"Well, if you will—— We had our suspicions; your father is an Englishman, you know; we examined his papers and found proof of our suspicions—full, conclusive. There is no doubt at all about it."
"But you will allow my father to clear himself. I am sure he can do so."
"We have no time for long-winded processes," replied the general, throwing away the end of his cigarette and lighting another. "Moukden, as you must be aware, young man, is under martial law."
"Then what has become of my father, sir? Where is he?"
"We might have shot him, you know." The general's manner was suaver than ever. "But we are a merciful people. Your father has merely been—deported."
At this Jack felt that either there was a hole in the net woven around his father, or the Russians had feared to proceed to extremities owing to his British nationality.
"Well, sir," he said, "I shall, of course, appeal to our government."
"Certainly, my young friend, certainly! But on what ground? See, I recognize your anxiety; it is perfectly natural; for that reason I am patient with you. But we must be the judges as to who shall stay in Manchuria, who shall leave. Your father is now on his way to—to the frontier. You will follow without loss of time. I give you twelve hours to quit the city. A pass shall be made out for you; you will go by to-night's train to Harbin."
General Bekovitch's manner was as urbane and polite as ever, but there was in his tone a something that warned the boy that further protest would be useless. Still, he must make one more effort to discover his father's whereabouts.
"Has my father gone to Harbin?" he asked.