The man, it appeared, was known by many names, Koval, Kolowski, Polkoff and others, but his real name was Michael Kalmar.  He was a determined and desperate Nihilist, was wanted for many crimes by the Russian police, and had spent some years as a convict in Siberia where, if justice had its due, he would be at the present time.  He had cast off his wife and children, whom he had shipped to Canada.  Incidentally it came out that it was only Rosenblatt’s generosity that had intervened between them and starvation.  Balked in one of his desperate Nihilist schemes by Rosenblatt, who held a position of trust under the Russian Government, he had sworn vengeance, and escaping from Siberia, he had come to Canada to make good his oath.  And but for the timely appearance of the police, he would have succeeded.

Meantime, Sergeant Cameron was receiving congratulations on all hands for his cleverness in making the arrest of a man who had escaped the vigilance of the Russian Police and Secret Service, said to be the finest in all Europe.  In his cell, the man, as good as condemned, waited his trial, a stranger far from help and kindred, an object of terror and of horror to many, of compassion to a few.  But however men thought of him, he had sinned against British civilisation, and would now have to taste of British justice.

CHAPTER VII

CONDEMNED

The two months preceding the trial were months of restless agony to the prisoner, Kalmar.  Day and night he paced his cell like a tiger in a cage, taking little food and sleeping only when overcome with exhaustion.  It was not the confinement that fretted him.  The Winnipeg jail, with all its defects and limitations, was a palace to some that he had known.  It was not the fear of the issue to his trial that drove sleep and hunger from him.  Death, exile, imprisonment, had been too long at his heels to be strangers to him or to cause him fear.  In his heart a fire burned.  Rosenblatt still lived, and vengeance had halted in its pursuit.

But deep as was the passion in his heart for vengeance, that for his country and his cause burned deeper.  He had been able to establish lines of communication between his fatherland and the new world by means of which the oppressed, the hunted, might reach freedom and safety.  The final touches to his plans were still to be given.  Furthermore, it was necessary that he should make his report in person, else much of his labour would be fruitless.  It was this that brought him “white nights” and black days.

Every day Paulina called at the jail and waited long hours with uncomplaining patience in the winter cold, till she could be admitted.  Her husband showed no sign of interest, much less of gratitude.  One question alone, he asked day by day.

“The children are well?”

“They are well,” Paulina would answer.  “They ask to see you every day.”