“Certainly,” answered the professor, placidly. “Did you not see me do it, or was I rather too quick for you? Shall I do the trick again? Just watch the necks of the decanters this time—”
“Stop!” shouted Vasilovich, springing from his chair in a paroxysm of fury. “How dare you, you scoundrel! What do you mean by coming here and destroying my property in this insolent way, eh?” And he reached towards a hand-bell that stood near him on the table.
“Sit down, and keep your hand from that bell,” retorted von Schalckenberg, sternly, levelling the pistol, quick as light, at the count’s head. “Utter a sound above a whisper, or move so much as an eyelid, and I will riddle your worthless brain with bullets. My little exhibition just now was simply intended to convey to you, in a thoroughly practical manner, some idea of the capabilities of this weapon of mine. I have fired two shots from it, and there are consequently eighteen left; furthermore, I have another weapon of the same kind in my other pocket, fully loaded. I have, therefore, thirty-eight shots at my disposal, and, if I please, I can kill you so silently that no one shall be any the wiser. And I will do it, too, without a moment’s hesitation, if you refuse to give me the information I require. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I understand you,” answered Vasilovich, slowly and reluctantly, as his fascinated gaze peered down the barrel of the pistol with which von Schalckenberg relentlessly continued to cover him. “What is it you want?”
“I want the truth as to the present whereabouts of Colonel Sziszkinski. I know all about his imprisonment, at your instigation, in the fortress of Peter and Paul. Is he there still?” demanded the professor. “Consider before answering,” he continued, “and remember that I want the truth. I shall not trust to your statements, I shall verify them through other sources of information; and I caution you to be very careful indeed in what you say, because if you dare to lie to me, or to withhold from me the smallest scrap of information, or to deceive me in any way, you will simply be pronouncing your own death-sentence.”
“There is no need to caution me so elaborately,” retorted the count. “I have no objection to giving you the information you require, and I give it the more readily that it will not be of the slightest use to you. You are a friend of Sziszkinski’s, I presume, and your anxiety to ascertain his present whereabouts leads me to suppose that you may have planned some mad scheme to effect his rescue. If so, it will perhaps be a disappointment to you to learn that he left Odessa this afternoon, as a convict, bound to Sakhalien, on board the convict-steamer Ludwig Gadd, from which ship, and from the officials in charge of her, no human power can now deliver him.”
“Have you any proof of the truth of what you say?” demanded von Schalckenberg, still keeping his pistol levelled at the count’s head.
“Yes,” answered Vasilovich, with a ring of triumph in his voice; “I received a telegram this afternoon from Odessa, informing me of the departure of the Ludwig Gadd, with Sziszkinski on board.”
“Is that telegram still in your possession?” inquired von Schalckenberg.
“Certainly it is,” answered Vasilovich; “it is in my breast pocket. Would you like to see it?”