Chapter X

Gerald, after a weary climb out of the town, stood at last, at the appointed hour on the following morning, before the rusty iron gates of the fortress. Untidy and neglected though the whole place seemed, there was still something sinister about the various crude precautions against the escape of a prisoner. For a quarter of a mile, on the outside of the walls, not in themselves formidable, everything in the shape of trees, shrubs or dwellings had been razed to the ground, and every fifty paces around the walls, on the top of a buttress, was mounted a machine gun, from which an iron ladder led to the ground. The walls themselves were about eight feet high, of stone covered with white plaster. The fortress itself was built of a kind of grey-coloured brick, a square, solid building, with a curiously unexpected pointed top. The barred windows were no more than slits. The space of open ground by which the main building was surrounded was inches deep in dust.

A porter in stained and ill-fitting uniform admitted Gerald to the building, escorted him across the yard, and passed him on to a duplicate of himself, to whom Gerald once more presented the card which had obtained him admittance. He was led down a stone passage, which had apparently neither been cleaned nor swept for months, into a lofty but bare apartment at the farther end. Krossneys, who was sitting before a wooden table, apparently expecting him, dismissed the attendant and motioned Gerald to sit down. He looked at his visitor in unfriendly fashion.

“Why did you not come to me direct instead of going to Elsa Francks?” he demanded.

Gerald was not unprepared for the question.

“I knew your reputation as a soldier and a man of honour,” he replied. “I feared that unless this matter was put to you in the proper light, tactfully, as a woman can put it, you would have nothing to say to me.”

The Governor grunted.

“It was a mistake,” he declared sourly. “The woman is greedy. She will demand her full share of the money. It is scarcely justice.”

“I am sorry,” Gerald said. “I acted as I was advised.”

“Supposing I accede,” Krossneys went on, after a short pause, “how do you propose to get Number Twenty-nine out of the country?”

“I was hoping,” Gerald admitted, “that you might have been able to help with some suggestion.”

The Governor stroked his beard.

“Suggestions,” he muttered, “are worth money.”

Gerald acquiesced.

“I have not command of much more than the amount I spoke of,” he said, “but if you can show me how to get our friend safely out of the country, I will add a thousand pounds to your share.”

“Which sum,” the Governor insisted quickly, “will not be mentioned to Elsa Francks and will belong to me alone.”

“Agreed,” Gerald acquiesced.

“Show me your papers,” the Governor demanded.

Gerald produced them without hesitation,--his passport, an urgent letter of recommendation by the one statesman who was in good odour in both countries, banker’s drafts, which needed only his signature to produce a never-ending flow of cash. The Governor’s eyes glittered as he turned them over in his hand. It was horrible that a share of these treasures must go to the woman! She was well enough under his thumb, the slave of his command, but with money in her pocket--they were neither of them in their first youth, but, so far as looks went, in his eyes she still had charm--if she were independent of him, all sorts of things might happen. He threw down the documents with a little oath. The passport, however, he kept in his hand. His manner, as he looked at Gerald, changed. He became almost servile.

“You, too, are an aristocrat, then,” he remarked.

“I am of the English aristocracy,” Gerald admitted. “I have another passport in my pocket, which proclaims me an American citizen.”

The Governor nodded. He pushed a box of black cigars across to his visitor. The latter contented himself, however, with accepting a cigarette. Then he touched a bell. The attendant brought in beer, which was poured into two glasses. As soon as they were alone, Krossneys motioned Gerald to draw his chair close to the desk.

“Now here is my scheme,” he said. “Number Twenty-nine is of your height and build. You shall see him for yourself and judge. Number One Hundred and One, also a young man, died yesterday afternoon of malarial fever. His death has not yet been officially reported. Very good! I take you to the cell of Number Twenty-nine. You exchange clothes with him. You give him your American passport. You go in with me to his cell. He comes out with me. You remain.”

“The devil I do!” Gerald muttered.

“Do not be a fool!” the Governor exclaimed impatiently. “I beg your pardon, Excellency,” he added a moment later, as he remembered his visitor’s identity. “Your stay there will not be long. I shall explain in a moment. I drive Number Twenty-nine to a small station on the line, eleven miles off. I take leave of him there. He is an American who has bought my oil concessions. The station is in the middle of the district. My presence with him will remove all suspicions and prevent their examining the passport too closely. He will travel through to Petrograd. There, I take it, you have made arrangements.”

