The Golden Bough

"Of course."

"Then I may go, Monsieur?" asked Tanya from the doorway.

"Yes. Go," said Khodkine with an abstracted wave of his hand and a peremptory tone which made a frown gather at Rowland's brow. Gone were Monsieur Khodkine's soft accents of greeting and his courtly bow. And Tanya seemed in awe of him, her look hanging upon his commands. Rowland remembered the agitation in her manner when she had come to summon him to this conference. Had Khodkine frightened her tonight? And how? Why? Was there something between them, some threat of Russian for Russian, born of politics or intrigue in which Khodkine played the master hand? Or was it something nearer, more personal…? It seemed curious to Rowland that he should be thinking of this for the first time. He had formed his first impression of Tanya there last night in the garden, when clad in her cowl and robes she had seemed so abstracted from the world outside. "A very inferior Mother Superior," as she had called herself, and by this token secluded but very human. He had considered the fact of her extraordinary beauty merely as a fortunate accident, and having dismissed her relations with Ivanitch from his mind, had dismissed all other sentimental possibilities-all, that is, except his own. A love affair-of course. With Khodkine? Perhaps. And yet that would hardly explain the Russian's attitude toward her tonight-or hers toward him. The one thing that seemed to rise uppermost in Rowland's mind was Tanya's fear of Khodkine … As he joined the Russian at the table by the lamp, he found himself examining Monsieur Khodkine with a new interest and a new antipathy.

"I have here some documents requiring your attention, in order that you may familiarize yourself with the order of business tomorrow when our circle is complete. The report of Herr Liederman from the Socialists of Germany, that of Mademoiselle Colodna from Rome, appeals from Shestov and Barthou. You will read them tonight, Monsieur?"

"Willingly. But this, Monsieur Khodkine, was not why you interrupted my tête-à-tête in the garden," said Rowland slowly. "You had another motive."

Khodkine smiled, got up and shut the door and went on in a low tone. "Why should I not be honest with you? Madame Rochal is not to be trusted, Monsieur. She has already surprised me. She opposed Liederman in accepting you unreservedly as our leader. It was from these two that I had expected resistance. Liederman is a member of the Reichstag. Madame Rochal-?" He shrugged. "If you can tell what she is, you are cleverer than the rest of us. She brings credentials from a central committee in Bavaria, but that means nothing. Such things are arranged. I merely wished to warn you before you had committed yourself to her interests."

"You need have no fear. I've grown my pin feathers. The cause in which we are interested is more important to me than the fascinations of Madame Rochal."

"We understand each other, Monsieur. We are friends. You will help me. I will help you. We shall work together in a harmony that will bring great good to the world. Are you satisfied?"

"Quite."

Khodkine offered his hand and Rowland took it, longing at that moment in a boyish sense of bravado to try grips with the Russian and see which was the better of the two. But his common sense told him that if there were to be a trial of strength between them, it would be a test of mind, of Rowland's cleverness against the Russian's finesse, of the American's skill in dissimulation against Khodkine's skill in intrigue. As yet there was no damage done, and with Tanya's help, Rowland perhaps held the stronger hand.

"To show you the confidence I place in you, Monsieur Rowland, I shall give you this."

And Khodkine, with a deliberateness intended to convey the importance of the matter, took out of his card case a small flat silver disk which he fingered a moment and then handed to Rowland. The American examined it curiously. It bore, in low relief, the double-headed just upon the pedestal in the room downstairs, and below it, the words REX NEMORENSIS.

"A proof of your confidence-Monsieur. What-"

"The talisman of our society. Taken from the watch chain of the dead Priest. Worn only by the Priest but known throughout Europe. Shown to members of our committees, it will carry you safely anywhere."

"Ah, thanks, Monsieur."

"You will forgive me for sending for you, will you not? But it will not do for you to move in the dark. Trust no one but me." He took up the papers on the table and handed them to the American. "Now go to your room, and study these papers carefully with my notes upon the margins, for it is according to this that the council must act tomorrow. But see no one else tonight. Tomorrow morning I will come to your room and tell you of my plan to enter the vault."

"I shall do as you suggest, Monsieur. I am very tired. When I read these papers I shall be ready for a good night of sleep."

"That is well. Good night, Monsieur."

"Good night."

