“All is ready, sister,” Fedor observed. “The arrangements for escape are perfect. By midnight to-morrow we shall have separated, and not even the bloodhounds of the Third Section will be able to trace us.”
“Then let us see the shell,” she said. Walking over to a bookcase, he touched a spring, and part of one of the rows of books flew open, disclosing a secret cupboard behind. The backs of the books were imitations, concealing a spacious niche, from which the Nihilist drew forth a thick volume about seven inches long by five wide, bound in black cloth. It was an imitation of a popular edition of Charles Lamb’s works.
The bomb was in the form of a book!
Sonia, into whose delicate hands he gave it, examined it critically, with a grim smile of satisfaction, then placed it carefully upon a little Moorish coffee-stool at her side.
“It is excellently made, excites no suspicion, and reflects the greatest credit upon you, Fedor. You are indeed a genius!” she said, laughing. Then, seriously, she asked, “Is every one present prepared to sacrifice his or her life in this attempt?”
“We are,” they answered, with one accord.
“I think, then, that we are all agreed both as to the necessity of this action, as well as to the manner the coup shall be accomplished. In order that each one’s memory shall be refreshed, I will briefly repeat the arrangements. To-morrow night, punctually at eight o’clock, the man condemned to die will visit the Lyceum Theatre, entering by the private door in Burleigh Street. The person using the shell must stand at the Strand corner of that street, and the blow must be delivered just as the carriage turns from the Strand, so that in the crowd in the latter thoroughfare escape may be easy. It must be distinctly remembered, however, that the personage to be ‘removed’ will occupy the second carriage—not the first.”
“Will he be alone?” asked the dark-bearded ruffianly fellow I knew as Sergius Karamasoff.
“Yes. We have taken due precautions. Come, let us decide who shall deliver the blow.” And while Fedor wrote a word on a piece of paper, and folding it, placed it with eleven other similar pieces in a Dresden bowl, Sonia Ostroff continued to discuss where they should next meet after the coup. At last it was arranged, upon her suggestion, that they should all assemble at the house of Karamasoff in Warsaw at 9 p.m. on the 21st, thus allowing a fortnight in which to get back to Poland.
The scraps of paper were shuffled, and everyone drew, including myself, for I had taken the oath to the revolutionary section of the Narodnaya Volya, and, being present, was therefore compelled to share the risk. Judge my joy, however, on opening mine and finding it a blank! The person to whom the dangerous task fell made no sign, therefore all were unaware who would make the attempt. The strictest secrecy is always preserved in a Nihilist Circle, so that the members are never aware of the identity of the person who commits an outrage.