The Secret of the Night

  XIV. THE MARSHES

  They ascertained the next day that there had been two explosions, almostsimultaneous, one under each staircase. The two Nihilists, whenthey felt themselves discovered, and watched by Ermolai, had thrownthemselves silently on him as he turned his back in passing them, andstrangled him with a piece of twine. Then they separated each to watchone of the staircases, reasoning that Koupriane and General Trebassofwould have to decide to descend.

  The datcha des Iles was nothing now but a smoking ruin. But from thefact that the living bombs had exploded separately the destructiveeffect was diffused, and although there were numerous wounded, as in thecase of the attack on the Stolypine datcha, at least no one was killedoutright; that is, excepting the two Nihilists, of whom no trace couldbe found save a few rags.

  Rouletabille had been hurled into the garden and he was glad enough toescape so, a little shaken, but without a scratch. The group composed ofFeodor and his friends were strangely protected by the lightness of thedatcha's construction. The iron staircase, which, so to speak, almosthung to the two floors, being barely attached at top and bottom, raisedunder them and then threw them off as it broke into a thousand pieces,but only after, by its very yielding, it had protected them from thefirst force of the bomb. They had risen from the ruins without mortalwounds. Koupriane had a hand badly burned, Athanase Georgevitch had hisnose and cheeks seriously hurt, Ivan Petrovitch lost an ear; the mostseriously injured was Thaddeus Tchitchnikoff, both of whose legs werebroken. Extraordinarily enough, the first person who appeared, risingfrom the midst of the wreckage, was Matrena Petrovna, still holdingFeodor in her arms. She had escaped with a few burns and the general,saved again by the luck of the soldier whom Death does not want, wasabsolutely uninjured. Feodor gave shouts of joy. They strove to quiethim, because, after all, around him some poor wretches had been badlyhurt, as well as poor Ermolai, who lay there dead. The domestics in thebasement had been more seriously wounded and burned because the mainforce of the explosion had gone downwards; which had probably saved thepersonages above.

  Rouletabille had been taken with the other victims to a neighboringdatcha; but as soon as he had shaken himself free of that terriblenightmare he escaped from the place. He really regretted that he was notdead. These successive waves of events had swamped him; and he accusedhimself alone of all this disaster. With acutest anxiety he had inquiredabout the condition of each of "his victims." Feodor had not beenwounded, but now he was almost delirious, asking every other minute asthe hours crept on for Natacha, who had not reappeared. That unhappygirl Rouletabille had steadily believed innocent. Was she a culprit?"Ah, if she had only chosen to! If she had had confidence," he cried,raising anguished hands towards heaven, "none of all this need havehappened. No one would have attacked and no one would ever again attackthe life of Trebassof. For I was not wrong in claiming before Kouprianethat the general's life was in my hand, and I had the right to sayto him, 'Life for life! Give me Matiew's and I will give you thegeneral's.' And now there has been one more fruitless attempt to killFeodor Feodorovitch and it is Natacha's fault--that I swear, becauseshe would not listen to me. And is Natacha implicated in it? O my God"Rouletabille asked this vain question of the Divinity, for he expectedno more help in answering it on earth.

  Natacha! Innocent or guilty, where was she? What was she doing? to knowthat! To know if one were right or wrong--and if one were wrong, todisappear, to die!

  Thus the unhappy Rouletabille muttered as he walked along the bank ofthe Neva, not far from the ruins of the poor datcha, where the joyousfriends of Feodor Feodorovitch would have no more good dinners, never;so he soliloquized, his head on fire.

  And, all at once, he recovered trace of the young girl, that trace lostearlier, a trace left at her moment of flight, after the poisoning andbefore the explosion. And had he not in that a terrible coincidence?Because the poison might well have been only in preparation for thefinal attack, the pretext for the tragic arrival of the two falsedoctors. Natacha, Natacha, the living mystery surrounded already by somany dead!

  Not far from the ruins of the datcha Rouletabille soon made sure that agroup of people had been there the night before, coming from the woodsnear-by, and returning to them. He was able to be sure of this becausethe boundaries of the datcha had been guarded by troops and police assoon as the explosion took place, under orders to keep back the crowdthat hurried to Eliaguine. He looked attentively at the grass, theferns, the broken and trampled twigs. Certainly a struggle had occurredthere. He could distinguish clearly in the soft earth of a narrow gladethe prints of Natacha's two little boots among all the large footprints.

