Chapter 1

“A thriller from start to finish. The book will certainly prove a
delight to the lovers of romance and adventure.”

--_San Francisco Bulletin._

_FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR AND THREE ILLUSTRATIONS IN BLACK AND WHITE_

_12mo._ _Cloth, $1.00 net._

J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO.
PUBLISHERS PHILADELPHIA

OUT OF RUSSIA

BY
CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT

AUTHOR OF “THE ISLE OF DEAD SHIPS,” “UNCLE SAM’S
BUSINESS,” “HOW AMERICANS ARE GOVERNED,” ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
FRANK McKERNAN

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1911

COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT

COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

Published February, 1911

_Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company_
_The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A._

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

THE DIVER COMMANDED HER TO REPORT AT ONCE TO
THE INNER CIRCLE OF THE BROTHERHOOD. _Frontispiece._

LIKE A CAT, THE WOMAN SPRANG FORWARD AND CAUGHT
HIS ARM. 32

“PARDON, MADEMOISELLE! I MUST SPEAK TO YOU SECRETLY.” 139

“YOU!” SHE MUTTERED, “YOU HERE!” 198

OUT OF RUSSIA

CHAPTER ONE

The professor was pottering about his laboratory. He called it a
laboratory, this work-room down in New Jersey, where he was peacefully
ending his days, but it was not such in the ordinary acceptation of the
term. The brightly burning lights shone on no apparatus for distilling
evil-smelling gases, no glass retorts, no long lines of bottles. What
instruments it disclosed were of a kind more likely to appeal to a
sailor than to a chemist, though many of them would probably have
seemed odd to both. A lead-line with “marks” and “deeps,” various scoop
nets, a long sectional aquarium in which various sea creatures moved,
barometers, anemometers, and other “meters” for measuring winds and
waters, a great globe, and piles of charts, were some of the articles
the room contained, for this was the workshop of Professor Shishkin,
the great Russian physicist, member of scores of learned societies, and
the ultimate authority on the waves, winds, currents, flora, and fauna
of the ocean.

The Professor had come to America about twenty years before, bringing
with him a young daughter, a working knowledge of the English language,
and a profound acquaintance with the ocean. He had secured a post in
a small school, from which he had gone from one college to another,
all the while growing in reputation until he came to be probably the
best known physicist in the world. When he came to America, he was
apparently about fifty years of age, but where and how he had passed
those fifty years he never told. Obviously, he must have been a student
if not a professor, and it seemed strange that one with his attainments
could have lived for half a century unnoticed; yet of his early life no
trace was to be had. His name did not appear on the rolls of any of the
great European universities; and even after he grew to distinction, no
alma mater claimed him for her own. Deliberately he had cut himself off
from his early life. To him, the past was dead.

But the past is never really dead. Its beginnings are untraceable, and
its ending must ever be unknown. Men put their finger on some turning
point in their lives and say, “Here this began,” or, “Here that ended.”
Wrong in both assertions! The beginning began long before, and the
ending will not end even when R.I.P. is graven on their tombstones. At
the very moment when Professor Shishkin was congratulating himself on
the peaceful afternoon of his life, strenuous fate was on its way in
the darkness of that March evening to call him again to action.

The avatar of fate was one who would attract attention even in New
York, that melting pot of the nations. Carelessly dressed, dark, with
high cheek-bones and glowing eyes, even the casual might pronounce him
a fanatic who was living on his nerves and declare that some day the
nerves would burn out and the man collapse.

At the door he gave his name to Olga Shishkin, the Professor’s
daughter, now grown to womanhood, and she took it to the Professor in
his laboratory.

The Professor was puzzled. “Maxime Gorloff,” he repeated doubtfully. “I
don’t recall the name. Did he say what he wanted, Olga?”

Olga shook her head. “No,” she answered. “Only that he wanted to see
the distinguished Professor. He seemed very much in earnest. He speaks
English well, but with an accent. I think he must be an immigrant.”

“An immigrant! Eh?” The Professor did not measure men by the price of
their steamer passages. “Well, show him in. I am always glad to talk
with strangers, especially if they are very much in earnest. They
usually have a new point of view and can teach me something. Show him
in.”