“I have a ship waiting,” Gerald replied.

“That is my scheme, then.”

“So far, I approve of it,” Gerald declared, “but what about me?”

“You will bore yourself for twenty-four hours,” the Governor replied. “I will see, though, that you have beer and newspapers. If you will, Elsa can come and see you.”

“For heaven’s sake, no!” Gerald begged. “I mean,” he added hastily, “I shall need no society. I am very tired. I shall sleep.”

“As you will,” the Governor acquiesced. “In the morning, Number One Hundred and One--I should say his remains--will be carried secretly down to your cell. You will be moved up to the cell of Number One Hundred and One. I shall at once report the death of Number Twenty-nine. He will be buried in the cemetery here before intervention is possible. Now the question comes how to dispose of you.”

“I was getting interested in that myself,” Gerald admitted.

“Number One Hundred and One’s time was up,” the Governor explained. “He could have gone home last week if he had been strong enough. I have his papers of release here, signed by myself. To-morrow morning early, I shall provide you with suitable clothing, and I shall drive you to the railway station. I myself have leave of absence in my pocket, granted to me a fortnight ago, but, to be honest with you, I have not used it because I have had no money with which to enjoy myself. I shall travel with you myself to Petrograd. You will have acted as my clerk in the prison, and I take some interest in you. In my company you are absolutely secure. No one will venture even a question. Arrived at Petrograd, I will drive with you to the docks, you shall take me on board your ship, and we will drink a bottle of champagne together.--What do you think of my plan?”

“Capital!” Gerald replied.

“I will conduct you now,” the Governor announced, “to Number Twenty-nine. We will lock ourselves in his cell. You shall explain the scheme to him and change clothes. I will bring pen and ink with me, also the deeds which will put Harmon P. Cross in possession of my oil properties. You shall pay over the drafts. After that you must be patient.”

“I am ready,” Gerald declared, rising to his feet.

Krossneys unlocked a drawer and took out a bunch of keys which shone like silver,--the only clean thing, it seemed to Gerald, that he had seen in the prison. They tramped up two flights of stone steps.

“I am a humane man,” the Governor said, “and it does not please me to turn my prisoners into vermin. I have cells underground, without light or air, which were used by my predecessors. I have had them blocked up. You will find it not so terrible here.”

They had reached a long, whitewashed passage with arched roof. The Governor dismissed the attendant who had followed them, inserted the key into the lock of the door over which “29” was painted in black letters, and entered himself, motioning Gerald to follow him.

In the sudden sombre twilight of the cell, Gerald’s first impressions were that a man opposite had hanged himself against the wall. At their entrance, however, the figure dropped to the ground, releasing his clutch of the rusty bars to which he had been clinging. A tall, thin young man, with sunken cheeks, long, unkempt hair, and eyes a little more than ordinarily bright, stood gazing at them. His clothes seemed to be the remains of a prison uniform. The trousers, always too short, had worn away at the bottom of the legs, and he wore neither socks nor shoes. He stared at the two men--at Gerald especially--in wonder, but remained silent.

“You speak English?” Gerald enquired.

Number Twenty-nine shook his head.

“I speak French better,” he replied.

“What were you doing when we came in?” the Governor asked.

Number Twenty-nine smiled wanly.

“For an hour every day,” he told them, “sometimes for more, I spring till I catch those bars, and I hang on until I am tired. I can always see the sky; sometimes, if I am feeling strong, I can lift myself so that I see a little of the country.”

“Well, you have something better to do now,” the Governor declared. “You were a man when you were brought in. I have seen you play a man’s part. Remember, if you faint or do anything foolish, you spoil everything. Set your teeth and take off your clothes. You are going to be set at liberty.”

Number Twenty-nine scarcely faltered.

“I am to be shot, I suppose,” he said coolly. “I trust that your warders are better marksmen than they are soldiers.”

“There is a long story,” Gerald intervened, “of which the Governor will tell you as much as he chooses. I am an Englishman, sent here by relatives of yours. I have been able to arrange for your freedom. In a few days’ time, you will be steaming for England.”

“Cut it short,” the Governor interrupted. “I will do all the explaining.”

Gerald took a letter from his pocketbook.

