Bodlevski paid the money over in advance, and Yuzitch led him into a back room. On the table burned a tallow candle, which hardly lit up the faces of seven people who were grouped round it, one of them being the red-nosed man who was reading the Police News. The seven men were all from the districts of Vilna and Vitebsk, and were specialists in the art of fabricating passports.
The red-nosed man approached Bodlevski: "We must get acquainted with each other," he said amiably. "I have the honor to present myself!" and he bowed low; "Former District Secretary Pacomius Borisovitch Prakkin. Let me request you first of all to order some vodka; my hand shakes, you know," he added apologetically. "Idon't want it so much for myself as for my hand--to steady it."Bodlevski gave him some change, which the red-nosed man put in his pocket and at once went to the sideboard for a flask of vodka which he had already bought. "Let us give thanks! And now to business!"he said, smacking his lips after a glass of vodka.
A big, red-haired man, one of the group of seven, drew from his pocket two vials. In one was a sticky black fluid; in the other, something as clear as water.
"We are chemists, you see," the red-nosed man explained to Bodlevski with a grin, and then added:
"Finch! on guard!"
A young man, who had been lolling on a couch in the corner, rose and took up a position outside the door.
"Now, brothers, close up!" cried the red-nosed man, and all stood in close order, elbow to elbow, round the table. "And now we take a newspaper and have it handy on the table! That is in case," he explained to Bodlevski, "any outsider happened in on us--which Heaven prevent! We aren't up to anything at all; simply reading the political news! You catch on?""How could I help catching on?"
"Very well. And now let us make everything as clear as in a looking-glass. What class do you wish to make the person belong to? The commercial or the nobility?""I think the nobility would be best," said Bodlevski.
"Certainly! At least that will give the right of free passage through all the towns and districts of the Russian Empire. Let us see. Have we not something that will suit?"And Pacomius Borisovitch, opening his portfolio, filled with all kinds of passports, certificates, and papers of identification, began to turn them over, but without taking any out of the portfolio. All with the same thought--that some stranger might come in.
"Ha! here's a new one! Where did it come from?" he cried.
"I got it out of a new arrival," muttered the red-headed man.
"Well done! Just what we want! And a noble's passport, too! It is evident that Heaven is helping us. See what a blessing brings!
"'This passport is issued by the District of Yaroslav,'" he continued reading, "'to the college assessor's widow, Maria Solontseva, with permission to travel,'" and so on in due form.
"Did you get it here?" he added, turning to the red-headed man.
"Came from Moscow!"
"Pinched?"
"Knocked on the head!" briefly replied the red-headed man.
"Knocked on the head?" repeated Pacomius Borisovitch. "Serious business. Comes under sections 332 and 727 of the Penal Code.""Driveling again!" cried the red-headed man. "I'll teach you to talk about the Penal Code!" and rising deliberately, he dealt Pacomius Borisovitch a well-directed blow on the head, which sent him rolling into the corner. Pacomius picked himself up, blinking with indignation.
"What is the meaning of such conduct?" he asked loftily.
"It means," said the red-headed man, "that if you mention the Penal Code again I'll knock your head off!""Brothers, brothers!" cried Yuzitch in a good-humored tone; "we are losing precious time! Forgive him!" he added, turning to Pacomius.
"You must forgive him!"
"I--forgive him," answered Pacomius, but the light in his eye showed that he was deeply offended.
"Well," he went on, addressing Bodlevski, "will it suit you to have the person pass as Maria Solontseva, widow of a college assessor?"IV
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GOLDEN BAND
Bodlevski had not time to nod his head in assent, when suddenly the outer door was pushed quickly open and a tall man, well built and fair-haired, stepped swiftly into the room. He wore a military uniform and gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
The company turned their faces toward him in startled surprise, but no one moved. All continued to stand in close order round the table.
"Health to you, eaglets! honorable men of Vilna! What are you up to? What are you busy at?" cried the newcomer, swiftly approaching the table and taking the chair that Pacomius Borisovitch had just been knocked out of.
"What is all this?" he continued, with one hand seizing the vial of colorless liquid and with the other the photograph of the college assessor's widow. "So this is hydrochloric acid for erasing ink?
Very good! And this is a photo! So we are fabricating passports?
Very fine! Business is business! Hey! Witnesses!"And the fair-haired man whistled sharply. From the outer door appeared two faces, set on shoulders of formidable proportions.
The red-headed man silently went up to the newcomer and fiercely seized him by the collar. At the same moment the rest seized chairs or logs or bars to defend themselves.
The fair-haired man meanwhile, not in the least changing his expression of cool self-confidence, quickly slipped his hands into his pockets and pulled out a pair of small double-barreled pistols.
In the profound silence in which this scene took place they could distinctly hear the click of the hammers as he cocked them. He raised his right hand and pointed the muzzle at the breast of his opponent.
The red-headed man let go his collar, and glancing contemptuously at him, with an expression of hate and wrath, silently stepped aside.
"How much must we pay?" he asked sullenly.
