Title: The chronicles of Michael Danevitch of the Russian Secret Service
Author: Donovan, Dick
Language: English
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DANEVITCH OF THE RUSSIAN SECRET SERVICE ***



DICK DONOVAN’S DETECTIVE STORIES.


Post 8vo., illustrated boards, 2s. each; cloth, 2s. 6d. each.

  THE MAN-HUNTER.
  CAUGHT AT LAST!
  TRACKED AND TAKEN.
  A DETECTIVE’S TRIUMPHS.
  WHO POISONED HETTY DUNCAN?
  IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW.
  WANTED!
  LINK BY LINK.
  FROM INFORMATION RECEIVED.
  SUSPICION AROUSED.
  DARK DEEDS.
  RIDDLES READ.

Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; post 8vo., illustrated boards,
2s. each; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each.

  TRACKED TO DOOM. With 6 illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.
  THE MAN FROM MANCHESTER. With 23 illustrations by J. H. RUSSELL.
  THE MYSTERY OF JAMAICA TERRACE.

Crown 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d.

  CHRONICLES OF MICHAEL DANEVITCH.


LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS, 111 ST. MARTIN’S LANE, W.C.



  THE CHRONICLES
  OF
  MICHAEL DANEVITCH



  THE CHRONICLES
  OF
  MICHAEL DANEVITCH

  OF THE RUSSIAN SECRET SERVICE

  BY
  DICK DONOVAN

  AUTHOR OF
  ‘THE MAN-HUNTER,’ ‘TRACKED AND TAKEN,’ ‘CAUGHT AT LAST,’
  ‘A DETECTIVE’S TRIUMPHS,’ ‘VIDOCQ,’ ETC.

  [Illustration]

  LONDON
  CHATTO & WINDUS
  1897



CONTENTS


                                                         PAGE

  THE CHRONICLES OF MICHAEL DANEVITCH:

    INTRODUCTION                                            1

    THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A MILLION ROUBLES       7

    A MODERN BORGIA                                        33

    THE STRANGE STORY OF AN ATTACHÉ                        60

    THE FATE OF VASSILO IVANOFF                            91

    THE MERCHANT OF RIGA                                  116

    THE GREAT CONSPIRACY                                  143

    THE CROWN JEWELS                                      166

    THE STRANGE STORY OF A SECRET TREATY                  193

    HOW PETER TRESKIN WAS LURED TO DOOM                   227


  THE CLUE OF THE DEAD HAND:

      I. NEW YEAR’S EVE: THE MYSTERY BEGINS               262

     II. THE MYSTERY DEEPENS--THE NARRATIVE CONTINUED
           BY PETER BRODIE, OF THE DETECTIVE SERVICE      276

    III. THE DEAD HAND SMITES                             288



MICHAEL DANEVITCH



INTRODUCTION.


A year or two before the outbreak of the Franco Prussian War a daring
attempt was made upon the life of the Emperor of Russia. He had been
out shooting in the neighbourhood of St. Petersburg, and was returning
at dusk in company with numerous friends and a large suite. As the
Royal carriage passed an isolated house on a country road, which was
bordered on each side by a dense pine forest, a bomb was hurled from an
upper window of the house. Fortunately it did not strike the carriage,
as was intended, but, going over it, fell between the horses of two
of the Royal Guard. The horses were blown to pieces, the riders were
killed on the spot, and several other men were more or less injured.
For some minutes a panic ensued. The Emperor’s driver whipped his
horses into a gallop, and everybody seemed at a loss what to do. The
house, however, was soon surrounded, and a man and woman were seized
as they were in the very act of escaping. It was soon made evident
that this man and woman were mere tools, and the arch-conspirators
had availed themselves of the confusion caused by the bursting bomb
to get off. Darkness favoured the fugitives, and though the forest
was scoured they were not captured. Subsequent investigation brought
to light that the plot for the Emperor’s taking off had been the work
chiefly of a daring and notorious Nihilist, whose capture the Russian
Government had long been trying to effect. His connection with this
dastardly attempt caused a heavy price to be set upon his head, and
every effort was made to arrest him. But, extraordinary as it seems, he
succeeded in evading his pursuers, and, after travelling many hundreds
of miles through the country in various disguises, he managed to get on
board of a vessel bound to Constantinople--so much of his flight was
subsequently learnt when it was too late; but at Constantinople all
trace of him was lost, though there was reason to believe that he had
escaped to either France or England, and a large staff of the most able
Russian and Polish detectives were sent out to scour Europe.

One winter night of that memorable year, I was on my way from Paris
to London viâ Calais. It had been a wild and stormy day; a high wind,
bitter cold, snow, sleet, hail, rain--such were the atmospheric
conditions. We had had an assortment of the worst samples of weather,
and as night approached it was only too evident we were in for ‘a
buster.’ There were very few passengers by the night train from
Paris. It was not a night when anyone was likely to be travelling for
pleasure. On our reaching Calais Station the wind had attained the
force of a heavy gale, causing a tremendous sea to run in the Channel,
and we who were pressed for time heard with dismay that the boat was
not likely to attempt the crossing before the morning.

The cramped and starved passengers made a rush for the buffet, but I
had to see the guard of the train, owing to a hand-bag of mine having
gone astray. This bit of business occupied me for quite twenty minutes,
and then, almost frozen to the marrow, I made my way to the buffet. The
large stove in the centre of the room was surrounded by the passengers,
so I seated myself at one of the long tables and called for hot soup.
It was not until I had finished the steaming bouillon, and had begun
to thaw, that I became conscious I had a _vis-à-vis_. On the opposite
side of the table, on the carpeted settee in a corner next the wall,
sat a man with his legs upon the settee, his arms folded on his breast.
The place was lighted by lamps. The light was dim, and the man was in
partial shadow; but I noted that he wore a heavy fur coat, he had a
peakless fur cap on his head, and was puffing away at a long and strong
cigar. At his elbow on the table was a large basin of tea, and floating
in the tea were three or four slices of lemon.

I really don’t know how it was that I was suddenly attracted to this
stranger. Some people may try to explain it by saying it was animal
magnetism, odic force, or something of the kind. I shall offer no
explanation myself; I merely state the bare fact. My eyes having got
accustomed to the semi-gloom, I was enabled to observe that he had a
clean-shaven face, with a rather prominent nose, a clean-cut mouth,
which, taken in connection with the formation of the chin and jaw
generally, indicated an iron will, a dogged determination. It was
altogether a very striking face, full of character, and with points
that removed it far from the category of the commonplace.

Having partaken of the rest of my supper, and feeling more comfortable
and cheerful, I lit a cigar, called for coffee and a _petit verre_,
assumed an easier position at the end of the seat, so that I was
enabled to lean my back against the wall, my shoulders being thus
parallel with the stranger’s, the table separating us; then I spoke
to him in French--made some ordinary remarks about the weather, and
expressed a fear that we were doomed to pass the night there in the
buffet. He answered me very affably, and in a rich, well-modulated
voice. Fancying that I detected a foreign accent in his French, I
politely asked him if he was a Frenchman. He smiled pleasantly, and
expressed a wish to know why I doubted his being French. I told him
frankly, whereupon he laughed again, and in perfect English, except
that it betrayed a foreign tongue in its pronunciation, he said:

‘I guess _you_ are an Englishman.’