The man came in. If a shade of disappointment crossed his face as he
noted the Professor’s white hair and wasted limbs, it disappeared as
he returned the latter’s courteous greeting. “I have come many miles
to see you, Professor,” he declared quietly, as he took the chair
proffered.

“So!” The Professor preened himself with harmless vanity. People often
came many miles to see and consult him. “Many miles!” he repeated.
“That means so different a thing to-day than it did when I was young.
Fifty miles were very many in those days.”

The man Maxime nodded understandingly. “And four thousand is many
to-day; yes! Moscow is four thousand miles away.”

“You come from Moscow?” The Professor’s tone expressed only polite
interest. Moscow was indeed very far from him, mentally as well as
geographically.

“Yes, from Moscow! From the House of the Seven Feathers--Brother.”

The Professor sat rigid, the smile fading slowly from his lips. His
hands slowly tightened on the arms of his chair until the knuckles
showed white. “I--I--did not catch--that is, what--the House of the
Seven Feathers, did you say?”

Pity showed in the young man’s eyes, but he did not waver. “Yes, I said
that--Brother,” he reiterated.

“I--I don’t understand.”

Maxime leaned forward. “What shall I say to remind you?” he asked.
“Shall I recite the oath of brotherhood or call the names of the
Defenders of the Cause? Shall I adjure you by fire or steel or rope? I
come from the House of the Seven Feathers, Brother. Make answer!”

The Professor’s dry lips moved. “What is their color, Brother?” he
asked, the words dropping unwillingly from his lips.

“Red!” The man touched his hand to his forehead.

“May they prosper!” The Professor stroked his beard. The first shock
was past, and the words came easier. After all, the visit could portend
little. He was too old. “Very well,” he said. “I acknowledge the call.
What will you?”

“The Brotherhood has need of you.”

“The Brotherhood has no longer a claim on me. I did it good service
once. I gave it my youth and my early manhood, and I paid for it to
the full. That was twenty years ago. For twenty years I have had no
intercourse with it. My obligation is ended.”

“So long as fire burns and water flows; so long as steel cuts and grass
grows; till death and after it,” quoted the other softly.

“But I am no longer a Russian; I am an American citizen.”

“Adoption does not free a man from his mother’s call. Your long
exemption only adds to your obligation.”

The Professor moved uneasily in his chair. Fear was growing on him,
but he tried to shake it off. “I am not in sympathy with the present
aims of the Brotherhood,” he protested. “I have lived too long in the
outer world. No cause was ever helped by murder. Besides, Russia is not
fitted for self-government.”

Maxime shrugged his shoulders. “We will not discuss it,” he declared.
“The Brotherhood calls you. Will you obey, or must I first remind you
of what it did for you twenty years ago, just before you fled secretly
by night from the palace of the Grand Duke in St. Petersburg, bearing
in your arms----”

“Stop! Stop!”

But the man went on pitilessly. “Twenty years ago,” he said, as
one repeating a lesson, “you were known by the name of Lladislas
Metrovitch. You were a subordinate member of the Brotherhood, and
rendered it good though not material service. You were married twice,
the second time to an American lady who had been the governess of
your nieces. You had one child by her. You were well known for your
scientific attainments. One day you were arrested, charged with
sedition. You disappeared. Your property was confiscated, your
household scattered.

“Three years went by, during which you rotted in the dungeons of
the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. Then, by the aid of the
Brotherhood, you escaped--old before your time, broken, feeble. You
sought for your wife, your family. You could learn little of them. At
last you heard that your wife was dead, and that her child and yours
was being brought up in the household of the Grand Duke Ivan. You did
not dare to claim the child openly, but, aided by the Brotherhood, you
stole her and escaped with her to America.”

The Professor raised his head. His shoulders shook. The forgotten
horror of those by-gone days had all come back as if it had been but
yesterday. He was about to speak when the man interposed.

“I have more to tell,” he said. “When you fled from Russia you thought
your wife was dead. You were deceived. She did not die until about a
year ago.”

“Not dead! Not dead!” The Professor’s face flushed red, then changed to
a ghastly pallor. “Not dead!” he muttered.

