The stampede began. Two minutes after the alarm had been given, not a man was left near the stable, which was now burning on every side, casting a vivid radiance over its immediate neighborhood. It struck them later as extraordinary that the gang had retreated without a single attempt at resistance. The last shot was that fired by Ortiz himself, and aimed at his bitterest foe--Maurice Wallion. From that hour, nobody set eyes upon the reincarnated Napoleon; it is to be supposed that, like his great prototype after the defeat at Waterloo, he apathetically allowed himself to be hurried away by his panic-stricken followers. He was hopelessly beaten, he had lost everything, and he must have realized this: he chose to vanish into the night....
Wallion had not been hit. Together with Raebel he jumped down from the granary, the floor of which collapsed a minute later.
"That's what one may call a rescue at the eleventh hour!" exclaimed the Austrian. "But what puzzles me is how did help come, when we had been unable to send a word of our plight?"
"I was prepared for the worst this morning," answered Wallion; "Robert Lang had orders to come to our relief on the stroke of ten, if he had heard nothing from me by then. The reason why I was so anxious to send him a message, is very simple: the submarine, of course, necessitated special measures, and I am afraid that Lang has omitted to take them."
This simple explanation made the Austrian open his eyes; he gave a prolonged whistle of admiration, and said:
"Wallion, you're an out-and-outer!"
Policemen, in plain clothes and in uniform, now began to spread round the Copper House in a wide semi-circle, and they went to meet them. Robert Lang was at the head, with several police officers of higher grade.
"Hallo, Lang!" cried Wallion. "You are punctual, thank goodness, but tell me quickly, how things stand as regards the channel into the bay?"
The young man stood still.
"The channel into the bay?" he echoed.
"Yes. Have you a patrol-boat outside?"
"No. Is that necessary?"
Raebel threw up his hands at this question, and exclaimed:
"Then Ortiz will get away!"
Wallion briefly explained the situation. The news of the submarine created a sensation, and one of the policemen hurried off to alarm the coast guard. After an instant's hesitation, the main body of police resumed their march to the sea-shore. Not a light was to be seen in the bay, but suddenly the noise of an engine was heard through the damp, still atmosphere, and a strange, dark mass became visible in the channel between the island and the shore. It was the submarine, towing the lighter after it. The deck of the latter was crowded with men; a gloomy silence reigned on board, and the ports of the submarine were closed.
Lona Ivanovna came running, followed by Sergius, Sonia and Leo. The last-named wrung the journalist's hand, in silent gratitude, but the old Russian exclaimed:
"What are you doing, Mr. Wallion? You're not allowing Ortiz to escape!"
The journalist replied, thoughtfully:
"He can't escape from himself."
She did not understand him.
"And Tarraschin's memorandum?" she asked.
"We'll talk of that by and by. I have it quite safe."
On board the lighter, the clanking of machinery became audible, and the tow-line was cast loose. The submarine shot away, and steered for the open sea, leaving a white trail of foam in its wake. The spectators began to run along the beach, and came out on the little promontory. On land, the police had completed their "round-up," which yielded a harvest of fourteen abandoned, dejected individuals, all captured unarmed, and asserting their innocence. But it looked as though their Chief was to get away in spite of everything. Wallion stood on the furthest point, looking out to sea.
"Fog!" he remarked, laconically.
A dense, gray wall was rising out of the Baltic, and driving in towards the land. The submarine continued to steer east at full speed, leaving the lighter to shift for itself; both entered the fog-belt, and disappeared.
Robert Lang reproached himself bitterly for his remissness, but Wallion said:
"You couldn't have known it, and besides, what matter if he slips through our fingers for the time being? He has nothing left to hope for...."
He spoke in a low tone, and without shifting his gaze from the sea. Was he waiting for something?
Ten minutes passed. Then the sea of fog was tinged with a sudden crimson glow, which seemed to come from a point due east of the outlying islands. A deafening and prolonged explosion rent the air; then darkness settled down again, and silence reigned once more over the sea. They looked at one another.
"A mine-explosion?" suggested someone.
"The submarine!" cried Robert Lang. "It came from that direction. A catastrophe must have occurred on board."
"Or--something else!" said Wallion. "Ortiz went on board as a defeated man:--and Rastakov's comrades...."
He bent his head and turned away.
"It is late. Let us go."