  He continued his search with his heart heavier and heavier, he had apresentiment that he was on the point of discovering a new misfortune.The footprints passed steadily under the branches along the side of theNeva. From a bush he picked a shred of white cloth, and it seemed tohim a veritable battle had taken place there. Torn branches strewed thegrass. He went on. Very close to the bank he saw by examination of thesoil, where there was no more trace of tiny heels and little soles,that the woman who had been found there was carried, and carried, into aboat, of which the place of fastening to the bank was still visible.

  "They have carried off Natacha," he cried in a surge of anguish."bungler that I am, that is my fault too--all my fault--all my fault!They wished to avenge Michael Nikolaievitch's death, for which they holdNatacha responsible, and they have kidnapped her."

  His eyes searched the great arm of the river for a boat. The river wasdeserted. Not a sail, nothing visible on the dead waters! "What shall Ido? What shall I do? I must save her."

  He resumed his course along the river. Who could give him any usefulinformation? He drew near a little shelter occupied by a guard. Theguard was speaking to an officer. Perhaps he had noticed somethingduring his watch that evening along the river. That branch of the riverwas almost always deserted after the day was over. A boat plyingbetween these shores in the twilight would certainly attract attention.Rouletabille showed the guard the paper Koupriane had given him in thebeginning, and with the officer (who turned out to be a police officer)as interpreter, he asked his questions. As a matter of fact the guardhad been sufficiently puzzled by the doings and comings of a light boatwhich, after disappearing for an instant, around the bend of the river,had suddenly rowed swiftly out again and accosted a sailing-yacht whichappeared at the opening of the gulf. It was one of those small but rapidand elegant sailing craft such as are seen in the Lachtka regattas.

  Lachtka! "The Bay of Lachtka!"

  The word was a ray of light for the reporter, who recalled now thecounsel Gounsovski had given him. "Watch the Bay of Lachtka, and tellme then if you still believe Natacha is innocent!" Gounsovski must haveknown when he said this that Natacha had embarked in company with theNihilists, but evidently he was ignorant that she had gone with themunder compulsion, as their prisoner.

  Was it too late to save Natacha? In any case, before he died, he wouldtry in every way possible, so as at least to have kept her as much as hecould from the disaster for which he held himself responsible. He ran tothe Barque, near the Point.

  His voice was firm as he hailed the canoe of the floating restaurantwhere, thanks to him, Koupriane had been thwarted in impotent anger. Hehad himself taken to just below Staria-Derevnia and jumped out at thespot where he saw little Katharina disappear a few days before. Helanded in the mud and climbed on hands and knees up the slope of aroadway which followed the bank. This bank led to the Bay of Lachtka,not far from the frontier of Finland.

  On Rouletabille's left lay the sea, the immense gulf with slight waves;to his right was the decaying stretch of the marsh. Stagnant waterstretching to the horizon, coarse grass and reeds, an extraordinarytangle of water-plants, small ponds whose greenish scum did not stirunder the stiff breeze, water that was heavy and dirty. Along thisnarrow strip of land thrust thus between the marsh, the sky and the sea,he hurried, with many stumblings, his eyes fixed on the deserted gulf.Suddenly
he turned his head at a singular noise. At first he didn't seeanything, but heard in the distance a vague clamoring while a sort ofvapor commenced to rise from the marsh. And then he noticed, nearerhim, the high marsh grasses undulating. Finally he saw a countless flockrising from the bed of the marshes. Beasts, groups of beasts, whosehorns one saw like bayonets, jostled each other trying to keep to thefirm land. Many of them swam and on the backs of some were naked men,stark naked, with hair falling to their shoulders and streamingbehind them like manes. They shouted war-cries and waved their clubs.Rouletabille stopped short before this prehistoric invasion. He wouldnever have imagined that a few miles from the Newsky Prospect he couldhave found himself in the midst of such a spectacle. These savages hadnot even a loin-cloth. Where did they come from with their herd? Fromwhat remote place in the world or in old and gone history had theyemerged? What was this new invasion? What prodigious slaughter-houseawaited these unruly herds? They made a noise like thunder in the marsh.Here were a thousand unkempt haunches undulating in the marsh like theocean as a storm approaches. The stark-naked men jumped along the route,waving their clubs, crying gutturally in a way the beasts seemed tounderstand. They worked their way out from the marsh and turned towardthe city, leaving behind, to swathe the view of them a while and thenfade away, a pestilential haze that hung like an aura about the naked,long-haired men. It was terrible and magnificent. In order not to beshoved into the water, Rouletabille had climbed a small rock that stoodbeside the route, and had waited there as though petrified himself.When the barbarians had finally passed by he climbed down again, but theroute had become a bog of trampled filth.

