CHAPTER IX
SURPRISES
Zoya Rochal had watched the figure of Rowland until it disappeared among the shrubbery. Her brows were slightly drawn and her eyes, shadowed by her dark hair, peered eagerly into the half light of the garden. Monsieur Khodkine, it seemed, respected her intelligence. But it was a pity that he had sent out for Monsieur Rowland so soon. It would have required but ten minutes more to have hitched this handsome American to her chariot wheel. He was a nice boy and it would be a pity if anything happened to him, for it seemed quite certain that something was on the point of happening at Nemi, and whatever happened it was Monsieur Rowland who would be the loser. Against the will of Max Liederman she had chosen to throw her lot in with the new President of Nemi, because he seemed quite young, quite inexperienced and with good management could be made quite useful for her own ends. But she hadn't reckoned upon the speed of Monsieur Rowland's wooing and the sudden culmination of the adventure. She wasn't sure that she hadn't liked the spontaneity of his caress-hurried, boyish and quite ingenuous. She must do what she could to save this newly found admirer from the wiles of Monsieur Khodkine, and with this object in her general plan, she moved slowly in the direction of the house and encountered on her way Max Liederman, walking alone in a bypath and furiously smoking a long cigar.
"Ach, Madame," he growled. "So you've at last condescended. It's time-"
"Don't be a beast, Max," she said coolly.
"Well, this is no time for trifling," he growled.
"Sh!" she warned. "I'm not trifling. I've wasted no time. I've learned what I wanted to find out. Monsieur Rowland knows nothing."
"Does he look as if he knew anything?" he said contemptuously. "I could have told you that much. Khodkine twists him around his thumb."
"And so do I."
"Ach-and at what cost?" he muttered suspiciously.
Madame Rochal smiled up at Khodkine's lighted window.
"That's my affair," she said coldly.
"And in the meanwhile," he went on, "this precious Khodkine will get into the vault. Tonight, perhaps-How do I know that even now he hasn't the combination to the doors in his pockets. And I don't trust Fräulein Korasov."
"Nor I. She is much too quiet."
Liederman threw his cigar into the bushes, thrust his fists into his trouser pockets and swayed heavily from one foot to the other.
"Zoya Rochal," he said hoarsely, "you see how things are here at Nemi. While Ivanitch led our committee we were sure at least of a man pledged deeply to Internationalism and the socialist cause. It was his fetish. He was orthodox. He even gave his life for his convictions. And now whom do we find as Priest of Nemi-a friend of France, full of meaningless catchwords about Peace and Liberty-a boy from America, now the enemy of my country, ready to be caught by the first wind that blows. You, Zoya, voted for him. You have placed yourself on his side, – why, God knows, when with Khodkine he may work our ruin."
"Nonsense."
"I know what I am talking about. Khodkine comes with credentials from Russia, but that means nothing. You carry credentials from the Central Committee of Munich. He may be a Russian or a Roumanian, an Austrian or an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse-"
"That is not possible. I know-"
"What difference does it make to me? I distrust him. You may turn hither and yon for advisers, but no one may say that I'm not loyal to those who sent me here. In Germany I was born and bred, but the cause I serve is greater than nationality, greater than patriotism. And whatever others may do I am ready to give my life for that cause."
Zoya Rochal smiled at him charmingly and laid her slim fingers along his hairy cheek and their touch seemed to quiet him.
"No one doubts your honesty, my great bear," she said with a laugh. "You may not always be pleasant, but you always have the courage of conviction."
"And what thanks do I get?" he growled.
"Mine," she whispered, running a hand through his arm.
"Bah!" he shrugged.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Nothing, except not to play with fire."
"You've planned something?"
"Yes," he growled. "And I'm going to do it, to-night."
She turned up toward him in eager inquiry.
"What?"
"I'm going to take no further chances with this situation."
"Are you serious?"
"Am I ever anything else? The money in the vault belongs to the Society of Nemi and the essence of the Society of Nemi-is Socialism. While I live, that money shall be spent in no other service."
"That is right, but you're not sure-"
"I trust no one here. And as the Council stands I can be out-voted. Shestov, Barthou, Colodna, Khodkine-and this young sprig of a Yankee. And the others-? We can't be sure of them. Most of this money should be appropriated for immediate use tomorrow, in Germany, in Austria, in Russia and Italy. And yet what assurances have we that it will not be wrongly used even, if used at all-or that Monsieur Khodkine this very night may not make away with it."