In the seclusion of his room, the Leader of Nemi had much to think of. The labyrinth had grown deeper, its mazes more tortuous, but like Theseus he still held to the silken cord which bound him to Tanya Korasov, and having trusted to his own instincts he was now ready to follow blindly where she led him. But it was clear that Tanya had not under-rated the skill and strength of Monsieur Khodkine. He was indeed an adversary worthy of any man's metal. Under his polished veneer, Monsieur Khodkine was made of hardy wood of a fine grain but none the less strong because of that. Though there had been no chance to verify his impressions by a conversation with Tanya, Rowland had decided that Khodkine was working in the interests of Germany for a separate peace with Russia, which would throw all the strength of the German armies upon France, England, Italy and the United States. A mere surmise and based upon the instinct that Tanya was true and a friend of Russia, for which Rowland had fought and was fighting. Without Tanya the whole structure of his intrigue fell to the ground. If he believed that Madame Rochal was an agent of the Provisional Government of Russia, he must also believe that Tanya was plotting against it. And if Madame Rochal were an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse working in the same interests as Monsieur Khodkine, why should the Russian distrust her?

And what was the threat which Khodkine held over Tanya? There seemed no end to the tangle and no course of action but to move softly and await developments. The story of the amount of treasure in the vault below the Tree had opened his eyes. Here, perhaps, was the answer to some of the questions that perplexed him. Politics of the sort that had been disclosed here, would stop at nothing. The times in which he lived made murder a matter of small importance, and what was his own career in France but that of murder highly specialized? Rowland was sure that his own safety now hung upon his continued display of friendship and collaboration in Monsieur Khodkine's plans. And those plans in brief seemed to be nothing less than the looting of the strong-box of Nemi before Madame Rochal or Max Liederman could get at it. And for what Cause? For Germany? Or merely for Grisha Khodkine?

Rowland had no weapons, not even a pocket-knife, and Khodkine carried an automatic in his hip pocket, for Rowland had contrived to brush his arm against it earlier in the evening. The situation was interesting, but hardly to his liking. He longed for a good American Colt revolver, one shot of which, well placed, was worth all the automatics in the world.

But the business before him tonight admitted of no delay nor of any consideration for his own safety. At one o'clock he was to meet Tanya at the lower end of the garden, and with luck, by morning the money and papers in the vault would be well out of harm's way if Tanya could find a place for their safe-keeping. Then, so far as Rowland was concerned, they might dynamite the vault to their heart's content.

"Droite 72 Gauche 23 Droite 7." He had repeated the figures to himself frequently and now continued to do so, taking a new delight in their significance. Twenty-five millions of francs! Five million dollars! They might go far, if properly used, in the interests of the cause he served. Whose money was this? How long had it accumulated? And what the purpose of those who had contributed? Peace? Surely Peace would come most quickly if Germany were defeated. And was he not the President of Nemi-the chosen of the Council to represent all the members of the society, whether socialists, revolutionists, maximalists, minimalists or what not? The way was difficult. So difficult that there was no arbitrament but the sword. The counter revolutionists of Russia should not betray France, and those who led Russia to destruction under the protection of a fine catchword should not succeed in their treachery if it was in his power to prevent.

Reasoning in this way, Phil Rowland lighted another of the cigarettes of the dead Ivanitch while he scanned the documents entrusted to him by Grisha Khodkine and awaited the hour when he should join Tanya Korasov below in the garden. He had no watch but a clock in the hall downstairs announced the hours slowly. At eleven he blew out his candle and sat in a chair by the window; waiting and listening. It was necessary that Monsieur Khodkine should be disarmed. He heard footsteps in the hall outside from time to time and snored discreetly. He had taken the precaution to fasten the bolt of his door and so feared nothing from the hall. Outside in the garden all was quiet. The moon had set-the moon that had shed its inconstant beams upon his own dissimulation and Zoya Rochal's… Alluring female, that! The essence of all things enchanting, the woman of thirty, a woman with a past… A component of faint delightful odors… Women like that had a way of going to a fellow's head. What the deuce had happened to her after Rowland's sudden exit from the stage she had set for him? He smiled as he remembered the results of his rather violent caress. If Tanya hadn't-

Rowland frowned into the darkness outside. Tanya! He would have given much if Tanya Korasov hadn't come along just at that moment. Women were strange creatures. He had fallen immeasurably in Tanya's eyes, the only ones at Nemi that mattered. He hadn't really wanted to kiss Zoya Rochal. It was merely that her lips were there to take-and he had taken them. He seemed quite sure that Madame Rochal had not been displeased… And tomorrow he must still play the game.

The clock in the hallway struck the half hour. Half-past twelve. Rowland bent over and took off his shoes and then moved stealthily to the window where he stood behind the curtain peering out into the obscurity of the garden. There was no lantern upon the mound and no dark figure watching by the Tree as there had been last night. Sure that no one was watching outside, he stuck his head and shoulders out of the window and looked around. All the lights were out. He had at first thought of descending from the window which was less hazardous than passing down the corridor and stairs, but remembered that last night after Tanya's warning he had assured himself that there was no means of entrance to his room by the window. The wall below was quite bare of vines or projections and at least thirty feet high. There was nothing for it but to go by the corridor.

