say that?" asked Clara kindly.

"Because he came straight into the doorway, put his hand lightly on my
shoulder and said in that deep, scornful voice of his: 'It is enough,
Nicholas Litizki. Let us now go home,' and he laughed disagreeably."

Litizki stared aside with an expression of utter self-contempt.

"I weakly said to myself that it was a ruse to get rid of me, and I
followed again as he walked briskly away. He took a street car and went
straight to his room in Bulfinch Place. It was past midnight, and so I
came this morning, Miss Hilman."




CHAPTER XIV.

A NEW DEPARTURE.


"What a hard and disagreeable experience," exclaimed Clara, "and so
strange too! You have no occasion to reproach yourself, Mr. Litizki,
with any neglect. You did all that any man could do, I am sure, and
it may not prove to be unfortunate that Poubalov saw that you were
watching him."

"I wish I could think so," responded the tailor, "and it is wonderfully
kind of you to be so patient with my failure. Isn't there something
that I can do now? I can do no work until this matter is settled, and
it is torture to remain idle."

"I know how true that is," sighed Clara; "yes, there is something I
think you can do. If Poubalov had not called last evening, and so
changed all our plans, I should have asked you to follow Billings when
he left the house. I have little faith in him, Mr. Litizki, and it
seems to me that on leaving here last night he must have gone directly
to report to his accomplice, or employer. Are you sure that Poubalov
spoke to nobody?"

"If he did, it was no more than a passing word. He seemed to know no
one."

Clara had to stop and think, for Litizki's story tended to upset her
theories concerning Poubalov's exit and his relations with Billings.
Could it be possible, after all, that Billings had not been employed
by the spy, and that the latter, therefore, had had nothing to do with
Ivan's disappearance? Perhaps Poubalov worked through still another
accomplice, and, suspecting possible treachery, had been at the pains
of secretly following Billings, to learn whether he and the unknown
other were faithful.

This seemed rather a wild supposition, for it would not be like
Poubalov to admit others into his secret operations.

Had he followed Billings? There was no doubt in Clara's mind that this
was what he started to do when he leaped over the hedge and ran to the
side of the road opposite to where Billings was walking. Had Poubalov
lost Billings in the darkness, and, observing Litizki's pursuit,
purposely dodged hither and thither, to discomfit the tailor?

From every question Clara turned more puzzled than before. It must be
that she was on the wrong track, else a reasonable answer could be
found, a reasonable explanation suggested for every act. Perhaps she
was wrong in obstinately connecting Poubalov with the first act in the
tragedy, the disappearance of Ivan; but if so, could his conduct even
then be explained?

"Mr. Litizki," said Clara, at length, "I want to know all that can
possibly be learned about this man Billings. He gave me his address.
Will you undertake to look him up? Unless he is very closely in league
with Poubalov, he will not know who you are, and for that matter it
probably won't be necessary for you to meet him. Eventually you might
have to follow him somewhere, but at the start you might learn a great
deal from his neighbors."

"I'll do it, Miss Hilman; but I promise you now that every step I take
will be dogged by Poubalov."

"Well, never mind. You will be on your guard against him--and yet, I do
not want you to expose yourself to danger," and Clara shuddered as she
thought of the long dagger concealed in Poubalov's cane.

"Bah!" returned Litizki, "I care nothing for the danger. My only fear
is that the villain will overreach me in anything I may attempt. I am
no match for him in skill and cunning, Miss Hilman."

Litizki was woefully dejected. Never did man so long to be possessed of
genius, or even talent, and the tailor was painfully aware of his own
deficiencies.

"You underestimate yourself," said Clara; "you see that I have
confidence in you, else I would not ask you to undertake the
investigation. Will you begin at once?"

"Gladly. You cannot imagine how much courage your good words give me.
If I dared to cherish a hope of any kind, it would be that I should
accomplish something that would justify your good opinion."

"You have already done so, and will do more, have no doubt of it! I am
going downtown myself. Suppose you go to the address Billings gave me,
make such inquiries there as seem advisable, and, if you see nothing to
command your immediate attention, come and tell me what you have found.
I shall be at Mrs. White's. If you come after I go, you will find some
word from me as to where to go next."

She gave him Billings' address, saw him to the door with a cheering
smile, and then turned to Louise, who had been ready to start for
several minutes.

"He had what was to him a dismal story to tell," said Clara, "and I
knew he would rather tell it to me alone."

"I supposed so," returned Louise, "and so I took pains not to interrupt
you. I wish I could think a quarter as well as you do, dear. I don't
feel as if I were the least use."