  Happily, he heard the noise of a primitive conveyance behind him. Itwas a telega. Curiously primitive, the telega is four-wheeled, with twoplanks thrown crudely across the axle-trees. Rouletabille gave the manwho was seated in it thee roubles, and jumped into the planks besidehim, and the two little Finnish horses, whose manes hung clear to themud, went like the wind. Such crude conveyances are necessary on suchcrude roads, but it requires a strong constitution to make a journey onthem. Still, the reporter felt none of the jolting, he was so intenton the sea and the coast of Lachtka Bay. The vehicle finally reacheda wooden bridge, across a murky creek. As the day commenced to fadecolorlessly, Rouletabille jumped off onto the shore and his rusticequipage crossed to the Sestroriesk side. It was a corner of land blackand somber as his thoughts that he surveyed now. "Watch the Bay ofLachtka!" The reporter knew that this desolate plain, this impenetrablemarsh, this sea which offered the fugitive refuge in innumerable fords,had always been a useful retreat for Nihilistic adventurers. A hundredlegends circulated in St. Petersburg about the mysteries of Lachtkamarshes. And that gave him his last hope. Maybe he would be able to runacross some revolutionaries to whom he could explain about Natacha, asprudently as possible; he might even see Natacha herself. Gounsovskicould not have spoken vain words to him.

  Between the Lachtkrinsky marsh and the strand he perceived on the edgeof the forests which run as far as Sestroriesk a little wooden housewhose walls were painted a reddish-brown, and its roof green. It wasnot the Russian isba, but the Finnish touba. However, a Russian signannounced it to be a restaurant. The young man had to take only a fewsteps to enter it. He was the only customer there. An old man,with glasses and a long gray beard, evidently the proprietor of theestablishment, stood behind the counter, presiding over the zakouskis.Rouletabille chose some little sandwiches which he placed on a plate. Hetook a bottle of pivo and made the man understand that later, if it werepossible, he would like a good hot supper. The other made a sign thathe understood and showed him into an adjoining room which was used fordiners. Rouletabille was quite ready enough to die in the face of hisfailures, but he did not wish to perish from hunger.

  A table was placed beside a window looking out over the sea and over theentrance to the bay. It could not have been better and, with his eyenow on the horizon, now on the estuary near-by, he commenced to eat withgloomy avidity. He was inclined to feel sorry for himself, to indulgein self-pity. "Just the same, two and two always make four," he said tohimself; "but in my calculations perhaps I have forgotten the surd. Ah,there was a time when I would not have overlooked anything. And even nowI haven't overlooked anything, if Natacha is innocent!" Having literallyscoured the plate, he struck the table a great blow with his fist andsaid: "She is!"

  Just then the door opened. Rouletabille supposed the proprietor of theplace was entering.

  It was Koupriane.

  He rose, startled. He could not imagine by what mystery the Prefect ofPolice had made his way there, but he rejoiced from the bottom of hisheart, for if he was trying to rescue Natacha from the hands of therevolutionaries Koupriane would be a valuable ally. He clapped thePrefect on the shoulder.

  "Well, well!" he said, almost joyfully. "I certainly did not expect youhere. How is your wound?"

  "Nitchevo! Not worth speaking about; it's nothing."

  "And the general and--! Ah, that frightful night! And those twounfortunates who--?"

  "Nitchevo! Nitchevo!"

  "And poor Ermolai!"

  "Nitchevo! Nitchevo! It is nothing."

  Rouletabille looked him over. The Prefect of Police had an arm in asling, but he was bright and shining as a new ten-rouble piece, whilehe, poor Rouletabille, was so abominably soiled and depressed. Where didhe come from? Koupriane understood his look and smiled.

  "Well, I have just come from the Finland train; it is the best way."

  "But what can you have come here to do, Excellency?"

  "The same thing as you."

  "Bah!" exclaimed Rouletabille, "do you mean to say that you have comehere to save Natacha?"

  "How--to save her! I come to capture her."

  "To capture her?"

  "Monsieur Rouletabille, I have a very fine little dungeon in SaintsPeter and Paul fortress that is all ready for her."

  "You are going to throw Natacha into a dungeon!"

