CHAPTER VIII

_Lona Ivanovna asks her first question_

When a house is guarded with such infinite precaution as was the case with the Copper House, it becomes, as Wallion expressed it, "a pleasantly exciting adventure" to enter it by broad daylight, without being seen.

By his advice, they had quitted the train one station beyond Karkby, and gone the rest of the way on foot, through the wood. They crossed the southern boundary as an invading army crosses the border of a hostile country: by forced marches, and with intense caution.

As soon as they reached the top of the hill, they could see at some distance through the trees, the massive roof of copper which was their goal. The sun shone brightly in the still atmosphere; no smoke issued as yet from the chimneys of the great house; the unploughed field in front of it lay bare and desolate. But, on looking to the left, they caught sight of a man sitting motionless upon a stone at the outskirts of the wood, with his face turned towards the field, and a gun between his knees. It was one of the forest-guards.

"We seem to be in luck," murmured Wallion.

"Luck!" echoed Leo irritably. "They are watching the path and we shall not be able to go a hundred steps without being seen...."

"Just so. It is lucky that they are watching the Copper House _so openly_. If we had not found that sentry posted there, I should have felt uneasy, for it would certainly mean that your escapade last night had been discovered, and a trap laid. But now they are keeping guard as they always do, and we can go happily on."

Wallion moved forward, but Leo pulled him back by the coat.

"What are you going to do?" he whispered.

"To make a flanking movement," replied the Problem-hunter.

They skirted the hill behind the sentry, and approached the avenue by slow degrees. Suddenly Wallion halted.

"There's another of them!" he whispered.

They could see another armed man some way beyond them; like the first, he was staring idly at the field, and they heard him yawn loudly, after which he filled and lighted his pipe; the smell of tobacco was wafted up to them.

"Look, they are waking up in the Copper House," whispered Leo.

Smoke was rising from one of the chimneys, and the Problem-hunter gazed critically at it, remarking:

"In twenty minutes' time, they will knock at your door to tell you that breakfast is ready."

"They are bound to find out directly that I am not there," answered Leo quickly; "we can't possibly get in now without being seen."

"Where there's a will, there's a way! We'll try, at all events."

Wallion spoke with irresistible decision, and Leo dared not protest. They passed, at some distance, a third sentry, and were now close to the avenue, and about half-way up it. The huge trees formed a sort of roof above them, and the trunks bordered the path like a fourfold row of dark, massive pillars. Wallion looked all round.

"That's our best way," said he: "come along."

"The avenue?" said Leo.

"Yes, where else? Why go in by the back way, when we can arrive in style, sheltered by these great trees? Remember that they keep a look-out on the avenue from the porter's lodge, and anyone seeing us here will take it for granted that we belong to the house. Forward!"

He took Leo by the arm, and began to walk up the avenue.

"Step out," he said smiling. "They see us now, but they aren't paying us any attention."

It was difficult to say whether any of the three sentries whom they had just passed, and had now left on their right, took the slightest notice of the two men in the avenue; at all events, they raised no alarm, though Leo, hardly daring to breathe, expected them to do so at any minute.

Wallion moved softly and swiftly, as though making for some definite point, and Leo followed him as best he could; five minutes later they made a half-turn to the left, and saw the Copper House straight in front of them.

"Which is the window of your room?" whispered Wallion.

"On the north side, second floor, hidden by the trees. I have climbed up the spout to that window any number of times in my life, without being caught...."

"I fancy we shall manage it again now," remarked Wallion, but at the same instant he pulled Leo back among the bushes.

Somebody was coming. Steps crunched on the gravel, and a man passed quite close. Presently they crept out of their hiding-place, and saw the person, who had gone by without suspecting their proximity, mount the terrace-steps, and disappear in the direction of the house. They both recognized Rastakov. While they still hesitated to advance any further, they heard his steps again; he had gone the round of the house, and was now standing on the terrace. They dared not raise their heads, for his face was turned their way. They could hear him light a cigarette, and the next few seconds seemed interminable. Then the glass door leading to the hall opened with a crash, and a harsh voice said:

"Maxim Rastakov!"

"What is it, Lona Ivanovna?"

"Allow me to tell you, Rastakov, that if you don't turn out that filthy tramp who is sitting in the kitchen, and the miserable object who stands and yawns in the hall, I shall do it myself."

"Not yet, my good Lona Ivanovna; not until you tell me where I can find Bernard Jenin."

"Haven't you searched the whole house? Do you think I have hidden him in one of these drawers? You needn't make faces; you are quite ugly enough as it is...."

Rastakov laughed.

"Lona Ivanovna," said he, "go upstairs and wake the young fellow who fancies that he owns this house, and see that he comes out here without noticing anything. We can talk about Bernard Jenin afterwards."

"Don't I tell you that he has gone!"

