Stolen Souls

Fixing my eyes upon her steadily, I remained silent, pulling long, slow strokes. The evening was calm and delightful, but the blood-red after-glow no longer reflected on the placid Thames, for already the purple haze was gathering.

“You know many Belgians in London, I suppose?” I said at last.

“Oh dear, no!” she answered, with a rippling laugh, toying with one of her gloves that lay on the cushion beside her. “True, I know some of the people at our Legation; but I come abroad to visit the English, not the Belgians.”

“And you have never visited West Hill, Sydenham, mademoiselle?” I asked, resting upon the oars suddenly, and looking straight into her dark, wide-open eyes.

She started, but next second recovered her self-possession.

“No, not to my knowledge.”

“And have you never met Fedor Nikiforovitch; has he never addressed you by your proper name, Sonia Ostroff?”

The colour left her face instantly, as she started up with a look of abject terror in her eyes.

“M’sieur is of the Secret Police!” she gasped hoarsely, clenching her hands. “Dieu! Then I am betrayed!”

“No,” I answered calmly. “I am aware that mademoiselle is an active member of the Narodnaya Volya, but, I, too, am a friend of the Cause;” and I added a word which signifies indivisibility, and is the recognised password of the Circle of desperate Russian revolutionists to which she belonged. It gave her confidence, and she sank back upon the cushions, questioning me how I had recognised her.

“I heard you were masquerading in London,” I said; “and among other members of the Circle who are here at the present moment are young Paul Tchartkoff, Sergius Karamasoff, and Ivan Petrovitch.”

“But – but who are you, m’sieur, that you should know so much about the Narodnaya Volya? When we were introduced, I failed to catch your name distinctly.”

“My name is Andrew Verney, and I am an English journalist.”

“Andrew Verney! Ah! of course I have heard of you many times! You were the English newspaper correspondent who, while living at Warsaw, became one of Us, and wrote articles to your journal advocating the emancipation of our country and the inviolability of the individual and of his rights as a man. You assisted us in bringing our case vividly before the English people, and in raising money to carry on the propaganda. But, alas! the iron hand of the Minister of the Interior fell upon you.”

“Yes,” I said, laughing; “I was expelled with a cancelled passport, and an intimation from the Press Bureau at Petersburg that whatever I wrote in future would not be allowed to enter Russia.”

Our boat was drifting, so I bent again to the oars, and rowed back to the lawn of our hostess.

The beautiful girl, who, lolling back upon the saddlebags, commenced to chatter in French about mutual friends in Warsaw, in Moscow, and in Petersburg, was none other than Sonia Ostroff, known to every Nihilist in and out of Russia as “The Sylph of the Terror.” Her slim figure, her childish face, her delicate complexion and charming dimples made her appear little more than a girl; yet I well knew how her bold, daring schemes had caused the Tzar Alexander to tremble. The daughter of a wealthy widow moving in the best society in Petersburg, she had become imbued with convictions that had induced her to join the Nihilists. From that moment she had become one of their most active members, and on the death of her mother, devoted all the money she inherited to the Cause. Many were the remarkable stories I had heard of the manner in which she had arranged attempts upon the lives of the Tzar and his Ministers; how, on one occasion, with extraordinary courage, she had taken the life of a police spy with her own hand; and how cleverly she had always managed to elude the vigilance of the ubiquitous agents of the Third Section of the Ministry of the Interior. Yet, as she laughed lightly, and pulled the rudder-line sharply, bringing us up to the steps before our hostess’s house, few would have suspected Cécile Demage, the chic, flippant daughter of a Belgian mine-owner, to be the same person as Sonia Ostroff, the renowned “Sylph of the Terror,” who spent greater part of her time in hiding from the police in the underground cellar of a presumably disused house near the Ekaterinski in Petersburg.

Half an hour later we were sitting opposite each other at dinner, where she shone brilliantly as a conversationalist. Several persons were present who had met her in society in Brussels; but none suspected the truth – I alone held her secret.

When later that night we bade each other farewell at Waterloo Station, she managed to whisper, “I shall be at Fedor’s on Thursday night at nine. Meet me there. Do not fail.”

“Very well,” I replied; and, allowing her well-gloved hand to rest in mine for a moment, she bade me au revoir, entered a cab, and was driven away.

