"It is but a poor warfare, chief," replied the Count, a smile curving his lips in disdain.
Patouchki frowned.
"No warfare is poor or trivial, Count Vladimir, that sustains the safety of our father the Tsar, or that strengthens the hands of his Government. Women have proved ere now our most dangerous foes; they strike in the dark, and pay no regard to honourable codes. Since, then, we may not fight them openly, let us turn their own forces of cunning, artifice, and falsehood against them. He who would serve the interests of the Tsar must put aside all considerations of sex."
Again Count Mellikoff bowed; and after a moment's silence the chief continued:
"You know the incidents of the murder, Vladimir, no need to recapitulate them; you know Count Stevan's near kinship to the Tsar, and the consequent lesson that must be read to all miscreants who think to spill the Imperial blood of Russia and escape unpunished. You know also of the oath sworn by that wretched woman, when, by Imperial ukase, her marriage to Stevan Lallovich was pronounced void; you know her subsequent career, and the chain of circumstantial evidence that points to her as at least an accessory to the crime. We have reason to believe that she has escaped to America, and is living there in disguise; the chain has narrowed its links until we can confine ourselves to one state and one city of that great country—New York, or a narrow radius therefrom. But so far the Chancellerie has been unable to lay the finger of certainty upon her, so far she has eluded our absolute knowledge; and therefore it is to you we would depute the task of tracking her, dogging her, and bringing her personally within the power and jurisdiction of the Imperial Chancellerie. Are you willing to accept this work, Vladimir? Remember, we ask it in the service of the Tsar, to whose protection you have hitherto, with undeviating fidelity, sworn to be true, even at the cost of your life."
Count Mellikoff, as Patouchki concluded, rose from his chair and walked quickly across the room to the window. As he did so, Ivor Tolskoi raised his fair head and youthful face, and looked after him. "Does he hesitate?" he said within himself. "By our Lady of Kazan, I wish the chance were but offered me. The chief should find me ready, and as adamant against the softest lures of the fairest woman of all her sex." Then he dropped his innocent blue eyes, and continued the monotonous pen-work on which he was engaged.
Vladimir Mellikoff remained for several long moments beside the window, looking out with unseeing eyes upon the well-known scene before him; upon the gaily decorated sleighs and droschkies flying by; upon the frozen Neva, over whose glittering ice the skaters were deftly circling; upon the Austrian band playing before the Admiralty, their light-blue uniforms seeming like a bit of the sky above, fallen to earth; upon the huge Imperial Winter Palace, whose innumerable windows glanced like jewels in the crisp cold sunlight; upon the officers and sentinels relieving guard at its gates; upon the throng of brightly attired pedestrians coming and going, up and down the broad streets, in quick succession; he knew it all so well, had been part of it for so many years. Was not this very scene photographed upon his brain's camera, with all the high lights accentuated, and all the shadows deepened? Who shall say what wave of memory swept over him, as he stood there gazing down, seeing, yet not seeing the ever-changing panorama that since his boyhood had been dear to him; from the unique charm with which only youth and youth's memories can embellish the most ordinary scene?
Did he hesitate, or draw back from this mission laid upon him; did his heart and soul shrink from hounding out a woman, whose wrongs and griefs had hurried her on to the perpetration of a crime, which even he felt to be but an outburst of that savage justice that reigns deep down in every human heart? Did he confess to himself that it was but coward's work to bring to bear upon this wretched fugitive all the political force of the Imperial Chancellerie, with himself at its head as its willing and revengeful agent?
He knew well that if he undertook this mission he would carry it through to the very end, that was his nature; combining something of the sleuth-hound and the bulldog, he could track his prey indefatigably, and could fasten his cruel fangs upon it relentlessly when found. But was it worth his while, was the game noble enough; was not fighting a woman, with her own weapons, but poor sport for one who had won his spurs in signal service under far braver and more dangerous circumstances?
As he stood thus, wavering within himself, a hoarse and mighty shout went echoing up to the blue vaulted sky; then came the clank of arms, the rattle of metal trappings, and a mounted guard swept into sight, their scarlet kaftans brilliant against the snow, the precursors of the Imperial equipage, in which, as it dashed past, Vladimir recognised the Tsar and Tsarina, enveloped though they were in robes and mantles of rarest furs. Behind them came another sleigh in which sat two ladies and an equerry; as they passed the Chancellerie, the lady nearest Vladimir's window lifted her face and turned it towards the grim walls; it was a pale and beautiful face, enhanced by the rich cap of sables that seemed to embrace lovingly the waves and masses of golden brown hair beneath it. As Count Vladimir caught sight of that proud, fair countenance, a sudden smile broke over it, called forth by some remark of her companion's, and melted all the pure still lines into the tenderest curves of youth.