“No, not dead!” The worst was over, and the man hurried on. “There was
much connected with your arrest that you did not know. You believed
that it was due to your association with the Brotherhood. You were
wrong. You were arrested because the Grand Duke Ivan admired your wife.”

The Professor’s shoulders shook, but he said no word. Age dulls the
capacity to feel; cools the passions as well as the affections. The old
man had borne much; no further shock could greatly move him.

“You disappeared. Ivan was kind to your wife, but declared that your
arrest had been ordered by the Emperor himself, and that he could
do nothing. Soon you were reported dead. Not long after he married
her--morganatically, of course. She is not to be too much blamed. She
was penniless, alone, in a strange land, with a child to support. She
married him. When you stole your child you stole it from her.”

The Professor’s dry lips moved. “I did not know,” he murmured.

“No, you did not know. The fault was not yours, but that of the system
we are trying to destroy. So much for the past! Now for the future.
Will you obey the orders of the Brotherhood?”

Maxime’s voice dropped, and he sat silent, watching the older
man dumbly fighting through the shock. Pity was in his eyes, but
relentlessness was there also--the relentlessness of the priest who
pities the victim, but does not drop the sacrificial knife. Patiently
he waited for the other to speak.

At last the words came, and Maxime’s face flushed with triumph as he
heard them.

“What does the Brotherhood require?” the Professor asked hollowly.

The younger man stretched out his hand to the great globe that stood
beside him and twirled it on its axis. “In March, just two years ago,”
he began, “the ship _Orkney_ sailed from London for St. Petersburg with
five millions in gold on board, consigned to the Russian government.
It was the people’s gold, borrowed on the people’s credit, to aid in
enslaving the people. We swore it should never reach St. Petersburg.
We kept our word. The _Orkney_ was wrecked in the night in the Gulf of
Bothnia--no one survived to tell where. Russia long sought for it in
vain. We ourselves sought for it in vain. But now, at last, a clue has
reached our hands.”

“Well?”

“It is not perfect yet, but it will be. Marie Fitzhugh, our agent,
will be here in a few hours, and will forge the last links. Her task
is difficult, but she will succeed. By one means or another, she will
succeed. I would have waited till she had finished her part before
seeing you, but I have been ordered to another duty and must leave
to-night. So she herself will send you word--perhaps to-morrow. If not
to-morrow, soon after.”

“Well?”

“If she succeeds, we shall be able to go to the spot and get the gold.
If she fails, we nevertheless shall know approximately where to look
for it. But, as you are aware, no vessel can dredge in the Baltic
without being watched. We do not want to find the gold for Russia to
seize. So we come to you for help.”

“What?” Amazement showed in Professor Shishkin’s face and voice. “Are
you serious?” he demanded.

“Why not? You have spent a lifetime studying the sea. You have made a
specialty of the Baltic. You have won a great name by your work there.
What more natural then than that you should revisit your chosen field?
What more natural than that you should take divers with you to explore
the sea-bottom? You, and you alone, of all the Brotherhood, can do this
without suspicion. You, and you alone, can get the gold safely on board
after it is found.”

“But----”

“There are no buts when the Brotherhood speaks, and it has spoken.
If the task be difficult, the more honor in accomplishing it. A ship
will be provided, manned, and equipped. Your sole duty is to prepare
such apparatus as you may need for your scientific work, and to spread
abroad the alleged object of your trip. Probably you had better send an
announcement of it to the newspapers. Of course you will not do this
until Marie notifies you.”

“Very well.”

“One thing more,” went on the messenger, gravely. “I am instructed to
command you to take your daughter with you. Her presence will add force
to your declaration that the trip is purely scientific.”

The Professor shook his head. “I cannot do it,” he declared. “I cannot
and will not take Olga to Russia, under any circumstances. You know
why.”

“The Brotherhood commands it.”

“I will appeal.”

“There is no appeal, as you know.”

“Then I refuse.”

The man sprang to his feet. “Refuse, do you?” he cried, in a sibilant
hiss that seemed to fill the room. “Refuse? Have you forgotten the
penalty of disobedience? Have you forgotten the oath you took?--‘If
I fail in obedience, may I be cut off, I and my children and my
children’s children, and my name live no more forever.’ Do you
remember, Professor Shishkin?”

