Guilty Bonds

He twirled his moustache and appeared to be lost in thought for a few moments. Then he said: “First, let me make a confession. Like my sister, I am – or rather was – a member of a Nihilist Circle. I joined from the same motive of revenge that prompted Vera, and perhaps she has explained how you unwittingly assisted us in our attempt; how, by the treachery of Hertzen, you were arrested; and how by our exertions you escaped.”

“Yes,” I replied.

“But you do not know all. You remember finding the seal in your cell?”

“Ah – the seal?” I cried, excitedly, for the mention of it brought back terrible memories. “What was its meaning?” I demanded.

“By the merest accident you directed my attention to the hieroglyphics on the wall, and the discovery threw a light upon a phase of the mystery that had hitherto been unintelligible. That cell, I found, was the same in which my father was confined before his exile, and it was he who cut that emblem in the stone, with his initials linked with those of the villain who plotted his destruction.”

“And that villain was – ”

“The man you know as Hertzen. Having obtained control of my sister’s fortune, he schemed to entangle her so that he might be instrumental in securing her exile to the mines, and eventually appropriate the money for his own use. He was unaware, however, that my wound in Georgia had not proved fatal. By concealing my identity I contrived to assist Vera and yourself.”

“But the seal! Tell me; what is its meaning?” I asked, in breathless suspense.

“It is the death symbol. The Nihilist law demands that those who accidentally discover our secret, and refuse to take the oath, must die by the hand of the person from whose lips they learn it. To ensure absolute secrecy, so essential in a country like Russia teeming with police spies, the Executive devised a seal to be affixed to the body of the murdered person, thus showing members of our Cause the reason of the crime and deterring them from betraying us.”

“So the seal, about which there has been so much controversy, is a Nihilist emblem,” I said, bewildered.

“Purely. For the most part the persons upon whose bodies the seal has been discovered are those whom it was found necessary to remove for the preservation of our secret. In some cases where we have been betrayed by members of our Circle, lots have been cast among us, the deed has been committed, and the lips of the traitor silenced forever. The crimes have been regarded as the work of a maniac. You will understand that it was to our interest to make them appear so,” he replied, calmly.

“What is the meaning of those strange symbols around the seal which have been the cause of so much comment?” I asked, eagerly, for this extraordinary revelation was even more mystifying than the secrets.

Taking from his breast-pocket a paper upon which was an impression of the seal, similar to that found on the victims, he said, —

“See, the centre, which has proved so puzzling to many, is a representation of the hammer of Thor, the god of thunder. It is symbolical of strength, work, and duty. By the Scandinavians Thor was supposed to be the guardian genius, and representations of his hammer were believed to be charms against every terror. In that sense the organisation has used it. The legend, of which antiquarians have failed to discover the key, is an obsolete Norse rune, the words being, ‘Bith Sithi Gast,’ the equivalent in English to ‘Halt! accursed enemy!’ It is indeed the Seal of Death.”

“Does no one outside the Nihilist Circle know its significance?” I asked, in wonder.

“Not a soul. Remember Vera and I are now no longer members of the organisation. Our oaths are removed, therefore I am able to tell you this.”

“Happily our conspiracy against the Autocrat has been unsuccessful,” broke in Vera, smiling.

“We are not Russians now, but content to be loyal subjects of your Queen.”

“I’m pleased that is so,” I replied, with a sigh of relief; “but there is still one circumstance unexplained.”

“To which do you allude?” Boris asked, plunging his hands into his pockets and leaning against the table opposite me.

I was loth to approach a subject which must be exceedingly painful to him.

“I mean the murder – the tragedy in Bedford Place – ”

“Ah!” he cried, sorrowfully, passing his hand quickly across his forehead, “the remembrance of that terrible night – the white face of my poor dead wife constantly haunts me. But the scoundrel who killed her shall suffer his well-merited punishment,” he added, as he paced the room angrily, muttering some imprecations in Russian.

“Boris dear, calm yourself,” said Vera, persuasively, clutching him by the arm. “Tell Frank everything; he has a right to know.”