Small wonder that of the hundreds of thousands of prisoners who are flung into Russian jails only a small percentage are ever brought to trial, and executed or deported to Siberia. The great majority are never heard of again; they are dead to the outside world when the great gates clang behind them, and soon they perish from pain and hunger and privation. It is well for them if they are delicate folk, whose misery is quickly ended; it is the strong who suffer most in the instinctive struggle for life.
Whether I was ever interrogated I don’t know to this day, nor exactly how long I was in the horrible place; I guess it was about a fortnight, but it was a considerable time, even after I left it, before I was able even to attempt to piece things out in my mind.
I was lying on my bunk,—barely conscious, though no longer delirious,—when one of the armed warders came and shook me by the shoulder, roughly bidding me get up and follow him. I tried to obey, but I was as weak as a rat, and he just put his arm round me and hauled me along, easily enough, for he was a muscular giant, and I was something like a skeleton.
I didn’t feel the faintest interest in his proceedings, for I was almost past taking interest in anything; but I remembered later that we went along some flagged passages, and up stone stairs, passing more than one lot of sentries. He hustled me into a room and planked me down on a bench with my back to the wall, where I sat, blinking stupidly for a minute. Then, with an effort, I pulled myself together a bit, and was able to see that there were several men in the room, two of them in plain clothes, and the face of one of them seemed vaguely familiar.
“Is this your man, Monsieur?” I heard one of the Russians say; and the man at whom I was staring answered gravely: “I don’t know; if he is, you have managed to alter him almost out of knowledge.”
I knew by his accent that he was an Englishman, and a moment later I knew who he was, as he came close up to me and said sharply: “Maurice Wynn?”
“Yes, I’m Wynn,” I managed to say. “How are you, Inspector Freeman?”
Somehow at the moment it did not seem in the least wonderful that he should be here in Petersburg, and in search of me. I didn’t even feel astonished at his next words.
“Maurice Wynn, I have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murdering Vladimir Selinski,—alias Cassavetti.”