I admitted that I was, and we chatted away first in French and then
in English for a long time; we exchanged cigars; he drank with me, I
with him. Now, throughout the conversation there was one thing I was
conscious of--the whole drift of his talk was to elicit information.
This was done so delicately and skilfully that the majority of people
would not have been aware of it. But I was. It was part of my business
to know when I was being pumped, to use a vulgar but expressive phrase;
I was also, even as he was, a seeker after knowledge, and I fancy I
framed my questions perhaps not much less skilfully than he. At any
rate, we seemed to become _en rapport_, and it is safe to say we
interested each other. There was a reciprocal attraction between us.
After a time the conversation flagged; tired nature was overcome, and
we slept where we sat. At about seven in the morning a porter with
stentorian lungs came in and aroused us from our uneasy slumber by
bawling out that we were all to get on board the boat, as she was about
to start. Confusion at once reigned; there was a hasty gathering up of
bags, wraps, rugs, and other impedimenta, and a stampede was made for
the steamer, each man trying to be first, in order that he might secure
the best place in view of the stormy passage we were likely to have.
For myself, I went leisurely; I was too case-hardened a traveller by
land and sea to concern myself even about the Channel in its anger.
I had, in the confusion, lost sight of my acquaintance of the night,
and for the moment had forgotten him, when suddenly I heard his voice
behind me. He had caught me up.

‘You, like me, don’t give yourself much concern,’ he remarked. ‘We
shall have a rough crossing, no doubt, but it doesn’t alarm me; I have
been sodden with salt water too often.’

This struck a keynote again; we passed on board. As we reached the
deck, he asked me if I was going below; I said no, I preferred to
remain on deck. So did he. We therefore secured two camp-stools, placed
them so that we sat with our backs to the funnel for the sake of the
warmth, enveloped our knees in rugs, buttoned up our coats, battened
our caps down, and made ourselves as snug as it was possible to do
under the circumstances.

It was a wild and wicked morning, and still very dark, though in the
far east there was an angry gleam of glary light. The crossing was
a rough one--as rough a one as I ever remember to have experienced.
When we reached Dover we were all bedraggled and weary-looking, and
thankful indeed for the hot coffee that was served out to us at the
refreshment-bar. It was now broad daylight, and for the first time I
was enabled to distinctly see my companion’s face. It was altogether
a remarkable face. A more pliable and mobile one I never saw. It
never seemed to be quite alike for five minutes at a time. His eyes
were small, but with, as it seemed, an almost unnatural brilliancy;
and there was a suggestiveness about them that they were looking you
through and through. His complexion was olive; his eyes were black.
In stature he was about the middle height, with a well-knit frame. I
noted that his hands and wrists indicated great muscular strength. He
trod with a firm step; he walked upright; he was a man whose presence
asserted itself. None but a fool would be likely to overlook him even
in a crowd. There is one other thing I must mention: his manner was
that of an exceedingly well-bred man; he was the pink of politeness.

The ‘something’--call it by what name you will--that had drawn us
together, kept us together, and we became the sole occupants of a
first-class compartment, in which we journeyed to London. Long before
our destination was reached, I had made up my mind that my _compagnon
de voyage_ was no ordinary man, and from certain things I made a guess
at his profession, and wishing to put my opinion to the test, I alluded
to the attempt that had been made some time before on the Czar’s
life. At this his eyes transfixed me, as it were. Question and answer
followed, and at last, when I was sure that I should not make any
mistake, I led him to understand that my visit to France had indirectly
been in connection with the crime in Russia. When we reached London,
I found he was going to stay at a hotel close to Trafalgar Square. I
gave him my card. He gave me his, which simply bore the name

  MICHAEL DANEVITCH.

I knew then from the name that I had formed the acquaintance of one
of the foremost detectives in the world--a man who had had more to do
with unravelling political crimes than any living being; and there was
hardly a civilized Government that had not, at some time or other,
availed itself of his services. He was endowed with wonderful gifts,
and having once got on to the track of a criminal the criminal was
to a certainty doomed. Danevitch’s visit to England on this occasion
was in connection with the attempt on the Czar’s life. He ultimately
succeeded in unearthing one of the criminals in London, and though
the English Government would not give the rascal up, Danevitch lured
him to France by a wonderfully clever ruse. There he was arrested; in
due course the French handed him over to Russia, and he expiated his
wickedness on the scaffold. The story of this thrilling capture will
be told in the course of this series. The acquaintance which I struck
up with Danevitch on that ever-to-be-remembered night ripened into a
very warm friendship, which continued for many years. The result was he
promised me that if he predeceased me he would leave me all his notes
and papers that had any reference to his professional career, and give
me full permission to do what I liked with them. Subsequently he was
in a terrible railway accident in Russia: the train by which he was
travelling came into collision with another train, and there was an
awful smash. Poor Danevitch was so injured that both his legs had to be
amputated. For several weeks he seemed to be doing well, but a change
took place, and he realized that his fate was sealed. He sent for me,
and during the fortnight that passed after my arrival he told me his
history to a large extent, and handed me the promised records of the
extraordinary cases in which he had played so important a part. It is
from these records that I now compile this series of stories.



THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A MILLION ROUBLES.


One evening, towards the end of summer, four Government officials left
Moscow for St. Petersburg in charge of an enormous amount of money,
partly in specie, but for the most part in Russian rouble notes.
The money was consigned to the Treasury in St. Petersburg. All the
officials had been in the Government service for a long time, and were
selected for this special duty on account of their trustworthiness
and the confidence reposed in them by the heads of the department
to which they belonged. The oldest man, and the one in command of
the little party, was upwards of seventy years of age. He had been
in the Government service for forty years, and was greatly trusted
and respected. His name was Popoff. The next in seniority was Ivan
Basilovitch, who had been thirty-three years in the service. Then came
Strogonoff, with twenty-eight years’ service, and lastly a young man
named Briazga, with ten years and a half to his credit in the service
of the Government. In addition to these four Government officers, four
gendarmes, fully armed, accompanied the treasure as a guard of safety.
The party travelled by the ordinary train, but had a special saloon
carriage, the packages of money being placed at one end. The only
doors to the carriage were at the opposite end, one on each side, the
off-side door being locked by means of a secret lock, which could not
be opened except with the proper key.

The bullion was carried in oak boxes fastened with iron bands. The
notes were in small square boxes, sewn up in strong canvas. In addition
they were securely corded with fine but extraordinarily tough cord,
which was made especially for the Government, and could not be used
except for Government purposes. Every package bore the State seal.
Anyone unlawfully breaking the seal was guilty, according to the law
of Russia, of treason, and liable to death or banishment to Siberia.
In due course the train reached St. Petersburg, where the packages of
money were examined, counted in the train, and found correct. They were
then loaded into a covered Government waggon, counted and examined
again, and also found correct; and all being ready, the waggon drove
off, accompanied by the four officials and the gendarmes. At the
Treasury the packages were once again counted, examined, and found
correct, and the deputy of the Minister of Finance himself gave the
necessary receipt to the head-officer. The important duty being thus
completed, the gendarmes were dismissed to their quarters, and the
officers went to their respective homes. In the course of the next
day Danevitch received a sudden command to attend without a moment’s
delay at the bureau of the chief of the police. He found that important
functionary looking very grave and serious, and it was obvious he was
disturbed by something of more than ordinary importance. With official
brevity he told Danevitch about the money having been removed from
Moscow to St. Petersburg the previous night, and added:

‘This morning, in the presence of the Minister of Finance himself and
the official staff, the various packages were opened. Two of the note
boxes, although intact as regards seals and cords, and which ought to
have contained five hundred thousand rouble notes each, were found to
be stuffed with blank paper. There has been some clever hanky-panky
business, and you are wanted at the Treasury immediately. Now, it
strikes me, Danevitch, that though you’ve cracked some very hard nuts
in your time, this one will prove too much for you.’

