His hunch that he would be ordered to recover all that had been stolen had proved correct. That very task had been assigned to him. But with complete power at his disposal, Ivan Motkin had not gained a single trace of the vanished wealth.
It was believed that the ring leaders — one at least — had escaped by airplane. Bolshevist troops had rounded up suspected Czarist agents. None had been captured alive; all had fought to the end.
Fate had been playing a strange game with Ivan Motkin. During these eight days, while his subordinates had been vainly seeking some clew to the vanished gems, he had held the one person whose testimony might prove the needed link. Yet he had been unable to interrogate his prisoner.
The man had apparently been hovering between life and death. Badly wounded in his conflict with the Bolshevik soldiers, he was recovering now, but seemed too weak for quizzing.
Entering the first floor of his apartment, Motkin encountered Gregori, the man who served as his chauffeur. Before the official could speak, Gregori held up his hand in warning.
A stocky, bearded man was descending the stairs. It was the physician whom Motkin had brought in to tend the captive.
“Prensky is guarding him,” whispered Gregori. “The doctor has been here for the last hour.”
Motkin nodded. He advanced to meet the physician.
“How is the patient, doctor?” he asked.
“Much better,” responded the physician. “His delirium has vanished. He is greatly improved — but seems very weak.”