Inside the Copper House, the atmosphere of suspense became more and more heavily charged; nobody quite knew the cause of the sounds which now reached them from the avenue. It was impossible to guess what Ortiz was thinking, for he had spread out a map on the table, and was studying it carefully. Wallion could see that it was a map of the environs of the Copper House. Suddenly Ortiz looked up into the journalist's eyes, with a frown; at that moment he really looked uncommonly like the "Little Gray Corporal." With his sparse, straggling hair, his keen, rather preoccupied glance, his small mouth, and round but determined chin, he was an exact copy of Napoleon, and the gray coat enveloping his thick-set figure increased the realistic effect.
Although he was evidently aware of this, and took pleasure in maintaining the pose, he did not lay himself open to ridicule: there was a threatening expression in his eyes, and his remarks were emphasized by the presence of the carbines at the door.
"Do you hear that?" he said, slowly; "there goes your last chance."
"It may be help coming," retorted Wallion imperturbably.
"Do you really think that?"
"You yourself need to study a map: you would be powerless against a well-planned surprise."
Ortiz raised his eyebrows, but his immediate reply virtually admitted the truth of the insinuation.
"A whole regiment would not be able to prevent my getting away by sea."
"As long as you did not fall in with two or three torpedo boats outside the headland!"
"Ah," murmured Ortiz, "is that why you sent off your friends?"
"Yes, they will give the alarm to the coast guards, if they have not already been warned. I had not counted on a stolen submarine when I came here, but now I know where I have you...."
As they talked, both men were on the alert for sounds from outside; people were approaching, and as though at a given signal, those inside the room re-grouped themselves.
Ortiz and Fayerling took a few quick steps towards the door, and the sentries grounded their rifles; Wallion, Raebel and Lona Ivanovna drew back towards the window, and stood in front of the pretended Andrei Bernin, in his armchair. The two groups kept a watchful eye on one another across the room.
"Discussion is useless," said Ortiz, presently; "your friends have failed--look!"
A confused mass of shadows became visible through the doorway, and rifle-butts clanged on the hall floor. Two weary and dejected figures were pushed forward into the circle of light in the middle of the room: they were Leo and Sonia, and Wallion could not repress an exclamation of disappointment.
"You have failed?" he said, going up close to Leo; "haven't you telephoned or done anything?"
The young man shook his head wearily:
"We did our best, but they were too clever for us: it was a trap."
In a few words he told his story. Sonia had taken refuge in her aunt's arms.
The journalist perceived that he could no longer expect help from any quarter, and that he must rely entirely upon his own skill and resourcefulness; it was like the final moves in a game of chess, when the board has been swept clean of all but a few pieces, and the antagonists are two evenly-matched and quick-witted players. Leo Grath and the others were pale with mortification: they had lost heart, and were powerless to make any further attempt to save themselves, though Max Raebel, who stood just behind the journalist, said in a low tone:
"We are out of our depth, Mr. Wallion, things look bad for us. But if you give the word, I am at your orders: at least, we can still use our fists!"
The journalist did not reply, but turned to Ortiz, who was listening to Rastakov's and Tassler's obsequious report.
"Gabriel Ortiz," he said quietly, "I warn you for the last time: we are under the protection of the law of Sweden."
The adventurer turned round, and inspected him from head to foot.
"I presume I am to consider that as a formal protest?"
"Yes. It is addressed to your friends as well as to yourself."
"My friends!" echoed Ortiz, in an indescribably contemptuous tone; "if I and my plans were dependent on my friends, I should be weaker than you. Do you suppose I take either friends or enemies into account? Your protest is futile, sir, and if you haven't perceived it already, I shall convince you of it."
He gave an order in Russian. The two marines stepped forward, and took possession of Lona Ivanovna's revolver, the butt of which was protruding from her workbag. The old Russian lady was taken off her guard, but she quickly realized that she was disarmed, and rapped out an indignant oath. Sonia caressed her soothingly:
"Never mind, Auntie," she whispered. "Keep still; don't make Sergius uneasy: he is looking this way, and I think he wants to say something to you."