‘Why do you think so?’

‘Why do I think so! Well, because the whole business has been managed
so cleverly that the thieves have calculated every chance, and are
not likely to have left any trail behind them that can be followed
up. However, see what you can do. You may succeed, but I’m afraid you
won’t.’

Danevitch made no comment on his chief’s remark, but at once betook
himself to the Treasury, where he found everybody in a state of great
excitement. He was at once conducted into the presence of the Minister
of Finance, with whom he had a long interview, and from whom he learnt
all the details of the transit of the money. Necessarily the detective
sifted these details, examined them one by one, and took such measures
as occurred to him to prove that they were absolutely correct. In the
end he was satisfied that they were. The Minister then showed him a
long telegram he had received from the Treasury Office in Moscow, in
which it was stated that the money was packed in the usual way in the
presence of the cashier-in-chief, six of his subordinates, and a large
staff, all of them proved and tried servants. Every box was numbered,
registered, and sealed, and there was not the shadow of a doubt that
when the boxes left Moscow each contained the full sum marked against
it in the books of the department. Danevitch saw at once that if that
was correct it proved that the robbery must have occurred in transit,
which obviously necessitated a prearranged plan of a very ingenious
nature; moreover, it pointed to the confederacy of every man, including
the gendarmes, engaged in safe-guarding the treasure. It was difficult
to believe in such a conspiracy; but on the first blush it seemed the
only rational conclusion that one could come to, otherwise the officers
and the police must have been culpably negligent of their duty to
have allowed a stranger to have walked off the boxes, leaving dummy
facsimiles in their place. However, Danevitch would express no opinion
then, although the Minister was anxious that he should do so; but it
was the detective’s invariable rule to keep his opinions to himself
until he was in a position to speak with something like certainty. As
he himself was in the habit of saying, he never prophesied until he
knew. It was a safe rule, and it saved him from many an error.

Having completed his investigations in St. Petersburg so far as he
could at that stage, he proceeded without loss of time to Moscow, where
he satisfied himself, from the evidence laid before him, that the money
really left the Moscow Treasury all right; and it was impossible the
boxes could have been exchanged between the Treasury and the station.
The treasure was conveyed in a closed waggon, which was locked and
barred, and in its passage through the city it was guarded by twelve
mounted soldiers specially told off for the duty. At the station the
waggon was backed right up to the railway-carriage, and was unpacked in
the presence of quite a little army of officials. Again, unless there
had been a huge conspiracy, the boxes could not have been abstracted
there. This narrowed the inquiry somewhat, because it made it clear
that the exchange must have been effected while the train was on its
journey between the two cities. But admitting that to be the case,
it at once suggested that the eight men, that is, the four officers
and four gendarmes, were in league together. To that, however, was
opposed the fact that the gendarmes were only told off for the duty an
hour before they started, and up to that time had had no intimation
they were going. Therefore, assuming the four clerks had prearranged
the matter, they must have corrupted the gendarmes _en route_. That,
however, was such a far-fetched theory that Danevitch would not
entertain it.

The next phase of inquiry upon which Danevitch entered was that of
ascertaining as much as possible about the four Government officials
who travelled in charge of the treasure. These inquiries elicited the
fact that they bore irreproachable characters, and were held in high
esteem in the department. Popoff was a married man with a family.
He was in receipt of a good salary, and appeared to be free from
financial worries of any kind. The same remarks applied to Basilovitch
and Strogonoff. They were both married and family men, and to all
appearances in comfortable circumstances. Briazga was unmarried, but
he was regarded as a very steady, well-to-do young fellow, and was
known to be the main support of his father, mother, and an only sister,
whose name was Olga. She was younger than her brother, and, owing to an
injury to the spine when she was a child, she had been more or less an
invalid all her life.

Danevitch realized at this stage, even as the chief of the police
predicted he would, that he was called upon to crack a very hard nut
indeed, and he did not feel confident about being able to crack it at
all. The minutest investigation had failed so far to elicit anything
that would have justified a suspicion of a conspiracy amongst the eight
men. And yet without the connivance of them all it seemed impossible
that the boxes could have been changed. But there was the indisputable
fact that they had been changed; nevertheless, there was not a single
item in the list of circumstances that supported the hypothesis of
a conspiracy. How, then, had the robbery been worked? Of course the
Treasury people, as well as everyone connected with the Finance
Department, to say nothing of the higher authorities themselves, were
in a very perturbed state of mind, for apart from the largeness of the
sum carried off, the robbery proved that, in spite of the safeguards
employed when money was being conveyed from one town to another,
there was a risk which up to that time had not been suspected. It was
decided at last by the head officials to offer a reward of ten thousand
roubles for any information that would lead to the capture of the
thieves and the recovery of the stolen money. Danevitch was opposed
to the offering of a reward, and pointed out the absurdity of it; as
he said, even supposing the whole of the eight men of the escort had
been concerned, they were not likely to betray each other for the sake
of ten thousand roubles, when they had a million to divide amongst
themselves. And if anyone else had come to know who the thieves were,
he would not be blind to the fact that he could blackmail them to the
tune of a much greater sum than ten thousand roubles to induce him
to hold his tongue. Therefore, as Danevitch anticipated, the reward
brought forth no informer. In the meantime he had been working on his
own lines, and had satisfied himself the money had been put into the
train all right at Moscow, and that, unless with the connivance of ever
so many people, the boxes could not have been changed between the St.
Petersburg station and the Treasury Office; consequently, the business
must have been done while the money was in transit between the two
towns. Further than that, it was as clear as daylight that the robbery
had been prearranged, because the facsimile boxes had been prepared
beforehand; the cord used to bind the false boxes was Government cord,
and the Government seal was so cleverly imitated that the forgery could
only be detected after close inspection. All this proved unmistakably
that there was a traitor in the camp.

In one of many interviews that Danevitch had with the Minister of
Finance, that gentleman said:

‘Danevitch, you must bring the thief to light. It is absolutely
necessary that an example should be made of him as a deterrent.
Although the loss of the money would be a serious one, we would rather
lose it than let the thief escape.’

‘I think, sir, that the thief will not escape; and it is possible, even
probable, that the money may be recovered.’

‘Have you any clue?’ asked the Minister quickly.

‘None whatever.’

‘Then, why do you speak so hopefully?’

‘Because it seems to me that sooner or later I am sure to find a clue,
and then--well, then I shall succeed in bringing the criminal to
justice.’