"What do you propose to do?"
"Take it, tonight-myself."
"You-!"
Max Liederman shook his massive shoulders and tapped her with a kind of elephantine playfulness upon the hands.
"Did you ever know me to make a boast that I couldn't fulfill?" Then in a hoarse whisper. "I'm going to break into the vault."
"You are prepared?"
"Yes. I've been prepared for a long time. I always believe in being ready for emergencies."
"Do you need my help-"
"Your society, chère Zoya, let us say-"
"When will you do this?"
"Toward morning. I have a drill and explosives. With luck I should succeed in something over an hour."
"And the money? Where shall you take it?" Zoya asked.
"Away from here to a safer place. Will you go with me?"
"Suppose you fail?"
He smiled grimly. "I won't fail. There's no watch kept upon the Tree. Will you meet me here?"
"At what hour?"
"At three. It is the hour of deepest slumber. Your room adjoins mine upon the other side of the house. You must sleep soundly, for we may have to travel far."
Madame Rochal stood in a moment of silence and then assented.
"I see I've not put my faith in you for nothing, Max," she said quietly.
"I've told you," he muttered, "that I've always been worth considering. You shall see- Will you kiss me, Zoya?"
She made a little moüe at him and then obeyed with the deftness of one skilled in illusions.
"There, my great bear," she laughed. "And you'll wake me?"
"Yes. Now go and get your beauty sleep."
"And you? Shall you stay awake?"
"I sleep with one eye open-I can wake when I please. Borrow no trouble on that score."
She moved toward the house, whispering to him:
"Remain here. It will not do for us to be seen together. Au revoir." And blowing a kiss at him with her fingers, she floated away into the shadows.
Max Liederman was thorough. With characteristic prevision he had prepared all things, including a machine which was to be waiting at daylight outside the wall. Three o'clock found them at the iron door which led down into the passage. Liederman had been prepared to force this lock and to his amazement, and Zoya Rochal's, the key was in the door, which indeed was partly open.
Liederman stopped a moment to rock to and fro and gaze at the door in a puzzled way.
"Curious," he muttered, rubbing his head.
"Some one has been here before us?" questioned Zoya.
He nodded. "It looks so," he growled, "but we'll soon find out." Entering without hesitation and carrying his tools in their canvas wrapping, he threw the light of his pocket-torch down the steps and descended, while Zoya Rochal, her small nose sniffing the air daintily, followed, frowning.
"Don't you smell something?" she whispered when they reached the passage.
"I fancied-yes, I'm sure-the fumes of powder."
"Ah, I was not mistaken then. What can have happened?"
"I don't know. Perhaps we are mistaken."
Zoya, whose eyes seemed to be keener than his, suddenly darted forward ahead of him with a cry, and bending down beside the steel door picked up something and held it before Max Liederman's eyes.
"The Bough!" she cried. "The Golden Bough!"
Liederman started upright, his eyes big as saucers under his tangled brows.
"Khodkine!" he stammered. "Here!"
"It's quite green," she whispered. "Recently broken."
"He has killed-Monsieur-" she halted, her face white as paper.
"Your little Yankee-!" He shrugged uneasily. "Perhaps. Wait. I must see."
He bent forward with the lamp and examined the nickel knob and handle, turned the light down, then went upon his knees and put his face close to the stone floor.
"There are many footprints in the dust, – one small, one with high heels, Zoya."
"Tanya Korasov?"
"Who else?"
"She and Khodkine-but I don't understand-"
Max Liederman had settled down before the door of the vault with a business-like air, unwrapping the canvas covering of his tools, and examining the knob, listening intently. Then he threw off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and set to work while Zoya, her hand trembling, held the light.
"Could they have killed him-do you think?" she asked again anxiously.
"How should I know? It would only be what he deserves," he grunted.
Zoya's dark eyes frowned at him, but she said nothing.
Meanwhile the drill was slowly eating its way into the steel door above the lock. She questioned again but he was intent upon his task and made no answer. The sweat stood out in beads upon his face and fell to the ground. He was a magnificent brute. There were women who … But Zoya Rochal was difficult to please.
The first glimmerings of the dawn were filtering down through the iron door at the end of the passage before Max Liederman announced that his work was completed. Then he attached the fuse and he and Zoya Rochal went up the stairs, closed the iron door and waited.
