Front matter (continued 2)

Khodkine turned half toward him, his fine white teeth showing in a smile and then thrust forth a hand in confirmation.

"Can it be that you will trust me?"

"Implicitly."

Khodkine's pale eyes glowed with purpose.

"Ah, that is good, Monsieur Rowlan'. It seems that the hand which guides the destiny of Nemi is still unerring." And then more quietly, "You know what power is yours to command?"

"Mademoiselle Korasov has told me something,--but with skillful advisers--

"All will be well, Monsieur. But you will have many advisers. They are coming here today, but you must select the wheat from the chaff. I shall tell you whom to trust. Russia must be born again. You shall help her in the pains of birth--save her from the malevolent hands which threaten to throttle her in the very act of being."

"It is a great destiny you plan, Monsieur. The society of Nemi may be powerful, but I can hardly believe that such a powerful autocracy as Germany----"

"Tst--Monsieur! You have heard some of the rumblings in the Reichstag. Liebknecht the elder blazed the way. His son has followed----"

"Oh, yes, Liebknecht. I've heard----"

"Only the military might of Germany holds the nation intact, but even in its might it trembles. Nemi is strong in Germany. In many regiments the socialists have revolted and in the navy--mutiny. Those men realize that there is a force let loose into the world, before which the selfish aims of the rulers of the countries of the earth are as chaff in the wind. Not one nation shall rule, or several, but all--Monsieur. All! Internationalism--! Do you know what that means?"

And as Rowland remained silent, as though in deep thought, Khodkine threw his long arms out in a wide gesture.

"You shall see. The time comes soon----"

"And you will help me, Monsieur?" Rowland asked urbanely.

"With all my heart and intelligence."

Khodkine smiled and the two men clasped hands. Monsieur Khodkine's hands were very white and as smooth as a woman's, but there was strength in the sinew beneath. Internationalism! A fine word! which might mean anything.... If this man were Rowland's enemy, at least he should not start with any advantage. The new Leader of Nemi was learning, still moving in the dark, for the names of those who had come into power in Russia, Lvoff, Rodzianko--and the others had seemed to stand for all that was best in the interests of free government. And so he had led Monsieur Khodkine out, that he might inspect, in profile, as it were, the motives which underlay his politics. As yet nothing definite--only a suspicion. As to the sincerity of his beliefs in the ritual of Nemi, Rowland was soon enlightened.

"You are a practical man, Monsieur Rowland," Khodkine went on easily. "You are no doubt mystified by the curious sequence of events which have brought you here to Nemi, as titular head of this great and secret order. But I too am a practical man, and I will be frank with you. I care nothing for symbols. Whatever the society of Nemi is in the minds of its legion of followers, to me it is merely a means to a great end--the safety and peace of all Europe. The fulfillment of the promises of the legend is extraordinary--almost incredible, but neither you nor I as men of the world can believe that it comes from any supernatural agency. Kirylo Ivanitch was immolated upon the altar of his own fears, a sacrifice to his own superstition. He killed the Priest who preceded him. For years his Nemesis, a true Nemesis, my friend, has pursued him. But you, Monsieur, must permit no such doubts to poison your usefulness."

"Why should I," laughed Rowland. "A man attacks me, stabs me with a knife. If he is killed, is it my fault? My conscience is clear."

"Good. Then we understand each other." He broke off with a shrug.

"As to the ritual of Nemi. There is a strength in mysticism, a fact which the vile Rasputin was not long in finding out. A little ceremonial does no harm and you, Monsieur, must play your part with skill and some caution."

"By all means," said Rowland, with a laugh. "Until the new priest of Nemi shall find me out. Then at least I assure you that I shall not stand on ceremony."

"Ah, as to that, you may reassure yourself," said Khodkine, easily. "A Miracle such as this may sometime happen by chance, but not twice in one generation."

"At least," Rowland concluded cheerfully, "you may be sure that I am not afraid."

"Perhaps it is well that we have a soldier at Nemi," said Khodkine with a smile. And then after a pause--"Tell me, Monsieur. Did Mademoiselle Korasov commit to your keeping any documents--any papers?"

"None," lied Rowland coolly. "As you know, this affair has happened so recently----"

"There were no papers found upon the body of Monsieur Ivanitch?"

"If they have not been removed by Issad or Stepan, they should be upon his body now."

"Ah! I will inquire." And getting up quickly, Monsieur Khodkine made his way out of the room in the direction of the adjoining apartment.

Tanya, a warning finger to her lips, joined Rowland immediately. It seemed that she must have been near the door, waiting for the chance to speak with him alone.

"You were careful?" she asked.

"As careful as a person may be who walks on a floor carpeted with egg-shells," said Rowland with a smile.

"He asked if I had told you anything, given you anything?"

Rowland nodded.

"He has gone to search the body," he said.

"For the paper I gave you," whispered Tanya. "I found it in the pocket-book of Kirylo Ivanitch. I took it--there in the garden as I knelt beside him. You have committed it to memory?"

"Yes. Droite 72 Gauche 23 Droite 7----"

"Sh--! You can remember it?"

"Yes."

"Then destroy it quickly."

Rowland struck a match, lighted the scrap of paper and threw it into the hearth. She went toward the door, stood in a tense moment of listening and then quickly returned.

"Do not trust him, Monsieur, and be upon your guard against him always. For the present nothing more. I shall contrive to meet you tonight."

She walked to the chair which Monsieur Khodkine had left and motioned Rowland to another, and then raising her voice, spoke easily in a conversational tone of the members of the Council who were to join them later in the day. A few moments later Monsieur Khodkine, his brows troubled in thought, came into the room.

"You found nothing?" asked Tanya.

"His watch, the talisman, some keys, a little money. Nothing else."

"What was it you were looking for, Monsieur?" enquired Rowland.

Khodkine glanced at Tanya and shrugged.

"A memorandum--it does not matter."

CHAPTER VI

ZOYA

During the afternoon other members of the Council of Nemi reached the village and arrived at the gate in the wall where Issad, clad in his dark robes and sensible of his own importance, greeted them with all solemnity and conducted them to the house where Tanya Korasov, Khodkine and Rowland received them. First, Shestov, who was blonde, bald and slightly pock-marked, with a long neck consisting mostly of tendons and Adam's apple. Shestov spoke French with a thickness of tongue which gave the impression of a being constantly under the influence of liquor,--a mere impediment of the speech, for as Rowland afterward discovered, no spirits of any kind had ever passed his lips. Then came Liederman and Mademoiselle Colodna. Liederman was heavy, Hebraic and noisy; Irina Colodna silent, abstracted and intense; Monsieur Barthou, mild mannered, quiet but eager, his sandy hair cropped short, his little red-rimmed eyes magnified many fold behind his enormous goggles. And lastly Madame Rochal.

If internationalism was the keynote of Monsieur Khodkine's politics, the term might in a general way be applied to the curious and striking personality of Madame Rochal, for she reflected such an intense cosmopolitanism that it was at first difficult to identify her with any nation of Europe. Her name might have been French, Russian or Spanish, and her gown might have come from Paris or Vienna. She spoke all languages, French, German, Russian, English with equal facility, each it seemed with a slight accent or tinge of the others, but without preference or favor. Her eyes, set a little obliquely in her head, were of the night, dark and unfathomable, and her hair, black with a faint green-violet gloss, was folded back at each side over her ears like the two wings of a raven. She was jeweled, exotic, slightly tinted, and exhaled a faint suggestion of daintily mingled perfumes. To all appearances she was less than thirty in years, though in her eyes lurked the wisdom of the centuries.

All of these persons were informed by Monsieur Khodkine, the earliest arrival, of the tragic event of the morning and of Philip Rowland's share in it. Monsieur Khodkine pitched his drama in a low key, spoke with great seriousness and earnestly requested the new arrivals to consider the evidence in the light of their own understanding and showed them the body of Ivanitch and the broken Bough, in token of the fulfillment of the prophecy. As to his own mind, he said, that was already made up. As a member of the Order, he would take commands from none other than Monsieur Rowland, who was now the President of the Order of Nemi. Rowland said nothing and stood soberly trying not to laugh, studying this queerly assorted company who had listened to the Russian, regarding the American with a new and rather morbid interest, appraising him (so Rowland thought) as one examines an egg which one expects to devour.

Whatever the others may have thought, only Liederman was outspoken. He got up, swaying from one foot to the other, like a great brown bear, his hairy fists clenched, his black brows beetling as he roared his opinions in a French tinged abominably with gutterals.

"Pfui! A new priest and an American! You have a doctrine over in your country. You should permit us to apply it here--Europe for Europeans, Monsieur--We do not need to go so far--

"But the laws of the Order----" broke in Khodkine.

"Pouf, Grisha Khodkine. We are no longer children, believing in the necromancy of the middle ages. I for one am no exorcist. We live in no day of incantations, nor can we accept the idols which a past age has set up for us. The train of coincidences is extraordinary, but let us accept it as such and end the matter. The Council of Nemi has borne with Kirylo Ivanitch, because as we all know he formed a proper buffer between our conflicting aims. But Kirylo Ivanitch is dead. When our numbers are filled, let us elect a leader, a Priest if you still choose to call him such, who will conduct our meetings and do our bidding. As for this Monsieur Rowland----" and he gave a grunt, "as far as I am concerned, he may very well go upon his way."

"That is impossible," came the cold, clear voice of Madame Rochal, her strange eyes fixed on Rowland's face. "The new Leader of the Order of Nemi has already been selected in accordance with a Destiny which it is not my privilege--nor yours, Herr Leiderman, to thwart."

Herr Leiderman stopped rocking and stared at the speaker, a look of sudden perplexity at his brows.

"You! Zoya!" he roared.

"I," she returned with a quick flash of her eyes. "And why not? God knows we need new wits to bring us harmony. Why not Monsieur Rowland's?"

"But----"

She shrugged and turned to Shestov who was speaking.