As I walked into Fedor Nikiforovitch’s handsomely-furnished drawing-room at Sydenham to keep my appointment, my host rose to greet me. He was tall, thin and slightly bent by age. In Warsaw I had known him as an active revolutionist, and, indeed, the men who were with him – Tchartkoff, Petrovitch, and Karamasoff – were a trio of daring fellows, who, alone and unaided, had committed many startling outrages. Several others were in the room, and among them I noticed two ladies, Mascha Karelin and Vera Irteneff, whom I had frequently met at secret meetings of the Circle at Warsaw.

“Sonia told me you were coming,” Fedor said gayly. “This is the final council. The attempt will be made to-morrow,” he added in a whisper.

“The attempt? What do you mean?” I asked.

“It will all be explained in due course,” he said, turning away to greet another member who at that moment arrived.

In a few moments, Sonia, in a striking evening toilet, and wearing a magnificent diamond necklet, entered smiling, being greeted enthusiastically on every hand. We exchanged a few words, then, when every one was seated in silent expectancy, “The Sylph of the Terror” took up a position on the tiger’s skin stretched before the hearth. The door having been closed, and precautions taken so that there should be no eavesdroppers at the windows that overlooked the flower-garden at the rear, in clear, distinct tones she addressed the assemblage in Russian as “Fellow-councillors of the Narodnaya Volya.” She referred to the manifesto of the Narodnoe Pravo, and said, “Autocracy, after receiving its most vivid expression and impersonation in the reign of the present Tzar, has with irrefutable clearness proved its impotence to create such an order of things as should secure our country the fullest and most regular developments of all her spiritual and material forces.” Then, with a fire of enthusiasm burning in her dark, flashing eyes, she referred to the thousands of political prisoners, many of them their own relatives and friends, who had been banished without trial to Siberia, to rot in the dreaded silver mines of Nerchinsk, or die of fever in the filthy étapes of the Great Post Road.

“Desperate cases require desperate remedies,” she continued, glancing around her small audience. “Hundreds of our innocent comrades are at this moment being arrested in Warsaw, and hurried off to the Trans-Baikál without trial, merely because Gourko desires to curry favour with his Imperial master.”

“Shame!” they cried, with one accord.

“He must die,” ejaculated Fedor.

“Shall we allow our brothers and our sisters to be snatched from us without raising a hand to save them?” she asked excitedly. “No. Long enough have we been idle. To-morrow, here, in London, we shall strike such a blow for the liberty of Russia that the world will be convulsed.”

“All is ready, sister,” Fedor observed. “The arrangements for escape are perfect. By midnight to-morrow we shall have separated, and not even the bloodhounds of the Third Section will be able to trace us.”

“Then let us see the shell,” she said. Walking over to a bookcase, he touched a spring, and part of one of the rows of books flew open, disclosing a secret cupboard behind. The backs of the books were imitations, concealing a spacious niche, from which the Nihilist drew forth a thick volume about seven inches long by five wide, bound in black cloth. It was an imitation of a popular edition of Charles Lamb’s works.

The bomb was in the form of a book!

Sonia, into whose delicate hands he gave it, examined it critically, with a grim smile of satisfaction, then placed it carefully upon a little Moorish coffee-stool at her side.

“It is excellently made, excites no suspicion, and reflects the greatest credit upon you, Fedor. You are indeed a genius!” she said, laughing. Then, seriously, she asked, “Is every one present prepared to sacrifice his or her life in this attempt?”

“We are,” they answered, with one accord.

“I think, then, that we are all agreed both as to the necessity of this action, as well as to the manner the coup shall be accomplished. In order that each one’s memory shall be refreshed, I will briefly repeat the arrangements. To-morrow night, punctually at eight o’clock, the man condemned to die will visit the Lyceum Theatre, entering by the private door in Burleigh Street. The person using the shell must stand at the Strand corner of that street, and the blow must be delivered just as the carriage turns from the Strand, so that in the crowd in the latter thoroughfare escape may be easy. It must be distinctly remembered, however, that the personage to be ‘removed’ will occupy the second carriage – not the first.”

“Will he be alone?” asked the dark-bearded ruffianly fellow I knew as Sergius Karamasoff.

