They jogged on for a while through the grey light of the coming dawn, and at last, after a series of shrill whistles, the train came to a standstill; the steward returned, and with breathless mutterings in Russian, helped the Duke to get the apparently comatose Simon out of the compartment and along the corridor, then down the steps at the end of the carriage. He pushed their bags out after them, and, recognizing in the half light the high value of the banknote which De Richleau thrust into his hand, broke into voluble protestations of gratitude.
The Duke looked quickly about him; the dark masses of buildings seen indistinctly, and the glimmer of lights a few hundred yards ahead, was evidently the main station. They stood in the snow. About them were timber stacks, coal dumps, and immediately in their rear some rough sheds. With a snort the train moved slowly on — the steward still leaning from the window. As it gathered speed and disappeared into the gloom, De Richleau ceased to pretend that he was supporting Simon.
“Come,” he said. “This way — quickly!” and seizing one of the bags he headed for the cover of the sheds. Simon gripped the other and followed. They were not more than half way across the yard when Simon’s quick ear caught a crunching sound, as of someone stumbling suddenly over cinders. He whipped round, just in time to see in the semi-darkness a figure that had evidently leapt off the last coach of the train, scuttle behind one of the stacks of timber.
“We’re spotted,” he gasped.
“No matter. Leave this to me,” said the Duke, as he darted behind the shed. “Here, take this,” and he thrust the other suitcase into Simon’s free hand.
Simon stood, helpless and gaping, the two heavy bags, one in each hand, weighing him down. De Richleau flattened himself against the side of the shed — they waited breathlessly.
A soft, padding sound came to their ears, as of someone running on the thick carpet of snow, a second later a small man came round the corner full upon them. He made a rapid motion of recoil, but it was too late, the Duke’s left hand shot out and caught him by the throat. The small man did not utter a sound — he stared with terrified, bulging eyes over De Richleau’s shoulder, full at Simon, who saw at once that in his left eye there was a cast!
Then there happened a thing which shocked and horrified the mild, peace-loving soul of Simon Aron, for he had never witnessed such a thing before. With almost incredible swiftness the Duke’s right hand left the pocket of his greatcoat — it flew back to the utmost stretch of his shoulder, holding a long, thin, glittering blade — and then, with a dull thud, it hit the little man in the side, just under the heart. His eyes seemed for a second to start out of their sockets at Simon — then his head fell forward, and he dropped limp and soundless at De Richleau’s feet.
“Good God!” said Simon, in a breathless whisper, utterly aghast. “You’ve killed him.”
The Duke gave a grim laugh as he spurned the body with his foot. “What else was there to do, my friend — it was either him or us. We are in Soviet Russia, and when we stepped off that train, we placed ourselves beyond the pale!”