A muffled explosion as the iron door swung open and a cloud of dust enveloped them. Liederman darted down the steps with Zoya at his heels. The charge had been cleverly placed and by the use of an iron rod and a short steel jimmy, at last the door of the vault yielded to Liederman's weight and swung inward upon its hinges.
Liederman threw the light into the room and it gleamed upon the swirling dust which for a moment obscured the vision. But as the cloud cleared, they saw a litter of papers upon the floor, and in the midst of the wreckage the figure of Rowland lying prone, his arms outstretched, smeared with blood and grime. A hasty glance around the shelves revealed no trace of the treasure of Nemi.
Liederman rocked to and fro in an awful moment of silent imprecation.
"Schwein-hund that I am, for waiting," he muttered. "Khodkine has been here before us."
Zoya Rochal gazed at him wildly a moment, and then fell to her knees beside the prostrate figure upon the floor.
Liederman grunted incuriously.
"He's dead?" he asked.
"Yes-No! His heart beats-"
"Ach-we must get him out of this-into the air. Pfui! It is enough to stifle one. Can you help, Zoya? His feet-"
Max Liederman raised the prostrate man and between them, they half dragged, half carried him out along the corridor and up the steps into the air. Without waiting for instructions Zoya ran to the house and came back with water and brandy. By the time she returned Liederman had loosened the American's collar, and after a while, in response to treatment, Rowland moved slightly and opened his eyes. He turned his head from side to side, gazing up through the trees at the spreading dawn and then his look met Zoya Rochal's. He concentrated his gaze with some difficulty as though not sure of himself, and then with an effort raised himself upon one elbow, his hand to his brows in a moment of thought.
"Khodkine!" he muttered weakly in English. "And the-the blighter-got-got away with it."
"Khodkine-yes-" uttered Liederman.
Rowland grinned up at his interrogator and nodded.
"Gone-got the best of me-"
"With the money? And Mademoiselle Korasov-?" questioned Liederman keenly.
Rowland brushed a hand across his brow and started upright.
"Mademoiselle Korasov! Yes. Yes-"
"They've robbed the vault, I tell you," cried Liederman wildly. "The money is gone-!"
It was here that Zoya Rochal took command of the situation.
"We can do nothing alone. Go, Max, arouse Shestov, Barthou and Signorina Colodna. They must learn of this."
"I'm quite all right," muttered Rowland. "Only a little confused. There was an explosion."
She gave him another drink of the brandy which he accepted gratefully.
"You are very kind, Madame," he said.
Zoya Rochal regarded him in a moment of anxiety.
"I warned you, Philippe Rowlan'," she said.
He smiled at her broadly and then whispered quizzically, "There was a pig in the vault," he laughed. "The trouble was that he hadn't any ring in his nose.
"It is no time to jest, Monsieur. I'm afraid you're badly hurt."
"I'm all right," he smiled, "but nitro-glycerine is not the best thing for a headache."
"I'm sorry, Monsieur." He saw Madame Rochal start and put her finger to her lips. "Sh-," she whispered and peered out from behind the bush where Rowland was sitting, toward the wall. He got up to his knees and followed her glance. It was still quite dark, but in the growing light he saw a movement in the branches of a tree near by and presently made out a pair of legs, dangling above the top of the wall. "It's a man," whispered Madame Rochal, "coming over. What-?"
Rowland slowly got to his feet and stood, his hand in warning on the arm of Madame Rochal, waiting until the man should descend. The gray figure hovered for a moment on the top of the wall and then they heard the thud of his boots as he reached the ground. In a moment, as the man emerged from the bushes, Rowland sprang out and faced the intruder. And as each man recognized the other in the growing light, he stepped back, the one in, surprise, the other in consternation.
"Picard-!"
"You, Monsieur Rowland! Safe!" He breathed hard like one in the last stages of exhaustion.
"Quite, as you see. Mademoiselle Korasov sent you?"
Picard gasped and nodded. "With this note to Monsieur Shestov."
"Let me see it."
While Zoya Rochal turned on the light of Liederman's torch Rowland unfolded the slip of paper covered with close writing-in Russian.
"The devil!" cried the American. "Madame Rochal-read!"
Zoya Rochal obeyed, translating rapidly.
"Ivan Shestov,
The American Rowland, imprisoned in vault. He will die unless door is forced. Lose no time. I am prisoner of Gregory Khodkine fleeing with bank notes into Germany by upper road-a machine-destination-Munich. Follow.
Tatyana."
As she finished, Rowland turned quickly to Picard.