“Yes. We have taken due precautions. Come, let us decide who shall deliver the blow.” And while Fedor wrote a word on a piece of paper, and folding it, placed it with eleven other similar pieces in a Dresden bowl, Sonia Ostroff continued to discuss where they should next meet after the coup. At last it was arranged, upon her suggestion, that they should all assemble at the house of Karamasoff in Warsaw at 9 p.m. on the 21st, thus allowing a fortnight in which to get back to Poland.

The scraps of paper were shuffled, and everyone drew, including myself, for I had taken the oath to the revolutionary section of the Narodnaya Volya, and, being present, was therefore compelled to share the risk. Judge my joy, however, on opening mine and finding it a blank! The person to whom the dangerous task fell made no sign, therefore all were unaware who would make the attempt. The strictest secrecy is always preserved in a Nihilist Circle, so that the members are never aware of the identity of the person who commits an outrage.

But the business of the secret council was over, the cunningly-concealed bomb was removed to a place where it was not likely to be accidentally knocked down, and the remainder of the evening passed in pleasant conversation. I had become fascinated by Sonia’s beauty, and when I found myself sitting alone with her in a corner of the room where we could not be overheard, I whispered into her ear words of love and tenderness. She, on her part, seemed to have no aversion to a mild flirtation, and admitted frankly that she had pleasant recollections of the sunset hour upon the Thames.

“Who is the man condemned to death?” I asked presently.

“What! are you unaware?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Why, the Tzarevitch.”

“The Tzarevitch? And you intend to murder him?”

She shrugged her shoulders, replying, “We have followed him here because he is not so closely guarded as in Petersburg. If we succeed, there will be no heir-apparent, for the Grand Duke George is already dying in the Caucasus, and the days of the autocrat Alexander are numbered. He will die sooner than the world imagines.”

The flippant manner in which she spoke of death appalled me; nevertheless, when I bade her farewell, I was deeply in love with her, and promised to be in the vicinity of the scene of the tragedy on the morrow.

I knew all the details of this desperate plot to kill the Russian heir-apparent – then on a brief visit to London with his fiancée– yet I dared not inform the police, for the terrible vengeance of the Circle was always swift and always fatal. Helpless to avert the calamity, I passed the long day in breathless anxiety, dreading the fatal moment when the blow would be struck. By some strange intuition, I felt that my every action was watched by emissaries of the Nihilists, who feared treachery on my part, for, as a journalist, I was personally acquainted with a number of officers at Scotland Yard. Hour by hour I strove to devise some plan by which I might prevent the foul murder that was about to be perpetrated; but, alas! no solution of the problem presented itself. The plans had been laid with such care and forethought, that undoubtedly the Tzarevitch would fall a victim, and Russia would be plunged into mourning.

At length twilight deepened into night, and as I walked from Charing Cross down the noisy, bustling Strand, the gas lamps were already alight, and the queues were forming outside the theatres. On passing the steps leading to Exeter Hall, I was startled by a hand being laid upon my arm, and found beside me an elderly woman, poorly-clad, wearing a faded and battered bonnet, with a black, threadbare shawl wrapped around her.

“You have not failed, then?” she exclaimed in low tones, that in an instant I recognised.

“You, Sonia? And in this disguise!” I cried.

“Hush! or we may be overheard!” she said quickly. “The choice fell upon me, but – but I have had a fainting fit, caused by over-excitement, and I cannot trust myself;” and she caused me to walk back and turn up Exeter Street, a short and practically deserted thoroughfare close by.

“Think, are not the risks too great?” I urged. “Why not abandon this attempt?”

“I have sworn to make it,” she answered determinedly.

“And the others – where are they?”

“An alarm has been raised. Baranoff, the chief of the Third Section, suspects, and is in London in search of us. We have all left England, with the exception of Karamasoff, who remains to witness the attempt, and make a report to the council.”

“And you will risk your life and liberty by endeavouring to strike this murderous blow, of which you do not feel yourself physically capable? For my sake, Sonia, defer the attempt until another occasion.”

“I cannot, even though you love me;” and her slim fingers tightened upon mine. Then, a second later, she clasped her hands to her forehead, and, reeling, would have fallen, had I not supported her.

“How – how very foolish I am!” she said, a few moments later. “Forgive me.” Then, as she steadied herself and strolled slowly by my side, she suddenly asked earnestly —

“Do you really love me, Andrew?”

“I do,” I answered fervently.

“Then dare you – dare you, for my sake, Andrew – dare you throw the bomb?” she whispered hoarsely.