His belief that sooner or later he was sure to find a clue was quite
justified, although he had been doubtful at first. It was pretty clear
now, however, that the thief had an accomplice, otherwise it would
have been impossible for him to have carried out the robbery. Now,
Danevitch knew too much of human nature to suppose that two or three
men and more than likely a woman, as he shrewdly suspected, would be
able for all time to conceal the fact that they had suddenly acquired
wealth. A something would leak out--a something that would betray them
to the keen eyes that were watching for the sign. Danevitch had learnt
the great lesson of patience. He did not aim at accomplishing the
impossible, but he knew where it was a case of human ingenuity he had
the best chance, inasmuch as he was an expert in the ways of criminals.
From the moment that he had gathered up all the details of the robbery,
he had set a watch upon the movements of every one of the eight men
who had travelled with the treasure from Moscow to St. Petersburg. The
gendarmes belonged to Moscow, and had returned, but they were watched,
nevertheless; though not a movement of theirs was calculated to arouse
suspicion. The four Government officials were also watched, but no
sign came from them. But of course they knew they were being watched;
they would have been dolts indeed if they had remained in ignorance of
what everyone else knew; for Government treasure to the tune of one
million roubles could not be abstracted without causing a sensation and
setting the populace on the tip-toe of expectation and the tenter-hooks
of curiosity. The theory by which Danevitch was guided was this, that
one or more of the eight men who travelled that night when the money
was stolen between Moscow and St. Petersburg must certainly be in a
position to throw some light on the robbery. On the other hand, every
one of the eight knew for a fact, or by instinct, that he was suspected
of some complicity, consequently he would take particular care not to
do anything calculated to give emphasis to that suspicion, and justify
active legal measures being taken against him.

Although Danevitch, by reason of the eminence he had attained in his
calling and the originality of mind he had displayed in dealing with
some of the most notorious crimes of his day, was allowed more latitude
than his confrères, he was nevertheless subordinate at this time to
the chief of the police, and that functionary, having an eye to a
decoration or promotion if the mystery should be cleared up, strongly
advocated the wholesale arrest of the eight men, and flinging them into
a dungeon in the infamous fortress of Peter and Paul, or the still
more infamous Schlusselburgh in Lake Ladoga, there to remain until
misery and madness loosened their tongues. Against this inartistic and
brutal measure Danevitch set his face, and he asked to be allowed to
work out the problem in his own way. The Minister of Finance, and it
was said even the Czar himself, supported Danevitch, so that he was not
hampered with the red-tapeism of the bureau.

A month passed; no arrest had been made, and apparently not a trace of
the criminal discovered. The Treasury officers were in despair, and the
chief of the police showed a tendency to lower Danevitch from the high
standard of estimation to which he had previously elevated him. It is
true that Danevitch had many big successes credited to his score, but
even a successful man cannot afford to make a big failure. The chief
told him this, and Danevitch replied quietly:

‘I have not yet made a failure.’

‘But you have not recovered the money; you’ve brought nobody to book.’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Not yet! Are you still sanguine, then?’

‘Certainly.’

The chief laughed a little bitterly as he replied:

‘Well, perhaps it is good to be sanguine, even in a hopeless cause. It
keeps a man’s spirits up, doesn’t it?’

The chief was comparatively new to his office; that is, he had only
held it two years. He had received very rapid promotion owing to strong
influence at Court, and influence in Russia often counts a good deal
more than merit; indeed, it does in most countries. It was said that
the chief had certain friends of his own he was anxious to move into
the front rank, hence he was not averse to see Danevitch go down a bit.

About a week after this conversation between the chief and Danevitch,
an old peasant woman left St. Petersburg by the Moscow train. She did
not book to Moscow, however, but to a place called Vishni Volotchok,
about midway between the two cities. She was an uncouth, clumsy,
burly-looking woman, wearing the big mob frilled cap, the heavy
woollen wrap crossed over the breast, the short homespun linsey-woolsey
gray skirt, coarse gray stockings, and big shoes of her class. She bore
with her a ponderous basket, containing a stock of slippers, boots,
shoes and sabots, and, being a travelling pedlar, she was furnished
with an official license, a formidable-looking document, stamped and
viséd. In due course she reached her destination. Vishni Volotchok
is a small town of some importance. The station is the principal
refreshment place between St. Petersburg and Moscow, and a long wait is
generally made by the trains going and coming. The old woman’s license
having been duly examined and viséd, she was allowed to go her ways,
and soon after she proceeded to a fairly large house situated close
to the railway, and facing a road that crossed the track. It was a
detached house, built for the most part of wood. There were numerous
outbuildings--a large barn, stables, cowsheds, and similar places. It
was the residence of a landed proprietor named Ivan Golovnin. It was
almost dark when the old woman reached the house; she tried to sell
some of her wares to the servants, but was not successful. Then she
pleaded illness, and begged, as she was a stranger in the town, to be
allowed to pass the night in the barn. With true Russian hospitality,
the servants took her into the great kitchen, and made her up a bed
by the stove. As she had not recovered her health the next day, she
was allowed to remain, and, in fact, finding herself in comfortable
quarters, she stayed for three days; then she took her departure,
before doing so presenting the three principal servants with a pair of
shoes each. Being market-day, she went into the market, disposed of the
rest of her stock-in-trade, and returned at once to St. Petersburg.

It chanced that a couple of days after the old woman’s return to the
capital, Danevitch was at the Bureau of Police, having some business
to transact with the chief, who was excessively busy and excessively
bad-tempered.

‘By the way,’ said Danevitch, as he was on the point of leaving, when
he had transacted his affairs, ‘concerning the robbery of the Treasury
notes, I shall _succeed_ in bringing the criminals to justice.’

The chief glanced at the detective and smiled. It was not a smile of
satisfaction, but of doubt; and yet he knew that Danevitch had the
reputation of never speaking with anything like certainty unless he
felt absolutely sure. But the chief was somewhat sceptical; it was even
possible he was not altogether free from jealousy, knowing as he did
that Danevitch was looked upon with great favour in high quarters.

‘There’s a cocksureness in your statement,’ said the chief brusquely.
‘I suppose you’ve discovered something?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘You must pardon me, but I am not justified in disclosing even to you
at present what I know.’

The chief’s face darkened. He was aware that, though Danevitch
was nominally his subordinate, he had but little control over
him. Nevertheless, it galled him to think that he, the chief of
his department--in Russia it is a very influential and important
position--should not be considered worthy of the confidence of
Danevitch the detective, high as he was in his calling. He was weak
enough to display his chagrin, and remarked with some warmth:

‘Well, you have your own way of working, of course; and perhaps you are
right, though on the other hand you may be wrong. But since you do not
choose to take me into your confidence, and as the authorities expect
that my department will unravel the mystery, I must now inform you that
unless you produce evidence within the next twenty-four hours that you
really are on the track of the criminal or criminals, I shall take the
business out of your hands, and put it into the hands of others.’

Danevitch was not the man to be affected by any such empty threat as
this. Conscious of his own strength, and firm in the resolve to pursue
his own undeviating course, as he had done for years, uninfluenced by
jealousy, criticism, or the opinions of others, he bowed to the chief
and merely remarked:

‘If in the course of the next twenty-four hours I am in a position to
reveal anything, I will do so. If I am not you are at liberty to act
according to your own views. Permit me also to remark that, though you
are pleased to doubt my abilities, people in high quarters do not.’

This galled the chief, though he had sufficient tact to refrain from
provoking further argument, which would not only be profitless, but
beget ill-feeling, so he allowed Danevitch to withdraw.

A fortnight later a wedding was celebrated at the Church of St. Sophia.
It was rather a stylish wedding, and a good many minor Government
officials were present, principally from the Treasury office. During
that intervening fortnight Danevitch had not given any sign to the
chief that he was making progress; nor had the chief taken any steps
to put his threat into execution. Nevertheless, he had displayed some
impatience, and one day, during an interview with the Minister of
Finance, he said:

‘I am sorry, your Excellency, that we have made no progress in the
Treasury robbery business; but the fact is, Danevitch’s self-assurance
and enthusiasm somewhat misled him. He speaks confidently where he
ought to doubt, and is hopeful where other men would despair.’