"Yes, I haven't a doubt of it! He's gone, but _the matter doesn't end there_! When you can show me _how Bernard Jenin disappeared_, I will remove those men. But only on one condition: mind that the blue light appears every evening."

There was something ominous in the cold, clear tones of Rastakov's voice, which made Leo's blood run cold. A pause followed. Then the old lady said, as harshly as before, but with rising anger in her voice:

"See to the blue light yourself, Rastakov. Perhaps it may show up your face in its proper setting, and let people see what a scoundrel you are!"

"They have realized that already, Lona Ivanovna, and that is why they make use of me."

He laughed again loudly, went down the steps of the terrace, and disappeared down the avenue. The glass door slammed again, and all was still.

Wallion sprang up, pulling Leo with him.

"Quick, quick," he whispered; "now we know how the land lies; they are keeping watch indoors, and your absence last night has not been discovered. Quick, to your room."

They could see above them the open window of Leo's bedroom, and without more ado, Wallion climbed with noiseless agility up the copper spout, and swung himself over the window-sill.

Leo followed him with greater difficulty, for, in his nervous excitement, his heart was beating so rapidly that it made him feel faint and breathless.

"Here we are, at last!" said the Problem-hunter, seating himself on a chair, and taking stock of his surroundings; "an uncommonly jolly little room! Give me some idea as quickly as you can, of the geography of the house, so that I may know how to find my way about it."

But this was asking too much. Leo had thrown himself speechless on the bed, and did not answer. Wallion looked at him more closely, and saw that he was shivering as though with cold, and that beads of perspiration stood on his forehead.

"Look here, you must keep those nerves of yours in better order! Yes, I know neither of us had a wink of sleep last night, but you will feel another man when you have had a splash in cold water, and changed your things: do it now!"

"I left my luggage at Stockholm," murmured Leo, without moving. "But it doesn't matter...."

"Well then, take a nip out of my pocket-pistol," said his friend, perseveringly. "There, you see, you're better already."

And, in fact, Leo sat up, after a mouthful from Wallion's silver flask.

"What's the good?" asked the young man slowly. "Now we are here, after so much trouble, it seems to me we can't do anything. If we stop where we are, we shall be no better than prisoners, and who knows what may happen when they discover that you are here? We have voluntarily deprived ourselves of liberty...."

"No," replied the journalist decidedly; "we have gained it. Full, unlimited liberty to be in the very place where they least want us. They will do all in their power to get us out of it. I say 'us,' because they will not remain long in ignorance of my presence here, although several things will probably happen first."

"No doubt about that. There will be plenty of movement--but as for liberty--that's quite another matter!"

"Don't misunderstand me," said the Problem-hunter, with a steely glint in his eye. "In Stockholm I was obliged to keep a constant look-out, to try and discover my opponents; here, I can see enemies freely on every side of me, and may expect a fresh one at any minute. The situation is perfectly simple--we have only to be prepared!"

"Are you armed?"

"Of course! I have a perfect arsenal, what with a pair of eyes, two ears, a tongue, and my brains. Don't you think that's enough? Well, here's a revolver into the bargain. That will do for Rastakov."

"Or for Lona Ivanovna, who shot Bernard Jenin!" exclaimed Leo impetuously. "You may joke, but I...."

The journalist came and sat down beside him.

"Why, now you are angry," he said calmly; "that's good, it shows you're in working order again."

Nobody could resist Maurice Wallion when he chose. Leo began to smile.

A soft breeze from the wooded hills around them blew in upon them, cooling and refreshing: a blue butterfly was fluttering in the folds of the white window-curtains.

"How can I be angry!" said Leo. "But you are so--different from other people. Here we have just smuggled ourselves into a house which is full of mysteries, and probably of powerful enemies as well, and you sit down and deal in paradoxes. You are playing with danger!"

"My dear fellow," replied the journalist, "when one has got to the point of playing with danger, it means that one has first learned to estimate it correctly. A hunter does not judge of the strength of a lion merely by shooting it. He tracks it to its lair, 'plays' it, so to speak--and in that way forms a true estimate of its individual powers."

"Stop, stop!" entreated Leo, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "You will be making me say next, that Rastakov is my dearest friend!"

"And you couldn't do a wiser thing," retorted the journalist imperturbably. "The wind would be quite taken out of his sails, and he would become wax in your hands."

He bent forward, and added impressively:

"What you _must_ do--and now I am speaking quite seriously--is to be a really staunch friend to Lona Ivanovna and Sonia Bernin."

"What about Andrei Bernin?"

"I intend to befriend him myself, for a reason that will probably surprise you both. But now it is time for you to go downstairs."

* * * * *

A quarter of an hour later, Leonard Grath came down into the hall. Sure enough, there by the glass door sat a man, his gun propped against the wall, within easy reach; he got up as soon as he saw Leo, and stood at attention. The young man went past him into the dining-room, where he could hear low voices. The breakfast table was laid near the windows, and with some surprise, he realized that they were waiting for him.