"Madame Rochal is not often wrong and her influence is not to be despised. For Russia I can speak. A man who is willing to offer his own blood unselfishly in sacrifice for a nation not his own, is a friend to Freedom and to Russia."

The red-rimmed eyes of Monsieur Barthou blinked enormously behind his goggles. "I am for the old order of things--as they have been since the beginning----"

"And shall be everlastingly," said Khodkine sententiously. "Amen. And you, Irina Colodna?" he asked.

"What has been, shall be," she replied in her soft Italian accent. "Whatever happens--the order must not be broken."

"Bah!" thundered Liederman, "and jeopardize our leadership of the cause of the world by investing this adventurer, this soldier of fortune, with the right to----"

"Hush! Max!" cried Zoya Rochal shrilly. "You are a beast."

Liederman rocked in a moment of silence and then sank into a chair, his fists clasped over his folded arms.

Rowland regarded him a moment and then as the gaze of the others was turned toward him, took a pace forward, faced them, and after a glance at Khodkine spoke quietly, and with growing assurance, while the smile that always lurked at the corners of his lips seemed to be struggling against his sober demeanor.

"Messieurs and Mesdames," he said politely, "I am, as this excellent and veracious Herr Liederman has just said, both an adventurer and a soldier of fortune. But if he chooses to turn these words against me I can only reply that I am an adventurer in the greatest cause the world has ever known, a soldier for the fortune of freedom which is to come. I am no diplomat but a soldier of France which stands resolute, undaunted, immovable upon its new frontier. I have been in the cauldron before Verdun and thus am the only one among you who has seen Hell upon this earth. I say to you Messieurs and Mesdames that death is nothing when compared to the tension of nerves tightened like bow-strings. After that I say there is no war that can be right--no Peace that can be wrong." There was a movement of approval and Rowland grinned comfortably and then went on--"Your cause is mine and whatever the means by which you accomplish peace, that is mine also. I will do your bidding if you desire it, but if, as Herr Liederman suggests, the good of your Society is best conserved by my departure I am ready to go upon my way----"

"Enough, Monsieur!" Zoya Rochal rose and threw out one white hand in a wide gesture. "We need you at Nemi, Monsieur Rowlan'--Is it not so, you others--?"

She challenged them quietly, but her eyes shot fire at the silent Liederman, who stared up at her from under heavy brows and shrugged.

"I am out-voted," he said; "I have no more to say."

"That is well," said Khodkine. He crossed the room and clasped Rowland by the hands, an example which all the others now followed. Tanya had stood at one side, a silent spectator of this scene smiling slightly, aware of her own part in this decision, but watching keenly as they came forward. Madame Rochal was the last to greet the visitor. Their hands met and Rowland bowed over the jeweled fingers.

"I thank you for your indulgence, Madame," he said.

"Do not let Herr Liederman disturb you," she whispered, "we are of many minds at Nemi. But the danger lies not in what is said, Monsieur, but what is unsaid."

"I understand. Perhaps you'll help me----"

"Perhaps. We shall see."

And with a deep look into Rowland's eyes, she passed on and joined the others who following Margot, the old woman whom Rowland had seen in the kitchen, went up the stairs to be shown the rooms they were to occupy. For a moment Rowland and Tanya were alone.

"You think her beautiful?" the girl asked.

"Magnetic, startling--but beautiful--? The beauté du Diable perhaps, but Mademoiselle----"

Tanya moved her expressive fingers.

"She is the most dangerous woman in Europe."

"You alarm me," he grinned. "The only powder a soldier fears is the Poudre de Riz."

She smiled.

"I'm not jesting."

"Nor I. You warn me against her?"

"If you love freedom. She is an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse."

"Ah--I see. But her nationality?"

"No one knows. What does it matter? She is an actress--a friend of princes, in Russia, in Austria, a go-between, a shuttle-cock playing her own game for her own ends."

"And Liederman--?"

"Is it not obvious? Her servitor."

"But why should she have chosen to accept me without question as the new President of the Order?"

Tanya was silent a moment, and then:

"Because, if I may make so bold as to say so," she said, "your guileless appearance marks a line of least resistance best suited to her methods of attack. Kirylo Ivanitch was immune. She thinks to find you less difficult. In other words," she finished dryly, "she means to use you, Monsieur."

"I shall be guileless, Mademoiselle, as long as I can learn something, but not too guileless to be ungrateful to you." She shrugged and laughed as he glanced toward the stairway whence came the sound of voices.

Rowland laughed quietly. "I'm pledged to you, to Khodkine and to Madame Rochal. Messieurs Shestov and Barthou are perhaps on my side. Before the hour passes I shall swear allegiance to Signorina Colodna and Herr Liederman," he grinned, "the society of Nemi at least shall be cohesive and I shall be the amalgam."

"This is no joke."

"Nevertheless I shall not cry over it----"

He caught her hand and pressed it in his strong fingers. "Will you let me solve these problems in my own way? If I seem to be guileless, humor me for my simplicity but do not distrust me, Mademoiselle--for of all these who are at Nemi it is you only who shall be my guide."

"You swear it?" she whispered.

"Upon my honor."

Her face flamed suddenly and her glance fell.

Then he kissed her hand and released her just as Khodkine entered from the garden where what had once been Kirylo Ivanitch had, without ceremony, been put below the ground. But the lines at Monsieur Khodkine's brows were not born of this gruesome informality for it seemed that Nemi turned without question from old gods to new, but of another matter which for some hours had obviously given him inquietude.

"If Monsieur Rowland will permit," he said gravely turning to Tanya, "Mademoiselle Korasov is best informed to speak of the affairs of Kirylo Ivanitch and of the business pending in the Council----"

"Shall I leave you, Monsieur?" asked Rowland.

"Why? You are one of us--our leader----"

Rowland chose to read something satirical in his ceremonious bow.

"Well," said the American good-humoredly, "what's the order of business?"

"The reports from the various central committees which these Councilors represent, appropriations of money to carry on the propaganda and the plans for Russia. But first it is necessary to see into the condition of the affairs of Monsieur Ivanitch. The vault must be opened."

"The vault?" echoed Rowland.

Khodkine nodded and glanced at Tanya.

"The Priest of Nemi is sole custodian of the documents and funds of the order. Only Ivanitch knew the secret of the doors to the vault----" Here he turned suddenly to the girl--"Unless perhaps you, Tatyana----"

"What should I know, Grisha Khodkine?" she said coolly. "I have merely obeyed orders. Kirylo Ivanitch entrusted me with no such weighty responsibility as this."

"And yet it is strange, that no record should be left----"

"Kirylo Ivanitch died without speaking."

"But you Tatyana were closest in his confidence. He must have given some sign, left some paper----"

"Search for it then, his room, his desk, his clothing----"

"I have done so. There is nothing."

Rowland found another cigarette which he lighted with the greatest cheerfulness.

"An impasse," he smiled, "what are you going to do about it?"

Khodkine shrugged.

"That is a grave question, Monsieur Rowland."

"Dynamite," suggested the American. Khodkine paced the floor slowly for a moment, and then to the girl.

"Go, Tatyana, if you please, and make a thorough search. Perhaps you may succeed where I have failed."

Tanya turned toward the door and then paused. "And the others, what shall you say to them?" she asked.

"Tell them the truth," said Khodkine.

The Russian waited until Tanya had gone and then coming close to the new President of Nemi, spoke rapidly and in whispers.

"You and I are allied for a common purpose. The vault is outside in the garden, deep under the Tree, we must find a way into it, you comprehend, without the knowledge of these others."

"Yes, but how?"

"That we shall devise. I will find a way." At the sound of voices he glanced toward the door. "Meanwhile," he whispered, "say nothing."

Rowland nodded and they drew apart as Madame Rochal and Shestov entered the room.

"Ah, Machiavelli," she said, coming forward with a smile--"already wrapping your tendrils around the Tree of Nemi."

Khodkine laughed uneasily.

"My tendrils perhaps do not grow so far or cling so tightly as yours may do, Madame."

Zoya Rochal glanced at Rowland who caught her look.

"For the wild rose, Madame," said the new Priest quietly, "the oak always bears a life-long friendship."

"Ah, Monsieur, who has taught you to make pretty speeches? But be sure that I am no poison vine," she said with a shrug.

"It is only the dead oak tree that the poison-vine loves. I, Madame, am very much alive."

She flashed a quick smile at him, at once a challenge and a reproach, while Khodkine looked on gravely.

"Only an escaping slave shall break the golden Bough," muttered the literal Shestov soberly.

Zoya Rochal laughed. "You, Grisha Khodkine?" she said significantly.

Khodkine started.

"Or you, Madame," he replied quickly.

"A slave?" she said. "I have escaped from one servitude into another. But to have political opinions in Russia is fortunately no longer a crime."

Rowland looked from one to the other and laughed.

"Monsieur Shestov has rendered me a service," he said with a grin. "I didn't know of this menace. If you, Madame Rochal, desire my life you shall take it at once." He picked up the dagger of Kirylo Ivanitch which had been brought into the house and put upon the table, and thrust the handle toward her. But she shuddered prettily and turned away. "As for you, Monsieur Khodkine," he said coolly, "from this moment I must be upon my guard."

But the Russian saw no humor in this pleasantry.

"Enough of this nonsense, Monsieur. Let us go in to dinner."

And yet this controversy which had been heard by the others who had followed Zoya Rochal into the room, in spite of its apparent triviality, had done something to clear the atmosphere. Rowland's perfect good humor and air of guilelessness which seemed to see nothing but good humor and guilelessness in all those about him, had the effect of providing a common meeting ground of good-fellowship for those of different camps. And whatever the diversity of their opinions, the darkness of their thoughts and purposes, the dinner table gave no sign of the deeper undercurrents of their various allegiances.

And when they all rose from the table at the conclusion of the meal Rowland and Madame Rochal went to smoke their cigarettes.

"I can't make you out, Monsieur Rowland," she said when they were seated on a bench at the end of the garden. "At times you seem very much like an overgrown boy," she began, "and then--something makes me think that you are not so ingenuous as you look."

