The Golden Bough. Gibbs George
quickly, he saw the girl Tanya, standing on the stairway giving him good morning. Her black robes had been discarded and she was dressed quite simply in a white morning frock which accentuated the lines of the strong slender figure and answered some of the questions that her sober garb had denied him. She was young, resilient, full of the joys of the awakened day, and wonderfully good to look at. The two of them stood for a moment staring at each other as though they had never seen each other before, Rowland's eyes full of admiration which he made no effort to conceal.
It was Tanya who first spoke.
"You are so different, Monsieur Rowlan', that I wasn't quite sure-" she laughed. "If I hadn't known the clothes-"
"And you, Mademoiselle." He paused seeking a word. "You-are the morning."
"Did you sleep well?"
"Like the dead. I was not disturbed." He smiled significantly, but she seemed not to notice, as she crossed to the door of the kitchen and ordered the coffee. And in a moment they were sitting at a table in an adjoining room where the shock-headed man brought the urn from the kitchen and a tray upon which were eggs, butter and petits pains. Rowland studied the man carefully and noted a sharp look from the fellow as their glances crossed. But in a mirror opposite him he saw the man pause as he went out and turn and stare at him with so malevolent a look that the American recalled quite vividly his impressions of the night before. He was not wanted here. Whatever the affairs of this place it was obvious that to all except the girl Tanya, Rowland was de trop. As he ate he found his curiosity as to the strange actions of the men of Nemi gathering impetus. They were like a lot of Boches having a morning "hate." However hospitable the girl, it was clear that they resented his presence, and from a window, even as he sat, he could see the ridiculous black figure of the third man mounting guard over the absurd tree at the other side of the garden. But Rowland grinned and drank of his coffee, sure now that the eyes of Tanya Korasov had something on all those of a Winter Garden chorus rolled into two. But they weren't bold eyes like some others he had known. They appraised him frankly but without the least timidity. She had given him her friendship last night and until he went on his way he was her guest to whom the hospitality of the house was open.
"Monsieur Ivanitch," she said after a moment, and with as he fancied a slight air of constraint, "begs that you will excuse him, as he will take his coffee upstairs."
"Of course. I hope that I haven't interfered-"
"It doesn't matter," she put in quickly. "Something happened which disturbed him. He is overworked and often distraught with nerves."
"I'm sorry."
"He is accustomed to being much alone," she added with an abstracted air.
"I won't bother him much longer. I'll be off in a moment. But I regret to go without knowing something more of you, Mademoiselle. Your kindness in spite of the hostility of Monsieur Ivanitch, your fear for my safety last night-"
"I-I merely thought that-that if you bolted your door you would be able to pass a night of rest."
Her manner was not altogether convincing. He looked at her soberly and went on softly.
"I'm not a meddler by nature, Mademoiselle," he continued, "but I do confess to a devouring curiosity. The organization to which you belong is secret. I can perhaps guess some of its purposes, but the mystery which I have met on every hand-"
"I can tell you nothing," she said, her eyes averted.
"Not even that what you do is not distasteful to you?"
She lowered her voice a note.
"I'm not unhappy," she said slowly.
"Nor contented. There is a danger in the air, a nameless danger which if it does not threaten you, menaces those about you."
"Danger!" she said quickly. "What does that matter to me, when Russia, when all Europe is bleeding to death. I fear nothing-"
"Not even an escaping slave?"
The words uttered quickly, almost at random, had a most startling effect upon her. She drew back quickly from the table and then leaned forward, whispering.
"Sh-! You knew-?" she asked.
"You came here-" she paused and was silent again.
"Was it not that phrase which so profoundly affected Monsieur Ivanitch?" he asked.
She made no reply.
He rose from the table and straightened.
"You wish me to go, Mademoiselle?" he asked.
She hesitated a moment and then with a gasp,
"Yes. You must go-at once."
He shrugged, smiled and turned away. It was too bad.
"Of course I have no right to question you. But I should like to put myself at your command for any service-"
"You can do nothing. Only go, Monsieur."
He looked at her eagerly. There was a change in her manner. She too had at last turned against him. It seemed that she had grown a shade paler, and he saw her eyes staring in a startled way as at some object behind him.
Instinctively he turned. The door into the kitchen was partly open and half through the aperture, distorted with some strange agony, was the face of Kirylo Ivanitch. In the fleeting moment before the Russian emerged it seemed to Rowland that this was the exact expression on the face of the anguished half of the double-bust in the adjoining room, the face of the older man in terror and fury. But he had to admit that in the flesh and blood it was far more convincing.
Ivanitch now thrust the door open with a bang and stood, his arms, long like an ape's, hanging to the knees of his trouser legs at which the bony fingers plucked unpleasantly.
He did not speak to Rowland, though his gaze never left his face, but he muttered something hoarsely in Russian to Tanya-an angry phrase, the tone of which sent the hot blood flying to Phil Rowland's temples. He did not know what she replied, but her voice was pitched low and had a note of contrition that still further inflamed him. Last night he had thought Ivanitch merely an eccentric zealot unnerved by too much work. Now he seemed surely mad, a maniac not far from the verge of violence.
The Russian took a pace forward toward the American who stood his ground, conscious of a rising anger at the inhospitality and a growing desire to see the thing through, whatever happened. But a glance at Tanya found her gaze fixed on him with a look so earnestly appealing, that he suppressed the hot words that had risen to his tongue.
"I am sorry, Monsieur Ivanitch," he said coolly, taking refuge in the formal French phrase, "to have so far strained the hospitality of Nemi-"
"Go then-" growled the Russian, pointing toward the door.
The voice was brutal, harsh, inhuman and challenged all that was intemperate in Rowland, aroused again the reckless venturing spirit that had sent him forth to deal with the primitive forces of evil. He leaned forward toward the distorted face, his arms akimbo, and stared the Russian in the eyes.
And then a strange thing happened. The blaze in the Russian's eyes was suddenly extinguished. It was as though a film had passed over them, leaving them pale, like a burnt out cinder. His jaw fell too, his arms flapped aimlessly a moment and then fell to his sides as he retreated through the open door into the kitchen.
"Go!" he whispered querulously, as though his voice too had been burnt out. "Go!"
As the man disappeared, Rowland relaxed and turned toward Tanya with a shrug.
"A madman!" he muttered. "You can't stay here, Mademoiselle Korasov."
"It's nothing," she said breathlessly. "When you are gone, he will recover. You must go now, Monsieur. Hurry, or harm will come-"
"To you?" eagerly.
"To you, Monsieur."
"I'm not frightened," he said with a grin.
"I know. But you must go at once. Here. This way. The gate is in the garden wall." And she opened the door and stood aside to let him pass. He took up the cap she had provided for him and paused a moment to offer her his hand.
"I