To return to Victor. His position in St. Petersburg was a peculiar one. As chief of the terrible Third Section his power was almost unlimited. He had his own force of men, and every month a large sum of money was placed to his credit in the Bank of Russia for current expenses. He was directly responsible to no one but the Minister of Police. His assistant and confidant in the affairs of the Third Section was Serge Zamosc—himself a very clever police agent. Zamosc was a short, spare man, and always wore his face smooth shaven, the better to assume needed disguises. He was about forty years old, and had been in the service for nearly one half of that period. It was he who ferreted out information for Sandoff, and then acted upon it according to the latter’s instructions.
On this particular evening Inspector Sandoff was in a complacent frame of mind as he sat smoking a fragrant cigar and sipping vodka and water from a glass standing on the table beside him. He was momentarily expecting to hear of an important arrest that would bring no little credit to him and his department. Felix Shamarin, a leader of the revolutionary party, and the publisher of its most incendiary newspaper, had long evaded the utmost vigilance of the police, who had been endeavoring to arrest him for a dozen offenses of which he was believed to be guilty or cognisant. Victor Sandoff’s men had at length discovered that he had found a refuge in a densely populated part of St. Petersburg, lying between two of the canals that intersect it. Since early morning the cordon of police had been tightening its lines about the locality in which Shamarin was supposed to be hiding, and it was almost impossible that he could escape.
As he sat and waited for the expected news, Sandoff’s thoughts went back to a previous encounter he had had with the set of Nihilists to which Shamarin belonged—an encounter so remarkable that every incident of it was indelibly graven upon his memory. He leaned back in his chair, contemplating the bluish haze of cigar smoke that dimmed the ceiling, and dreamily reviewed the scene as it passed before him.
At an early hour one morning, a little more than a year before, he had gone, with four of his men, to an obscure quarter of the town to raid a house believed to be the headquarters of Shamarin’s seditious journal. An entrance was forced, but the police encountered a more stubborn resistance than they had expected. There was a fierce fight, and in the struggle Sandoff’s forces became divided. The leader himself laid low two of the men who sprang upon him, and a third antagonist turned and fled before him. Sandoff’s blood was up, and, his zeal outrunning his discretion, he pursued the fleeing Nihilist along a dark passageway, at the further end of which the fugitive was lost to sight. Stumbling blindly forward in the almost total darkness, Sandoff passed through a doorway. Instantly the door closed behind him, and he heard the sharp click of a key turning in the lock.
The sound told him the peril of his situation. He turned and grasped the handle of the door, but could not budge it. He felt along the wall—for there was not a ray of light—and to his dismay found that he was in a small, square room, with no means of exit—no avenue of escape from the cruel and unscrupulous men who held him prisoner.
As minutes passed by his hope of rescue grew fainter and fainter. The sounds of strife gave way to a complete silence. His men must have been outnumbered and overpowered by the Nihilists, and it would be hours before his absence would be discovered by the police and reinforcements sent to ascertain what had become of him. Before that time his fate was sure to be sealed. He could expect no mercy from his relentless enemies, who would wreak upon him a terrible vengeance for their losses in the fight with the police.
Sandoff had almost abandoned himself to despair when he heard a slight sound that seemed to come from the wall behind him. He was nerving himself to meet what he supposed must be his executioner, when a soft voice whispered:
“Make no noise as you value your life!”
A hand grasped his arm, and drew him toward a secret door that had opened in the wall of his prison. A faint gleam of light shone through it, dimly revealing to Sandoff’s astonished eyes the figure of a woman.
Mindful of her injunction, he followed her noiselessly through the secret doorway into a narrow passage. She led the way around several corners and down a winding flight of stairs, finally pausing in a small paved court hemmed in by lofty brick walls.