By Right of Sword Part 9

I took two rapid turns up and down the room in thought. Then I made a decision. Taking ink and paper I sat down to the table and wrote, repeating the words aloud:--

"To the Chief of Police.--The Bearer of this----"

"How do you spell your rascally name?" I cried, interrupting the writing and looking across at him.

"You know. You've written it often enough to Anna."

Good. I had got the daughter's name at any rate.

"Yes, but this is for the police, and must be accurate." The start he gave was an unmistakable start of fear.

"Everyone knows how to spell Peter, I suppose. And you ought to know how to spell Pras.h.i.+l, seeing your own child has to bear the name."

"The Bearer of this, Peter Pras.h.i.+l, declares that he has some information to give to you which incriminates me. Take his statement in writing and have it investigated. Hold him prisoner, meanwhile, for he has been attempting to blackmail me. You, or your agents will know him well.

Signed, ALEXIS PETROVITCH.

Lieutenant, Moscow Infantry Regiment."

"Now," I cried, rising, giving him the paper, and throwing open the door. "Take that paper and go straight to the Police. Tell them all you know. Or if you like it better stand to-morrow at midday in the Square of the Cathedral and shout it out with all your lungs for the whole of Moscow to hear. Or get it inserted in every newspaper in the city. Go!" and I pointed the way and stared at him sternly and angrily.

"I don't want to harm you."

"Go!" I said. "Or I'll wake my servant and have the police brought here."

For a minute he tried to return my look, and fumbled with the paper irresolutely.

"Go!" I repeated, staring at him as intently as before.

He stood another minute scowling at me from under his ragged red brows and then seemed to concentrate the fury of a hundred curses into one tremendous oath, which he snarled out with baffled rage, as he tore the paper into pieces and threw them down on the table.

"You know I can't go to the police, d.a.m.n you," he cried.

I had beaten him. I had convinced him of my earnestness. I shut the door then and sitting down again, said calmly:--

"Now you understand me a little better than ever before; and we will have the last conversation that will ever pa.s.s between us. Tell me plainly and clearly what you want. Quick."

"Justice for my daughter."

"What else?"

"The money you've always promised me for my services," with a pause before the last word.

"What services?"

"You know."

"Answer. Don't dare to speak like that," I cried sternly.

"For holding my tongue--about Anna--and--the child. I want my share, don't I?" he answered sullenly, scowling at me. "Is a father to be robbed of a child and then cheated?" He asked this with a burst of anger as if, vile as he was, he was compelled to stifle his sense of shame with a rush of rage.

"Hush-money, eh? And payment for your daughter's shame. Well, what else?" I threw into my manner all the contempt I could.

"My help in other things--with others." He uttered the sentence with a leer of suggestion that sent my blood to boiling point; and he followed it up with a recital of mean and despicable tricks of vice and foul dissipation until in sheer disgust I was compelled to stop him.

What more the man might have had to say I knew not; but I had heard enough. It was clear that I was indeed a bitter blackguard, and that for my purposes I had made use of this scoundrel, who had apparently begun by selling me his own daughter. It was clear also that all this must end and some sort of arrangement be made.

At the same time I knew enough of Russian society to be perfectly well aware that not one of the acts which this man had suggested would count for either crime or wrong against me. One was expected to keep the seamy side of one's life decorously out of sight; but if that were done, a few "slips" of the kind were taken as a matter of course.

Personally, I hold old-fas.h.i.+oned notions on these things, and it was infinitely painful to me that I should be held guilty of such blackguardism. I would at least do what justice I could.

"I have been thinking much about these things lately," I said, after a pause. "And I have come to a decision. I shall make provision for you..."

"Your honour was always generosity itself," said the fellow squirming instantly.

"On condition that you leave Moscow. You will go to Kursk; and there ten roubles will be paid to you weekly for a year; by which time if you haven't drunk yourself to death, you will have found the means to earn your living."

"And Anna?"

"Your daughter will call to-morrow afternoon on my sister----"

"Your sister?" cried the man in the deepest astonishment.

"My sister," I repeated, "at this address"--I wrote it down--"and the course to be taken will depend on what is then decided. You understand that the whole story will be sifted, so she must be careful to tell the truth.

"The discreet truth, your honour?" he asked with another leer.

"No, the whole truth, without a single lie of yours. Mind, one lie by either of you, and not a kopeck shall you have."

With that I sent him about his business. I resolved to have the whole story investigated; and it occurred to me that it would be a good test of my sister's womanliness to let her deal with the case. I reflected too that it would do her no harm to know a little of the undercurrent of her brother's life.

That done, I turned into bed after as full a day as I had ever lived, and slept well.

Reflection led me to approve the plan of sending the old Jew's daughter to Olga; and after breakfast the next morning I wrote a little note to prepare her for the visit.

"This afternoon," I wrote, "you will have a visit from a girl whose name is Anna Pras.h.i.+l, and she will tell you something about your brother's history which I think your woman's wit will let you deal with better than I can. We will have the story sifted, but you can do two things in the matter better than I--judge whether the girl is an impostor; and if not, what is the best thing to do for her. I will see you afterwards."

I sat smoking and thinking over this business when my servant, Borlas, announced that a lady wished to see me; and ushered in a tall woman closely veiled.

I was prepared now for anything that could happen.

I rose and bowed to her; but she stood without a word until Borlas had gone out.

"Don't pretend that you don't know me," she said, in a voice naturally sweet and full and musical, but now resonant with agitation and anger.

It was a very awkward position. Obviously I ought to know her, so I thought it best to speak as if I did.

"I make no attempt at pretence with you," I said, equivocally. "But aren't you going to sit down?"