"I have traveled the world over, Madame," said Rowland with a laugh, "but I've never managed to learn anything, except that women are very beautiful and that men are born to be slaves."

She laid her fingers along his coat sleeve.

"Don't you know, foolish boy," she muttered with sudden earnestness, "that you have happened upon the very edge of an Inferno?"

"No, you surprise me. It has seemed very much like a sort of pleasant game to me." He laughed. "I kill, quite by accident, the chap that runs your shebang and you all come along and pat me on the back. It's great, I tell you. You haven't been in a German prison pen, Madame. The conversation is hardly worth mentioning, the food is unmentionable and now for the first time in a year I find myself set down in a milieu of beautiful women and clever men with real food to eat and real conversation to listen to, and you, Madame, wish to spoil my evening by speaking of Infernos. It's really not considerate of you."

He lolled lower in his seat and smoked luxuriously, gazing at her through half-closed eyes.

The fingers on his arm tightened.

"I tell you, Monsieur, that you are in great danger, here at this moment. Don't you understand?"

"I understand what you say," he said smiling at her lazily.

"It's the truth--" she repeated. "Danger--of--death--sudden--at any time."

"I am so contented, Madame. I can imagine no moment more agreeable in which to die."

"You anger me. Have you no eyes to see what is going on about you?"

Rowland straightened and glanced carelessly over his shoulder.

"And what is going on about me?" he asked.

"You have become--in a moment--the most important single figure in Europe. You do not believe me. It is true. Around you, here at Nemi, seethes a struggle of nations gasping for breath and you sit and look into my eyes and dream."

"You must blame that upon your eyes," he whispered.

She shrugged, moved impatiently and then after looking cautiously around them into the shrubbery, turned toward him again.

"I pray you to listen to me, Monsieur," she said eagerly. "I like you, Philippe Rowlan'. From the first in there, when I saw you, I knew that I should like you. I don't know why." She shrugged expressively. "You are different. But you are also very foolish and I would not like to see you come to harm."

"And who would harm me?" he said coolly. "Perhaps I am foolish, but you must blame that upon my sense of humor. I blunder into the midst of a pretty little opera-bouffe worthy of the best traditions of Offenbach, with chaps in cowls and cassocks pottering about a saddish-looking tree and muttering about escaping slaves. And you ask me to be afraid. Perhaps when I get through being amused there will be time for that. For the present, Madame, will you bear with me and tell me something about yourself?"

She threw out an arm with a dramatic gesture which showed something of her training. "Ah, I have no patience with you, Philippe Rowlan'," she said, "you are impossible. Think of what I shall tell you, for it is very important. Under the mound below the tree is the treasure-vault of Nemi. It is built of steel, like a bank, and no one may enter it without the secret numbers which open the lock. Those numbers were known only by Kirylo Ivanitch and he is dead."

"That's unfortunate," said Rowland as she paused. "But you can't blame me."

"Do you know what is in that vault, Philippe Rowlan'?" she asked.

"I can't imagine. A pig with a ring in the end of his nose?" he smiled.

"You still disbelieve? Well, I will tell you. The funds of the Order at this time can amount to little less than twenty-five millions of francs. They are there for you or for anyone with imagination to divert into the proper channels."

Rowland's eyes in spite of himself had become a little larger.

"I'm no burglar, Madame. I've done almost everything--but safe cracking is a little out of my line."

"And yet it is upon you that the responsibility for this money devolves. If it is stolen you will be held accountable."

"Stolen! Who will steal it?"

She shrugged. "Who wouldn't--in a righteous cause?" She caught his arm again to emphasize the importance of her words. "To help the cause of Free Institutions in Europe? You! I! Anyone with a cause like that near his heart."

Rowland flicked his cigarette into the bushes. "I am very dense. There seem to be more causes than one at Nemi, more axes than one to grind. Let me be direct," he said coolly. "Yours--Madame Rochal. What is it?" he asked.

She glanced at him swiftly.

"You do not know?"

"Obviously, or I should not be asking."

She paused a moment, looking away from him. And then as though coming to a resolution she turned and spoke in a low tone. "These others believe that I am acting for the Social Democrats of Germany, like Max Liederman, but that is not the case."

"Ah--what then?"

"I am trusting you, Monsieur----"

"By the witchery in your eyes, I swear----"

She paused a moment as though to be sure of her effect. And then in a whisper--

"I am a secret agent of the Provisional Government of Russia."

Rowland sat silent a second and then laid his hand over hers while his lips broke into a boyish smile.

"I knew it, Madame. I was sure of it," he whispered softly. "Our cause is the same. You and I together--what can we not do for Russia and for Freedom."

He was so ingenuous, so boyish, so handsome. His very youth refreshed her. She sighed and then laughed softly as she raised the back of her hand toward his lips.

"There," she murmured, "you may kiss my hand."

But Rowland only glanced at the hand and before Madame Rochal knew what he was about had caught her in his arms and kissed her full upon the lips.

"Monsieur!" she stammered and drew away from him hurriedly. Rowland followed her glance and turned to find Tanya Korasov standing before them. Rowland sprang to his feet and stood, his head bowed, looking indeed rather crestfallen.

"Mademoiselle----" he began.

But she cut him short with a gesture, speaking rapidly and he saw that she was very pale and suffering under some suppressed agitation.

"Monsieur, you are to come to the house at once. In the name of Freedom--Grisha Khodkine demands it!"

"I will go at once."

Tanya had already turned and fled down the path. Rowland had taken only a few paces when Zoya Rochal rushed alongside of him and seized his arm.

"Be watchful, Philippe Rowlan'!" she whispered tensely, "for it is he whom you have most to fear."

He laughed softly as he caught her fingers to his lips.

"Thanks, Madame," he said gaily. "No one shall kill me at Nemi but you. That I promise." And left her standing in the darkness.

CHAPTER VII

CAMOUFLAGE

Rowland's long strides overtook Tanya before she reached the lighted spaces of the lawn. He had called to her but she had not stopped and so as he caught up with her he barred her way down the path.

"Mademoiselle Korasov," he blurted out eagerly, "just a word----"

She stopped and faced him, still pale in the moonlight, but quite composed, waiting for him to go on.

"I--I've been placed in a false light--I would like----"

"How, Monsieur?" she said indifferently.

"What you saw, just now--there. Perhaps you think----"

His words stumbled and at last failed completely, for he saw that she was bent on making explanations difficult.

"What does it matter to me," she said, "whom you embrace, and why?"

He felt the sting under her words, and realized that every phrase he uttered only placed him at a greater disadvantage.

"I can make no explanation," he muttered. "If you think me a fool, I'm sorry. And yet I'll prove that your confidence was not misplaced." Another silence during which Tanya walked onward without sign that she heard him.

"Madame Rochal has just confided that she is an agent of the Provisional Government in Russia."

"And you believed her?"

"No. But she believes that I believe her."

"Are you sure?" she shrugged. "You are no match for a woman of her antecedents----"

"I shall meet her with her own weapons."

"It seems," she said disdainfully, "that you have already begun well."

"Mademoiselle Korasov--enough of this!" he said firmly and after a swift search of a bush nearby again placed himself in the path in front of her so that she couldn't pass him. "You may think me a philanderer if you like, or a fool, if that pleases you better. But the end is worthy of the means. Already I've found out some of the things I wanted to know. The vault beneath the tree will be robbed unless you and I can prevent."

Her eyes flashed with sudden attention. He had arrested her interest at last.

"Ah, you know--?"

He grinned. "I'm in league with both burglars. I've only consulted two. There may be others."

"Zoya Rochal?"

"And Khodkine. I suspect Liederman also."

Tanya stood silent a moment and then a wan smile rewarded him.

"You see? I was right." And then bravely, "This must be prevented, Monsieur."

"Yes. But how?"

"Merely by robbing the vault yourself."

"But I shall need your help, Mademoiselle. This money must be removed for safe keeping until it can be properly used."

"Yes. I can help in that."

"We must waste no time. The sooner the better. Where is the entrance to the vault?"

"An iron door near the wall beyond the mound. I have a key."

"Meet me here then in the shadow of these trees to-night, at one o'clock. Do you agree?"

"Yes," she said after a moment. "I must."

"And do you forgive me for--for----"

She raised her head and looked past him toward the lighted windows.

"What does it matter, Monsieur," she said coldly, "whether I forgive or not? Come." And moving quickly she led the way toward the house while Rowland followed, still certain that however clever he thought himself he felt a good deal of a fool.

Khodkine pacing the floor of his room upstairs awaited Rowland's coming impatiently, but with an effort composed his features in a smile as the American appeared.

"Ah, Monsieur," he said. "It is too bad that I should feel it necessary to interrupt your tête-à-tête with Madame Rochal, who as we all know is the most charming woman in the world. But the President of Nemi is not a free agent. There are matters requiring your attention in conference with me."

"Of course."

"Then I may go, Monsieur?" asked Tanya from the doorway.

"Yes. Go," said Khodkine with an abstracted wave of his hand and a peremptory tone which made a frown gather at Rowland's brow. Gone were Monsieur Khodkine's soft accents of greeting and his courtly bow. And Tanya seemed in awe of him, her look hanging upon his commands. Rowland remembered the agitation in her manner when she had come to summon him to this conference. Had Khodkine frightened her tonight? And how? Why? Was there something between them, some threat of Russian for Russian, born of politics or intrigue in which Khodkine played the master hand? Or was it something nearer, more personal...? It seemed curious to Rowland that he should be thinking of this for the first time. He had formed his first impression of Tanya there last night in the garden, when clad in her cowl and robes she had seemed so abstracted from the world outside. "A very inferior Mother Superior," as she had called herself, and by this token secluded but very human. He had considered the fact of her extraordinary beauty merely as a fortunate accident, and having dismissed her relations with Ivanitch from his mind, had dismissed all other sentimental possibilities--all, that is, except his own. A love affair--of course. With Khodkine? Perhaps. And yet that would hardly explain the Russian's attitude toward her tonight--or hers toward him. The one thing that seemed to rise uppermost in Rowland's mind was Tanya's fear of Khodkine ... As he joined the Russian at the table by the lamp, he found himself examining Monsieur Khodkine with a new interest and a new antipathy.