And so with infinite pains to make no sound he slowly moved the bolt of the door until it was drawn entirely back and then waited listening. Silence. He turned the knob cautiously and opened the door. So far so well. After another moment of listening he took up his shoes and on tip-toe went noiselessly down the hallway. The house was as silent as the tomb. If the other members of the Council had any suspicion of one another or of him they gave no sign of it. The house indeed was too quiet-a snore from the door of Monsieur Khodkine would have comforted him.

At the top of the stairway he paused. There was one step that creaked, the tenth from the bottom, he had counted it as he came up tonight. The tenth from the bottom and there were thirty-three in all. The twenty-third then… He went down carefully until he had counted twenty-two and then with a hand on the balustrade stepped over what he thought would be the offending stair upon the twenty-fourth-when a loud crash seemed to resound from one end of the echoing house to the other. Idiot! Twenty-four of course! He had not counted the top step.

To his own ears, used to the silence of the house, the noise seemed loud enough to have awakened the dead Ivanitch, and he stood listening for a long minute, awaiting the shuffling of feet or the sounds of opening doors above. But nothing happened. The Councilors of Nemi still slept. Rowland grinned. "Fool's luck," he muttered to himself and carefully opening the door into the garden, went out, stealing along the shrubbery past the kitchen, and in a moment had reached the security of the trees. There he stopped to put on his shoes and repeat to himself the numbers of the combination. "72 23 7. Gauche Droite Gauche." Or was it Droite Gauche Droite? The numbers were right-but the direction- This was no time to be uncertain in such a matter. That Boche bombing party must have done something queer to his head. No. It was Droite, Gauche, Droite-he was sure. Tanya would confirm that perhaps.

He found her in the shadow of the designated trees where she had preceded him by some moments. She wore her cowl and robe from beneath the folds of which she brought forth a revolver which she handed to him.

"You have read my mind, Mademoiselle," he whispered joyfully, "it was this that I wanted the most."

"You heard nothing?"

"No. But one of the steps creaked abominably. And you-have you been here long?"

"No. I came down the back stairs." And then, turning into the shrubbery beside them with no more ado, "Follow me, Monsieur," she said.

Her manner was eloquent of the business they had at hand and reminiscent of nothing personal in their relations. Her thoughtfulness in arming him was merely a matter of self-protection, her trust in him was a matter of necessity for had she not already given him the numbers of the combination? He followed her quietly. They stole along the outside wall in single file, making a complete detour of the garden until they reached a clump of shrubbery near the spot where Rowland had come over the wall. There they followed a well-worn path into the bushes and were confronted by a mound of earth, in the face of which was an iron door. Here Tanya paused, brought forth a key and in a moment led the way down a flight of steps underground. It was pitch black below but Tanya who seemed to have thought of everything brought out from the folds of her gown an electric pocket lamp which she turned into the passage-way before them, at the end of which Rowland made out a steel door with a shining nickel knob and a handle.

"The vault, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said coolly. "It is of American manufacture. Doubtless you are familiar-"

She was looking at him as she spoke, and her eyes for the moment drove all thought of numbers from his head. He caught at her hand.

"Mademoiselle-before we go on, tell me that you've forgiven me. I was but serving your cause-"

She shrugged away from him and flashed the light upon the shining metal knob of the vault door.

"Serve it here, then," she said quickly. "There! – The numbers, Droite-Gauche-"

She was quite relentless. He chose to think her repudiation of him the measure of her own purity and with a last look at her fine profile bent forward and fingered the metal knob.

"Gauche 72-" he muttered and paused.

"Droite, Monsieur!" she said sharply. "Do you mean to say that you have forgotten?"

"If you would be kind to me, Mademoiselle-" he pleaded smiling, "perhaps I could remember better."

"Oh!" she gasped. "This is no time to lose one's wits-"

"You've robbed me of all I ever had-"

"Monsieur Rowlan'," she whispered in anguish, "the numbers!"

"Say that you forgive me, Mademoiselle," he pleaded again, turning toward her.

She threw out her arms and the light of the torch went out.

"Mademoiselle," he was whispering. "Forgive-"

The light of the torch flared suddenly, full on his face. She had moved a pace away from him and the cowl had fallen from her head, but her eyes were studying his face intently.

"Forgive!" he repeated, smiling eagerly.

Something in his expression may have satisfied her, for she thrust out her hand to meet his own.

"Yes, yes," she muttered hurriedly. "I forgive." And suddenly switched the light upon the door of the vault. "And now the numbers."

