Trusia: A Princess of Krovitch. Brinton Davis

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      "Where are they? We have so much time to find them." The sarcasm was crushing. "They probably were lost or destroyed years ago." He concluded temporizingly, under the compelling eyes gazing coldly at him.

      "Documents of that kind are never lost or destroyed," Josef announced dogmatically.

      "Where are they then? In Krovitch?" The sub-chief sneered.

      "No." The reply was so positive that the Russian agent leaned forward intently. He was growing suspicious, therefore becoming cautious.

      "You have seen them, I suppose." This was thrown off casually.

      "Oh, certainly. That's what suggested the plan." Josef smiled like a cat who has enclosed a cup of cream.

      "Then you have seen them recently." He only half waited for the assenting nod as he queried, "They are in Paris?"

      "Yes." Kolinsky smiled at the other's undisguised astonishment that he would admit so much.

      The sub-chief drew himself together, then turned sternly to his subordinate.

      "See here, Kolinsky, that's impossible. I've been head of this bureau for ten years, and if documents of such importance had come into the possession of the French or any other government, I would have known about it. If they had been turned into this office I would have remembered."

      "Nevertheless, Excellency, they are in Paris."

      There was another long pause. The Russian lighted a cigarette, while he sought in silent meditation to unravel the mystery which seemed not only a challenge to his acuteness, but also an impeachment of his régime. With a casual movement that he hoped was unnoticed, he drew back into a shadow where he could note Kolinsky's face while his own avoided scrutiny.

      "Kolinsky, how long have you been a member of the White Police?"

      "Twelve years, Excellency."

      "Two years before I came here, eh?" In a flash he had solved the enigma. "It is as I imagined. Have you the papers with you?"

      "Yes, Excellency."

      "May I see them?"

      "They are my personal property, remember."

      "How long ago did you get them?"

      "Fifteen years ago the eighth of August. That was before I joined the secret police. The owner had died and it took some clever work to gain possession of them."

      "How did you know of their existence?"

      "It was an accident." Kolinsky answered haltingly.

      "And your candidate for the crown?" asked the Russian in a slight tone of derision.

      "Is a Parisian artist. A good-natured fool." Kolinsky's tone of voice echoed the other's, whose hand was held out hesitatingly across the table for the papers. Deliberately Josef drew a bundle from his inside pocket and opened it before his chief.

      The parchments were old and the Latin was in an ancient cramped hand while the impression of the seal was well-nigh obliterated. When sufficient time had elapsed for the Russian to make a complete mental note of their appearance, Josef drew the papers away from him, refolded them carefully and replaced them in his pocket.

      "Kolinsky, you know what will happen should you desert us when once in Krovitch?"

      Josef was standing near the door. He smiled with supreme indifference.

      "Do I get the mission, Excellency?" was the only reply he vouchsafed.

      "Y-e-s." The superior's single acquiescence was prolonged into three syllables, urged by the acknowledged supreme ability of Kolinsky and restrained by a fear of apprehended duplicity.

      Aware of this struggle the clever fellow turned back in the doorway to laugh at the other's perplexity.

      "Really, Excellency, you have only one thing to fear." His chief started up suspiciously.

      "What is that?" he asked tersely.

      "That I may decide to claim the throne of Krovitch myself," Josef replied, as with his habitual smile he softly closed the door and hurried from the house.

      IV

      THE GRAY MAN

      "Do you realize, Carrick, that three weeks have passed since I proposed this trip to Krovitch?" They were whirling along a badly kept road in that province of Russia as Calvert Carter made the above remark which was also an interrogation. The place of their debarkation had been an unusual one – Danzig – chosen because it had been the more accessible to the Russian frontier. Slowing down the automobile for obvious reasons, Carrick turned a ruminating expression in the direction of his master.

      "Seems yesterday, sir."

      "How's the go-fever? Still working?"

      Carrick laughed. "Overtime, sir. Hundred miles an hour till we get there wouldn't be too fast for me." He turned his attention again to the machine and the rutty way before him.

      The other drew out a road map which he consulted with trained eyes that correctly approximated both locality and distances. Slowly refolding it he replaced it in an inner pocket. Being in a mood that anticipated much at the end of the journey, he was not loath to break into his chauffeur's taciturnity.

      "Well, cheer up. Even at this rate we ought to make Schallberg by sunset. It's eight o'clock now."

      "Seems more than an hour since I 'ad my breakfast."

      "I know, but no man's stomach is a safe timepiece, Carrick. On the road I could name at least six meal times by that organ of mine."

      For a few miles the jolting of the machine over rough places punctuated their progress with a conversational hiatus.

      The rarely occasional peasants working in the fields or plodding along the way, paused in their occupations to regard the novel vehicle with stolid wonderment.

      "Seems odd, sir," hazarded Carrick when a comparatively smooth piece of road permitted more than monosyllabic profanity, "seems odd that we've seen ten women to one man so far. These are all 'has beens.' No young chaps workin' in the fields. What do you make of it, sir?"

      "The ones not already drafted for Manchuria are dodging Russian conscription most likely."

      "Think so, sir?" Carrick's tone raised a question.

      "Why? Don't you?"

      "Oh, I don't know, sir. They've all taken it on the run for some reason or other. Maybe the Krovitch army is already mobilized."

      "Egad, Carrick, that is a possibility. I never thought of that. Suppose I expected them to wait for us. We don't want to miss the opening gun. Hump her up for all she's worth. Full speed and never mind the jolts."

      The chauffeur bent readily to the task and their further advance into the country of their hopes was such that boded ill to any bewildered fowl that might recklessly seek to cross in front of them. The dial indicated seventy miles an hour.

      "Suppose this were Fifth Avenue." Carter bent over СКАЧАТЬ