The man paused, and his voice changed. “Believe me, I am sorry,”
he murmured; “but I, like yourself, am a subordinate. It is the
Brotherhood that speaks, not I. And the Brotherhood speaks for the
people--do not forget that--speaks for the great, inarticulate Russian
people, struggling to burst their age-long shackles. While we sit here,
men are sacrificing their lives and women their honor for the cause.
Who are you to hold back? No harm will come to your daughter, but
even if the risk were ten times greater, still she must take it. You
and she both owe it to Russia.” He paused. “What shall I say to the
Brotherhood?” he demanded.

The old man bowed his head. “I will obey,” he muttered. “I must obey. I
have no choice.”

CHAPTER TWO

Alston Caruth lived in the Chimneystack Building. When he returned to
his apartments at midnight on the day of Gorloff’s visit to Professor
Shishkin, he found Marie Fitzhugh, agent of the Brotherhood, awaiting
him. She had risen at the sound of his key in the lock, and stood
facing him, externally cool and self-possessed, but with apprehension
shining in her soft dark eyes. Her fingers trembled as they rested on
the edge of the table, and her color came and went. A close observer
would have said that she was frightened half to death.

Caruth, however, was not a close observer; at least, not at that
moment. Amazement showed in his eyes as he snatched off his hat and
whipped the cigarette from his parting lips. His fresh young face,
flushed from the gaiety of the evening, looked almost boyish in its
confusion.

His obvious embarrassment seemed to restore the girl’s balance. “Mr.
Caruth?” she inquired, with a slight movement of her head.

Caruth nodded. For the moment he was beyond words. Her soft,
musical voice and air of refinement impressed him, despite the
unconventionality of her presence in his rooms at that time of
the night, and his attitude became even more respectful. “Yes,” he
stammered; “I am Mr. Caruth. What can I do for you?”

“I am Miss Fitzhugh. I have come four thousand miles to talk with you,
Mr. Caruth. Your valet was kind enough to let me wait, though he was
clearly horrified by my desiring to do so. Will you not sit down?”

Caruth hesitated. Of medium build, clean-shaven, correctly dressed, he
might have stepped out of a Gibson drawing. Every detail was present,
even to the strong chin and the firm mouth.

“It is late,” he suggested, glancing at the clock, the hands of which
stood straight upward. “I am at your service, of course, but perhaps
to-morrow----”

The girl smiled, a trifle wearily. “One does not come four thousand
miles for a trifle,” she answered. “The convenances must yield to
necessity. I must talk with you to-night.”

Caruth bowed and seated himself across the centre table from her.
Though his surprise had not abated, he was rapidly regaining his
self-possession, and as the girl resumed her own chair, he leaned
forward a little, studying her thoughtfully, noting the anxious lines
about her youthful eyes and mouth.

Although her English had been excellent, she did not impress him
as being of American nor yet of English birth. An alien air clung
intangibly about her and about her costume, which, even to his
masculine intelligence, bespoke the work of a dress-maker of more than
ordinary skill.

She was plainly a lady. Had it not been too amazing, he would
have guessed that she must be a person of distinction in her own
land--wherever that might be. That she was beautiful seemed somehow not
surprising; that she was very young did. What could such a woman be
doing alone in his bachelor rooms at that hour of the night.

Disguising his wonder, he sought to carry off the situation. “You are
tired?” he questioned gently. “I’m afraid I kept you waiting a long
time. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Can’t I offer you something to eat or
drink, Miss Fitzhugh?”

Slowly the girl nodded. “I’m glad,” she breathed, half to herself.
“They told me American men were like this, but I could scarcely believe
it. In Europe it would have been very different. I am proud of my
half-cousins.” She paused; then answered his question. “Thank you,” she
said. “I will take a glass of sherry and a biscuit.”

Caruth touched the bell. “Sherry and crackers, Wilkins,” he ordered
briefly.