"And Stepan-?"
"Dead, Monsieur. He resisted. Mademoiselle warned me. I obeyed Monsieur Khodkine until the time came, when I took this paper and fled. I have been running for two hours."
"You have done well, my friend. We shall lose no time. But how was Stepan killed?"
"Monsieur Khodkine said that he had broken the Golden Bough-that you, Monsieur Rowland, were killed and that he was the Priest of Nemi. We did not believe him. He ordered Stepan to carry the bank notes-which were already in the suit-case-along the road. Stepan refused to obey and Monsieur Khodkine struck him in the head with a stick. His body is near the road only a hundred yards or so from the wall."
"And you-?"
"Mademoiselle had whispered, 'Do nothing! Obey!' And I went with them, carrying the suit-case until we came to an empty machine standing by the roadside-"
"Liederman's-" explained Zoya Rochal.
"I see," muttered Rowland. And then, to Picard, "They had passed the German border when you returned?"
"Yes, Monsieur-a matter of three or four miles perhaps. The machine slowed down upon a hill and I slipped out and ran into a wood, coming back as fast as I could run."
"You saw no one?" asked Zoya Rochal.
"No, Madame. I knew where the sentries were stationed on the frontier and avoided them."
Shestov and Barthou now came with Liederman, drawing on clothing as they ran, their faces wan in the growing light as the details of the situation were explained to them.
"Your note, Monsieur Shestov," said Rowland coolly, handing it to him. "We took the liberty of reading it, As you will see, there's little time to lose."
The tall Russian frowned as he read while the impatient Barthou questioned anxiously.
"But I can't understand how Herr Liederman-"
Zoya Rochal cut him short.
"I heard the sounds of shots and called Herr Liederman," she explained glibly. "We went to the vault which showed signs of having been tampered with. And so with a crow-bar which Monsieur Khodkine had left, we broke into it. Is this not so, Monsieur Rowland?" she challenged him.
Their glances met in comprehension. Rowland turned aside.
"That is true," he said coolly. "Monsieur Khodkine was robbing the vault. I interfered. We fought but he outwitted me and got away-"
"But I don't understand-" persisted Barthou.
"Monsieur," cut in Rowland quickly, "there is no time for explanations. The bank-notes of Nemi are in a machine bound for the interior of Germany. Some of us must follow at once. A machine-
"Mine is in the village," said Zoya.
"Passports-"
"Mine-" cried Liederman.
"And Monsieur Rowland-?" questioned Zoya.
"I shall take my chances. We must go at once."
CHAPTER X
FLIGHT
Monsieur Khodrine drove steadily into the gray light of the new day, satisfied with the events of the night which had resulted quite miraculously to his advantage, for the suit-case containing the bank notes of Nemi was safe upon the floor of the tonneau and the Princess Tatyana, still clad in her dark robe, sat in the seat beside him, completely at his orders. The escape of Picard had annoyed him, for he had intended taking the man far into the interior of Germany and there turning him over to the authorities as an alien enemy and a prisoner. But in the present turn of affairs it was possible that the counselors of Nemi might be put upon his own tracks and the pig of a Yankee liberated from the vault. He had been imprudent when in the first flush of his success he had told Tanya of their destination, but the chances of Picard getting back safely were not great, and he knew nothing of value.
The way in which the American Rowland had hidden his hand and almost defeated Monsieur Khodkine's projects showed how easily one could be mistaken in appearances and the feeling of comfort that had followed the imprisonment of the Yankee intruder in the vault was now slowly giving way to a vague inquietude. For the arm of Nemi, as Khodkine himself had said, was long and if Max Liederman blew open the door of the vault before the air for Rowland's cursed lungs was exhausted, Khodkine would have the whole pack of them yelping at his heels before he could take himself and the money to cover.
It was gratifying to him to turn his head and see the handsome angry profile of the Princess Tatyana there just beside him, but in spite of the way in which fortune had played into his hands and the ease with which her abduction had been accomplished, there were many thoughts that bothered him and her uncompromising attitude of enmity made him aware that he must play his game with a gentle hand. He had held her, heretofore, by the threat which he had hung over her, – a painful business at best, since she was quite the most desirable woman he had ever known. But the pig Rowland had startled him by revealing a knowledge of his nationality, his correct name, regiment and employment. For if Rowland knew who he was, from whom had he received the information? Not from Zoya Rochal, for that lady, clever as she was, could have had no possible means of learning the truth. Not from Liederman nor Barthou nor Shestov, for he had covered his trail far too cleverly. He was not so sure that Kirylo Ivanitch had not discovered something-Kirylo! Had Tatyana gotten something from the dead priest and told what she had learned to Rowland?