"I have here some documents requiring your attention, in order that you may familiarize yourself with the order of business tomorrow when our circle is complete. The report of Herr Liederman from the Socialists of Germany, that of Mademoiselle Colodna from Rome, appeals from Shestov and Barthou. You will read them tonight, Monsieur?"

"Willingly. But this, Monsieur Khodkine, was not why you interrupted my tête-à-tête in the garden," said Rowland slowly. "You had another motive."

Khodkine smiled, got up and shut the door and went on in a low tone. "Why should I not be honest with you? Madame Rochal is not to be trusted, Monsieur. She has already surprised me. She opposed Liederman in accepting you unreservedly as our leader. It was from these two that I had expected resistance. Liederman is a member of the Reichstag. Madame Rochal--?" He shrugged. "If you can tell what she is, you are cleverer than the rest of us. She brings credentials from a central committee in Bavaria, but that means nothing. Such things are arranged. I merely wished to warn you before you had committed yourself to her interests."

"You need have no fear. I've grown my pin feathers. The cause in which we are interested is more important to me than the fascinations of Madame Rochal."

"We understand each other, Monsieur. We are friends. You will help me. I will help you. We shall work together in a harmony that will bring great good to the world. Are you satisfied?"

"Quite."

Khodkine offered his hand and Rowland took it, longing at that moment in a boyish sense of bravado to try grips with the Russian and see which was the better of the two. But his common sense told him that if there were to be a trial of strength between them, it would be a test of mind, of Rowland's cleverness against the Russian's finesse, of the American's skill in dissimulation against Khodkine's skill in intrigue. As yet there was no damage done, and with Tanya's help, Rowland perhaps held the stronger hand.

"To show you the confidence I place in you, Monsieur Rowland, I shall give you this."

And Khodkine, with a deliberateness intended to convey the importance of the matter, took out of his card case a small flat silver disk which he fingered a moment and then handed to Rowland. The American examined it curiously. It bore, in low relief, the double-headed just upon the pedestal in the room downstairs, and below it, the words REX NEMORENSIS.

"A proof of your confidence--Monsieur. What----"

"The talisman of our society. Taken from the watch chain of the dead Priest. Worn only by the Priest but known throughout Europe. Shown to members of our committees, it will carry you safely anywhere."

"Ah, thanks, Monsieur."

"You will forgive me for sending for you, will you not? But it will not do for you to move in the dark. Trust no one but me." He took up the papers on the table and handed them to the American. "Now go to your room, and study these papers carefully with my notes upon the margins, for it is according to this that the council must act tomorrow. But see no one else tonight. Tomorrow morning I will come to your room and tell you of my plan to enter the vault."

"I shall do as you suggest, Monsieur. I am very tired. When I read these papers I shall be ready for a good night of sleep."

"That is well. Good night, Monsieur."

"Good night."

In the seclusion of his room, the Leader of Nemi had much to think of. The labyrinth had grown deeper, its mazes more tortuous, but like Theseus he still held to the silken cord which bound him to Tanya Korasov, and having trusted to his own instincts he was now ready to follow blindly where she led him. But it was clear that Tanya had not under-rated the skill and strength of Monsieur Khodkine. He was indeed an adversary worthy of any man's metal. Under his polished veneer, Monsieur Khodkine was made of hardy wood of a fine grain but none the less strong because of that. Though there had been no chance to verify his impressions by a conversation with Tanya, Rowland had decided that Khodkine was working in the interests of Germany for a separate peace with Russia, which would throw all the strength of the German armies upon France, England, Italy and the United States. A mere surmise and based upon the instinct that Tanya was true and a friend of Russia, for which Rowland had fought and was fighting. Without Tanya the whole structure of his intrigue fell to the ground. If he believed that Madame Rochal was an agent of the Provisional Government of Russia, he must also believe that Tanya was plotting against it. And if Madame Rochal were an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse working in the same interests as Monsieur Khodkine, why should the Russian distrust her?

And what was the threat which Khodkine held over Tanya? There seemed no end to the tangle and no course of action but to move softly and await developments. The story of the amount of treasure in the vault below the Tree had opened his eyes. Here, perhaps, was the answer to some of the questions that perplexed him. Politics of the sort that had been disclosed here, would stop at nothing. The times in which he lived made murder a matter of small importance, and what was his own career in France but that of murder highly specialized? Rowland was sure that his own safety now hung upon his continued display of friendship and collaboration in Monsieur Khodkine's plans. And those plans in brief seemed to be nothing less than the looting of the strong-box of Nemi before Madame Rochal or Max Liederman could get at it. And for what Cause? For Germany? Or merely for Grisha Khodkine?

Rowland had no weapons, not even a pocket-knife, and Khodkine carried an automatic in his hip pocket, for Rowland had contrived to brush his arm against it earlier in the evening. The situation was interesting, but hardly to his liking. He longed for a good American Colt revolver, one shot of which, well placed, was worth all the automatics in the world.

But the business before him tonight admitted of no delay nor of any consideration for his own safety. At one o'clock he was to meet Tanya at the lower end of the garden, and with luck, by morning the money and papers in the vault would be well out of harm's way if Tanya could find a place for their safe-keeping. Then, so far as Rowland was concerned, they might dynamite the vault to their heart's content.

"Droite 72 Gauche 23 Droite 7." He had repeated the figures to himself frequently and now continued to do so, taking a new delight in their significance. Twenty-five millions of francs! Five million dollars! They might go far, if properly used, in the interests of the cause he served. Whose money was this? How long had it accumulated? And what the purpose of those who had contributed? Peace? Surely Peace would come most quickly if Germany were defeated. And was he not the President of Nemi--the chosen of the Council to represent all the members of the society, whether socialists, revolutionists, maximalists, minimalists or what not? The way was difficult. So difficult that there was no arbitrament but the sword. The counter revolutionists of Russia should not betray France, and those who led Russia to destruction under the protection of a fine catchword should not succeed in their treachery if it was in his power to prevent.

Reasoning in this way, Phil Rowland lighted another of the cigarettes of the dead Ivanitch while he scanned the documents entrusted to him by Grisha Khodkine and awaited the hour when he should join Tanya Korasov below in the garden. He had no watch but a clock in the hall downstairs announced the hours slowly. At eleven he blew out his candle and sat in a chair by the window; waiting and listening. It was necessary that Monsieur Khodkine should be disarmed. He heard footsteps in the hall outside from time to time and snored discreetly. He had taken the precaution to fasten the bolt of his door and so feared nothing from the hall. Outside in the garden all was quiet. The moon had set--the moon that had shed its inconstant beams upon his own dissimulation and Zoya Rochal's.... Alluring female, that! The essence of all things enchanting, the woman of thirty, a woman with a past.... A component of faint delightful odors.... Women like that had a way of going to a fellow's head. What the deuce had happened to her after Rowland's sudden exit from the stage she had set for him? He smiled as he remembered the results of his rather violent caress. If Tanya hadn't----

Rowland frowned into the darkness outside. Tanya! He would have given much if Tanya Korasov hadn't come along just at that moment. Women were strange creatures. He had fallen immeasurably in Tanya's eyes, the only ones at Nemi that mattered. He hadn't really wanted to kiss Zoya Rochal. It was merely that her lips were there to take--and he had taken them. He seemed quite sure that Madame Rochal had not been displeased.... And tomorrow he must still play the game.

The clock in the hallway struck the half hour. Half-past twelve. Rowland bent over and took off his shoes and then moved stealthily to the window where he stood behind the curtain peering out into the obscurity of the garden. There was no lantern upon the mound and no dark figure watching by the Tree as there had been last night. Sure that no one was watching outside, he stuck his head and shoulders out of the window and looked around. All the lights were out. He had at first thought of descending from the window which was less hazardous than passing down the corridor and stairs, but remembered that last night after Tanya's warning he had assured himself that there was no means of entrance to his room by the window. The wall below was quite bare of vines or projections and at least thirty feet high. There was nothing for it but to go by the corridor.

And so with infinite pains to make no sound he slowly moved the bolt of the door until it was drawn entirely back and then waited listening. Silence. He turned the knob cautiously and opened the door. So far so well. After another moment of listening he took up his shoes and on tip-toe went noiselessly down the hallway. The house was as silent as the tomb. If the other members of the Council had any suspicion of one another or of him they gave no sign of it. The house indeed was too quiet--a snore from the door of Monsieur Khodkine would have comforted him.

At the top of the stairway he paused. There was one step that creaked, the tenth from the bottom, he had counted it as he came up tonight. The tenth from the bottom and there were thirty-three in all. The twenty-third then.... He went down carefully until he had counted twenty-two and then with a hand on the balustrade stepped over what he thought would be the offending stair upon the twenty-fourth--when a loud crash seemed to resound from one end of the echoing house to the other. Idiot! Twenty-four of course! He had not counted the top step.

To his own ears, used to the silence of the house, the noise seemed loud enough to have awakened the dead Ivanitch, and he stood listening for a long minute, awaiting the shuffling of feet or the sounds of opening doors above. But nothing happened. The Councilors of Nemi still slept. Rowland grinned. "Fool's luck," he muttered to himself and carefully opening the door into the garden, went out, stealing along the shrubbery past the kitchen, and in a moment had reached the security of the trees. There he stopped to put on his shoes and repeat to himself the numbers of the combination. "72 23 7. Gauche Droite Gauche." Or was it Droite Gauche Droite? The numbers were right--but the direction---- This was no time to be uncertain in such a matter. That Boche bombing party must have done something queer to his head. No. It was Droite, Gauche, Droite--he was sure. Tanya would confirm that perhaps.

He found her in the shadow of the designated trees where she had preceded him by some moments. She wore her cowl and robe from beneath the folds of which she brought forth a revolver which she handed to him.