“Read that letter,” he invited. “It is from Pauline. She is my friend. I am Lord Dombey, an Englishman. We shall meet at Petrograd later. On the steamer I will explain everything. Meanwhile, take off your clothes. You will have to wear mine for a couple of days.”

The young man took off his coat almost mechanically. His shirt was ragged. He had apparently no underclothes. His fingers began to shake.

“I cannot,” he faltered.

“But it is necessary,” Gerald assured him. “See, I am half undressed myself.”

He took off his coat and waistcoat. At the sight of his silk underclothes, the other man began suddenly to sob.

“I--I have had no water here for a fortnight,” he groaned.

Gerald looked him in the eyes.

“We’ve done campaigning, both of us,” he said. “I read of you when you led your regiment into Germany. I was in a trench myself for five days at a stretch. Those things don’t really matter. Five days was quite long enough there in the mud. We didn’t worry about soap then. Get on with it, please.”

Number Twenty-nine closed his eyes as he shed his last garments. Then he drew on Gerald’s. Presently the Governor laughed.

“Upon my word,” he declared, “it is better than I thought. I have ordered the barber into the next cell. He is a prisoner himself, so there is not much chance of his blabbing. Come along. We will be back in five minutes,” he added, turning to Gerald. “In time to take your orders for lunch, eh? Give you time to settle down.”

They passed out. Gerald felt a queer sense of loneliness as the door closed behind him. He looked around him half fearfully. Everything was worse than he had feared. The floor was of concrete, and there was not a single article of furniture of any description in the room except a straw mattress already full of holes. The floor had apparently not been swept for weeks. While he sat there, however, there was the click of a key in the door and a burly Russian entered. Without a word he commenced some effort at cleansing the place. When he had finished, he threw in a rug and disappeared. Gerald breathed a little more freely. Then he heard footsteps outside again. The Governor and Number Twenty-nine entered, the latter curiously changed in appearance.

“By all the Saints,” the Governor chuckled, “I never realised that the barber was so wonderful a person! This little scheme of mine marches well. Now, then, for your share.”

He handed a fountain pen to Gerald, who endorsed the drafts he had brought, wrote out a further cheque for a thousand pounds, and handed them, together with his American passport, to Krossneys. The latter thrust a document into Number Twenty-nine’s pocket.

“You may not know it,” he said, “but you are now the owner of five hundred acres of forest where oil may some day be found.”

He roared with laughter. Neither of the young men moved a muscle.

“Now, listen, both of you,” he went on, “the only automobile in the town awaits me outside. We depart in a minute. Say your farewells, you two. At one o’clock to-morrow morning,” he concluded, turning to Gerald, “you will be moved into cell ‘101,’ and later you will go to attend your own funeral. From now until one or perhaps half-past one to-morrow morning, you will have to make the best of it. I will come and superintend your removal myself and let you know that all is well.”

“I shall try to sleep until then,” Gerald announced. “I am very tired.”

“You shall have a little meal in my office in the intervals of being changed,” the Governor promised him. “I shall lock the door and no one will know.--Now, Mr. Harmon P. Cross, please, American speculator who has bought my oil fields, come with me. I am going to drive you to the train.”

Number Twenty-nine held out both his hands to his deliverer. There was a simple dignity in his few words.

“Sir,” he said, “I know nothing of you, but my life will not be long enough for me to express my gratitude. The day after to-morrow----”

“The day after to-morrow there will be much for us to talk about,” Gerald interrupted. “What I have done, I have done joyfully. So far, it has been much easier than I expected.”

The Governor and his charge took their leave. The door closed behind them. Gerald heard their footsteps die away on the paved floor. He threw himself down on the mattress and tried to sleep. It was an impossible task but there was plenty to think about.--At one o’clock the same burly Russian entered, bearing a bowl of something which was half stew, half soup. Gerald smelt it, looked at it, and set it in a distant corner of the room. Then he walked back and forth, counting how many paces it took him from wall to wall. Presently, with a throb of joy, he remembered his cigarette case. He smoked two cigarettes. Afterwards, he dozed for a little time. Towards evening, he amused himself trying to make his predecessor’s daily jump. It was not until the seventh attempt that he succeeded, and then the rust of the bars cut so deeply into his palms that he let go almost at once. At eight o’clock, the Russian appeared again with a bowl of soup similar to the last. Gerald waved it away.