And so, driving silently, Monsieur Khodkine tried to think out a solution of his problems, mindful of the girl at his side, who sat rigidly in resolute silence, deaf or oblivious to the small attentions which he offered her. But as the day had now broken and the roads had suddenly seemed to fill with people, some of whom stared at the dark, cowled figure, he turned to her with a smile.
"They think, Princess Samarov," he said, "that I'm eloping with a nun."
She made no reply.
"If it pleases you, Princess Samarov, we will descend at Tuttlingen."
She understood the meaning of the repetition of her name, but gave no sign that she was aware of it.
"Of course, Gregory Khodkine," she replied coldly, "I must do as you wish."
"Ah, my dear Tatyana," he urged, "do not say that. Rather tell me that you wish it also."
"I wish for nothing but my freedom."
He smiled at her pleasantly.
"How like a woman," he said, "to desire the one thing not in my power to grant. I cannot let you go. And if I did, here in Germany, your position would be precarious." He drove on in a moment of silence and then spoke more soberly. "Come. Be reasonable. Through no fault of my own we are enemies. It is very painful to me to feel that you are not in sympathy with my aims for Russia, but the very fact that I am right and you are wrong, makes me more generous toward you."
"Generous! Is this generosity-?"
"One moment, Princess Tatyana," he broke in as she paused. "You cannot forget, nor can I, that no matter what has passed between us, you had no right to condemn me unheard for what happened in Moscow. Prince Samaroff brought his fate upon himself. Nor had you the right to confide, without the consent of the Council of Nemi, in this absurd adventurer from America, to set him against the established authority, furnish him with the combination of the door which protected the money of the society that he might loot the vault for his own uses-"
"That is a lie," she muttered tensely.
He shrugged.
"The evidence is all against him-and you, Princess Samarov," he added quietly.
She faced him and in the abrupt action the cowl fell over her shoulders, disclosing her disordered hair.
"You dare not look me in the eyes and say that I would steal money given in a holy cause. You dare not!" she murmured bravely.
He drove on stolidly for a moment and then a smile came on his thin lips.
"Much as I would like to look in your eyes, Princess, it is now impossible, since I would surely run into a market-cart. It is difficult furthermore," he said coolly, "because to look into your eyes is dangerous to my peace of mind-"
"Tch! – " The accent of scorn in her voice was very genuine, as she twisted away from him. "You honor me, Gregory Khodkine," she finished.
"I would honor you more, Tatyana Samarov-the highest honor in the privilege of any man to bestow," he said quietly. "I ask you to be my wife."
She was startled and turned toward him, wide-eyed.
"You! – after what you have done to me and mine-!"
"I beseech you to listen to me. Your father, Prince Samarov, was the enemy of Russia's freedom-'
"Because he believed in order," she broke in wildly, "instead of anarchy-"
"Because he was reactionary-" he paused with some show of delicacy, "because he was a traitor to the very causes you represent."
"That is not true. His cause is mine-the integrity of Russia as well as her freedom."
Khodkine smiled lightly.
"The old order passeth, Princess, and with it those who are not awake to the new issues."
"And what is the new order of things?" She returned with spirit. "A carefully planned disorder that Germany may triumph, a chase of will-o'-the-wisps through a mist of illusions. You speak of treachery; You-!" She stifled the scorn of her tongue with an effort, for the thought of the papers in her bodice warned her that she was coming to dangerous ground.
"You are trying to do me injustice, Princess," he said quietly, "but your very words fail you for lack of proof. That it was through my agency that Prince Samarov was thrown into prison is indeed a proof of my loyalty-for did I not know that in condemning him-" Khodkine's voice sank a note as he finished slowly, "that in condemning him I was losing my own heart's desire-the one woman in the world that I have ever loved-or can."
She glanced at him quickly but anger dominated.
"He was innocent of any connection with the Camarilla of Rasputin," she said in a tense voice. "He despised trickery-and you knew it."
"That will doubtless be proved, Princess Tatyana, and it may be that I can help," he said suavely. "Indeed I am not without influence with the Council of Workmen's and Soldiers' Deputies."
"And why should you not be-you who are-!"
