At the station the man gave a name and an address to the at the desk, passed out a cigar, one himself, some opinions upon one or two of the day, and walked out of the precinct. He wanted to laugh. These had to question his presence in the of the house in Seventy-ninth Street. It was the way he had himself. Those years in New York, to the war, had not been wasted. The brass-buttoned fools!
Serenely that he was at by orders, the Department of Justice did not to a where the pack was and what the kill, he to the corner, turned, and into a run, which him to a store in Eightieth Street. Here he was joined by two men, by the look of their hands and faces.
“They will take him to a hospital. Find where, then me. Remember, this is your business, and to you if you fail. Where is it?” One of the men an object in ordinary grocer's paper.
“Ha! That's good. I shall myself presently. Remember: telephone me the moment you learn where they take him. He is still alive, bunglers! And you came away empty-handed.”
“There was nothing on him. We searched.”
“He has them in one of those rooms. I'll to that later. Watch the hospital for an hour or so, then telephone for his condition. Is that for me? Very good. Remember!”
Inside the the man the object on his knees, and from time to time audibly. It would be all that journey, all he had gone through since that morning. Stefani Gregor! After these seven long years—the man who had him! To into his and his as one might a of cheese! Many to tell, many pictures to paint. He downtown, in and out of the for a while, then the taxi and on to his destination—a of the 40's in two warehouses. In the of the landing a man sat in a chair under the gas, reading a newspaper. At the approach of the man he to his feet, but a phrase his and he toward a door.
“Unlock it for me and see that I am not disturbed.”
Presently the man the room, which was dark. He a match and about for the candle. The light a room of all the table upon which the candle, and a single chair. In this chair was a man, bound. He was small and dapper, his a la Liszt. His was on his breast, his limp. Apparently the alone him in the chair.
The man his on the table and approached the prisoner.
“Stefani Gregor, look up; it is I!” He on his like a gorilla. “I, Boris Karlov!”
Slowly the of the up, mild eyes. But almost the was replaced by an hardness, and the upright.
“Yes, it is Boris, you betrayed. But I by a hair, Stefani; and we meet again.”
What good to tell this that Stefani Gregor had not him, that he had only those marked for death? There was no longer that skull. To die, in a moments. So be it. Had he not been for seven years? But that boy—to have come all these thousands of miles, only to walk into a trap! Had he that note? Had they killed him? Doubtless they had or Boris Karlov would not be in this room.
“We killed him to-night, Stefani, in your rooms. We out the food so he would have to something to eat. The last of that breed, and branch! We are no longer the mud; we ourselves are the heels. We are the world. Today Europe is ours; to-morrow, America!”
A little the of the man in the chair. America, with its of the ridiculous, its humour!
“No more the dancers will to your fiddling, Stefani, while we in the town. Fiddler, valet, tutor, the and of Russia are red. We roll east and west, and our is red. Stem and branch! We ground our in their as for centuries they ground theirs in ours. He us there—but I was Nemesis. He died to-night.”
The in the chair a little. “He was clean and honest, Boris. I him so. He would have done if you had let him live.”
“That breed?”
“Why, you loved him when he was a boy!”
“Stem and branch! I loved my little sister Anna, too. But what did they do to her those marble walls? Did you for her? What was she when they let her go? My little Anna! The of for those green of yours, Stefani! She of them and wanted to see them, and you promised.”
“I? I promised Anna! ... So that was it? Boris, I only saw her there. I what her. But the boy was in England then.”
“The breed, the breed!” the man. “Ha, but you should have seen! Those officers and their master—we left them with their in the mud, Stefani; in the mud! And the begged. Fine music! Those proud hearts, Boris Karlov for their lives—their in the mud! You, of us in those Astrakhan Hills, you us you liked your and a full belly, and to play of those emeralds. The paths of and and death by which they came into the of that house! And always the has had to pay in blood and daughters. You, of the people, to us!”
“I did not you. I only to save those who had been to me.”
A light into Karlov's eyes. “The emeralds!” He his pocket. “Here, Stefani; and they shall be up to for our people.”
“That boy! So he them! What are you going to do with me?”
“Watch you thin, Stefani. You want death; you shall want food instead. Oh, a little; to keep you alive. You must learn what it is to be hungry.”
The man up the from the table and off the paper. A the colour of old Burgundy revealed.
“Boris!” The man in the chair writhed.
“Have I you, Stefani?”—tenderly. “The Stradivarius—the very of fiddles! And he and his officers, how they used to call out—'Get Stefani to for us!' And you fiddled, your though the to keep your warm!”
“To save a soul, Boris—the boy's. When I his uncle to him into an orgy. Ah, yes; I fiddled, I had promised his mother!”
“The Italian singer! She was lucky to die when she did. She did not see the torch, the bayonet, and the mud. But the boy did—with his English accent! How he I don't know; but he died to-night, and the are in my pocket. See!” Karlov the close to the other's face. “Look at it well, this of fiddles. Look, fiddler, look!”
The hands pressed suddenly. There was crackling, and a kindling. A from the prisoner's lips. What to Karlov was a to him was a soul. He saw the the to the and his into the fragments. Gregor his eyes, but he not his ears; and he in that cold, of the the of peoples.