"You have read my mind, Mademoiselle," he whispered joyfully, "it was this that I wanted the most."

"You heard nothing?"

"No. But one of the steps creaked abominably. And you--have you been here long?"

"No. I came down the back stairs." And then, turning into the shrubbery beside them with no more ado, "Follow me, Monsieur," she said.

Her manner was eloquent of the business they had at hand and reminiscent of nothing personal in their relations. Her thoughtfulness in arming him was merely a matter of self-protection, her trust in him was a matter of necessity for had she not already given him the numbers of the combination? He followed her quietly. They stole along the outside wall in single file, making a complete detour of the garden until they reached a clump of shrubbery near the spot where Rowland had come over the wall. There they followed a well-worn path into the bushes and were confronted by a mound of earth, in the face of which was an iron door. Here Tanya paused, brought forth a key and in a moment led the way down a flight of steps underground. It was pitch black below but Tanya who seemed to have thought of everything brought out from the folds of her gown an electric pocket lamp which she turned into the passage-way before them, at the end of which Rowland made out a steel door with a shining nickel knob and a handle.

"The vault, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said coolly. "It is of American manufacture. Doubtless you are familiar----"

She was looking at him as she spoke, and her eyes for the moment drove all thought of numbers from his head. He caught at her hand.

"Mademoiselle--before we go on, tell me that you've forgiven me. I was but serving your cause----"

She shrugged away from him and flashed the light upon the shining metal knob of the vault door.

"Serve it here, then," she said quickly. "There!--The numbers, Droite--Gauche----"

She was quite relentless. He chose to think her repudiation of him the measure of her own purity and with a last look at her fine profile bent forward and fingered the metal knob.

"Gauche 72----" he muttered and paused.

"Droite, Monsieur!" she said sharply. "Do you mean to say that you have forgotten?"

"If you would be kind to me, Mademoiselle----" he pleaded smiling, "perhaps I could remember better."

"Oh!" she gasped. "This is no time to lose one's wits----"

"You've robbed me of all I ever had----"

"Monsieur Rowlan'," she whispered in anguish, "the numbers!"

"Say that you forgive me, Mademoiselle," he pleaded again, turning toward her.

She threw out her arms and the light of the torch went out.

"Mademoiselle," he was whispering. "Forgive----"

The light of the torch flared suddenly, full on his face. She had moved a pace away from him and the cowl had fallen from her head, but her eyes were studying his face intently.

"Forgive!" he repeated, smiling eagerly.

Something in his expression may have satisfied her, for she thrust out her hand to meet his own.

"Yes, yes," she muttered hurriedly. "I forgive." And suddenly switched the light upon the door of the vault. "And now the numbers."

"Ah," he laughed. "I remember them, instantly. Droite 72, Gauche 23, Droite 7. Droite. Is it not extraordinary? I cannot do without you, Mademoiselle Tanya--nor you without me. I shall prove it to you. You shall see----"

As she did not reply he relapsed into silence, bending in sudden concentration upon his task. And in a moment, the click of a falling tumbler within the lock announced success. The knob moved no more. Then he took hold of the heavy handle and turned toward the girl with a laugh.

"OPEN, SESAME!" he said. "The Princess Tatyana wishes to enter."

The light wavered as the girl drew back and Rowland saw amazement in her eyes.

"Princess!" she was whispering. "Who told you of my title?"

He stared at her blankly and then her meaning came to him.

"Why, no one, Mademoiselle. The Princess Tatyana is a fairy-friend of my childhood. I dreamed of her as now I dream of you."

She stood puzzled a moment and then switched the light upon the door.

"Open, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said in a half whisper.

He grasped the massive handle in both hands and with an effort, swung the heavy mass of steel outward and the dark entrance to the vault lay open to them.

With no further words, Tanya flashed the light into the interior and quickly entered, while Rowland followed. The place had a musty smell but seemed quite dry, a fact afterwards explained by a double wall and a deep drainage system. The air was close but the electric torch burned brightly, revealing rows of shelves, each carefully lettered, upon which were ancient parchments, discolored and illegible, documents bearing pendant seals, in metal boxes tied with heavy silken cords. There was a grinning skull, a steel casque of the Middle Ages, a spearhead, and an ancient piece of sculpture draped with jewels; upon the floor at the further end bulging leather sacks, and a rack of modern rifles and ammunition. All these Rowland's glance took in at a first look, but his attention was quickly arrested by the actions of Tanya Korasov, who bade him hold the light while she went to a shelf upon the right where her nimble fingers quickly began running over a pile of documents, in modern envelopes, tied with tape. She read the superscriptions eagerly and at last came to the one she sought.

As she did so and took the envelope into her hands a slight gasp of triumph escaped her. Rowland looking over her shoulder read eagerly the fine script.

"Dossier de Gregory Khodkine."

And while Rowland's eyes sparkled with this discovery, Tanya without ceremony broke the seal and took out the contents, scanning the papers rapidly, smiling and exclaiming by turns.

"His history, here," she whispered over her shoulder to Rowland, indicating the first sheet. "And the evidence--there," pointing to the documents. "It is what I have longed for, for months. Evidence--proof. Look," she said excitedly. "Read. Gregory Hochwald. A commission in the Prussian Guards--1905--signed Wilhelm--1908--appointment to the Staff, 1910--Resignation. Liberal tendencies--(authorized at Potsdam) Russia 1911--Instructions from Graf von Stromberg--1912--(Head of the Secret Service, Monsieur)--Member of the Duma. Other letters of instruction 1913, 1914, 1916,--since the war, Monsieur Rowlan'. Is it not damnable?"

"Magnificent," gasped Rowland over her shoulder. "We've got him, Mademoiselle--" and with a grin he paraphrased triumphantly, "where Molly wore her beads."

She glanced at him in a moment of incomprehension, then thrust the papers into their envelope and slipped them into the belt beneath her gown.

"You see, Monsieur," she whispered, "Kirylo Ivanitch was well prepared to deal with this situation. He feared Grisha Khodkine always, but seemed to do as he wished. Now I know why--he was awaiting the overt act which should throw the man into his hands----"

"My heritage," whispered Rowland.

"And mine," said Tanya.

"You've feared him, Mademoiselle. He holds some threat over you. Today--tonight, I saw----"

"I fear him no longer, Monsieur Rowlan'--" she smiled confidently.

"Mademoiselle," said Rowland with boyish eagerness, "if you'll only tell me. Let me help you. I will----"

"No more violence, Monsieur. I shall deal with Grisha Khodkine in my own way."

She took the torch from his hand without a word and led him to a corner of the vault, where upon the lower shelf were a number of packages carefully wrapped in black oil-cloth.

"Bank notes," she said. "Each note of a thousand francs or its equivalent. There are twenty-five thousand of them."

"What shall we do with them? You have a plan?"

The girl nodded.

"It is arranged. We have no time to lose. Picard and Stepan are outside the wall. You will drop them over. I will show you."

And taking up several packages of oil-cloth she bade Rowland hold out his hands while she filled his arms.

"Careful! Each one contains a fortune. Follow me."

She turned toward the door into the passageway, then gasped suddenly and stopped, dropping her torch which clattered upon the steel floor. But in the second before the light was extinguished, Rowland saw that a figure stood at the entrance to the vault, a branch of foliage in one hand while in the other, pointed directly toward him, was a most significant weapon.

CHAPTER VIII

DISASTER

The surprise was so complete that Rowland stood for a moment immovable, staring at the spot in the darkness where Monsieur Khodkine had been, but before he had time to spring aside, there was an explosion and the shock of a sudden impact against him as one of the packages flew from his arms. Close shooting--but he was unhurt and thinking quickly, dropped his bundles, dodged, and drew his revolver, waiting for the next flash of Monsieur Khodkine's weapon.

No sign or sound. Then an anguished gasp from Tanya. "Grisha Khodkine!" she cried. "Don't shoot again. You've killed him."

"Stand aside----"

It was all the mark that Rowland could hope for and he fired low at the sound. A pause of a second and then the bullets from Monsieur Khodkine's automatic crashed all around him. A splinter of wood struck him in the cheek but if Rowland was hit in the body he did not know it and fired rapidly at the flashes until the hammer of his revolver clicked. His weapon was empty as was Khodkine's. Then creeping along the shelves, groping with tense fingers, Rowland made for the spot where the Russian had been. He felt a breath of air from outside through the powder fumes and knew that he had reached the door. His fingers grasped the cold steel of the door jamb, groped across the entrance and--touched an arm. A cry of terror from Tanya as he caught at her fiercely.

"You, Mademoiselle--thank God!" he muttered, and released her.

"He is gone?" she stammered.

The answer came suddenly from behind them within the vault as Khodkine, rushing blindly in the darkness at the sound, brought up against Rowland, who twisted around in his grasp, freeing his right hand, which struck blindly, harmlessly, and then at last found Khodkine's throat.

"Go, Mademoiselle," gasped Rowland. "It--it is better--I will----"

Something told him that Khodkine had another weapon and as he felt the man free his right arm he caught at it desperately, pinioning it to his side. His wrist ... a knife ... everything depended upon the knife.... He released the throat and while blows rained upon his head and shoulders twisted Khodkine's wrist with both hands until he heard the knife go clattering upon the floor.

"Even terms, Monsieur," he gasped, as body to body they swayed from side to side in the darkness.

"You--fool," stammered the other. "To risk--fortune--on this madness----"

"My--risk," grinned Rowland through his blood and sweat.

Rowland, thinking of Tanya and of Germany fought with cool desperation, his arms around Khodkine, crushing, crushing the very breath from his body. The man was weakening. Powerful as he was, his muscles had not been trained as the American's had been in three years of life in the open.

"A truce--Monsieur," Khodkine whispered hoarsely. But Rowland did not hear him and bore him back against the shelves to the left, where their feet stumbled over the pile of packages that Rowland had dropped, and they fell, Rowland uppermost, upon the floor.

