The Golden Bough. Gibbs George
The society of Nemi, an international society, with leaders in every party, a hidden giant with a hundred groping arms which only need a brain to actuate them all to one purpose."
She paused a moment, her hand at her heart, while she caught her breath. "And that purpose-Monsieur Rowlan'-the saving of the world from autocracy!" she said impressively.
He did not dare smile at her for her revelations were astounding, and in spite of himself all that was venturesome in his spirit had caught of her fire. The rapidity of her utterance and the nature of her disclosures for a moment struck him dumb. How much of this story that she told him was true, and how much born in the brain of the dead Ivanitch? A secret society with ramifications throughout Europe-a power which might pass into the hands of the enemies of France. Rowland was not dull, and clear thinking was slowly driving away the mists of illusion, leaving before him the plain facts of his extraordinary situation.
"I am no believer in mysticism, Mademoiselle Korasov," he said at last, smiling, "nor in a destiny written before I was born. What you tell of the history of Nemi is interesting, what you say of the Visconti very strange, startlingly so, but I am the product of an age of materialism. This drama was born and developed in the brain of a dreamer and zealot. Don't you see? A strange coincidence unhinged him. He attacked me as he might have attacked any other escaping prisoner-"
"But all escaping prisoners are not of the Visconti-" she said.
He shrugged and smiled. "I still think you more than half believe in all this-" he hesitated a moment, and then with cool distinctness, "this fol-de-rol."
She glanced up quickly and rose.
"Listen, Monsieur," she said soberly, "you may believe what you please of the legends of Nemi, but you cannot deny the material facts as to its influence. There are documents here which will prove to you that what I say is true. Members of the Order of Nemi are high in the Councils of the Great-its power is limitless for evil or for good in the world. Whether you believe in it or not, you are its Leader, in accordance with its strange laws of succession, which have come down through the ages, and you are recognized as such by those others yonder, and will be recognized by others who will come. Its High Priest-"
Rowland's gesture of impatience made her pause.
"I'm no Priest-" he laughed.
"Call yourself what you like, then," she cried. "It does not matter. But think, Monsieur, of what I am telling you. An opportunity-power, international leadership, and a goal, – the freedom of Europe! Oh, is not that a career worthy of the ambition of any man on the earth! And you quibble at the sound of a name!"
Her tone was almost contemptuous. She had walked to the window and stood there trembling-he paused a moment and then walked over to her.
"I haven't denied you, Mademoiselle. I've merely refused to believe in the supernatural. Call my presence here a coincidence, the death of Kirylo Ivanitch by its true name, an act of involuntary man-slaughter and I will do whatever you like-if I can serve France better here than on the battle-line."
She flashed around on him and clasped his hand.
"You mean it?"
"I do. If I can help you here, I will act whatever part you please."
"At once? There is no time to lose."
"I shall obey you."
"No. It is I who must obey you-and they-Picard, Issad, Stepan, Margot-but more than these-Shestov, Madame Rochal, Signorina Colodna, and Liederman-"
"Who are these?"
"Members of the Order. Councilors who will come to you-to give advice and to take it."
He smiled.
"Ah, I see. They are coming here soon?"
She nodded.
"A council has been called-the members may reach here today. You will meet them?"
"Have I not told you that I will do what I can? But I must know their nationalities, their purposes-"
"Oh, I shall tell you all that-and warn you. Remember, Monsieur, you are the Leader of Nemi-"
"And as such," he grinned, "subject to sacrifice upon the altar of your precious Priesthood-"
She touched the back of his hand lightly with her fingers.
"Sh-! Monsieur. It is no laughing matter. And there are those I must warn you against." Her eyes stared widely past him from under tangled brows. "Two whom you must fear-of finesse, craft and intelligence-a woman without a conscience and a man without a soul-"
"Ah, you interest me. A woman! Their names-"
Before Tanya Korasov could reply, there was a knock upon the door which was pushed quickly open and the shock-headed man entered.
"What is it, Stepan?" asked the girl.
"Monsieur Khodkine has just come in at the gate, Mademoiselle," he said in French.
Rowland saw the girl start and felt her fingers close upon his arm.
"Ah, Stepan," she said quietly, "tell him to come here, and bring Issad and Picard."
And when Stepan had gone, "It is one of those whom I have spoken, Monsieur Rowlan'," she stammered. "Be upon your guard, Monsieur-and keep this paper, committing to memory the names and figures upon it."
Rowland opened the slip of paper curiously and it bore this inscription:
"Droite 12 Gauche 23 Droite 7."
CHAPTER V
KHODKINE
Was it imagination that gave him the idea that the manner of Tanya Korasov betrayed a sudden inquietude at the mention of the name of the newcomer? He was sure that the fingers which touched his sleeve in warning were trembling as she glanced wide-eyed toward the door into the garden by which Monsieur Khodkine would enter. Who was this visitor, and what his mission, what his power, what his authority?
Stepan threw the door open and stood aside, bowing as the visitor entered, followed by Issad and Picard. He was tall and well built, with blonde hair brushed straight back from a broad fine brow, below which steel-blue eyes appraised the room and its occupants. His nose was straight and well chiseled, and his small brown mustache carefully groomed, defined rather than concealed the straight firm line of his rather red lips, which parted slightly as he saw the figure of Rowland before him. His glance met the American's, hovered a second and passed to Tanya, who had risen and stood mute and expectant.
The Russian crossed the room quickly to the girl, and taking the fingers she extended, bowed over them and pressed them to his lips.
"Tatyana!" he said in French, with a deep and pleasant voice. "The days have sped into weeks, the weeks into months, since I have seen you-"
"Grisha Khodkine, you are welcome!" said the girl, withdrawing her hand, and as the Russian straightened, turned toward the American whom she indicated with a graceful gesture. "You are to meet a-a visitor to Nemi, Monsieur. Permit me to present Monsieur Rowlan'."
The Russian straightened and his clear and slightly surprised gaze passed impudently over the American's ill-fitting clothing from head to foot. Rowland had a sense that it was the garments which Monsieur Khodkine noted, not the man within them, and had a feeling of being still further ignored when the Russian, after the slightest inclination of the head, which indeed had seemed a part of his cursory inspection, turned again quickly to Tanya.
"Where is Kirylo Ivanitch?" he asked.
The girl leaned with one hand upon the table, her gaze upon the floor. Her voice trembled a little as she replied.
"Kirylo Ivanitch is-is dead."
Khodkine started violently.
"Dead! Ivanitch-!" He turned a quick look at Stepan and at Rowland. "When did this happen?" he questioned eagerly. "And who-?"
His look as though impelled returned to Rowland, who had picked up one of the cigarettes of Monsieur Ivanitch from the table and was now lighting it, very much at his ease. Rowland made no reply, and Tanya, with a gesture of her extended