"Ah," he laughed. "I remember them, instantly. Droite 72, Gauche 23, Droite 7. Droite. Is it not extraordinary? I cannot do without you, Mademoiselle Tanya-nor you without me. I shall prove it to you. You shall see-"

As she did not reply he relapsed into silence, bending in sudden concentration upon his task. And in a moment, the click of a falling tumbler within the lock announced success. The knob moved no more. Then he took hold of the heavy handle and turned toward the girl with a laugh.

"OPEN, SESAME!" he said. "The Princess Tatyana wishes to enter."

The light wavered as the girl drew back and Rowland saw amazement in her eyes.

"Princess!" she was whispering. "Who told you of my title?"

He stared at her blankly and then her meaning came to him.

"Why, no one, Mademoiselle. The Princess Tatyana is a fairy-friend of my childhood. I dreamed of her as now I dream of you."

She stood puzzled a moment and then switched the light upon the door.

"Open, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said in a half whisper.

He grasped the massive handle in both hands and with an effort, swung the heavy mass of steel outward and the dark entrance to the vault lay open to them.

With no further words, Tanya flashed the light into the interior and quickly entered, while Rowland followed. The place had a musty smell but seemed quite dry, a fact afterwards explained by a double wall and a deep drainage system. The air was close but the electric torch burned brightly, revealing rows of shelves, each carefully lettered, upon which were ancient parchments, discolored and illegible, documents bearing pendant seals, in metal boxes tied with heavy silken cords. There was a grinning skull, a steel casque of the Middle Ages, a spearhead, and an ancient piece of sculpture draped with jewels; upon the floor at the further end bulging leather sacks, and a rack of modern rifles and ammunition. All these Rowland's glance took in at a first look, but his attention was quickly arrested by the actions of Tanya Korasov, who bade him hold the light while she went to a shelf upon the right where her nimble fingers quickly began running over a pile of documents, in modern envelopes, tied with tape. She read the superscriptions eagerly and at last came to the one she sought.

As she did so and took the envelope into her hands a slight gasp of triumph escaped her. Rowland looking over her shoulder read eagerly the fine script.

"Dossier de Gregory Khodkine."

And while Rowland's eyes sparkled with this discovery, Tanya without ceremony broke the seal and took out the contents, scanning the papers rapidly, smiling and exclaiming by turns.

"His history, here," she whispered over her shoulder to Rowland, indicating the first sheet. "And the evidence-there," pointing to the documents. "It is what I have longed for, for months. Evidence-proof. Look," she said excitedly. "Read. Gregory Hochwald. A commission in the Prussian Guards-1905-signed Wilhelm-1908-appointment to the Staff, 1910-Resignation. Liberal tendencies-(authorized at Potsdam) Russia 1911-Instructions from Graf von Stromberg-1912-(Head of the Secret Service, Monsieur) – Member of the Duma. Other letters of instruction 1913, 1914, 1916, -since the war, Monsieur Rowlan'. Is it not damnable?"

"Magnificent," gasped Rowland over her shoulder. "We've got him, Mademoiselle-" and with a grin he paraphrased triumphantly, "where Molly wore her beads."

She glanced at him in a moment of incomprehension, then thrust the papers into their envelope and slipped them into the belt beneath her gown.

"You see, Monsieur," she whispered, "Kirylo Ivanitch was well prepared to deal with this situation. He feared Grisha Khodkine always, but seemed to do as he wished. Now I know why-he was awaiting the overt act which should throw the man into his hands-"

"My heritage," whispered Rowland.

"And mine," said Tanya.

"You've feared him, Mademoiselle. He holds some threat over you. Today-tonight, I saw-"

"I fear him no longer, Monsieur Rowlan'-" she smiled confidently.

"Mademoiselle," said Rowland with boyish eagerness, "if you'll only tell me. Let me help you. I will-"

"No more violence, Monsieur. I shall deal with Grisha Khodkine in my own way."

She took the torch from his hand without a word and led him to a corner of the vault, where upon the lower shelf were a number of packages carefully wrapped in black oil-cloth.

"Bank notes," she said. "Each note of a thousand francs or its equivalent. There are twenty-five thousand of them."

"What shall we do with them? You have a plan?"

The girl nodded.

"It is arranged. We have no time to lose. Picard and Stepan are outside the wall. You will drop them over. I will show you."

And taking up several packages of oil-cloth she bade Rowland hold out his hands while she filled his arms.

"Careful! Each one contains a fortune. Follow me."

She turned toward the door into the passageway, then gasped suddenly and stopped, dropping her torch which clattered upon the steel floor. But in the second before the light was extinguished, Rowland saw that a figure stood at the entrance to the vault, a branch of foliage in one hand while in the other, pointed directly toward him, was a most significant weapon.