All the fight was out of Monsieur Khodkine by this time, and he lay prone while Rowland, the fog of battle still upon him, clutched with his bony fingers even after the man had stopped resisting. It was only when the American realized how tired his fingers were that he sat upon Khodkine's stomach, somewhat bewildered as to what had happened, aware after a moment that his shoulder ached him badly and that his chest burned from his labored breathing, but otherwise that he was quite sound and cheerful.

"Do you give it up, you blighter?" he gasped in English, at last, relapsing into the argot of his platoon of the Legion. "You've got enough?"

A groan from the man beneath was the only reply.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he asked in a moment, in French.

"N--nothing," stammered Khodkine, struggling for his breath. "I--I am vanquished."

The situation was awkward. If Khodkine were strong enough, he might still slip away in the darkness. Rowland was groping about on the floor beside him for a weapon of some sort, when he heard a frightened whisper behind him.

"Monsieur Rowlan'--! You are safe?" Tanya was murmuring.

"Yes, thanks. But I'm afraid to get up. Can you find the light here--somewhere on the floor?"

"I'll try, Monsieur," she whispered. And he heard her groping about on her hands and knees among the scattered packages. In a moment she found the torch and threw its blinding glare into the eyes of the antagonists.

She stared at the sight of them, for the splinter wound in Rowland's cheek still bled freely and made dark discolorations upon his clothing and linen. But the American was sitting upon Monsieur Khodkine's stomach, blinking cheerfully at the light.

"You--you're hurt, Monsieur?" she gasped.

"Am I? It can't be serious. I'm feeling quite all right. And you, Monsieur Khodkine? Comfortable?"

The man groaned. "Enough, Monsieur."

Rowland straightened and released his wrists.

"There's about a million francs between his shoulder blades. Come, roll over a bit, Monsieur. The steel floor will be more comfortable."

Khodkine obeyed as Rowland relinquished the pressure, while Tanya stood dumb and motionless, as though the difficulties of their situation had driven her to her wit's ends.

"Let me--let me up, Monsieur," groaned Khodkine.

"Why? So that you can try to murder me again? Hardly. You've broken another Golden Bough----"

"And you--you have vanquished me," muttered Khodkine. "Kill me--or let me go."

Rowland chuckled. "Either alternative is pleasant to me--but one is dangerous."

"I am--am unarmed--also hurt," said Khodkine. "What harm can I do? You--you are stronger than I----"

"No. Merely more in earnest." As the flash-light wavered a moment in Tanya's hands it fell for a second on the rack of rifles. "Ah, Mademoiselle, I have it. If you'll give me the light," said Rowland calmly. And wondering, she handed it to him. "Now, if you please, take a rifle there and load. The clips, I see, are upon the shelf."

While Rowland held the torch, Tanya obeyed quickly and handed the weapon to Rowland, who after examining it and testing it carefully, got quickly to his feet and ordered Khodkine to rise.

"I'm no murderer, Monsieur Khodkine," he said easily, "not in cold blood, at least. And you're quite safe if you remain perfectly still, while Mademoiselle Korasov continues in the task you interrupted."

Khodkine, who had gotten to his feet with an appearance of great difficulty, now stood, quite subdued, still gasping for the breath which Rowland had squeezed out of him.

"Monsieur--" he muttered, his gaze shifting this way and that, "let me speak."

"By all means," said Rowland politely. "If you don't speak too long. We have other business."

"You blame me for--for protecting the Treasury of Nemi. How should I have known that your intentions and Mademoiselle Korasov's were innocent?"

"Merely by our guilelessness, Monsieur Khodkine," grinned Rowland.

Khodkine's smile was sickly.

"You are clever," he said. "I have done you an injustice. But why should we quarrel?"

"We won't. Our quarrel is ended. Is that all you want to say?"

"Let us be honest with each other. Our cause is the same----"

"Is it? Then I'm the worst scoundrel unhung. No, Monsieur Khodkine, we shall go our ways, you yours--I mine. And now," with an inclination of the head in excellent imitation of Monsieur Khodkine's satirical amenities, "if you will permit us, Mademoiselle shall continue our interrupted task."

Tanya saw his look of command, and setting the catch on the torch and putting it upon the shelf, and filling her arms with the bundles of bank notes, ran out through the door along the passage.

"What are you going to do with me?" asked Khodkine, moving slightly toward the shelf behind him.

"Keep you safe until I can call the Council together." And then, as Khodkine moved another pace. "I would advise you to remain motionless. Another inch backward, Monsieur, and I'll fire."

Khodkine obeyed. The easy manner of the American had deceived him.

"What shall you tell them?" he asked, after a moment.

"That you had planned to rob the vault."

Khodkine laughed.

"This comes ill from you, Monsieur, who were already robbing it."

"No," said Rowland good-naturedly, "we were merely removing the notes to a place of safety."

"Safety! And you think these others will believe you?"

"They will believe Mademoiselle Korasov."

"Ah. Is not my word as good as hers?"

Rowland shrugged. "You're wasting your breath."

Tanya returned at this moment, gathered up more bank notes, and saying nothing, went running down the corridor again.

Khodkine moved his feet a little uneasily but did not move. And his expression which had been shifting through all the phases of uncertainty and apprehension, now broke into a smile.

"Monsieur Rowland, I admire your skill and sang-froid. You have a better genius for the game of intrigue than many more experienced. We should be friends, you and I. There is much we might accomplish together."

Rowland laughed and purposely lowered the muzzle of his rifle a few inches.

"Ah, yes, perhaps," he shrugged. He was a little curious for a peep inside Monsieur Khodkine's brain. "What might we accomplish?"

Khodkine's pale eyes examined Rowland narrowly. And after a pause.

"You are an American, a nation which has blundered into European affairs without cause. You, Monsieur, came to fight for France because you were born for the spirit of adventure--because you live upon excitement and have no fear. Is this not so?"

Rowland thought he saw where the fellow was driving but made no reply, for at this moment Tanya came into the room again, loaded her arms and departed.

"That's a correct statement," he smiled. "And I've surely found it here."

He lowered the muzzle of the rifle a few inches more and saw Khodkine's glance follow it.

Khodkine leaned slightly forward.

"You are taking this money to a place of safety, you say. That may or may not be. But you will not succeed in getting it out of Switzerland."

"Why not?"

"Because it is a long way to the French border. You dare not go into Germany. And the arm of Nemi is long."

Rowland looked aghast and the muzzle of the rifle dropped still further.

"I'm not afraid of the arm of Nemi--because," and he laughed, "it's my arm, Monsieur."

Khodkine paused a moment, shrugged his disbelief, and then in a lower tone,

"There is only one person who can help you get this money safely away, Monsieur Rowland," he said.

"And he is----"

"Myself. The German border is less than fifteen kilometers away. Once beyond it, I am safe. See!" And while Rowland watched him closely, he thrust a hand into his pocket and drew out some papers, one of which bore signatures, a photograph and a seal. "My laisser passer and yours, Monsieur, if you choose to accompany me."

Rowland's eyes opened wider and his jaw fell. This was the real Khodkine--stripped to the skin that had been born Hochwald. But the American made no reply and waited for the revelation to be complete.

Khodkine wasted no words, and his voice concentrated in a tense whisper.

"The money is negotiable, and will pave a broad highway from here to Holland, if one knows the ropes. You are not a rich man, Monsieur. Nor am I. Think what a great fortune like this means, even to you in America where there are many great fortunes. You will be a prince. I too. We will go together and the world will lie at our feet. Is it not a wonderful picture?"

Rowland heard him through until the end, when the look of astonishment upon his face--indeed more than half real--changed to sterner lines and the muzzle of the rifle slowly came up level with Monsieur Khodkine's breast.

"Why, you d---- rascal!" he growled sternly. "You pig--dog of a thieving Boche!" he repeated deliberately. He paused a moment as Khodkine straightened. "You're a poor conspirator, Herr Lieutnant Gregory Hochwald!" he said with a malicious laugh, as Khodkine gasped. "Hochwald of the Guard!" he repeated, "Prussian Guard 1906--Secret Agent of General von Stromberg--Russian socialist! Bah, Grisha Khodkine. I've got your dossier. It's a sweet one."

He paused in some satisfaction at the consternation he had created in the face of Monsieur Khodkine, who was struggling hard to regain his composure.

"My dossier, Monsieur!" he stammered, still staring incredulously. "You are mad."

"Not so mad as I seem--nor so guileless--nor so even-tempered, Monsieur Khodkine. I ought to kill you now as you stand and free Nemi of a spy and Russia of a traitor. But I won't. But I'll draw your sting."

And then with a gesture, "March toward the door. Hands up!"

"What are you going to do?"

"Wake Shestov and Barthou--Ah! would you----!"

Rowland fired as Khodkine leaped back, crashing the light to the floor, and turned toward where he had been, firing again at random, cursing himself for his stupidity. The rifle was awkward in the confined space and as he ran in the direction of the door of the vault to head the man off, his foot struck something on the floor and he stumbled against the shelves. When in desperation he found his way to the door of the vault, it clanged shut with a heavy crash, and he heard the tumblers falling into place.

He was locked in, and Khodkine--Khodkine had escaped!

The nature of this disaster did not for a moment occur to him. He hammered on the unresponsive steel for an unreasoning moment, and then stopped to upbraid himself.

"Silly fool," he muttered. "What did you go and do that for? You might have known. You can't shoot, either. H---- of a soldier you are!"

Suddenly the terrible meaning of his position began to dawn upon him. The vault closed--with Khodkine outside--and the combination of numbers that opened it unknown to anyone but himself--Unless Tanya--! He put his ear to the steel door and listened. He thought he heard footsteps in the passage-way outside and shouted her name. Silence. The darkness seemed to be closing in on him, like the silence, heavy--oppressive--burdened with meaning.