  "The Emperor's order, Monsieur Rouletabille. And if you see me here inperson it is simply because His Majesty requires that the thing be doneas respectfully and discreetly as possible."

  "Natacha in prison!" cried the reporter, who saw in horror all obstaclesrising before him at one and the same time. "For what reasons, pray?"

  "The reason is simple enough. Natacha Feodorovna is the last word inwickedness and doesn't deserve anybody's pity. She is the accompliceof the revolutionaries and the instigator of all the crimes against herfather."

  "I am sure that you are mistaken, Excellency. But how have you beenguided to her?"

  "Simply by you."

  "By me?"

  "Yes, we lost all trace of Natacha. But, as you had disappeared also,I made up my mind that you could only be occupied in searching for her,and that by finding you I might have the chance to lay my hands on her."

  "But I haven't seen any of your men?"

  "Why, one of them brought you here."

  "Me?"

  "Yes, you. Didn't you climb onto a telega?"

  "Ah, the driver."

  "Exactly. I had arranged to have him meet me at the Sestroriesk station.He pointed out the place where you dropped off, and here I am."

  The reporter bent his head, red with chagrin. Decidedly the sinisteridea that he was responsible for the death of an innocent man andall the ills which had followed out of it had paralyzed his detectivetalents. He recognized it now. What was the use of struggling! Ifanyone had told him that he would be played with that way sometime,he, Rouletabille! he would have laughed heartily enough--then. But now,well, he wasn't capable of anything further. He was his own most cruelenemy. Not only was Natacha in the hands of the revolutionaries throughhis fault, by his abominable error, but worse yet, in the very momentwhen he wished to save her, he foolishly, naively, had conducted thepolice to the very spot where they should have been kept away. It wasthe depth of his humiliation; Koupriane really pitied the reporter.

  "Come, don't blame yourself too much," said he. "We
would have foundNatacha without you; Gounsovski notified us that she was going to embarkin the Bay of Lachtka this evening with Priemkof."

  "Natacha with Priemkof!" exclaimed Rouletabille. "Natacha with the manwho introduced the two living bombs into her father's house! If she iswith him, Excellency, it is because she is his prisoner, and that alonewill be sufficient to prove her innocence. I thank the Heaven that hassent you here."

  Koupriane swallowed a glass of vodka, poured another after it, andfinally deigned to translate his thought:

  "Natacha is the friend of these precious men and we will see themdisembark hand in hand."

  "Your men, then, haven't studied the traces of the struggle that 'theseprecious men' have had on the banks of the Neva before they carried awayNatacha?"

  "Oh, they haven't been hoodwinked. As a matter of fact, the struggle wasquite too visible not to have been done for appearances' sake. What achild you are! Can't you see that Natacha's presence in the datchahad become quite too dangerous for that charming young girl after thepoisoning of her father and step-mother failed and at the moment whenher comrades were preparing to send General Trebassof a pleasant littlegift of dynamite? She arranged to get away and yet to appear kidnapped.It is too simple."

  Rouletabille raised his head.

  "There is something simpler still to imagine than the culpability ofNatacha. It is that Priemkof schemed to pour the poison into the flaskof vodka, saying to himself that if the poison didn't succeed at leastit would make the occasion for introducing his dynamite into the housein the pockets of the 'doctors' that they would go to find."

  Koupriane seized Rouletabille's wrist and threw some terrible words athim, looking into the depths of his eyes:

  "It was not Priemkof who poured the poison, because there was no poisonin the flask."

  Rouletabille, as he heard this extraordinary declaration, rose, morestartled than he had ever been in the course of this startling campaign.

  If there was no poison in the flask, the poison must have been poureddirectly into the glasses by a person who was in the kiosk! Now, therewere only four persons in the kiosk: the two who were poisoned andNatacha and himself, Rouletabille. And that kiosk was so perfectlyisolated that it was impossible for any other persons than the four whowere there to pour poison upon the table.

  "But it is not possible!" he cried.

  "It is so possible that it is so. Pere Alexis dedared that there is nopoison in the flask, and I ought to tell you that an analysis I hadmade after his bears him out. There was no poison, either, in the smallbottle you took to Pere Alexis and into which you yourself had pouredthe contents of Natacha's glass and yours; no trace of poison exceptingin two of the four glasses, arsenate of soda was found only on thesoiled napkins of Trebassof and his wife and in the two glasses theydrank from."

  "Oh, that is horrible," muttered the stupefied reporter; "that ishorrible, for then the poisoner must be either Natacha or me."