"Don't be silly, Lou," and Clara embraced her cousin affectionately;
"if I could think as well as you imagine I do, we should be out of the
difficulty in a day. What do you suppose I should do without you?"

Louise was profoundly convinced that Clara would do exactly as she had
been doing all along, but she didn't say so. She would have sympathized
acutely with Litizki's self-abasement had she known how earnestly he
had striven to be of use, and how utterly he had seemed to fail.

They went first to the Park Square Station, Clara, as usual, deeply
absorbed in studying the strange problems that confronted her. The
impression she had received this morning that Poubalov might not have
been associated directly with Ivan's taking off, grew upon her. How
readily he had abandoned the suggestion of elopement! Abandon? he had
ignored it utterly. Not once in her conversation with him had he put
that forth as an explanation worthy of investigation. Could it have
been his subtle purpose to interest her in a line of inquiry that
should lead directly away from that? A shiver passed over her frame,
and Louise inquired anxiously what was the matter?

"New theories keep occurring to me," responded Clara gravely, "and
each one is a shock worse than the one that preceded it. Let me tell
you this one. Suppose that Lizzie White," Clara spoke with difficulty,
every word seemingly dragged forth by a violent effort, "suppose she
were in some way Poubalov's agent; I will not, cannot think that
Ivan went away with her, but might it not be possible that this
remarkable man, who has such mastery over ordinary minds, had made her
an accomplice? Don't you see the cleverness of the plan? If Ivan was
forced to go to New York, Lizzie's departure for that city the same
day is immediately assumed by everybody to mean that they eloped, and
probably all in Boston who think of the matter at all, suppose that
they have been married. Ivan may be a prisoner in New York, and Lizzie
may be under Poubalov's pay, or influence, the latter more likely, to
act, not as his jailer, but as a mask for his presence there.

"Poubalov has some object to attain in keeping him thus guarded, to
torture some political secret from him, perhaps. Now what better
could he do than divert suspicion in my mind from Lizzie to those
whom he calls Nihilists, or even upon himself? He saw at first glance
that I would not tolerate the thought of an elopement as among the
possibilities, so he had no need to disarm me of suspicion in that
direction. Has not everything he has done been done with a view to
keeping me in Boston? What does he care how much poor Litizki dogs his
steps, so long as the victim of his intrigue and villainy is hundreds
of miles away? His one fear in Boston is that Billings, whom he hired
to help in the abduction, may confess something. Therefore he tried to
dog Billings' steps last night, and whether he succeeded I do not know."

Much of this was Greek to Louise, and she said so, adding: "What I do
understand is that you feel now as if it would be necessary to go to
New York."

"I think so. We will see."

"Clara," said Louise, "you will not think that I have suspected Ivan
of faithlessness, I am sure; but it has seemed to me that unless he
returned soon, you would have to go to Lizzie White. You cannot leave
any possible explanation unsought. I could not conjecture that she and
Poubalov might be concerned together as you have, but I did feel as if
you ought to look her up."

"I am glad you think so," responded Clara, "for I was afraid you would
oppose my going."

At the station Clara readily found the Mr. O'Brien to whom Billings had
referred for corroboration of a part of his story.

"Yes'm," he said in reply to her questions, "I know the Billings you
speak of. I saw him here last Monday. Has he been up to anything
crooked?"

"I don't know," said Clara; "it may help to settle that if you will
tell me what were the circumstances of his call here."

O'Brien hesitated.

"I don't want to get tangled up in any police business," he declared;
"Billings was said to be the man who drove the gent that skipped on his
wedding day early this week."

"Yes," said Clara; "I am Miss Hilman, and I was to be married to the
gentleman."

"Sho!" exclaimed O'Brien, sympathetically, "that must have been a
pretty tough blow," and he scratched his head thoughtfully.

"My inquiry," continued Clara, "has nothing to do with the police. They
have abandoned the investigation, I believe. I am trying simply to
satisfy myself, and surely you won't refuse to help."

"No, I won't," replied O'Brien; "but what I can say won't do you no
good. This was how it was. I had to go out to the front of the depot
for something, and just as I got there, Billings drove up a closed
carriage. I thought he nodded as if he wanted me, so I stepped forward.
He pulled up further on than where carriages generally stop, and was
in a place all by himself. I was the only one near. 'Hello,' says I,
'how long you been driving?' 'Mind your own business,' says he, and he
whipped up and drove off. While I was speaking to him a man had got
out of the carriage and gone into the depot. I didn't see him to know
him, didn't pay any attention to him, for he went quickly, and I was
wondering about Billings."

