The shears of destiny

DREXEL walked to one of the long windows and gazed down into the bright street through which those absurd-looking yet comfortable little sleighs, the winter cabs of Russia, were still whizzing to and fro. Less than three hours had passed since the young woman had entered his compartment, and hardly more than a quarter since this strange adventure had taken a new turn by sending them together to the Hotel Metropole. Dazed, tingling, he began dimly to wonder what they would do on the morrow, and what was to be the outcome of it all.

But his thoughts were not to be completed. He had been in the room no more than a couple of minutes when a rap sounded at his hall door. He opened it and there stood a hotel porter.

The porter held out a pad of paper. “Will monsieur please write his and madame’s name for the registry?”

Drexel took the pad. She had called him John. So without hesitation he wrote, “Mr. and Mrs. John Davis, New York, U. S. A.” As he wrote he heard the rasping of the lock of the connecting door, and looking about he saw that “Mrs. John Davis” had entered.

He handed back the pad. “Thank you,” said the porter. “And will monsieur oblige us with his and madame’s passports?”

For a moment Drexel stood nonplussed. In the excitement of the last fifteen minutes he had completely forgotten one great essential fact—that no person can stay over night in a Russian hotel, or sleep as a guest in a private house, without sending his passport to police headquarters to be registered.

For the moment he knew not what to say. It was the young woman who saved the situation. She came forward calmly.

“Our passports are in our bag,” she said in her broken Russian, motioning to Drexel’s suit-case. “As soon as we have unpacked, monsieur will bring down our passports in person.”

“Very well,” said the porter, and closed the door.

Drexel looked at her in dismay. “I had forgotten all about passports!”

“So had I. But I thought of them the instant you left me. I knew what was wanted the moment I heard the knock.”

“If we only had a passport for you!”

“I had unexpectedly to turn mine over as a credential to gain admission to—to—a certain place this afternoon. I had no time to get it back.”

“They have your passport! Can’t they trace you through that?”

She shook her head. “It was a false passport.”

“What can we do now?”

“I must leave, somehow.”

“Then I leave, too!” cried Drexel.

“I cannot let you risk yourself further.”

“You cannot prevent me!”

“But you must have guessed that that gendarme captain is not the only man searching for me.”

“I don’t care if there are a hundred!” he cried recklessly.

She looked at him queerly a moment.

“By this time,” she remarked quietly, “I dare say there are fifty thousand.”

“Fifty thousand!” he slowly ejaculated, and stared at her. “Then,” cried he, “all the greater is your need for passing as an American! They have a description of you?”

“I’m sure they cannot have a clear one.”

He began to pace the room. “What shall we do?” he asked himself. “What shall we do?”

Suddenly he paused. “I have it. Passports are not required for travelling on trains. Except in such rare cases as this afternoon. We shall go upon a trip—as Americans—one lasting for days, or till we can think of something better. If any trouble rises, I’ll bluff it out. Are you willing?”

“It is I who should ask the question of you.”

“Then it is settled!” He was fairly swept out of himself by the prospect of days spent in her company. The danger—that was nothing!

“But how can we leave the hotel, without its looking queer?” she asked. “There is your bag, you know.”

“We’ll not take it. Luckily there’s nothing about it to reveal my identity. The things in it we really need I can put in the big pockets of my shuba,” and he pointed at his great loose fur coat. “We’ll simply saunter out with the air of going for a stroll. A bag and anything else we want we can buy at some little shop.”

She nodded. “And I noticed there was a side entrance, out of which we might slip without being seen.”

“Yes. One minute, and we’ll be off!”

He slipped on his shuba, threw open the bag, stuffed his pockets, then closed the bag again.

“Come now,” he cried, almost gaily, starting for the door.

“But wait.” He looked at her with a quizzical smile. “Don’t you think it’s—er—rather nice for a husband and wife to know one another’s name?”

She smiled back. “Why yes, it would be a convenience.”

“Well—?”

“You called me Mary.”

“Yes, but that—”

“My name is Mary Davis,” she said. And for all that she still smiled, he knew he would get no other name.

“Then I’m to remain John Davis, I suppose. But in my case there’s no reason you should not know my real name. It’s Henry Drexel.”