  "I have every confidence in you," declared Koupriane with a great laughof satisfaction, striking him on the shoulder. "And I arrest Natacha,and you who love logic ought to be satisfied now."

  Rouletabille hadn't a word more to say. He sat down again and let hishead fall into his hands, like one sleep has seized.

  "Ah, our young girls; you don't know them. They are terrible, terrible!"said Koupriane, lighting a big cigar. "Much more terrible than the boys.In good families the boys still enjoy themselves; but the girls--theyread! It goes to their heads. They are ready for anything; they knowneither father nor mother. Ah, you are a child, you cannot comprehend.Two lovely eyes, a melancholy air, a soft, low voice, and you arecaptured--you believe you have before you simply an inoffensive, goodlittle girl. Well, Rouletabille, here is what I will tell you foryour instruction. There was the time of the Tchipoff attack; therevolutionaries who were assigned to kill Tchipoff were disguised ascoachmen and footmen. Everything had been carefully prepared and it wouldseem that no one could have discovered the bombs in the place they hadbeen stored. Well, do you know the place where those bombs were found?In the rooms of the governor, of Wladmir's daughter! Exactly, my littlefriend, just there! The rooms of the governor's daughter, MademoiselleAlexeieiv. Ah, these young girls! Besides, it was this same MademoiselleAlexeieiv who, so prettily, pierced the brain of an honest Swissmerchant who had the misfortune to resemble one of our ministers. Ifwe had hanged that charming young girl earlier, my dear MonsieurRouletabille, that last catastrophe might have been avoided. A good ropearound the neck of all these little females--it is the only way, theonly way!"

  A man entered. Rouletabille recognized the driver of the telega. Therewere some rapid words between the Chief and the agent. The man closedthe shutters of the room, but through the interstices they would beable to see what went on outside. Then the agent left; Koupriane, as hepushed aside the table that was near the window, said to the reporter:

  "You had better come to the window; my man has just told me the boatis drawing near. You can watch an interesting sight. We are sure thatNatacha is still aboard. The yacht, after the explosion at the datcha,took up two men who put off to it in a canoe, and since then it hassimply sailed back and forth in the gulf. We have taken our precautionsin Finland the same as here and it is here they are going to try todisembark. Keep an eye on them."

  Koupriane was at his post of observation. Evening slowly fell. The skywas growing grayish-black, a tint that blended with the slate-coloredsea. To those on the bank, the sound of the men about to die came softlyacross the water. There was a sail far out. Between the strand and thetouba where Koupriane watched, was a ridge, a window, which, however,did not hide the shore or the bay from the prefect of police, because atthe height where he was his glance passed at an angle above it. But fromthe sea this ridge entirely hid anyone who lay in ambush behind it. Thereporter watched fifty moujiks flat on their stomachs crawling up theridge, behind two of their number whose heads alone topped the ridge.In the line of gaze taken by those two heads was the white sail, loomingmuch larger now. The yacht was heeled in the water and glided with realelegance, heading straight on. Suddenly, just when they supposed she wascoming straight to shore, the sails fell and a canoe was dropped overthe side. Four men got into it; then a woman jumped lightly downa little gangway into the canoe. It was Natacha. Koupriane had nodifficulty in recognizing her through the gathering darkness.

  "Ah, my dear Monsieur Rouletabille," said he, "see your prisoner of theNihilists. Notice how she is bound. Her thongs certainly are causing hergreat pain. These revolutionaries surely are brutes!"

  The truth was that Natacha had gone quite readily to the rudder andwhile the others rowed she steered the light boat to the place on thebeach that had been pointed out to her. Soon the prow of the canoetouched the sands. There did not seem to be a soul about, and that wasthe conclusion the men in the canoe who stood up looking around, seemedto reach. They jumped out, and then it was Natacha's turn. She acceptedthe hand held out to her, talking pleasantly with the men all the time.She even turned to press the hand of one of them. The group came upacross the beach. All this time the watchers in the little eating-housecould see the false moujiks, who had wriggled on their stomachs to thevery edge of the ridge, holding themselves ready to spring.

  Behind his shutter, Koupriane could not restrain an exclamation oftriumph; he gradually identified some of the figures in the group, andmuttered:

  "Eh! eh! There is Priemkof himself and the others. Gounsovski is rightand he certainly is well-informed; his system is decidedly a good one.What a net-full!"

