“He should be warned,” he said. “But is it right that you should leave? He may be in danger, and may need your advice.”
“It is dangerous for me to stay here,” objected Berchik.
“That is true,” replied Prince Zuvor. He seemed to be formulating a plan.
“Perhaps I can help you — to escape. Perhaps I can also — keep a guarding eye upon this American whom you have mentioned.”
A smile of relief appeared upon Berchik’s face. The Russian servant seemed to be freed of his former anxiety. His appeal to Prince Zuvor had been successful.
“What is the American’s name?” questioned Prince Zuvor quietly.
“Bruce Duncan,” whispered Berchik. He drew a slip of paper from his pocket, and scrawled some words upon it. “This is his address. Can I count on you to protect him, your excellency?”
“Certainly,” replied Prince Zuvor, with a smile. “Now for your escape, Berchik!
“Unknown to any one, I have devised a plan whereby I can flee from here at a moment’s notice. That plan will be utilized to-night; but it will be you who will escape. You have money, you say?”
Berchik nodded.
Prince Zuvor went to a handsome mahogany writing table, and inscribed a series of directions. He passed the paper to Berchik. The servant read the words, and smiled. Prince Zuvor shook hands with Berchik, as the latter rose.
“Go!” he said. “Ivan will start you on the way to safety.”
He rang the bell, and the dull-faced man entered. Berchik followed him, and was conducted to the cellar.
There, Ivan, with amazing skill, placed make-up on Berchik’s face that gave an entirely different appearance to Berchik’s features. Then Ivan supplied him with a new overcoat, of different pattern than his own.
Prince Zuvor’s servant opened a door, and Berchik found himself in a concealed alleyway that led to the street in back of the house.
Berchik was off to safety!
HE followed the alleyway to the side of the house in back of Prince Zuvor’s residence. The house was apparently deserted. But Berchik, following the directions which he had read, opened the side door and entered.
He went to the front door of the house and peered through the glass panel. A taxicab drove up. It had been summoned to this address by Prince Zuvor. Berchik hurried out and entered the cab.
As they turned the corner to the avenue, a car rolled by in the opposite direction. It was the sedan that had followed Berchik to Prince Zuvor’s house. The eyes within must have spotted Berchik in spite of his disguise, for the sedan stopped suddenly.
“Hurry!” said Berchik to the driver. He had given the man an address named on the list of directions.
The cab sped rapidly onward. It turned into a side street, and Berchik left it.
He entered a small unpretentious house, which was entirely dark, and locked the door behind him. He saw the sedan draw up as the cab pulled away.
Berchik dashed through the empty house and ran out the back door into another tiny alley which did not go to the front of the house. This way led him to another street, where he found a second cab awaiting him.
He instructed the driver to take him to the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street railway station.
The sedan had lost the trail.
Berchik caught his train; one hour later, he reached a small town in Connecticut. There he went to a garage, and gave his name as Robert Jennings. The garage man brought out a small coupe. The car was an old one, but as Berchik drove away, he realized that it was in excellent running order.
A few miles outside the little town, Berchik stopped the car. Beneath the front seat, he found two New York license plates.
He removed the Connecticut plates, and threw them into the woods beside the road. He attached the New York plates and drove along.
He smiled contentedly in the darkness. His safety was now assured.
This automobile, kept in the Connecticut town under an assumed name, would enable him to reach a city named in the directions; there he would take a train for the West.
AS Berchik’s car whirled along the deserted road, the fleeing man felt the first relief that he had known since he had come to America to deliver his master’s wealth.
The Red agents had picked up his trail after he had given the jewels to Bruce Duncan. Since then they had played a waiting, catlike game.
Now he was safe — free from any avenging hand. He could write a warning letter to Bruce Duncan from the Middle West; and could keep on to California; then to Australia.
These thoughts were in Berchik’s mind as he rounded a long curve, on the side of a hill. Below him, at the right, yawned a deep ravine.
“Prince Zuvor is clever,” murmured Berchik. “This is the plan he chose for escape. They are watching him — as they watched me. But there is no danger for me now. I am safe. They cannot strike me.”
He turned the wheel to the left, as the curve increased. From the back of the car he heard a slight click. He wondered what it meant. Then came a second click.
A sudden fear came over Berchik. He thrust his foot forward to the brake pedal.
But his action was too late. Before Berchik could save himself from the unknown danger, a terrific explosion came from the rear of the car.
The back of the light coupe was lifted upward as though by a giant hand. The shattered automobile hurtled forward and crashed through the fence at the side of the road.
Rolling in its plunge, the car fell over and over into the ravine below, leaving a trail of wreckage as it went. It smashed into a large tree, and its course ended there.
In ten brief seconds, the speeding automobile had become a battered hulk, and in the mass of twisted metal and broken glass lay the dead body of Berchik.
CHAPTER II
ONE HOUR TO LIVE
THE young reporter glanced nervously at his wrist watch as he sat by the window in the waiting room. Nearly four o’clock. He had been waiting half an hour.
He looked out the window and studied the myriad buildings that lay below. Manhattan was an amazing spectacle when viewed from the thirty-eighth floor of the Farworth Building; but his eyes scarcely saw the scene.
He was anxiously waiting his interview with Jonathan Graham, the millionaire importer.
The reporter started suddenly as a quiet, somber man approached and spoke to him.
“I am Mr. Berger,” explained the man. “I am Mr. Graham’s secretary. What can I do for you?”
The reporter arose and fumbled nervously with his hat.
“Stevens is my name,” he said. “Reporter on the Morning Sphere. I’d like a private interview with Mr. Graham.”
“He is very busy,” replied the secretary smoothly. “I usually take care of these matters for him.”
“I must see him personally.”
The secretary shrugged his shoulders.
“I think that will be impossible,” he told the reporter. “It is late in the afternoon. Mr. Graham has urgent matters on his mind.”
“I made the appointment by phone this morning,” objected Stevens.
“I understand that well,” answered Berger. “But I attend to all matters such as newspaper interviews. You will have to talk with me.”
The door of the inner office opened, and a stout, gray-haired man entered the waiting room. He spoke to a stenographer seated at a desk; then he turned to go back into his office.
The reporter saw him and recognized him.
“Mr. Graham!” he exclaimed, darting away from the secretary. “I am from the Sphere, Mr. Graham. May I talk with you for a few minutes?”
The millionaire looked disapprovingly at Stevens. Then he pointed to his secretary.
“Mr. Berger will take care of you,” he said.
“But this is a personal interview, Mr. Graham,” pleaded the reporter. “I won’t be long, sir. Just a few minutes. I hate to bother you, sir. But it means a lot to me — “