Her suggestion startled me. I halted amazed.

“I – I could not – I really could not,” I stammered.

“Ah! it is as I thought – you do not love me,” she said reproachfully. “But it is time I took up my position at the next corner. If I die, it will be because you refused your assistance. Farewell!”

Before I could detain her, she had turned into the Strand, and was lost among the bustling crowd. Hurrying, I overtook her before she gained the corner of Burleigh Street.

“I have changed my mind, Sonia,” I said. “Give it to me; I will act in your stead. Fly to a place of safety, and I will meet you in Warsaw on the day appointed.”

From beneath her shawl she carefully handed me the bomb. It was heavy, weighing fully eight pounds. Slipping it into the capacious pocket of the covert coat I was wearing, I stood at the street corner. Sonia refused to leave, declaring that she would remain to witness the death of the son of the Autocrat.

Trembling and breathless, I stood dreading the fatal moment, knowing that my pocket contained sufficient picric acid to wreck the whole street.

Seconds seemed hours.

“As soon as you have thrown it, fly for your life,” urged Sonia. Then we remained silent in watchful readiness.

Suddenly, almost before we were aware of it, one of the Marlborough House carriages dashed round the corner past us, and drew up before the small door at the rear of the Lyceum. It was an exciting moment. Without hesitation I took out the deadly missile, and none too soon, indeed, for a second later the Tzarevitch’s carriage followed, and just as it passed, I hurled it with all my force against the wheels. Turning, I dashed away across to the opposite side of the Strand, and was there overtaken, a few seconds later, by Sonia and Karamasoff.

“It has not exploded!” they panted, in one breath.

“No,” I said. “How do you account for it?”

“The tube of acid has not broken,” Karamasoff said. “I predicted failure when I saw it. But let us go. Sooner or later a horse will kick it, or a wheel will pass over it, and then – pouf!”

“Farewell,” I said, and we hurriedly separated, each going in a different direction, both of my companions momentarily expecting to hear a terrific report.

But they were disappointed, for a quarter of an hour later I dropped Nikiforovitch’s bomb into the Thames from Waterloo Bridge, and next day an urchin was rewarded with a shilling for bringing to my chambers a copy of Lamb’s works. It was sadly soiled and damaged, but bore on its fly-leaf my name and address. He said he had found it in the gutter in Burleigh Street!

Events have occurred rapidly since that memorable evening. The Tzarevitch, unaware of how near he was to a swift and terrible death, is now Nicholas II of Russia; while the pretty Sonia Ostroff, still in ignorance of how her plot was thwarted, is at the present moment toiling in the gloomy depths of the Savenski mine in Eastern Siberia.

Chapter Eight.

One Woman’s Sin

Frith Street is the centre of the foreign quarter of London. The narrow, shabby thoroughfare retains, even on the brightest day in summer, its habitual depressing air of grimy cheerlessness; but enveloped in the yellow fog of a November evening, its aspect is unutterably dismal. Its denizens are a very shady colony, mostly the scum of Continental cities, who, owing to various causes, have been compelled to flee from the police and seek a safe asylum in the region between Shaftesbury Avenue and Oxford Street.

In a meagrely furnished sitting-room on the top floor of one of the dingiest houses in this mean street, a young man sat gazing moodily into the fire. He was of foreign appearance, about twenty-six years of age – tall, dark, and rather good-looking. His negligence of attire gave him a dash of the genial good-for-nothing, yet his pale face wore a grave, thoughtful expression, as his chin rested upon his hand in an utterly dejected attitude.

Beside him, with her hand placed tenderly upon his shoulder, stood a tall, fair-haired woman several years his junior. She was eminently beautiful, with delicately-moulded features and soft grey eyes that betrayed an intense anxiety. It was evident that she was not an inhabitant of that dismal quarter, for the hat she wore was of the latest French mode, her cloak, which had fallen unheeded to the floor, was heavily lined with sable, while upon her hand were several fine rings, that gleamed and sparkled in the feeble rays of the solitary candle.

“But, Paul, why cannot you remain? Here in London you are safe,” she argued, speaking in French, and bending over him with earnestness.

“Impossible,” he replied, shaking his head gloomily. “It is unsafe to stay here. I must start for America to-morrow.”

“And leave me?” she cried. “No, no; we must not part. You know how madly I love you;” and she smoothed his hair tenderly.