Not until the tray had been set before them, and the valet had gone,
did either of them speak again. Caruth was slowly awakening to the fact
that the beauty of the woman before him was not ordinary. It was not
alone the perfection of her features that appealed to him. Every detail
about her was artistically perfect. Her coloring, the poise of her
head, the slim roundness of her taper fingers, the iridescent gleam
of her brown hair beneath her wide hat--all satisfied his somewhat
critical taste.

Suddenly he realized that he was staring, and, dropping his eyes, he
forced himself to speak casually. “Your half-cousins?” he queried,
answering her lead. “You are, then----”

“American? Yes! On my mother’s side, but my father is Russian, and I
have never been in America until to-night. I like it, Mr. Caruth,”
she ended--“what I have seen of it. It rests with you to confirm my
opinion.”

Caruth questioned her with his eyes. “Yes?” he answered politely. “I
hope I shall be able to do so.”

For a moment the girl did not speak. Her bosom rose and fell a trifle
faster. She crumbled her cracker nervously, and her hand shook slightly
as she lifted her glass. Caruth, silent, attentive, awaited her
pleasure.

“Ten days ago,” she said, at last, “a letter was mailed to you at
Stockholm in Sweden. It was not intended for you. It was sent to you
by mistake--a mistake realized within a few hours after it had been
posted. An effort was made to recover it, but it had already started on
its way. Its progress has been traced carefully. It left Brest on the
steamship _Latourette_, which reached quarantine here at eight o’clock
to-night. It may be delivered to you at any moment.”

Caruth glanced at the clock and smiled. “I fear you are mistaken,” he
objected. “Even if this letter reached the post-office to-night--which
seems to me doubtful--it will not be delivered until to-morrow--unless,
of course, it has a quick delivery stamp on it.”

The girl nodded. “It has a quick delivery stamp on it,” she rejoined
promptly; “and if I understand your post-office methods, it will be
delivered very soon. The mail-bags left the ship when I did.”

“You crossed on the same vessel?”

“Yes. Special arrangements had been made, and I was permitted to come
up to the city on the tug that brought the mail. I came straight here
and have been waiting ever since. The letter has not arrived yet;
therefore it must come soon.”

“And when it does?” Caruth’s wonder was growing. Dimly he suspected
whither the conversation was tending, and with growing interest
he waited for his guest to come to the point. “When it does?” he
questioned again, gently.

The girl’s breath came faster. She evaded a direct answer.

“You see, Mr. Caruth,” she argued, “I do not try to conceal from you
the importance of this letter. It is of the very highest value to me
and to my friends. To you, it is neither of value nor of importance,
and, not being intended for you, it does not belong to you. It was
sent to you by mistake. I have come to ask you to give it back to me
unopened. Will you do it?”

Caruth drew a long breath. The inborn tendency of all men of his race
to do anything that a pretty woman wishes impelled him to promise. Yet
the request was certainly amazing.

“You ask a good deal, Miss Fitzhugh,” he temporized. “I know nothing
of this letter. I have no correspondents that I know of in Sweden--nor
in Europe either, for that matter. You may be right in saying that
the letter is not intended for me; yet--well, I think I am entitled
to ask a little further explanation. How is it possible for a letter
not intended for me to be addressed to me here--for I presume it is so
addressed?”

Miss Fitzhugh drew herself up. “Yes, the address is correct,” she
answered coldly. “I have told you it was put on by mistake by a friend
of mine who sends me to reclaim the letter----”

She broke off suddenly, as with startling abruptness the electric bell
at the door of the apartment sounded in their ears. “There! It’s come!
Go quick,” she cried.

Mechanically Caruth rose and turned to the door; then hesitated.
“Wilkins will bring it,” he explained.

“Wilkins? Your man? No! Go yourself. This matter is too grave to trust
to any one. Go quick.”

Under the spell of her command, Caruth stepped hastily to the door of
the room and flung it open. At the end of the hall the valet was just
signing the book of a letter carrier. As Caruth appeared he looked up.
“Quick delivery letter for you, sir,” he said.

Caruth took the letter, nodded, and turned back into the room.

The girl was standing where he had left her. Her lips were parted, and
her breath came fast. When she saw the letter her eyes glistened and
she stretched out her hand.

But Caruth drew back. “One moment,” he exclaimed.