At his name the smile faded from her face, and one hand slowly reached out and caught the back of a chair.

“Henry Drexel!” she breathed.

“You seem to know it.”

“You are—ah—the American who has been here as the guest of Prince Berloff? Whose cousin is going to marry the prince?”

“Yes.”

She was quite calm again. “Yes, I have heard of you. That’s only natural, for the marriage has been much talked about. Shall we start?”

They were at the door, when she stopped him with a hand upon his arm.

“Something just occurs to me. Would it not be wiser to learn about the trains before we leave? We can better regulate our actions then.”

“Of course. I should have thought of that. I can make inquiries down at the hotel office—as though I were finding out in advance about trains for to-morrow or the next day.” He laid aside his cap and coat. “I’ll be back immediately.”

It was perhaps a dozen minutes since Drexel had entered the hotel. He strolled coolly enough down the stairway, but, the lobby gained, it was only with an effort that he maintained his calm exterior. Near the desk where he could see all who went and came, was the burly captain of gendarmes, his bearded face still ruddy with the outer cold. Reciting some story to him stood the major-domo. Upon the instant Drexel had to alter his plans.

“Pardon me,” he said to the major-domo, giving the captain a short nod.

“Yes, monsieur.” The major-domo turned to him.

“Through some oversight my wife’s passport was left behind when we threw a few things together to run up here for a day. I suppose if I make explanations directly to the police department, there will be no trouble. I am quite willing to pay.”

“It can be arranged, monsieur.”

“I am tired and do not feel inclined to go out,” he went on with haughty indolence. “Would you please, when you get time, get the proper official on the telephone, explain, and ask him to come here? My wife is resting now; let him come in an hour. You can say to him that it will be worth his trouble.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the major-domo, who surmised this rich American would also make it worth his own trouble. “Anything else, monsieur?”

“Send me the head waiter.”

A porter went scurrying for that functionary. Drexel half turned away, and the major-domo resumed his recital to the captain.

“The report says, Captain Nadson, that the woman gained admittance on the pretext of having an engagement. The servants could not clearly make out her face, for the light was dim and she was veiled; but her dress and manner made them believe her a lady of importance, and they told her to wait.” Drexel pricked up his ears. “It is certain she knew he was away, and chose her time accordingly, and it is certain she must have known the house well, for she slipped into his study and got into his private papers. When Prince Berloff—”

“Prince Berloff!” exclaimed Drexel. He saw Captain Nadson give him a sharp look. Instantly he was under control. “He came in and found her?” he queried casually.

“Yes,” said the major-domo. “But she fired two shots at him.”

“Kill him?” Drexel nonchalantly asked.

“No. She did not even touch him. And in the hubbub, she got away. The report says it was probably a plot of The White One.”

“The White One!” A shiver crept through Drexel at that dread name.

“The White One—yes,” nodded the major-domo. “Obviously a scheme to get some State papers which were temporarily in Prince Berloff’s possession. But the young woman failed. I wonder if they’ll capture her?”

“I wonder,” Drexel repeated indifferently.

To the head waiter, who just then appeared, he gave an order for an elaborate supper that would be a good hour in preparing. Then he casually inquired about the trains for the morrow, and learned that he could get a train for the south of Russia in half an hour.

All the while Drexel had kept Captain Nadson in the corner of his eye. He perceived that his cool front had had its effect; the officer was half reassured, and plainly was afraid to take any immediate action lest it might prove a mistake disastrous to himself. Drexel nodded curtly at the captain and walked away, feeling that suspicion was rendered inactive till the police official should arrive upon the business of the passport. By that time they would be miles out of St. Petersburg.

As he sauntered up the stairway he wore the same cool, careless front; but within him was turmoil. How about the story the major-domo had told? But that, even were it true, that was nothing! The great thing, the only thing, was that for days he was to be constantly near the wonderful woman awaiting him above. It went through him with a thrilling sweep; and it was with a tense eagerness such as he never before had felt that he threw open the door.

But she was not in the room where he had left her. Nor in the other room. He rushed from one to the other, looking even into the closets. There was no doubt of it. She was gone.