“Not hungry?” the man asked in German.

Gerald shook his head. Somehow or other, it was a relief to find that he was not shut out altogether from communication with the outside world.

“You speak German, eh?” he asked.

The man shook his head.

“Few words.”

“Bring me something better to eat,” Gerald begged. “Can’t I have some beer?”

The man held out his hand and Gerald filled it with silver. He disappeared and returned presently with two bottles of beer concealed in his baggy trousers, and a loaf of bread.

“Not understand this,” he said, shaking his head. “Where Number Twenty-nine gone?”

Gerald shook his head.

“Better ask no questions until the Governor comes back,” he enjoined.

“No fear talk,” the man declared with a laugh. “Governor given me twenty marks. If talk, I get twenty lashes instead. Good night!”

He departed finally, closing and locking the door behind him. Gerald ate some bread hungrily and drank the beer. Then for a time he dozed. When he woke up and looked at his watch, it was twelve o’clock. Very soon he would begin to expect the Governor. He sat up on the mattress with his back to the wall. Between twelve and one o’clock he looked at his watch twenty times. One o’clock came and passed; half-past one. Then he rose to his feet and began pacing the cell restlessly. Two o’clock came; half-past. He held his watch in his hand now, to save himself the continual dragging it out from his pocket. Every few minutes he stopped to listen. The great fortress apparently slept. There was no sound anywhere. Only time went on. Three o’clock arrived and passed--four!--five! Presently streaks of daylight began to appear. At six o’clock at last there were footsteps outside. The warder entered once more. This time he carried a jug of hot liquid.

“Tea,” he announced, “from kitchen. Give me something.”

Gerald gave him more silver. The tea was the colour of straw and water, but the faint smell of it was refreshing.

“Where is the Governor?” he asked.

The warder shook his head.

“Not ask questions,” he begged. “Governor not here.”

Gerald pulled himself together and dismissed the man. He drank the tea slowly. Once more he sat down on the mattress. The room now was a little lighter. He could see as far as the opposite wall. He sat down and waited. Every nerve in his body seemed tingling. He tried to keep his mind off the subject of what could have happened to detain the Governor, to turn his thoughts back to England.--He suddenly found himself by the roadside, watching the mending of the puncture, looking impatiently along the white ribbon of road which led to Cannes, and, beyond, to Monte Carlo, where the lights were burning and the violins were playing their pagan overture. He saw Myrtile’s pale, terrified face gleaming out against the background of the cypress trees, heard her pathetic story throbbing in the pine-sweetened stillness. He remembered their drive. All those things seemed part of another world. He remembered those few furious moments when Christopher had taken her from his arms. A faint feeling of shame crept over him as he sat there, huddled up. Then, with a rush, came the memory which swept everything else out of his mind. He saw Pauline, felt the disturbance of her presence, remembered the slow ebbing away of her pride, her first few kind words, the half-spoken promise. What was there about her, he wondered vaguely, which had brought him, with all his experience, so completely to her feet? She had shown him no kindness. She had not even been gracious. He had read dislike in her eyes more often than any other feeling. There remained, too, the pitiless truth that all the favours he had won from her he had bought, indirectly if not directly. Yet there she was, ruling over his life, the one sweet, dominant figure, for whose sake he sat in these miserable clothes, a forgotten figure,--perhaps, even, in danger.--He took out his watch with trembling fingers. It was ten o’clock. His thoughts mocked him now. He could find no escape by means of them. He could think of nothing but the present. Something had gone wrong with their plans. What would it mean for him? Not a soul in the world knew where he was. If he had a name at all here, it was the name of the man whom the people of Russia had once threatened to tear limb from limb.

At last there came a little stir, an unaccustomed sound of voices. Presently he heard footsteps outside, the key turned in the lock. His heart turned sick with disappointment--it was the warder alone! Gerald dug his hand once more into his pocket. This time he brought out a note. For some reason or other he was terrified. Even the stolid features of his visitor seemed disturbed.

“Where is the Governor?” Gerald demanded. “See, there is this note if you will go and fetch him.”

The man returned to the door and shook it to be sure that it was fastened. Then he came back to Gerald.

“A strange thing has happened,” he said. “There is a German woman in the town. Last night the Governor spent at her house. They were both drunk. They quarrelled. Elsa killed him. The Governor is dead.”