‘Hopefulness is rather a good trait in his character, isn’t it? You
know the old saying, “He who despairs never succeeds.”’

‘True, your Excellency,’ answered the chief, somewhat crestfallen. ‘But
light-heartedness does not always command success.’

‘No, perhaps not; but it deserves it.’

‘Well, the fact is this, your Excellency, I am of opinion myself that
more active steps should be taken to bring the culprits to justice.
Now, we have to deal with facts, not fancies. A very ingenious robbery
has been committed, and the Treasury of the State is a heavy loser. The
thieves must still be in existence, and, being in existence, it ought
not to be beyond the ingenuity of a trained mind used to working out
criminal problems to discover where they are.’

‘I admit the force of your argument,’ answered the Minister sedately.

The chief bowed. He was pleased with himself. He believed he had made
an impression.

‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘it is most desirable that the culprits should
be brought to book, and punished in such an exemplary manner that it
would stand out as a warning for all time, and deter others who might
feel tempted to tamper with the coffers of the State. But desirable
as this is, it is even more desirable that the whole of the stolen
money should be recovered. Your Excellency, however, will readily see
that every day that passes lessens the chances of that, because the
rascals will be revelling in their ill-gotten gains, and squandering
them with the recklessness peculiar to criminals who enrich themselves
dishonestly.’

‘That is not Danevitch’s opinion,’ answered the Minister.

‘Possibly; but presumably he has no warrant for his opinion. It is a
mere expression of opinion, after all--nothing more.’

‘Let us grant that. Now, what do you suggest?’

What the chief wanted was to have all the credit for unravelling the
mystery. It meant to him promotion, and strengthening his influence in
high quarters. As matters then stood, there was no confidence between
him and Danevitch, who had so consolidated his position as to be
independent. The chief therefore suggested that Danevitch should be put
upon a case of secondary importance then occupying the attention of the
authorities, and another man of the chief’s choosing should be selected
for Danevitch’s work. This other man was a creature of the chief,
though he kept that little fact strictly to himself.

The Minister was not deceived by the specious arguments of his visitor;
nor was he so obtuse as to fail to see the jealousy and ill-will
underlying those arguments.

‘Personally, I should object to anyone else taking up the matter at
this stage,’ he said, ‘and as far as my influence goes I should use
it to prevent any change being made. For myself, I have confidence in
Danevitch. He is an able man, and until I find that my confidence is
misplaced I shall continue to believe in him.’

The chief was nonplussed, and he felt that it would be imprudent to
pursue the subject any further. He therefore took his leave. But just
as he was in the act of bowing himself out, the Minister exclaimed:

‘Oh, by the way, on Thursday next there is to be a marriage in the
Church of St. Sophia. A daughter of one of my subordinates is to wed
one Peter Golovnin, the son, as I understand, of a wealthy landed
proprietor. Curiously enough, I met Danevitch last night by chance, and
he asked me if I was going to the wedding. I told him no, I had had no
invitation; whereupon he expressed surprise that my subordinate had
not paid me the compliment of inviting me. At the moment there did not
seem to me anything out of the way in the remark, but subsequently,
on pondering over it, I could not help feeling that it was full of
significance. Danevitch had a deep motive in what he said. Have you any
idea what the motive was?’

The chief was not only utterly amazed, but deeply annoyed. He tried,
however, to conceal his annoyance, though it was very hard to do so. In
his own mind he was perfectly sure that Danevitch had a motive, though
what that motive was he could not possibly guess, and his annoyance was
occasioned by having to confess his ignorance.

‘And does your Excellency intend to go?’ he asked.

‘Well, yes, I think I shall. I fancy developments may take place.’

As the chief went away, he resolved that he, too, would be present at
St. Sophia, for he knew Danevitch too well to suppose for a moment that
his remark to the Minister of Finance was a meaningless one.

The marriage was rather a grand affair. The bridegroom was a
good-looking young man, about six or seven and twenty; but he had the
appearance of one who had led a reckless and dissipated life. There
were incipient lines in his face, and a want of brightness about the
eyes that was not good in one so young. The bride was, perhaps, two
years younger, with rather pretty features and an abundance of dark
hair. Some affection of the spine, however, had cruelly distorted
her figure, and she was twisted out of shape. Her name was Olga,
and she was the only sister of Briazga, the Government clerk in the
Finance Department, who was present during the ceremony. The Minister
of Finance was also present, thinking from Danevitch’s remark that
something was to happen. The wedding went off all right, however, and
the whole party seemed very jolly and happy, until Briazga, suddenly
espying the Minister, went up to him and, looking very confused and a
little excited, said:

‘You do us an honour, sir, by gracing the ceremony with your delightful
presence. I scarcely expected you would have been here.’

‘I suppose not,’ answered the Minister dryly; ‘but as you did not
honour me with an invitation, nor even condescend to mention that your
sister was to be married, I thought I would be a witness on my own
account.’

Briazga grew more confused, and stammered out a lame apology, adding:

‘The fact is, sir, I have endeavoured to keep the matter secret from
all except my most intimate friends, for the simple reason that, as
we are comparatively poor people, we could not afford to have much
ceremony, and I felt it was too humble an affair to ask you to come to
it. But since you have come, may I venture to hope that you will now do
us the supreme honour of joining the luncheon-party at my house?’

The Minister excused himself on the score of business engagements; but
five minutes later, when Briazga had left him, and he was going out of
the church, Danevitch came up to him.

‘I saw you talking to Briazga,’ the detective remarked.

‘Did you? Where were you? I didn’t notice you in the church.’

‘Perhaps not; but I haven’t been far off. Briazga has invited you to
the luncheon?’

‘How do you know?’ asked the Minister, in surprise.

‘I guess it.’

‘Then, you must have the power of a seer.’

‘Not at all, your Excellency. Nothing could be simpler. You being here,
your subordinate would have been guilty of an unpardonable rudeness and
affront if he had not paid you the compliment to invite you. But, of
course, it was a mere formality. He doesn’t wish and does not intend
you to go if he can prevent it.’

‘I suppose not; nor do I wish to go.’

‘But I should like you to go,’ answered Danevitch. ‘Indeed, I consider
it of some importance that you should go. A little drama may be enacted
in which you can play a part.’

The Minister looked hard at Danevitch, as if trying to read his
thoughts, and asked pointedly:

‘Do you suspect Briazga of having stolen the Treasury notes?’

‘Will you pardon me for simply saying at this moment that it would be
imprudent for me to answer your question?’

‘Will you be there?’

‘Again I must respectfully decline to answer the question.’

‘But you have an object in wishing me to be present.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘Then I will go.’

Whereupon the Minister hastily pencilled a note on a slip of paper
torn from his note-book, and sent it by one of the church attendants
to Briazga. In the note he simply said he had changed his mind, and
would do himself the pleasure of being present at the wedding-feast, as
he found he had a couple of spare hours on his hands. Danevitch moved
off, and had not got far away, when he was accosted by the chief of the
police, who remarked sarcastically:

‘I understood there were to be some developments at this wedding.’

‘From whom did you understand that?’ asked Danevitch, without any
attempt to conceal the annoyance he felt.

‘It is not necessary to mention names. I heard that you were to be
here, and the Minister of Finance was to be here. The information
was significant, so I came too. You suspect somebody amongst this
marriage-party?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Pardon me, I decline to state at the present moment.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I have no proof.’

‘You are seeking a proof, then?’

‘I am.’

‘Do you expect to find it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where and when?’