Again she paused, her hand below her cassock fingering the dossier of Gregory Hochwald.
"I am-what, Tatyana?" he asked keenly.
She shrugged and looked away.
"The apostle of-of license!" she said chokingly.
The promptness of her reply reassured him. She believed in the Provisional Government and the dangers that now beset it were very real to her.
He smiled and turned to her softly.
"Aren't your mission and mine the same, after all? We desire a Russia free-not alone from medievalism but from the traitors within her borders who have stolen the food from her soldiers, profited upon munitions which never reached those who upheld the honor of Russia at the front-the capitalists and those they put in power. I need not go on. You know their names and places-vipers that any true Russian of the nobility or of the people should pledge his life to crush. You too, Tatyana-you are their enemy as I am. Will you deny it?"
Tanya had listened in silence, amazed at the fervor of his denunciation and at his plausibility. Had she not held close against her body the proofs of his perfidy, had she not known the secrets of his Russian intrigue, his clever tongue might have persuaded her. As it was, having in her misery already planned a course of action, she merely answered evasively. Gregory Khodkine should be no more clever than she. At the present moment she seemed to be completely in his power, and until a proper opportunity presented, she must meet him at his own game. This was not the first time he had declared his love for her. There had been other moments in Petrograd and at Nemi when Gregory Khodkine had chosen to dignify her with his attentions, but beneath his suave demonstrations of affection, she had always been sure of his venality and felt the threat of a danger. Her father at this moment lay in a cell in the Prison of St. Peter and St. Paul, a prisoner through this man's agency, and of those others who had sworn falsely. She had blamed Gregory Khodkine, because she had guessed that the currents which actuated him had their source among the high places. Now she knew what and where, for the proof was in her possession, and that knowledge made her fear and hate him the more.
The disaster to Monsieur Rowland had stricken her helpless, the death of Stepan had terrified her, but she had managed to gather her wits together in time to feign illness and write the note to Shestov which Picard had taken. All her hopes lay in Picard. Would he reach Nemi in safety and if so would he be in time to save Monsieur Rowland from a frightful death? Monsieur Rowland was a brave man. There was a quality of carelessness in his courage and ingenuity that had made her throw herself impulsively into his confidences and upon his protection. It was incredible that this fine young life should be snuffed out… She would not believe it! And Monsieur Khodkine, Rowland's enemy, Stepan's slayer, sat beside her, driving into the sunshine of the dewy morning, alive, awake, persistent and successful, a portent of the triumph of the dark forces which were spreading their evil snares all about the world. She stole a quick sidelong glance at him and marked the handsome, finely-cut profile. He was good to look at-but cold-so ruthless and so cold! And it was this man who a moment ago had asked her to marry him! There had seemed something more ominous to her in the carefully chosen words of his declaration than there would have been in the rugged orders of an honest jailor. And yet there was too something in the quietness of his manner and in the air of submissiveness with which he had accepted her rebuff which reassured her. Could it be, after all, that under this impassive exterior there was a soul that could be touched, a chord of memory, an ideal to be invoked, in which during moments not given to the soulless pursuit of a mad nation's ambitions, she, Tanya, could have a part? Once or twice she had believed him genuine, for in his pale blue eyes had come a look that had been born of a real emotion, and then something had happened-a quick return of his imperiousness or suspicion, which had driven from her mind all thoughts except that this was the man who held the fate of Prince Samarov in the hollow of his hand. But what if…
She glanced at him again. His position was unchanged, his expression unmoved, sober, determined but not unpleasant, and for the present he seemed to have forgotten her existence. Love? To such a man-it was a thing apart, a trifle, an incident upon the highway of his life and yet-what if she could find it-use it?
There was a weapon here for her woman's fingers to grasp and wield. He had offered it to her. Was that too a part of the tissue of falsehoods he had woven about his life or was it a tangible thing that would cut and rend as a woman's weapons should? There was nothing left for her but to choose. Timidly, but firmly she caught at it.
"Grisha Khodkine," she said with a smile that belied the fear in her heart, "perhaps you are right. I am only a woman. I have thought deeply and sorrowed deeply for Russia, but that is a woman's weakness for her heart leads her always. As to my father-"
She paused and looked over the blue valley which led down to Lake Constance.
"He need not worry you," he broke in. "Before leaving Petrograd, I assured myself that he lacked nothing. He is comfortable, well-fed and in no danger. If you will trust in me, it will not be long before all your clouds are rolled away."