In the end his escape proved to be a comparatively simple matter. In the afternoon of the fifth day of his captivity Nicolai turned over the watch to Ivan and sallied forth. It had been part of Drexel’s craft to lie upon his couch, appearing to nap much of the time, thinking that thus he could best watch his jailers and throw them off their guard. He was now stretched upon the sofa, his semblance that of a sleeping man. Ivan looked at him, looked at the table which needed clearing after their late lunch, a chore which he could easily do if the prisoner slept—then tip-toed to Drexel’s side, gazed at him with his sharp eyes, then bent low to make certain.
Suddenly Drexel’s arms shot up. His left hand, with a powerful wrench, tore the pistol from Ivan’s grasp, the right closed upon the little fellow’s throat. Drexel had some knowledge of anatomy, and with all his force he pressed his thumb up under the jaw against the pneumogastric nerve. Ivan struggled convulsively beneath this paralyzing pressure—weakened—then quieted into limp unconsciousness. Instantly Drexel thrust his handkerchief into Ivan’s mouth, tied this gag securely, and by the time Ivan’s eyes fluttered open had him bound hand and foot with the ropes prepared for his own confinement.
“Excuse me, comrade,” said he, gazing down at his late captor. “But I did not want to impose upon your hospitality any longer, and I did not see any other way to leave. I really am sorry if I hurt you—for I like you, Ivan.”
As he slipped into his big coat, Ivan tugged impotently at his bonds. “Well—good-bye, my lad,” said Drexel. “And tell your people they have nothing in the world to fear from me. I’m as safe outside as I would be in here with your guns against my chest.”
He picked up his Browning and was putting it in his pocket when he caught a look of longing in Ivan’s eyes. He laid the pistol on the table.
“Keep it as a little souvenir,” he said, and with a friendly wave of the hand he unlocked the door and went out.
But misfortune was not yet done with him. As he started to creep down the stairway a step creaked and the boarding-house keeper came into the hall. “The devil!” he ejaculated and barred the foot of the stairs with his powerful body.
“Ivan! Nicolai!” he shouted.
For an instant Drexel regretted the pistol he had given Ivan, but there was no time to return for it. He plunged down at his big antagonist; the man set his body and opened his arms to grapple with the escaping prisoner. But Drexel was not minded to get into that detaining clutch. He sent his fist into the other’s chest; the boarding-house keeper, true Russian that he was, knew nothing of the art of boxing, and in the instant that he gasped and floundered Drexel drove a blow into his unguarded solar plexis. He went down in a heap, and Drexel sprang by him and out into the court.
Ahead of him lay danger from arrest by the police. But he knew that if once he could get back to the Hotel Europe he would be safe, for no police official would dream of identifying the hunted American with the cousin-to-be of Prince Berloff. Though but little after three, night had already fallen. The darkness was an aid, and with the shawl collar of his shuba turned up so that only nose and eyes were visible, he slipped across and out of the court, and hailed the first swift-looking sleigh he met. He offered the driver double fare, the driver laid on his whip, and half an hour later he walked nonchalantly into the official-filled Hotel Europe.