"He says you came forward to get his passenger's baggage."

"'Tain't so. That ain't my line of work."

"Didn't the passenger pay his fare?"

"Not there. He went straight into the depot."

"Why did you ask Billings that question?"

"'Cause I didn't know he'd got into the cab business. He used to be a
porter."

Clara thanked O'Brien, said she might call again if any other questions
occurred to her, and the young ladies went on to Ashburton Place.
Billings had lied, but it might have been Ivan, nevertheless, who went
into the station from the closed carriage.

Mrs. White's greeting was marked by constraint, and she sat in
distressed silence for a moment after Clara and Louise entered. At
length she said:

"People will talk so! I'm sure you've been very good and brave, Miss
Hilman, but what is one to think?"

"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. White."

"Well, don't you see, lots of my friends have called, seeing Lizzie's
name in the papers, and Mr. Strobel's, and they will have it that they
eloped."

"Do you think so?" asked Clara, and in spite of her effort her tone was
cold.

"I don't know what to think," replied the landlady, plaintively.

"You may think what you please," said Clara, her pride mastering her
diplomacy for the moment; "I am going to New York to see your daughter.
I called to say that you might write to her freely so far as any
wish of mine is concerned, and to ask if I could take a look at Mr.
Strobel's room."

"Certainly," answered Mrs. White, uncomfortably. She longed to ask the
imperious young lady a host of questions, but she was restrained by
Clara's hauteur.

The young ladies went up to Ivan's room, and found there his trunk as
he had left it, apparently, and everything in just such condition as
would be expected if a man were about to move and were going to send
for his effects later.

When they went down again they found Litizki talking with Mrs. White.

"So you are going to New York to-day?" he said with some appearance of
disappointment.

"Yes," replied Clara, "but I don't care to have that information go
further. Will you be careful, Mrs. White? Forgive me if I seemed harsh
just now. I shall say nothing unkind to your daughter, and I believe
less than ever that she eloped with Mr. Strobel. What have you found?"
she asked, turning to Litizki.

"Billings doesn't live at that address," he replied, "although he
used to. He hasn't been about there for some time, and no one in the
neighborhood knew he was a cab-driver."

"Very well," said Clara. "There is nothing more to do in that direction
for the present. I shall return from New York on Saturday morning,
probably. I should like to see you then, if possible."

"Yes, Miss Hilman. What train are you to take? I might have something
to report to you at the last minute."

Clara reflected and answered:

"I shall have to go home first. I don't see how I can go earlier than
by the three o'clock New England train. Will you be there?"

Litizki said he would, and after some further conversation with Mrs.
White the young ladies returned to Roxbury. Louise did not prepare
to go to New York, the extra expense this journey involved deterring
her, for Mr. Pembroke was not one who reveled in great wealth. It was
decided to apprise him of Clara's coming by telegraph, so that she
would not be without escort in the city.

Litizki was at the train as he promised to be, and assisted Clara to
her seat in the drawing-room car. He lingered until the starting signal
had been given and then said "good-by" and jumped off; but instead
of remaining in the depot, he ran forward and boarded the ordinary
smoking-car.




CHAPTER XV.

LOUISE RECEIVES A CALLER.


Mr. Pembroke met Clara at the train when it arrived in the Grand
Central Depot promptly at nine o'clock. He was plainly anxious, almost
agitated.

"Tell me, child," he exclaimed, "why you have come?"

"I couldn't be satisfied," she replied, "without setting at rest the
rumors that connect Ivan's name with Lizzie White."

"Oh," said her uncle, apparently relieved, "is that all?"

"All, uncle? Why, no, not if I find anything that leads me to believe
that Ivan is in New York. In that case I shall search for him here.
What did you think I had come for?"

"I had nothing in mind except anxiety. When I received your telegram,
I feared something had happened. I couldn't tell what. I have been so
occupied with business matters recently that I haven't been able to
keep up with you, you know."

"I'm so sorry to give you more trouble and anxiety," said Clara, with
the sincerest contrition, "but I felt as if I must come on."

"Let us go straight to the hotel," said Mr. Pembroke; "I suppose
there's nothing you want to do to-night?"

They had been standing on a station platform as they talked, and not
far away was Litizki, watching, trying to listen, and wondering who
the gentleman could be whom Clara greeted so affectionately. He knew
nothing about her relationships, and supposed that Mr. Pembroke was
her father. He followed them and saw them enter a hack, and he managed
to get near enough to overhear Mr. Pembroke say "Travelers' Hotel" to
the driver. Not content with know

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