The Boy Nihilist | Page 7

Scott!" he suddenly exclaimed, and hurried to the Bastile.
The possibility of Barnwell's having secured the document did not make the prince's case any the better. Indeed, it was probably worse, for the captain of the Bastile may have searched him and secured it himself.
Such fears as these hurried him onward, until he reached the prison where Barnwell was confined, and he instantly summoned the captain.
"The prisoner I sent here but now?"
"He is in a cell down below."
"Did you search him?"
"I did."
"What did you find?" he asked, anxiously.
"A passport, a quantity of money, some jewelry, and letters."
"Let me see the papers," and they were promptly shown to him. He looked them over eagerly, but there was no trace of the fatal document from Zobriski.
"Are these all you took from him?"
"All, Excellency."
"Who searched him?"
"One of the guards."
"Did you see him do it?"
"It was done under my own eyes."
"And you will swear that these comprise all the papers he had on his person?"
"I swear it, Excellency."
The prince was more confused at this than he was before, for if he had not taken it at the time of his arrest who could have done so?
He dared make no explanation to the jailer, for he knew him to be a loyal man, and one of the fiercest persecutors of the Nihilists in the Czar's official household. And yet he half believed that he had secured the correspondence, and was withholding it for a purpose against him.
Finally he said:
"Conduct me to the prisoner's cell."
"This way, Excellency," and he led him to the stout and heavily-grated door.
"Now leave us," and the officer retired.
Prince Mastowix glanced up and down the dimly-lighted corridor to make sure that no one was in sight, and then he spoke.
"William Barnwell," and the young man quickly leaped to his feet and went to the bars.
"Who is it?" he asked, eagerly.
"The man who sent you here."
"Then you are a rascal," replied Barnwell; and it was fortunate for the tyrant that he was protected by the iron grating, or he would have been clutched by the throat.
"Careful, young man. I may have acted hastily in your case."
"Yes, and unjustly."
"Well, wrongs may be righted."
"Then let me out of this horrible dungeon."
"I will, on one condition."
"Name it."
"That you tell me whether you took that paper again which you brought me from New York."
"No, sir; I never saw it after I gave it to you," replied Barnwell. "You held it in your hand when I was dragged from your office."
The prince now remembered that this was true, and it made the mystery even greater than before.
He turned to go.
"But your promise?" said Barnwell.
"Bah!" was the only reply he received, and the next moment he was alone again.
A mocking laugh came from the opposite cell-door grating, and naturally the abandoned youth looked in the direction.
But the face he saw between the bars was hideous enough to make his blood almost curdle.
How old that face was, of what nationality, of what grade of intellect, he could not tell, for his face was in the shade of that dark place.
Again came the mocking laugh, as young Barnwell stood looking and wondering.
"Who are you?" he finally asked.
That laugh again, and Barnwell concluded that the person must be a lunatic, although he could but shudder at the thought that he might have been driven to madness by the very same imprisonment which enshackled him, and so turned away.
His own misery was quite enough for him, and just then he was in no humor to listen to another's.
"Ha, ha, ha! So you are in the trap, eh?" asked the mysterious prisoner.
"What trap?" asked Barnwell.
"The rat-trap of the great Russian Empire."
"I don't know. Who are you?"
"Nobody; for the moment a person gets into the great political rat-trap he loses his identity, and is simply known by a number. I am Number Nineteen; you are Number Twenty."
"How do you know?"
"I can see the number of your cell, as you can, of course, see mine."
"What were you brought here for?"
"For fancying that I was a man, and that I had rights in the world. I was thrown into this dungeon--it must be three months ago--for throwing down the horse of a nobleman who attempted to drive over me. I have had no trial, and expect none. I am as dead to the world as it is to me. I am simply Number Nineteen, and when this prison gets too full of the victims of tyranny, I shall be hustled off to Siberia, to make room for new victims."
"It is dreadful. But in my case I did nothing against the law. I simply brought a letter from America to Prince Mastowix, and he at once threw me into this place."
"Ah! he is the same who threw me into this dungeon, because I resented being run over."
"And for that