A tomb! And unless Tanya contrived to find a way to come to his rescue, likely to be his own. And yet how could Tanya----? He dared not follow his thought to its conclusion. Khodkine would find her there in the darkness and ... Surely he would find her, for she would be coming back to the vault for him. Picard--Stepan! Would they know what to do? And even if they knew what had happened, how would they be able to release him? One by one he thought of the various possibilities and at the last was obliged to dismiss them all. He was caught--like a bear in a trap, and like the bear, raged to and fro for a while, knocking himself and breaking his knuckles against the shelves in the darkness, and cursing his own stupidity, and the wits of Monsieur Khodkine, which after, all had proved cleverer than his own. Khodkine had won--Khodkine, whom not five minutes ago he had been laughing at for his stupidity! Was it only five minutes or was it an hour ago?...

This wouldn't do. No time to be getting "rattled" now. Bad business. Dark as the devil, too, but not hopeless. Nothing was entirely hopeless unless one thought it so. Something might happen. But what? Short of an earthquake that would tear the mound and vault to pieces, there seemed little chance of anything happening except Tanya--and Khodkine would see about her. Rowland was forced to admit that this was a beautiful vengeance for Khodkine to discover, one quite fitting the Boche idea of the eternal fitness of things. To imprison a man, to starve him, to let him beat out his brains in madness against a steel wall, to smother him--

Rowland frowned into the darkness and whistled thinly. To smother him! The phrase seemed to have a new significance, the more terrible because of its simplicity. Suffocation, slow but certain, as he struggled for the exhausted oxygen. A matter of hours. The acid fumes of rifle and pistol smoke still hung in the air--already he seemed to feel that breathing had become difficult....

Imagination! He breathed quite easily and well. What time was it? Something after two, perhaps. He didn't know. What he did know was that he was tired as the devil standing up and that he wanted to sit down somewhere, and have a smoke. He felt in his pockets. Cigarettes of the luckless Ivanitch--and a box of matches. He struck a match and lighted a cigarette. The skull on the shelf grinned at him. "Silly beggar, to grin on and on for a thousand years. Happier though." He always grinned when he could. It helped a lot. But he didn't seem to feel like grinning now.

A thought came to him, and striking another match, he found the electric torch upon the steel floor,--smashed this time beyond hope of use. He threw it away from him in disgust and sat down on the hard steel floor, his hands clasped over his knees, gazing at the light of the cigarette. It was a singularly cheerful spot of light in the denseness of the obscurity....

Fool that he was--smoking here, poisoning the little oxygen that was left to him! Angrily he extinguished the cigarette upon the floor--and then clasped his knees with his aching fingers and sat uncomfortably waiting--waiting for what? A miracle? Could anything be expected of Tanya? And even if she succeeded in eluding Khodkine, how could he hope that she would know the numbers of the combination? He was sure that she had not even committed them to memory. And if she succeeded in reaching Shestov or Barthou and telling them of his predicament, it would take a long while to break into the vault, at the end of which he, Rowland, would be dead of suffocation.

He got to his feet, steadying himself by holding to the shelves. In the darkness it seemed less easy to coordinate the movements of his muscles.... Suffocation must be something like being "gassed"--only less painful. He had seen fellows in the hospitals struggling for their breath and remembered how they looked--livid--green. This was different but it wasn't going to be pleasant. The pounding of his pulses seemed to echo in the still chamber. He moved slowly to one end of the room and reached upward. The ceiling was low, he could touch it easily with his fingers. Stupid to build a vault with a ceiling as low as that.

What time was it? Four o'clock--five? It seemed as though he had lost all notion of the passage of time. Was it daylight outside? He walked around slowly, peering into the corners, seeking a glimpse of daylight which would mean a breath of air for his lungs and a respite at least until starvation came. Everywhere--blackness. The steel of the vault was continuous. Kirylo Ivanitch had planned well.

Poor old Ivanitch. Good sort of a well-meaning lunatic! He was sorry for Ivanitch ... but it hadn't been Rowland's fault. If Ivanitch had only been Khodkine!

Rowland leaned against the gun rack and fingered the muzzles of the rifles. He had wanted to die out there in the open with a weapon in his hand, rushing a trench and yelling Vive la France. That was the kind of a death for a good fellow----

Oh, well. He'd had a good time. He had taken his fun where he found it.... But it was rotten luck that he couldn't show Tanya that he had been worthy of her confidence. There was no use crying about it. Somebody might come and let him out. If they didn't this was the end of P. Rowland. He lay flat on the floor where the air seemed very good. Might as well sleep as do anything else. Perhaps tomorrow something would turn up. The ceiling seemed to be closing in on him, like the Pendulum in the Pit. Poe was great on this sort of stuff--but Poe didn't have anything on him.

Once or twice he straightened, thinking that he heard a sound--a dull sound, somewhat like the throbbing of the blood in his ears, only ... Imagination again. He didn't want to think--everything was black--even thought.... He was very drowsy. It wasn't so bad, after all. Tomorrow perhaps Tanya would come.... Princess Tatyana ... Pretty name....

Then suddenly in his dreams the air was riven and his eardrums hurt him horribly as though the blackness in his brain were striving toward the light ... And then--nothingness.

CHAPTER IX

SURPRISES

Zoya Rochal had watched the figure of Rowland until it disappeared among the shrubbery. Her brows were slightly drawn and her eyes, shadowed by her dark hair, peered eagerly into the half light of the garden. Monsieur Khodkine, it seemed, respected her intelligence. But it was a pity that he had sent out for Monsieur Rowland so soon. It would have required but ten minutes more to have hitched this handsome American to her chariot wheel. He was a nice boy and it would be a pity if anything happened to him, for it seemed quite certain that something was on the point of happening at Nemi, and whatever happened it was Monsieur Rowland who would be the loser. Against the will of Max Liederman she had chosen to throw her lot in with the new President of Nemi, because he seemed quite young, quite inexperienced and with good management could be made quite useful for her own ends. But she hadn't reckoned upon the speed of Monsieur Rowland's wooing and the sudden culmination of the adventure. She wasn't sure that she hadn't liked the spontaneity of his caress--hurried, boyish and quite ingenuous. She must do what she could to save this newly found admirer from the wiles of Monsieur Khodkine, and with this object in her general plan, she moved slowly in the direction of the house and encountered on her way Max Liederman, walking alone in a bypath and furiously smoking a long cigar.

"Ach, Madame," he growled. "So you've at last condescended. It's time----"

"Don't be a beast, Max," she said coolly.

"Well, this is no time for trifling," he growled.

"Sh!" she warned. "I'm not trifling. I've wasted no time. I've learned what I wanted to find out. Monsieur Rowland knows nothing."

"Does he look as if he knew anything?" he said contemptuously. "I could have told you that much. Khodkine twists him around his thumb."

"And so do I."

"Ach--and at what cost?" he muttered suspiciously.

Madame Rochal smiled up at Khodkine's lighted window.

"That's my affair," she said coldly.

"And in the meanwhile," he went on, "this precious Khodkine will get into the vault. Tonight, perhaps--How do I know that even now he hasn't the combination to the doors in his pockets. And I don't trust Fräulein Korasov."

"Nor I. She is much too quiet."

Liederman threw his cigar into the bushes, thrust his fists into his trouser pockets and swayed heavily from one foot to the other.

"Zoya Rochal," he said hoarsely, "you see how things are here at Nemi. While Ivanitch led our committee we were sure at least of a man pledged deeply to Internationalism and the socialist cause. It was his fetish. He was orthodox. He even gave his life for his convictions. And now whom do we find as Priest of Nemi--a friend of France, full of meaningless catchwords about Peace and Liberty--a boy from America, now the enemy of my country, ready to be caught by the first wind that blows. You, Zoya, voted for him. You have placed yourself on his side,--why, God knows, when with Khodkine he may work our ruin."

"Nonsense."

"I know what I am talking about. Khodkine comes with credentials from Russia, but that means nothing. You carry credentials from the Central Committee of Munich. He may be a Russian or a Roumanian, an Austrian or an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse----"

"That is not possible. I know----"

"What difference does it make to me? I distrust him. You may turn hither and yon for advisers, but no one may say that I'm not loyal to those who sent me here. In Germany I was born and bred, but the cause I serve is greater than nationality, greater than patriotism. And whatever others may do I am ready to give my life for that cause."

Zoya Rochal smiled at him charmingly and laid her slim fingers along his hairy cheek and their touch seemed to quiet him.

"No one doubts your honesty, my great bear," she said with a laugh. "You may not always be pleasant, but you always have the courage of conviction."

"And what thanks do I get?" he growled.

"Mine," she whispered, running a hand through his arm.

"Bah!" he shrugged.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Nothing, except not to play with fire."

"You've planned something?"

"Yes," he growled. "And I'm going to do it, to-night."

She turned up toward him in eager inquiry.

"What?"

"I'm going to take no further chances with this situation."

"Are you serious?"

"Am I ever anything else? The money in the vault belongs to the Society of Nemi and the essence of the Society of Nemi--is Socialism. While I live, that money shall be spent in no other service."

"That is right, but you're not sure----"

"I trust no one here. And as the Council stands I can be out-voted. Shestov, Barthou, Colodna, Khodkine--and this young sprig of a Yankee. And the others----? We can't be sure of them. Most of this money should be appropriated for immediate use tomorrow, in Germany, in Austria, in Russia and Italy. And yet what assurances have we that it will not be wrongly used even, if used at all--or that Monsieur Khodkine this very night may not make away with it."

"What do you propose to do?"

"Take it, tonight--myself."

"You----!"

Max Liederman shook his massive shoulders and tapped her with a kind of elephantine playfulness upon the hands.

"Did you ever know me to make a boast that I couldn't fulfill?" Then in a hoarse whisper. "I'm going to break into the vault."

"You are prepared?"

"Yes. I've been prepared for a long time. I always believe in being ready for emergencies."

"Do you need my help----"

"Your society, chère Zoya, let us say----"

"When will you do this?"

"Toward morning. I have a drill and explosives. With luck I should succeed in something over an hour."

"And the money? Where shall you take it?" Zoya asked.

"Away from here to a safer place. Will you go with me?"

"Suppose you fail?"

He smiled grimly. "I won't fail. There's no watch kept upon the Tree. Will you meet me here?"

