At one end was a small square window, where beyond lay a snow-clad scene, lit by the moon’s rays—a cleverly contrived piece of scenery, showing the white road winding into the distance lined on each side by the dark forest of firs.
The scene was intended to be Russian, without a doubt, for over the stove a holy ikon hung against the wall, a small painted head surrounded by a square of highly burnished gold.
Every object was quaintly shaped and foreign. In one corner stood an old spinning-wheel with the flax upon it, while in another was an old-fashioned gun. A couple of wolves’ skins were spread upon the floor, while upon the cleanly-scrubbed table showed a large brown stain—it might be of coffee, or it might be of blood!
The walls had been whitewashed, and across the ceiling, once gilt and adorned, no doubt, ran blackened beams in exact imitation, it seemed, of some house in the far east of Russia beyond the Volga.
Upon a side table lay a big, rather thin book, bearing upon its black, greasy cover the Imperial Russian arms—the double-headed eagle. Charlie opened it, and found it ruled like an attendance book, with careful entries in Russian in various hands. Neither could read the language, therefore it was to them unintelligible. By the stove was a low wooden settle, upon which lay a man’s fur cap and big sheepskin winter coat, as though the owner of the place had just risen and left.
“What can this possibly mean?” asked Max, gazing around in sheer wonderment.
To this query, however, Charlie could venture no suggestion.
They stood amid surroundings that were to both a complete mystery.
Charlie touched the switch when, lo! the lights in the room were extinguished, and only a line of white brilliance as that of the full moon entering the window from the snow-covered land beyond, fell across the silent place full upon the table which bore that ugly dark brown stain.
Both men stood motionless and wondering, fascinated by the extraordinary and striking effect.