The girl’s eyes flashed. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “I have
explained my claim to that letter. You have no right to keep it. Give
it to me at once.” An imperious stamp of her foot put a period to her
words.

A weaker man would have yielded, but Caruth set his jaws. “You have set
forth your claim to this letter,” he answered coldly, “after a fashion.
But, if you will pardon my saying so, you have by no means proved your
right to it. It may very well have been mailed to me by mistake, and
you may know it--without being entitled to it.”

Scornfully the woman stared at him. Her head was thrown back, and the
breath whistled through her distended nostrils.

“So!” she breathed, at last. “So this is American manhood! For the
first time in my life, my word has been questioned to my face.”

Caruth looked, as he felt, acutely uncomfortable. “No, no!” he
protested eagerly. “I don’t question your word. I didn’t know that
you had given it. Nobody”--a flash of admiration showed in his
eyes--“nobody could look at you and doubt you. I don’t doubt that you
have told me the exact facts. But I am also very sure that you have
not told me all of them. If the letter does not belong to me, I will
willingly surrender it to the real owner. But I might do endless harm
by surrendering it to the wrong party. I cannot give it up without
knowing more.”

Caruth quailed as he spoke. It was terribly hard even to debate
anything this woman asked. Scarcely could he force himself to go on. “I
must know more,” he pleaded. “Really, I must know more! Don’t you see
that I must?”

“Very well. You shall.” The woman paused for an instant and then
went on: “This letter and another were put into a bottle which was
thrown overboard from a sinking ship. It floated about until ten
days ago, when it was picked up by a fisherman. One of the letters
was for my friends. The address was legible, and it was forwarded to
us by mail, reaching us twenty-four hours later. The address on the
other had partly faded; the name of the person for whom it was meant
had disappeared altogether. But it was addressed in your care, at
your address here. The fisherman who found it showed it to a casual
American, who advised him to send it on to you, and who provided him
with an envelope and postage, including a quick delivery stamp.

“When our letter came, we hurried down to question the fisherman, and
from him learned what I have told you. Our letter had once contained
all the information we needed, but part of the writing had been washed
out by the sea water, and could not be read. We hope that the letter
sent to you may be in better condition, so I have hurried over here to
get it from you.”

Caruth listened amazedly. “But,” he objected, “for whom was the letter
really meant?”

“I do not know. Evidently for some one associated with you. Can you not
guess?”

Caruth shook his head slowly. “No,” he mused. “No, I cannot guess.”
Curiously he studied the envelope he held in his hands.

The woman hesitated; then came to a sudden resolution. “There are two
envelopes,” she explained. “One of them was put on by the fisherman.
Open that, if you will, but be careful.”

Caruth obeyed and drew out the inclosure. It was a small envelope,
dirty and stained and smelling strongly of fish. Indeed, a minute scale
clung to one corner until he mechanically brushed it away. On the face,
in blurred writing, appeared his own name: “Care Mr. Alston Caruth,
Chimneystack Apartment Building, New York, N. Y.” Another name had been
written just above, but it was indecipherable.

“The whole address was there when the fisherman opened the bottle,”
explained the girl. “Part of it soaked off in his pocket on the way to
shore. Can you make it out?”

Caruth studied the superscription, and shook his head. “No,” he
declared; “I can make out nothing. But I soon will.” With a quick
motion, he ripped open the envelope.

Before he could draw out the contents, the girl caught his hand.
“Wait!” she cried. “Wait! Have I not proved my right to that letter?”

Caruth shook his head. “Certainly not,” he decided. “So far as I can
see, neither you nor I have any title to it, or any right to read it.
Nor do I intend to read it further than to see whether the inside gives
any clue to the man for whom it is intended.”

“Wait!” Tensely the girl’s hand fell on his arm. “If nothing else will
avail,” she cried, “will not my entreaties do so. I beg you, I implore
you, to give me that letter. It is nothing to you; it may easily be
life or death to me. You do not know for whom it is meant. You are
under no obligations to an unknown writer and an unknown addressee. Do
not look into it farther. Give me the letter, I implore you!”

She leaned forward. Her violet eyes gleamed into his; her lips
quivered, her form shook with the stress.