"At what hour?"

"At three. It is the hour of deepest slumber. Your room adjoins mine upon the other side of the house. You must sleep soundly, for we may have to travel far."

Madame Rochal stood in a moment of silence and then assented.

"I see I've not put my faith in you for nothing, Max," she said quietly.

"I've told you," he muttered, "that I've always been worth considering. You shall see---- Will you kiss me, Zoya?"

She made a little moüe at him and then obeyed with the deftness of one skilled in illusions.

"There, my great bear," she laughed. "And you'll wake me?"

"Yes. Now go and get your beauty sleep."

"And you? Shall you stay awake?"

"I sleep with one eye open--I can wake when I please. Borrow no trouble on that score."

She moved toward the house, whispering to him:

"Remain here. It will not do for us to be seen together. Au revoir." And blowing a kiss at him with her fingers, she floated away into the shadows.

Max Liederman was thorough. With characteristic prevision he had prepared all things, including a machine which was to be waiting at daylight outside the wall. Three o'clock found them at the iron door which led down into the passage. Liederman had been prepared to force this lock and to his amazement, and Zoya Rochal's, the key was in the door, which indeed was partly open.

Liederman stopped a moment to rock to and fro and gaze at the door in a puzzled way.

"Curious," he muttered, rubbing his head.

"Some one has been here before us?" questioned Zoya.

He nodded. "It looks so," he growled, "but we'll soon find out." Entering without hesitation and carrying his tools in their canvas wrapping, he threw the light of his pocket-torch down the steps and descended, while Zoya Rochal, her small nose sniffing the air daintily, followed, frowning.

"Don't you smell something?" she whispered when they reached the passage.

"I fancied--yes, I'm sure--the fumes of powder."

"Ah, I was not mistaken then. What can have happened?"

"I don't know. Perhaps we are mistaken."

Zoya, whose eyes seemed to be keener than his, suddenly darted forward ahead of him with a cry, and bending down beside the steel door picked up something and held it before Max Liederman's eyes.

"The Bough!" she cried. "The Golden Bough!"

Liederman started upright, his eyes big as saucers under his tangled brows.

"Khodkine!" he stammered. "Here!"

"It's quite green," she whispered. "Recently broken."

"He has killed--Monsieur----" she halted, her face white as paper.

"Your little Yankee--!" He shrugged uneasily. "Perhaps. Wait. I must see."

He bent forward with the lamp and examined the nickel knob and handle, turned the light down, then went upon his knees and put his face close to the stone floor.

"There are many footprints in the dust,--one small, one with high heels, Zoya."

"Tanya Korasov?"

"Who else?"

"She and Khodkine--but I don't understand----"

Max Liederman had settled down before the door of the vault with a business-like air, unwrapping the canvas covering of his tools, and examining the knob, listening intently. Then he threw off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and set to work while Zoya, her hand trembling, held the light.

"Could they have killed him--do you think?" she asked again anxiously.

"How should I know? It would only be what he deserves," he grunted.

Zoya's dark eyes frowned at him, but she said nothing.

Meanwhile the drill was slowly eating its way into the steel door above the lock. She questioned again but he was intent upon his task and made no answer. The sweat stood out in beads upon his face and fell to the ground. He was a magnificent brute. There were women who ... But Zoya Rochal was difficult to please.

The first glimmerings of the dawn were filtering down through the iron door at the end of the passage before Max Liederman announced that his work was completed. Then he attached the fuse and he and Zoya Rochal went up the stairs, closed the iron door and waited.

A muffled explosion as the iron door swung open and a cloud of dust enveloped them. Liederman darted down the steps with Zoya at his heels. The charge had been cleverly placed and by the use of an iron rod and a short steel jimmy, at last the door of the vault yielded to Liederman's weight and swung inward upon its hinges.

Liederman threw the light into the room and it gleamed upon the swirling dust which for a moment obscured the vision. But as the cloud cleared, they saw a litter of papers upon the floor, and in the midst of the wreckage the figure of Rowland lying prone, his arms outstretched, smeared with blood and grime. A hasty glance around the shelves revealed no trace of the treasure of Nemi.

Liederman rocked to and fro in an awful moment of silent imprecation.

"Schwein-hund that I am, for waiting," he muttered. "Khodkine has been here before us."

Zoya Rochal gazed at him wildly a moment, and then fell to her knees beside the prostrate figure upon the floor.

Liederman grunted incuriously.

"He's dead?" he asked.

"Yes--No! His heart beats----"

"Ach--we must get him out of this--into the air. Pfui! It is enough to stifle one. Can you help, Zoya? His feet----"

Max Liederman raised the prostrate man and between them, they half dragged, half carried him out along the corridor and up the steps into the air. Without waiting for instructions Zoya ran to the house and came back with water and brandy. By the time she returned Liederman had loosened the American's collar, and after a while, in response to treatment, Rowland moved slightly and opened his eyes. He turned his head from side to side, gazing up through the trees at the spreading dawn and then his look met Zoya Rochal's. He concentrated his gaze with some difficulty as though not sure of himself, and then with an effort raised himself upon one elbow, his hand to his brows in a moment of thought.

"Khodkine!" he muttered weakly in English. "And the--the blighter--got--got away with it."

"Khodkine--yes-----" uttered Liederman.

Rowland grinned up at his interrogator and nodded.

"Gone--got the best of me----"

"With the money? And Mademoiselle Korasov----?" questioned Liederman keenly.

Rowland brushed a hand across his brow and started upright.

"Mademoiselle Korasov! Yes. Yes----"

"They've robbed the vault, I tell you," cried Liederman wildly. "The money is gone----!"

It was here that Zoya Rochal took command of the situation.

"We can do nothing alone. Go, Max, arouse Shestov, Barthou and Signorina Colodna. They must learn of this."

"I'm quite all right," muttered Rowland. "Only a little confused. There was an explosion."

She gave him another drink of the brandy which he accepted gratefully.

"You are very kind, Madame," he said.

Zoya Rochal regarded him in a moment of anxiety.

"I warned you, Philippe Rowlan'," she said.

He smiled at her broadly and then whispered quizzically, "There was a pig in the vault," he laughed. "The trouble was that he hadn't any ring in his nose.

"It is no time to jest, Monsieur. I'm afraid you're badly hurt."

"I'm all right," he smiled, "but nitro-glycerine is not the best thing for a headache."

"I'm sorry, Monsieur." He saw Madame Rochal start and put her finger to her lips. "Sh--," she whispered and peered out from behind the bush where Rowland was sitting, toward the wall. He got up to his knees and followed her glance. It was still quite dark, but in the growing light he saw a movement in the branches of a tree near by and presently made out a pair of legs, dangling above the top of the wall. "It's a man," whispered Madame Rochal, "coming over. What----?"

Rowland slowly got to his feet and stood, his hand in warning on the arm of Madame Rochal, waiting until the man should descend. The gray figure hovered for a moment on the top of the wall and then they heard the thud of his boots as he reached the ground. In a moment, as the man emerged from the bushes, Rowland sprang out and faced the intruder. And as each man recognized the other in the growing light, he stepped back, the one in, surprise, the other in consternation.

"Picard----!"

"You, Monsieur Rowland! Safe!" He breathed hard like one in the last stages of exhaustion.

"Quite, as you see. Mademoiselle Korasov sent you?"

Picard gasped and nodded. "With this note to Monsieur Shestov."

"Let me see it."

While Zoya Rochal turned on the light of Liederman's torch Rowland unfolded the slip of paper covered with close writing--in Russian.

"The devil!" cried the American. "Madame Rochal--read!"

Zoya Rochal obeyed, translating rapidly.

"Ivan Shestov,

The American Rowland, imprisoned in vault. He will die unless door is forced. Lose no time. I am prisoner of Gregory Khodkine fleeing with bank notes into Germany by upper road--a machine--destination--Munich. Follow.

Tatyana."

As she finished, Rowland turned quickly to Picard.

"And Stepan----?"

"Dead, Monsieur. He resisted. Mademoiselle warned me. I obeyed Monsieur Khodkine until the time came, when I took this paper and fled. I have been running for two hours."

"You have done well, my friend. We shall lose no time. But how was Stepan killed?"

"Monsieur Khodkine said that he had broken the Golden Bough--that you, Monsieur Rowland, were killed and that he was the Priest of Nemi. We did not believe him. He ordered Stepan to carry the bank notes--which were already in the suit-case--along the road. Stepan refused to obey and Monsieur Khodkine struck him in the head with a stick. His body is near the road only a hundred yards or so from the wall."

"And you----?"

"Mademoiselle had whispered, 'Do nothing! Obey!' And I went with them, carrying the suit-case until we came to an empty machine standing by the roadside----"

"Liederman's----" explained Zoya Rochal.

"I see," muttered Rowland. And then, to Picard, "They had passed the German border when you returned?"

"Yes, Monsieur--a matter of three or four miles perhaps. The machine slowed down upon a hill and I slipped out and ran into a wood, coming back as fast as I could run."

"You saw no one?" asked Zoya Rochal.

"No, Madame. I knew where the sentries were stationed on the frontier and avoided them."

Shestov and Barthou now came with Liederman, drawing on clothing as they ran, their faces wan in the growing light as the details of the situation were explained to them.

"Your note, Monsieur Shestov," said Rowland coolly, handing it to him. "We took the liberty of reading it, As you will see, there's little time to lose."

The tall Russian frowned as he read while the impatient Barthou questioned anxiously.

"But I can't understand how Herr Liederman----"

Zoya Rochal cut him short.

"I heard the sounds of shots and called Herr Liederman," she explained glibly. "We went to the vault which showed signs of having been tampered with. And so with a crow-bar which Monsieur Khodkine had left, we broke into it. Is this not so, Monsieur Rowland?" she challenged him.

Their glances met in comprehension. Rowland turned aside.

"That is true," he said coolly. "Monsieur Khodkine was robbing the vault. I interfered. We fought but he outwitted me and got away----"