“Ah, Adine,” he sighed, “Heaven knows, mine will be a bitter sorrow!”

Taking her hand, he raised it reverently to his lips. In the silence that followed, the bells of a neighbouring church chimed slowly.

“Seven o’clock!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I must go at once, for I have invited some people to dine at the hotel. Come now, promise me you will not leave London. You are quite safe here, in this place. Besides, what have you to fear?”

“The police are searching all over Europe for me.”

“Do not be discouraged – we shall baffle them yet. I shall return to-morrow afternoon at four, when we can discuss matters further. Be cheerful for my sake, Paul;” and she bent and kissed him.

“Ah, Adine, you are my only friend,” he said brokenly. “I am tired of being hunted from place to place, and have been thinking that away in Mexico or Argentina I might be safe.”

“But you are not going. We shall not part,” she said decisively.

As she spoke, she picked up her cloak and wrapped it about her. Then, shaking hands with him, and lingering for a moment in his embrace, while he kissed her passionately, she opened the door and passed down the rickety stairs to the street.

Paul Denissoff did not offer to accompany her, but stood listening to her retreating footsteps, afterwards sighing heavily and flinging himself back again into his chair, where he sat staring aimlessly at the meagre fire.

It was nearly midnight. In a cozy and well-furnished private room at the Savoy Hotel, Adine, whose guests had departed, was sitting alone with her slippered feet upon the fender, reading. She had exchanged her dinner-dress for a loose gown of pearl-grey silk, and her hair, unbound, fell in rich profusion about her shoulders. Presently her French maid entered noiselessly, and asked —

“Will mademoiselle require anything more?”

“No, not to-night, Ninette,” she replied, glancing up from her novel.

“Bon soir, madame,” exclaimed the girl, and withdrew.

When she had gone, Adine took a cigarette from her silver case, and, lighting it, lay back in her chair in a lazy, contemplative attitude, watching the blue smoke curl upward. For nearly half an hour she sat engrossed in her own thoughts, when suddenly the door was thrown open. Turning, she saw a middle-aged, well-dressed man, wearing the conventional silk hat and overcoat.

“Colonel Solovieff!” she gasped, jumping to her feet.

“Yes,” said the intruder coolly, as he closed the door and turned the key. “I have the honour to bear that name. And you? I need not ask, Madame Adine Orlovski, subject of my Imperial master, the Tzar.”

Pale, trembling, and with teeth clenched, she felt in the pocket of her dress, and drew forth something bright and shining. It was a small revolver.

“No, no,” exclaimed the colonel, laying his hand upon her arm. “Put away that toy. Remember that I am chief of the English Section of Secret Police, and to shoot me will not be a profitable pastime. I shall not harm you.”

“Why do you intrude here, at this hour?” she asked indignantly.

“I come – as your friend.”

“My friend! Dieu! Can you believe that I have forgotten the insult you offered me when we last met? My friend! – you, the chief of the Tzar’s spies!” she cried angrily.

“And you, Nihilist and assassin, eh?” added the other, with a sinister grin. “Well, well, ma belle, we will not speak of such gruesome subjects as the murder of your husband in Petersburg a year ago.”

“My husband?” she gasped. “Have you discovered who murdered him?”

“Ah! then you do not forget the facts? Neither do I. He was found shot through the heart within a hundred yards of his house in the Vosnosenskoi Prospekt. The Third Section of Imperial Police have not been idle, and as a result of their inquiries, a warrant has been issued.”

“For whom?”

“For the arrest of the woman who chooses to call herself Adine Orlovski, on a charge of murdering her husband.”

“Me?” she cried. “Such imputations are infamous!”

“Pray, don’t be alarmed,” continued the colonel, speaking in Russian, and taking a cigarette from the case that lay open on the table. He seated himself, and calmly lit it, saying, “Sit down; I wish to talk to you.”

Breathless with anxiety, she sank into the nearest chair.

“You see,” he began, “it is impossible to escape us. Our agents are everywhere. Outside the hotel at this moment are three officers ready to arrest you – ”

“They shall not. I’d – I’d rather kill myself.”

“Very well. You have the means; do so,” he said, with a brutal laugh.

“Ah!” cried the unhappy woman. “You, the chief of the Tzar’s bloodhounds, have tracked me here, and I know that, although I am innocent, it is useless for me to expect or plead for mercy.”