the
iron cold of winter.

Small wonder that of the hundreds of thousands of prisoners who are
flung into Russian jails only a small percentage are ever brought to
trial, and executed or deported to Siberia. The great majority are never
heard of again; they are dead to the outside world when the great gates
clang behind them, and soon they perish from pain and hunger and
privation. It is well for them if they are delicate folk, whose misery
is quickly ended; it is the strong who suffer most in the instinctive
struggle for life.

Whether I was ever interrogated I don't know to this day, nor exactly
how long I was in the horrible place; I guess it was about a fortnight,
but it was a considerable time, even after I left it, before I was able
even to attempt to piece things out in my mind.

I was lying on my bunk,--barely conscious, though no longer
delirious,--when one of the armed warders came and shook me by the
shoulder, roughly bidding me get up and follow him. I tried to obey, but
I was as weak as a rat, and he just put his arm round me and hauled me
along, easily enough, for he was a muscular giant, and I was something
like a skeleton.

I didn't feel the faintest interest in his proceedings, for I was almost
past taking interest in anything; but I remembered later that we went
along some flagged passages, and up stone stairs, passing more than one
lot of sentries. He hustled me into a room and planked me down on a
bench with my back to the wall, where I sat, blinking stupidly for a
minute. Then, with an effort, I pulled myself together a bit, and was
able to see that there were several men in the room, two of them in
plain clothes, and the face of one of them seemed vaguely familiar.

"Is this your man, Monsieur?" I heard one of the Russians say; and the
man at whom I was staring answered gravely: "I don't know; if he is, you
have managed to alter him almost out of knowledge."

I knew by his accent that he was an Englishman, and a moment later I
knew who he was, as he came close up to me and said sharply: "Maurice
Wynn?"

"Yes, I'm Wynn," I managed to say. "How are you, Inspector Freeman?"

Somehow at the moment it did not seem in the least wonderful that he
should be here in Petersburg, and in search of me. I didn't even feel
astonished at his next words.

"Maurice Wynn, I have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of
murdering Vladimir Selinski,--alias Cassavetti."

CHAPTER XXIII

FREEMAN EXPL