"Yes, of course, child," murmured the old lady, irritably, "he wants to fight, and so do I; it is only natural...." She leaned across to the white-haired figure in the armchair, and a few brief sentences were exchanged between mother and son. The journalist watched her closely, for he feared that the hotheaded old Russian was contemplating some rash step, and suddenly he guessed that Sergius was still armed. Lona Ivanovna must be trying to persuade him to give her his revolver. Was she determined to make a fight for the document? To his relief, Sergius simply shook his head, and Lona Ivanovna drew back in high dudgeon. As she looked at Wallion, he said softly:
"Let sleeping dogs lie! Leave your son's revolver, we may need it later on."
The other marine now proceeded to search Wallion's clothes, turning over his papers, and rummaging in his pockets. He seemed greatly surprised at finding nothing, and called out something inquiringly. Ortiz waved his hand, and the man returned to the door. Wallion had allowed himself to be searched without saying a word, though he thought the more. The man had over-hauled him thoroughly and rapidly, and had probably been a policeman in former times: which would account for his dexterity. Ortiz had chosen his men carefully; supposing one of them had the inspiration to--no! The journalist resolutely banished that thought from his mind.
But some obscure association of ideas made him open his cigarette case, and light a cigarette at the tiny blue flame of the cigar-lighter which he always carried in his waistcoat pocket. A barely perceptible smile flitted across his face. Perhaps Ortiz noticed the smile, for he said in a harsh voice:
"You are unarmed; you have no possible means of communicating with the outer world; my will is paramount here: need I put things more plainly? My will! In those two words you have the only law that carries weight here to-night."
"And before what court of law will you enforce it?" inquired the journalist politely.
"Do you insist upon a set trial?"
"Oh, don't put yourself out on my account!"
"Take care! I am not accustomed to be spoken to in such a tone. I suppose you are trying to gain time? What can you hope for now? I assure you we could blow the Copper House into atoms to-night, without a single person being near enough to see even the reflection in the sky. Don't you hear that?"
Hear? Wallion felt, with every nerve in his body, the long-drawn out reverberations of the thunder-storm which raged anew over their heads, whilst the dark window-panes were continually lit up by the glare of the lightning. He knew perfectly well that the adventurer was not exaggerating.
"A court of law," Ortiz repeated. "Baron Fayerling, these people seem to expect us to perform a scene from comic opera!... Very good, if they are such sticklers for form, I appoint you as general prosecutor, baron, but be brief."
The baron said slowly:
"I accuse Maurice Wallion of having used force to hinder me in carrying out an appointed task, of having attacked my assistant Rastakov, and of having helped the thief, Bernard Jenin, to get away with Tarraschin's memorandum."
"A comprehensive indictment!" remarked Wallion.
"Do you deny it?"
"What would be the good?"
After a minute's silence, the baron proceeded:
"I accuse Lona Ivanovna, Andrei Ivanovitch, and Sonia Andreievna, of having received and hidden the thief, whose real name is Sergius Tassler."
"And whose father stands there!" interrupted Lona Ivanovna in a threatening voice, pointing at the merchant, who started back; "of what can you accuse your own son, and your former wife? Why are you silent? Are you beginning to feel what an utter worm you are, little Marcus? Speak, man! Out with it, or I am afraid you will choke...."
The merchant tried to reply, but his trembling lips could only articulate an indistinct murmur.
"Silence!" said Ortiz sharply.... "You are to answer and not to ask questions, Lona Ivanovna. Where have you hidden Sergius Tassler?" His dark, steadfast gaze seemed to read her inmost thoughts....
"You refuse to answer?"
He put his hands behind his back, and came up to her, thrusting out his head, and compelling her to meet his eyes.
"You are obstinate? Do you think I need your answer? I tell you, I saw through the whole of your miserable little secret as soon as I got into the room--but it amused me to play with you--look here!"
