“I suppose they arrived with the last convoy?” he said reflectively. “We will quickly see.”
And he rang a bell, in answer to which a smart young Cossack officer appeared, saluting.
To him he handed the slip of paper with the numbers, saying in that hard, imperious voice of his:
“Report at once to me the whereabouts of these two prisoners. They arrived recently, and I am awaiting information.”
The officer again saluted and withdrew. Scarcely had he closed the door when another officer, wearing his heavy greatcoat flecked with snow, entered and, saluting, handed the Governor a paper, saying:
“The prisoners for Kolimsk are ready to start, Excellency.”
“How many?”
“Two hundred and seven—one hundred and twenty-six men, and eighty-one women. Your Excellency.”
Sredne Kolimsk! That was the most northerly and most dreaded settlement in all the Arctic, still distant nearly one thousand miles—the living tomb of so many of Markoff’s victims.
“Are they outside?” asked the Governor. To which the officer in charge replied in the affirmative.