  He hardly breathed as he watched the outcome. He could discernelsewhere, beside the bay, flat on the ground, concealed by theslightest elevation of the soil, other false moujiks. The wood ofSestroriesk was watched in the same way. The group of revolutionarieswho strolled behind Natacha stopped to confer. In three--maybetwo--minutes, they would be surrounded--cut off, taken in the trap.Suddenly a gunshot sounded in the night, and the group, with startledspeed, turned in their tracks a
nd made silently for the sea, while fromall directions poured the concealed agents and threw themselves intothe pursuit, jostling each other and crying after the fugitives. But thecries became cries of rage, for the group of revolutionaries gained thebeach. They saw Natacha, who was held up by Priemkof himself, reject theaid of the Nihilist, who did not wish to abandon her, in order that hemight save himself. She made him go and seeing that she was going tobe taken, stopped short and waited for the enemy stoically, with foldedarms. Meanwhile, her three companions succeeded in throwing themselvesinto the canoe and plied the oars hard while Koupriane's men, in thewater up to their chests, discharged their revolvers at the fugitives.The men in the canoe, fearing to wound Natacha, made no reply to thefiring. The yacht had sails up by the time they drew alongside, andmade off like a bird toward the mysterious fords of Finland, audaciouslyhoisting the black flag of the Revolution.

  Meantime, Koupriane's agents, trembling before his anger, gathered atthe eating-house. The Prefect of Police let his fury loose on them andtreated them like the most infamous of animals. The capture of Natachawas little comfort. He had planned for the whole bag, and his men'sstupidity took away all his self-control. If he had had a whip at handhe would have found prompt solace for his mined hopes. Natacha, standingin a corner, with her face singularly calm, watched this extraordinaryscene that was like a menagerie in which the tamer himself had becomea wild beast. From another corner, Rouletabille kept his eyes fixed onNatacha who ignored him. Ah, that girl, sphinx to them all! Even to himwho thought a while ago that he could read things invisible to othervulgar men in her features, in her eyes! The impassive face of that girlwhose father they had tried to assassinate only a few hours before andwho had just pressed the hand of Priemkof, the assassin! Once she turnedher head slightly toward Rouletabille. The reporter then looked towardsher with increased eagerness, his eyes burning, as though he would say:"Surely, Natacha, you are not the accomplice of your father's assassins;surely it was not you who poured the poison!"

  But Natacha's glance passed the reporter coldly over. Ah, thatmysterious, cold mask, the mouth with its bitter, impudent smile, anatrocious smile which seemed to say to the reporter: "If it is not I whopoured the poison, then it is you!"

  It was the visage common enough to the daughters whom Koupriane hadspoken of a little while before, "the young girls who read" and, theirreading done, set themselves to accomplish some terrible thing, something because of which, from time to time, they place stiff ropes aroundthe necks of these young females.

  Finally, Koupriane's frenzy wore itself out and he made a sign. The menfiled out in dismal silence. Two of them remained to guard Natacha. Fromoutside came the sounds of a carriage from Sestroriesk ready to conveythe girl to the Dungeons of Sts. Peter and Paul. A final gesture fromthe Prefect of Police and the rough bands of the two guards seized theprisoner's frail wrists. They hustled her along, thrust her outside,jamming her against the doorway, venting thus their anger at thereproaches of their chief. A few seconds later the carriage departed,not to stop until the fortress was reached with the tricklingtombs under the bed of the river where young girls about to die areconfined--who have read too much, without entirely understanding, asMonsieur Kropotkine says.

  Koupriane prepared to leave in turn. Rouletabille stopped him.

  "Excellency, I wish you to tell me why you have shown such anger to yourmen just now."

  "They are brute beasts," cried the Chief of Police, quite beside himselfagain. "They have made me miss the biggest catch of my life. They threwthemselves on the group two minutes too early. Some of them fired a gunthat they took for the signal and that served to warn the Nihilists.But I will let them all rot in prison until I learn which one fired thatshot."

  "You needn't look far for that," said Rouletabille. "I did it."

  "You! Then you must have gone outside the touba?"

  "Yes, in order to warn them. But still I was a little late, since youdid take Natacha."

  Koupriane's eyes blazed.

  "You are their accomplice in all this," he hurled at the reporter, "andI am going to the Tsar for permission to arrest you."

  "Hurry, then, Excellency," replied the reporter coldly, "because theNihilists, who also think they have a little account to settle with me,may reach me before you."

  And he saluted.