‘I cannot say. It’s problematical. A few hours will decide. As soon as
I am sure of my ground I will report to you.’

The chief recognised the uselessness of further questioning, and left,
while Danevitch withdrew into the background as the wedding-party
left the church and drove to Briazga’s house. He lived in what was
known as the English quarter, near the English quay. There were no
English living there then. Bad times and oppressive restrictions had
ruined most of them, and they had gone away. The house inhabited by
Briazga had been formerly occupied by an English merchant; it had many
conveniences and improvements not usually found in the average Russian
house. Here the Government clerk had lived very comfortably with his
father, mother, and sister Olga. The father and mother were well
advanced in years. They had a small income of their own to live upon.

Soon after the wedding-party had arrived at the house, an old woman,
a professional fortune-teller, presented herself and begged to
be admitted. There was nothing unusual in this. Vagrants of both
sexes make a good living in Russia by attending wedding-parties and
forecasting the future of the bride and bridegroom. As the Russians
are a superstitious people, they encourage these fortune-tellers, who
are feasted, and generally add to the entertainment by story and
jest. Having been treated well in the servants’ quarter, the woman was
introduced to the company. The bridegroom, who was hilarious and full
of vodka and wine, immediately presented himself to have his fortune
told; but when the woman had looked at his hand and peered into his
eyes, while the company waited in breathless expectancy, she said:

‘I cannot tell you your fortune.’

At this there was considerable laughing and jeering, and on all sides
arose the question, ‘Why, why?’

‘Oh, ladies and gentlemen,’ exclaimed the seer, ‘pray don’t laugh. I
can read all your fortunes--better, perhaps, than you would like me to
do.’

‘Then, why don’t you begin with the bridegroom?’ was asked by several.
‘He is anxious to know what is before him.’

‘Good; it shall be told,’ answered the woman sharply. ‘Give me a pack
of cards.’

The pack of cards was brought. She spread the cards on the table in
several rows. Next she shifted them about, and placed them in squares
and circles, and all the time the company gathered round and waited in
eager expectancy for what was coming. Presently the woman jumbled the
cards up together, then repacked them and told the bridegroom to cut
them four times, and the bride three. That done, the fortune-teller
seemed absorbed in some abstruse calculation as she slowly sorted the
cards out in four rows.

‘You are a precious long time,’ exclaimed the bridegroom irritably. ‘It
strikes me you are a humbug.’

‘Patience, patience,’ murmured the woman. ‘There is something wrong
about the cards. They won’t come right.’

‘Because you don’t understand them,’ suggested somebody.

‘Possibly; but patience, patience; I shall understand them directly.
Ah! I see something now. It’s strange, very strange!’

The curiosity and interest of the company were fully aroused by the
mysterious manner of the old woman, who seemed deeply absorbed in what
she was doing; but Briazga was annoyed, and he called out:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, let us stop this nonsense. The woman is an
impostor, and is only wasting our time, which can be more joyfully and
pleasurably employed. It is an auspicious occasion, this, and we don’t
want it marred by any unpleasant incident. Let us banish the woman to
the kitchen.’

At these words the old fortune-teller drew herself up with a certain
dignity, and remarked:

‘It is customary for my people to be kindly and hospitably entertained
at these festive gatherings; and I myself have the reputation of being
a most successful fortune-teller; it is not my fault now that the cards
will not come right. But I read certain things about the bridegroom
which I am sure he would like to know. Say, shall I proceed?’

The bridegroom himself answered.

‘Certainly,’ he exclaimed, and there was a curious look on his
wine-flushed face. ‘I want to know my future; let the woman go on.’

Briazga appeared to be very greatly irritated, but as there arose
a murmured assent from the assembly he yielded to the evident
desire of his guests, who now crowded round the table and urged the
fortune-teller to rearrange the cards. This she did, and having laid
them out again in five rows, she uttered an ejaculatory ‘Ah!’ and after
a pause added:

‘It is better; but still there is a block somewhere. Can you,
sir’--this to the bridegroom--‘place on the table five thousand rouble
notes? That will perhaps break the spell.’

It was a common thing for these fortune-tellers to request that small
sums of money might be produced; but five thousand roubles was a large
sum, and there was a general murmur of surprise, while Briazga appeared
to be particularly uneasy and troubled. He was trying to push his way
through the crowd to get at his brother-in-law, for there was such a
hubbub and din of voices that he could not make himself heard; but
before he succeeded in accomplishing his purpose, Peter Golovnin, with
a boastful air and a drunken leer on his red face, pulled from his
pocket a leather wallet, which, on opening, was found to be stuffed
full of notes. With an unsteady hand he proceeded to count out five
notes of the value of one thousand roubles each. Having done so, he
laid the notes upon the table, and once more there was breathless
silence as the company craned their necks in their eagerness to see
what the old woman would now do. The bridegroom himself seemed the
least concerned of anyone, and, with a coarse, drunken laugh, remarked:

‘I suppose the old fool thought I did not possess so much money. It
shows what an impostor she is, otherwise she would have been able to
tell you exactly how much I have in my wallet. However, let her go on,
and if she fails this time I will kick her out.’

The fortune-teller seemed in no ways affected by the threat, but busied
herself in rearranging the cards. She spread out the five bank-notes.
On each of four she placed a knave from the pack, and on the fifth she
put a queen. Suspicious eyes watched her every movement, as more than
one person present was of opinion that she wanted to purloin the money
by some hanky-panky business.

‘There is a lot of knavery here,’ she remarked thoughtfully. ‘The
queen, as you will see, is the victim of knaves, and I am afraid will
come to grief.’

‘Who does the queen represent?’ asked someone.

‘The bride,’ answered the fortune-teller.

At this there was a strong murmur of disapproval, and the bridegroom,
with an angry cry, put out his hand to sweep up the notes, but the
woman, quicker than he, gathered them in a heap, and said sternly:

‘Do not touch them for a moment, or you will break the spell.’ Then
suddenly she snatched them up, and exclaimed: ‘These notes are forged
ones. That accounts for my difficulty.’

This was the signal for a general uproar, and the company, believing
that the woman wished to steal the money, seized her, and she would
have been roughly handled had she not shaken herself free, and
energetically forced her way to the Minister of Finance, who was
present, and, thrusting the notes into his hand, said:

‘Sir, I know you; you are the Minister of Finance. Look at those
notes. They are forged! I give them into your keeping. No man has a
right to have false notes in his possession. You, sir, as an officer
of the State, have it in your power to demand an explanation. Ask the
bridegroom, your Excellency, why he carries forged notes in his purse.’

The Minister took the notes, though he seemed distressed and puzzled.

‘The wretched hag lies!’ thundered the bridegroom. ‘The notes are
perfectly good. My brother-in-law, if he respects me and the good name
of his family, and loves his sister, my wife, will order his servants
to whip this lying fortune-teller, who has broken up our party and
destroyed our pleasure.’

There was a disposition on the part of some of those present to act on
the suggestion made, and subject the old woman to rough treatment; but
the Minister, holding up his hand in a deprecatory manner, said:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, control yourselves, please. Keep quiet. The
woman is quite right. These notes are not genuine ones. But no doubt
Mr. Golovnin can offer some explanation as to how they came into his
possession.’

‘Yes,’ cried Golovnin excitedly. ‘They were given to me by my father,
and I cannot believe they are false. If they are, then he himself has
been cheated, and it will break his heart.’