Sonia Bernin was standing by the window, and when she turned and saw him, she greeted him with a friendly smile. Lona Ivanovna, who had been talking in a low and impressive tone, also turned round. Leo bowed. As a self-invited guest, he found the situation a little awkward, but his hostess said frankly:

"Good morning, Mr. Grath. I am afraid we left you very unceremoniously yesterday evening, but I trust you will remember that a place will always be laid for you as long as you give us the pleasure of your company."

"It is most kind of you," mumbled Leo. He noticed for the first time that the old blind author was also in the room. Andrei Bernin was sitting in an armchair, stiff and upright, in a listening attitude, near a window on the left, with the curtains drawn. In his dim corner at the end of the room, he looked like some grotesque and inanimate mask, with his white beard, blue spectacles, and black velvet skull-cap: a pathetic and immovable figure, laid aside and forgotten. As Lona Ivanovna's masculine profile and vigorous form bent over the blind man, the contrast was so acute, that Leo could not help feeling touched by it.

"Andrei Ivanovitch," said his sister, "this is Mr. Grath."

"I'm very glad to make your acquaintance, sir," said Leo.

The blind man bowed, and held out a thin, but white and well-kept hand.

"We are all glad that you have come," said he, in a voice as low and gentle as a softly tinkling bell. "But why have you come alone?"

After a pause, during which Sonia raised her head and looked at Leo, the blind man repeated his question, still more slowly and mechanically.

"Why have you come alone?"

Lona Ivanovna also cast an inquiring glance at the young man. The blind man had clutched the arms of his chair, and was bending forward; little wrinkles undulated over his worn face, and the blue spectacles gleamed like two steel mirrors. Leo, whose thoughts were centered on the journalist hidden in his bedroom, felt like a prisoner at the bar.

"I am certainly alone," he said slowly, "though I didn't come alone."

"Ah, indeed," said the blind man, in a tone which suddenly resembled his sister's. "Not alone? And who was your companion?"

"He was a stranger to me," explained Leo. "Bernard Jenin was my traveling companion in the train yesterday."

The expression of the faces around him changed suddenly, and became cold, strange, and secretive. It seemed almost as though the sunny atmosphere of the room was charged with electricity, which sent a shock through him, and a new light dawned upon him. He perceived that these three persons were unhappy, weighed down by an unknown catastrophe, or by the apprehension of an imminent one. He had been cruel: he had reopened a wound. They were looking at him as though they saw in him an executioner, and Sonia's eyes were misty with tears. The old man's voice broke the silence:

"We mustn't judge by appearances. Important conclusions are often based on very slight grounds. And although I cannot see you, I can feel what you are thinking. The question is, whether Bernard Jenin is still in the Copper House, or whether Lona Ivanovna killed him last night, at sunset."

Leo raised his hand involuntarily, and took a step back. The blind man, who sat with his white head turned towards him, continued softly:

"What, are you afraid of your own suspicions? At sunset, that's a good time to die! Why do you let the matter trouble you so deeply? There are so many brave fellows, a hundred times better than Bernard Jenin, who are lying dead in a hell of carnage, that it seems almost a luxury to die of nothing worse than one little revolver-shot."

"Mr. Bernin!" burst out Leo violently, "I have not expressed any such suspicion!"

"No, _I_ have expressed it. To banish a groundless suspicion it is often enough just to put it into words. Some thoughts won't stand that proof. You said you saw Bernard Jenin in the train, and you have guessed that a mystery attaches to his arrival here. But why need the mystery be a criminal one? Why must you feel obliged to extort an explanation which would be willingly given to you, if it were possible?"

Leo did not hesitate a moment. The frank words acted upon him like a fresh breeze, blowing away the cobwebs, and he exclaimed: "I will not insist upon any explanation. You do not know me; I cannot claim to be your friend, but at any rate, do not regard me as your enemy."

Lona Ivanovna had crossed her lean arms upon her breast and she laughed grimly. It struck Leo how much alike Andrei Bernin and his sister were, in spite of their outward dissimilarity. The same quiet and resigned manner, the same intellectual strength, characterized them both. He could not understand how he had seen in the blind author nothing more than a weak and senile invalid.

"Well, well!" said the old lady, "I see that we are agreed. So let us have breakfast."

The tension was eased, though a certain amount of constraint still remained. Only Leo and Sonia Bernin exchanged a few commonplace remarks every now and then.

As soon as they got up from the table, the elder lady took out her interminable crochet, as if it was the only thing that mattered; then she leaned over the table, looked the young man straight in the face, and inquired:

"When is Maurice Wallion coming?"

"I--I can't say," answered Leo, taken by surprise. "Why do you ask me?"

"Because, if he has a mind to rescue Bernard Jenin a second time, he has my permission to be quick about it!"

Leo was tempted to tell the truth about the journalist's hiding-place, but he contented himself with answering: "I am convinced that he will come--but he will choose his own time."