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