‘That the notes are not genuine, there can be no possible doubt,’
said the Minister gravely; ‘and that you or your father should
be in possession of forged notes representing so large a sum is
extraordinary.’

‘I pray you return them to me,’ wailed the bridegroom, looking very
sorrowful and sad, while his trembling bride stood beside him the
picture of puzzled distress. She seemed scarcely able to realize
the situation, and her tearful eyes wandered from her husband to
her brother, and from him to the Minister of Finance, as if in dumb
entreaty to clear the mystery up, and not mar the pleasure of her
wedding-day. But the Minister, although not there in any judicial
position, clearly recognised that, as a servant of the State, he had a
duty to perform, and, despite the painfulness of the situation in which
he thus found himself, he felt forced to that duty.

‘I cannot return the notes,’ he said gravely, ‘and I must ask you to
let me examine the other notes in your wallet.’

At this request, Golovnin pulled out his pocket-book without the
slightest hesitation, and, producing a packet of notes, handed
them--with the air of a man conscious of his own rectitude--to the
Minister, who, having subjected them to a close scrutiny, pronounced
them to be forgeries also.

The company were startled by this into a united cry of astonishment and
alarm, while the unhappy bride, with a low moan, fell to the floor in a
swoon.

‘Surely, sir, there is some mistake,’ suggested Briazga, pallid and
pale as a corpse.

‘Of course it’s a mistake,’ shouted the bridegroom; ‘his Excellency is
wrong--entirely wrong. It is impossible the notes can be forged. I am
sure they are genuine.’

‘Briazga,’ said the Minister sternly, ‘you have been handling notes
long enough in the Treasury to be able to tell a genuine one from a
false one. Look at these, and give me your honest opinion.’

The Minister placed the notes on the table. Briazga took them up with
a trembling hand one by one, and examined them, holding them to the
light, and subjecting them to other tests, while the amazed guests
held their breath in anxious suspense, as they waited for his verdict.
Slowly and deliberately, notwithstanding that he was suffering from
intense nervous emotion, Briazga went through the notes one by one,
while his superior watched him intently and curiously. At last, when he
had finished his task, he said:

‘Sir, I am forced to confess that every note there is nothing more than
a clever imitation. But my brother-in-law must surely be the dupe of a
knavish trick. The matter is capable of explanation.’

‘It must certainly be investigated,’ answered the Minister. ‘It is far
too serious to be lightly passed over. I shall have to carry the notes
away, and consult with the authorities as to the steps to be taken.’

‘Stay,’ exclaimed the bridegroom, with a pitiful wail of despair; ‘this
may mean for me utter and irretrievable ruin. Remember, sir, it is my
wedding-day, and my ruin involves also the ruin, and perhaps the death,
of my wife, who has been my wife not yet a day; to say nothing of the
ruin, dishonour, disgrace of those near and dear to me. Let me beseech
of you, therefore, to delay taking any action until I myself have made
inquiries. I am convinced--absolutely convinced--there is some hideous
mistake somewhere. I am the victim of a cowardly trick. I will swear
on oath that when I left home the notes I put into my pocket were good
ones. Is it not possible that the hag of a fortune-teller has brought
this about by her devilish art?’

At this everybody looked to see where the ‘hag’ was, but she had made
herself invisible. In the hubbub and confusion consequent on the
discovery that the notes were forged, she had managed to slip away
unperceived, and had left the house.

‘I regret very much indeed,’ answered the Minister, ‘that such an
unhappy affair as this should have occurred on your wedding-day; but it
is far too grave a circumstance for me to adopt the course you suggest.
In fact, I should not be justified in doing so. I repeat, I have a duty
to perform, and I must do it, however unpleasant the consequences may
be. Of course, as you say, the matter is capable of explanation, and
any explanation you may offer will receive due attention; but a very
serious official inquiry will have to be made, and the origin of these
notes must be traced.’

With a dignified bow to the dumfounded company, the Minister passed
out of the room and left the house, carrying the notes with him. On
reaching his official residence, he found a letter waiting for him. It
was from Danevitch, and read as follows:

  ‘YOUR EXCELLENCY,

  ‘I am suddenly called away from St. Petersburg, but shall be back in
  three days’ time. I am happy to say I can restore the whole of the
  stolen notes to the Treasury. I hope your Excellency enjoyed yourself
  at the house of Briazga on the occasion of the wedding-feast.’

The Minister was a little mystified by this letter; and though he
knew that Danevitch was not the man to make a rash statement, he sent
for the chief of the police and questioned him. But that worthy had
to confess that he himself was no less mystified. He said some harsh
things about Danevitch, and even went so far as to express some doubt
whether Danevitch was capable of fulfilling his undertaking to restore
the whole of the stolen money.

‘I’ve faith in Danevitch,’ said the Minister. ‘What he says he means;
and though he puzzles me very much, I feel certain that all will come
right in the end.’

The chief had no answer to this, so he simply bowed and took his leave.

True to his promise, Danevitch returned to St. Petersburg in three
days’ time, and, to the amazement of the officials and all concerned,
he duly delivered to the Treasury the whole of the missing million
roubles, and was enabled to lay such information before the authorities
that Briazga and Ivan and Peter Golovnin were immediately arrested.

Ivan Golovnin lived at Vishni Volotchok, where he owned some property.
He was an old man, and had been married twice. By his first wife he had
had a large family, and they were nearly all scattered. By his second
wife he had one son, Peter. This young fellow had been a managing clerk
in a fur store in St. Petersburg, and had known Briazga’s family some
years. Olga Briazga had fallen desperately in love with him, but her
deformity prevented him reciprocating her passion. Between Olga and
her brother an extraordinary affection existed--an affection unusual
even between brother and sister. He idolized her; and when he saw she
was breaking her heart about Peter, and that her life was in danger,
he told Peter he would enrich him if he would marry her. From this a
conspiracy was hatched, in which Briazga, Peter and Peter’s father
joined interests. The old man was induced to enter into it for his
son’s sake. It was prearranged that when Briazga was next engaged
in the duty of conveying treasure from Moscow to St. Petersburg, an
attempt should be made to purloin some of it; but from the first he
gave his co-conspirators distinctly to understand that, while he would
do all he possibly could to assist them, he would not keep a single
rouble himself. The opportunity came at last with the removal of
treasure from Moscow. Briazga knew a week beforehand that he would be
employed upon the duty, and he also knew what money would be removed.
Everything, therefore, seemed to favour him, and he lost no time in
communicating the intelligence to the Golovnins. Peter at once set to
work to prepare two facsimile boxes, and to fill them with paper, the
whole being the exact weight of the Government boxes when filled with
a million’s worth of rouble notes. The Government cord and the forged
seal were supplied by Briazga. The train conveying the treasure stopped
for a long time at Vishni Volotchok, that being a buffet station where
passengers usually dined or supped. The night of the robbery happened
to be very dark and very hot. On arriving at Vishni Volotchok, the
treasure escort went four at a time to the buffet to eat and drink.
Briazga was included in the first four. When they had finished they
relieved the other four; but the night being sultry, Briazga’s party
sauntered about the platform smoking, the door of the treasure waggon
being locked. On the plea of getting some tobacco, Briazga returned to
the waggon; he was not absent more than ten minutes--indeed, not so
long; but during the time he was enabled to open the off-side door with
a secret key, and to hand out the two boxes to Peter, who was lying
in wait with the dummies. Thus was the robbery cleverly committed,
as proved by the evidence twisted and wormed out of the culprits
themselves by the inquisitorial nature of the Russian law.