Before anyone guessed his intention, he had snatched the wig from the fugitive's head; the blue spectacles fell on the floor, and were broken. Sergius sprang up with a cry, and stood unmasked, pale and agitated before Ortiz, who continued with appalling composure:
"The game is up. No, my lad, your plan was really too audacious! You didn't calculate that I should be aware of the important fact that Andrei Bernin was dead; and besides, the man who wears a flowing beard on a young face, should be careful to keep in the dark...."
This revelation produced an overwhelming impression. The baron and Rastakov, realizing how they had been tricked, stood mute, glaring malignantly at the man who had foiled them; Lona Ivanovna tried to spring forward, but one of Rastakov's men pushed her back and raised his gun threateningly, whilst, as though in obedience to some preconcerted signal, four more armed men came in from the hall.
"Let him alone!" cried Lona Ivanovna. "I forbid you to touch him!"
Ortiz did not seem to hear her; without changing his position, he stood and studied Sergius Tassler's face, as though he were bent on solving a problem. Wallion, who in his turn, watched Ortiz narrowly and quietly, guessed what the problem was.
"So it was you who brought Tarraschin's memorandum out of Russia?" said the adventurer at length, thoughtfully. "What have you done with it?"
"I shall not tell you," replied Sergius vehemently; "what have you to do with us? We have a right...."
"I want no unnecessary explanations. I know all about you. Will you give me the paper of your own free will?"
"Never!"
"Then I shall take it."
"Don't be so sure that you can find it!"
"I have no need to search," replied Ortiz, raising his hand. "I don't think much of your intelligence: you are not wanting in brains, but you rely too much on yourself, and you lack imagination. You have hidden the paper somewhere about you--not in your clothes--they are liable to be searched, aren't they?--what else have you? Ah, give me your stick!"
A strange expression passed over Wallion's face, as Sergius mechanically held out his stick, and he could not restrain an audible "bravo," at the ingenuity of Ortiz' reasoning.
Ortiz turned round, with the stick in his hand:
"I appreciate your compliment, but the thing was perfectly simple. One could see from here that the handle of the stick unscrews. Meantime, your 'bravo' betrays that the secret was known to you, which makes it less likely that the paper is still in its hiding-place; indeed, it is hardly worth while looking inside."
He tossed the stick to the baron, who with nervous haste unscrewed the handle, and peeped into the cavity.
"Manifestly empty!" remarked Ortiz, coolly; "that was to be expected: it was a poor hiding-place, and no doubt you discovered it at once, Mr. Wallion?"
"Of course."
"You have it then?"
Wallion hesitated for the fractional part of a second.
"I can give you my word of honor that I have not removed the paper from the stick," he said then. "Are you so sure that it is not there after all?"
Leonard, who could not understand the journalist's intention, bit his lips; he was beginning to think that Wallion was altogether too complaisant, but Raebel gave him a dig in the ribs, and whispered with a smile:
"Have you ever seen an acrobat on the top of a pole? He's nothing to Wallion: just keep your eye on him. He's not the sort of man who comes to grief at the first round!"
Although the Austrian spoke lightly, the perspiration stood on his forehead: experience told him that the situation was critical, and he could see that Ortiz was getting to an end of his patience. He did not trouble further about the stick.
"Sergius Tassler," he said sharply, "if you wish to live you must answer me. Did you have Tarraschin's memorandum in your stick?"
Sergius started back a little, but made no reply; his dark, resigned face did not change, and he looked calmly at his tormentor.
"Answer him, for Heaven's sake," sobbed Sonia; "answer, Sergius, I won't have you die!"
His face softened at her passionate appeal, and he said curtly:
"I did hide the paper in my stick; I do not know who took it out; I have nothing further to say."
There was no mistaking his sincerity, and Ortiz showed no sign of doubting his word.
"You have said enough," he remarked, his eyes beginning to sparkle; "you have said more than enough, but you are even more imprudent than I thought: now I understand!"
His eyes rested for an instant on the young girl, with a thoughtful and not altogether unfriendly expression; then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he dismissed her from his mind, and for the first time turned his whole attention to Lona Ivanovna.