Two days later, quite a little company was assembled in Lawyer Burchardt's office. There were Leonard Grath, Lona Ivanovna, Sonia and Sergius. The lawyer trotted up and down his sunny room, and looked incessantly at the clock. All faces were cheerful and free from anxiety, but a certain solemnity pervaded the atmosphere, and nobody seemed inclined to talk. Twelve o'clock struck, and the lawyer stopped his pacing, and looked expectantly at the door.
It opened, and admitted Maurice Wallion in travelling costume.
"Good morning," he said, with a smile. "I have to go abroad this afternoon, so you must excuse me if I seem a little hurried."
He shook hands with everybody, and gave Leo a small packet, saying as he did so:
"Take back your property; it is an atonement from a man who is sincerely repentant."
The young man opened the parcel, and colored with astonishment.
"The mortgages on the Copper House!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," answered the journalist, smiling. "Take them, you deserve a reward after all you have gone through, but ask no questions."
He turned to Lona Ivanovna.
"I have a message for you. You know that Marcus Tassler quitted the Copper House when Ortiz threatened your son's life. From that minute, he became another man, and fled from Ortiz' neighborhood, never to return. He wishes me to tell you that he regrets the past, and that you will never see him again."
The old Russian lady appeared deeply moved.
"Did you go and look for him?"
"Yes, I have had a talk with him."
"And--you let him go?"
"Yes, he is broken and changed. We must be merciful...."
The old lady bowed.
"I thank you," she said simply.
"I have another very important piece of news for you," Wallion continued. "Raebel and I, with the help of certain interested persons in various quarters, have settled the question of Tarraschin's memorandum, which is now in the hands of its rightful owner. Yes, Sergius Tassler, you must forgive me, but you know you had really no right to it at all! You shall not be a loser in the matter. I am authorized to inform the Bernin family that they are at liberty to return to Russia."
He smilingly deprecated their delighted expressions of gratitude, and continued:
"This brings the whole matter to a definite conclusion. Gabriel Ortiz' gigantic 'coup' has failed, and he himself has vanished without leaving any trace. I suppose you have seen the notices in the newspapers about the mysterious mine-explosion? That's the end of a many-sided adventure. By special request from an influential quarter, no official report will be published. The fourteen men who were arrested will be deported. Whatever the future holds, my friends, none of you will ever hear anything more of Gabriel Ortiz."
He was silent for a little.
"He was a man, after all!" he added, but he saw that none of them quite understood him. Sonia had clasped Sergius' hand, and regardless of them all, was pressing it to her cheek. Wallion bowed gallantly to her.
"I wish you a happier and brighter future," he said, smiling; "you are worthy of it!"
With these words, he left the room, and they looked after him with a pang of regret in the midst of their happiness, for they felt that they were losing a friend, and that his path might never again cross their own.
A letter from Maurice Wallion to the Author, dated Montreal, July 20th, 1918.
"My dear Author,
"I suppose it must be! Tell what happened at the Copper House in your own way: of course, there will be more fiction than fact, but that can't be helped!
"You can say that I was mistaken as I have never been mistaken before (except in the case of Madame Lorette Chandeloup, whose story I will tell you some day). I believed that Gabriel Otiz could be conquered, and I was wrong. The man died unconquered. I salute his memory: I could have wished to be his friend.
"Don't forget to lay stress upon one thing: that two important points in this mad adventure have never been cleared up. First, what became of all that was left of Ortiz' millions? They disappeared, as though by magic, from the banks, between the 10th and 20th of July, 1917. The Whirlpool engulfed them. I know that Marcus Tassler did not embezzle them, and it is a mystery to me what became of them.
"The second point is: is Gabriel Ortiz really dead? What actually happened that night out in the Baltic? That red glare haunts me!
"You know that Russia is still suffering. Kerensky's fall soon succeeded that of Ortiz: neither of them was strong enough to steer the drifting ship, which still awaits its master-pilot. Bolsheviks, Czecho-Slovaks, monarchists, and foreign powers are injuring themselves without gaining one atom of honor or happiness in exchange for all the blood they are shedding. Is Ortiz still behind the scenes? Has he risen from his grave to play the 'grand jeu'? I cannot tell. You may say: after all, he was only a grain of dust in the whirlpool. Possibly. Has not a grain of dust been able to change the course of the world before now?
"It is just a year to-day since I fought him at the Copper House for Tarraschin's memorandum. Somehow I feel that I shall see him again: I would stake my life on it!
"Good-bye, and, perhaps, 'au revoir'!
"In haste, between two adventures,
"Yours very sincerely,
"MAURICE WALLION."