"It must be you," he accused her. "You are intelligent and determined: you said to yourself, 'It will be better for me to take the responsibility, Sergius is too weak.' You watched over your son at night, whilst he slept, didn't you? You need not answer: the thing is obvious; you took the document secretly, that you might hide it more securely. You felt yourself strong enough to bear the responsibility alone. Very good. The entire responsibility is yours, since you will have it so. Now you must answer me."
Lona Ivanovna replied steadily and unhesitatingly:
"Yes, I took it whilst Sergius was asleep. Only I know where it is to be found now--and you cannot frighten me!" She laughed grimly:
"I think I have baffled you this time. You may kill me, but you won't find what you are looking for. Those brutes have ransacked the whole house twice, and you may do it once again. You have no chance of succeeding, and you may believe that I know what I am saying, when you recollect that I have all my life been accustomed to play hide-and-seek with the Tsar's secret police. Go your way, Gabriel Ortiz, you have failed. An old woman has beaten you!"
The adventurer showed no sign of discomposure; he allowed her biting scorn to pass unobserved; not so her challenge.
After a few minutes' calculation, he said, more to himself than to her:
"There are only two or three places where you can have hidden it; but why waste time in guessing? There is a much simpler way."
As he said this, he showed his white, even teeth, not in a smile, but rather in the fixed grin of a wild beast, while a grim look came over his face, almost transforming its expression. He turned to the marines, and gave the word of command:
"Ready! The first to stir from his place will be shot."
Half a dozen rifle-muzzles were pointed at the prisoners.
"Rastakov, take your revolver and place it against Sergius Tassler's forehead. I will count three--and at the word 'three,' you will fire."
The six marines took careful aim, and nobody stirred, while Rastakov crossed the room, and placed his heavy weapon against Sergius' right temple. There was a breathless silence, for they all realized Ortiz' intention. Marcus Tassler turned ashen-gray; without a sound he left the room, and was not seen again.
"I forbid anyone to stir a finger," Ortiz continued; "this business is between you and me, Lona Ivanovna. I have your son--you have the document: will you exchange?"
A dead pause ensued. The old lady raised her hand slowly to her throat, and gazed as though fascinated at Rastakov's forefinger, which was touching the trigger.
Sergius had closed his eyes.
"Don't think of me, Mother," he said, softly; "think only of our cause."
She opened her mouth, but no sound issued from her lips.
"One!"
Sonia sprang up, but Leo caught her in his arms, at a glance from the journalist, who was now very pale. Lona Ivanovna remained stiff and immovable.
"Let me go!" cried the girl, hysterically. "Oh, you--cowardly--wretches! If only I were a man!"
She sank down, half fainting, but weeping as though her heart would break. Wallion clenched his hands, but kept still; he seemed to be waiting for something.
"Two!"
A glazed look came over Lona Ivanovna's eyes, and she stared at Ortiz as though she had never seen him before; she seemed to look at him as though from an immense distance, and to be straining every nerve to control herself. She saw his pitiless eyes, his lips unclosing for the third time ... she tore the workbag from her left arm, and threw it on the table.
"There!" she exclaimed. "Let Sergius go, you murderer! The paper is in the bag."
"In the bag!"
The adventurer put out his hand, but drew it quickly back.
"If you are lying, ..." he said threateningly.
"I am not lying," she replied wearily. "I took the paper out of the stick whilst Sergius was sleeping. I was certain that nobody would look for it in a place that was so apparent to everyone. The paper is very small, and in a tiny roll; it is lying amongst the lace-work.... Forgive me, Sergius!"
She sank down on a chair. Ortiz turned the bag upside down, and shook out the work on the table. Wallion was carefully choosing a cigarette from his case; he smiled: the matter was taking the turn for which he had hoped from the beginning, and Ortiz had already wasted nearly two precious hours; his own opportunity was come at last.
"Well, Gabriel Ortiz," said he, in a nonchalant tone, "is the memorandum there?"
The adventurer had searched all through the contents of the workbag; he now pushed it aside, and began to examine the folds of the lace with nervous eagerness.
"You won't find anything there," the journalist proceeded; "Lona Ivanovna made a mistake. The paper is not in her workbag: I have it!"