The sequel of the remarkable story has yet to be told. When Danevitch
took the matter up, he came to the conclusion after a time that the
robbery had taken place at Vishni Volotchok. There were numerous and
obvious reasons for that conclusion. It was no less obvious that
one or more of the eight persons composing the escort must have had
some hand in the robbery. He soon determined in his own mind that
the gendarmes were guiltless. This reduced the suspects to the four
Government officials. Now, assuming that the deduction was a correct
one, it was no less clear that there must have been a confederate at
Vishni Volotchok; so Danevitch set to work to find out which of the
officials had any connection with that place, and he soon ascertained
that the Briazgas and the Golovnins were acquainted. That stage of the
inquiry reached, he began to feel that he would ultimately succeed in
unravelling the mystery. The means that he employed to track down his
quarry Danevitch was careful never to make public, for very obvious
reasons, but he had a habit of setting them forth fully in his diary,
and from that source I am able to give them here.

It was known almost throughout Russia that this remarkable man had a
protean-like faculty for changing his appearance. He could so alter his
voice and features that, in combination with change of dress, he could
defy detection even by those who were well acquainted with him. His
most favourite disguise was that of an old woman, whom he could imitate
to the life. In the character of a female, therefore, he penetrated
into the Golovnins’ home. He found, by close watching, that Peter made
frequent journeys backwards and forwards between the house and a small
plantation of firs, about a quarter of a mile away. As there was no
apparent reason why the young man should go to the plantation so often,
Danevitch was induced to search it, with the result that he found
the two stolen boxes artfully concealed in an old quarry, which was
almost entirely hidden by creepers and brambles. The boxes had been
opened, but the contents were intact. This find was a great triumph for
Danevitch, but his work was far from complete. It was necessary that he
should spread a net that would capture all the culprits, and he carried
this out with singular ingenuity. That one or both of the Golovnins
had had a hand in the robbery was pretty evident, but others must also
have been concerned, and they might escape if caution was not observed.
When he ascertained that Peter Golovnin and Olga Briazga were on the
eve of marriage, the plot seemed to make itself clear to him, and when
he gained entrance to the marriage-feast in the rôle of fortune-teller,
his triumph was complete. In the boxes hidden in the wood at Vishni
Volotchok he had placed a large number of cleverly imitated notes,
taking the genuine ones away. The imitations had been lying at one of
the police bureaus for a very long time. They had been seized on the
premises of a notorious note-forger. Danevitch was sure that Peter
Golovnin, the bridegroom, would liberally supply himself with money
from the boxes for his marriage, and if the forged notes were found in
his possession, the evidence would be overwhelming.

It remains to say that the guilt was brought home to all concerned.
They were condemned to death, as they had committed a crime against the
State, but the sentence was commuted to banishment for life to Siberia.
Poor Olga Briazga, whose love for Peter Golovnin had been the cause of
the crime, accompanied her unhappy husband to Northern Siberia, where
he was doomed to pass the first ten years of his sentence.



A MODERN BORGIA.


During his long and remarkable career, Danevitch was called upon to
solve problems of a very varied nature, and, while his efforts were not
always crowned with success--and he never hesitates in his journals to
confess his failures--the percentage of his triumphs was very large.
Necessarily, of course, his work lay amongst the by-ways and alleys of
life, so to speak; for so long as there are crimes and criminals--and
that will be as long as the world lasts--men must be found who will
endeavour to lessen the one and bring the other to book. In his own
particular way, Danevitch was a genius; and it almost seemed sometimes
as if Nature had endowed him with an eighth sense, for he saw and
grasped points which no one else could see. Although a born detective,
there are many other callings in which he might have risen to eminence,
notably that of the stage. He was a perfect actor, and his powers of
mimicry and of changing his expression and personal appearance were
little short of marvellous. He could with ease assume the rôle of an
ambassador or a peasant market woman, and he possessed to a remarkable
degree the faculty of patience, which is indispensable to anyone who
wishes to distinguish himself in the detective’s art. Moreover, he was
well educated, and a fluent linguist, and these accomplishments helped
him immensely. In referring to the case which I am now about to relate,
he himself speaks of it as ‘a remarkable and complicated one,’ which
all but baffled him; and he cites it as an example of the depths of
depravity to which human nature is capable of descending.

It appeared that one summer night Colonel Ignatof, who was in command
of an infantry regiment of the line, temporarily stationed in Moscow,
returned to his barracks after being out all the evening, and,
complaining of being very ill, ordered that the regimental doctor
should be immediately sent for. From the time that the order was given
to the arrival of the doctor in the commanding officer’s room not more
than ten minutes elapsed. But during that short space the Colonel had
vomited violently, and the doctor found him lying on the bed, cold,
pallid, and collapsed. The soldier-servant who was with him said that
his master had suffered awfully, and had described his feelings as if
a fire was raging in his inside. The doctor administered remedies,
which so far had a good effect that the patient rallied, and on being
asked if he could account for his sudden illness--he had always been
an exceedingly robust and healthy man--he faintly murmured that he
believed it was attributable to some iced fish soup (a favourite
Russian dish), of which he had partaken freely. He thought it probable
that the fish from which the soup had been concocted were not quite
fresh. It seemed a natural supposition, for the intense heat of the
short Russian summer makes it very difficult to keep meat and fish
fresh for many hours.

He was next asked where he had partaken of the soup, but before he
could give an answer he was again seized with violent retching. When
the spasm had passed, he collapsed once more, and all the remedies that
were tried failed to restore him. He continued, however, to breathe for
two hours, and then died. As the symptoms from which the unfortunate
man had suffered were identical with those set up by irritant poison,
an order was received that a post-mortem examination was to be made. In
due course this order was carried out, and resulted in the discovery
that death was due to an irritant poison that had set up violent
inflammation of the stomach. This seemed to be quite consistent
with the unfortunate man’s own theory that his illness was due to
unwholesome soup.

The fish soup is a very common dish in Russia. It is made from various
kinds of fish boiled to a pulp. It is then highly seasoned, thickened
with rich, luscious cream; a quantity of olive-oil is next added,
and the mess is iced until it is nearly frozen. It is a singularly
seductive dish, but only those who have strong stomachs can stand it.
As it is only partaken of in the summer, great care has to be exercised
that the fish is quite fresh. Any carelessness in this respect is apt
to produce serious illness. The peasantry, who cannot afford cream,
and enrich the soup with large quantities of inferior oil, often
suffer severely, and not infrequently die, after a hearty meal of this
national soup, for as often as not the fish used is stale, and, as most
people know, decaying fish is a virulent poison.

It was a knowledge of these facts which no doubt led the medical men
to jump to the conclusion that the Colonel’s death was entirely due to
the soup, a conclusion that seemed quite justified by what the dying
man himself had said. Some attempt was made to discover where he had
dined, but as this was not successful, the doctors certified that the
deceased had died from internal inflammation after partaking of soup
which was probably not fresh. Here the matter ended. The dead man was
buried with military pomp and ceremony, and many eulogies were uttered
over his grave. It was known amongst his intimate friends that he was
a married man, but owing to ‘incompatibility’ he and his wife had long
lived apart. All his effects he left by will to a nephew named Peter
Baranoff, who was a Captain in an artillery regiment, which was also
stationed in Moscow.

It was generally supposed that Colonel Ignatof was well off, if not
wealthy, but it became known after his death that he died worth very
little. This gave rise to much gossip, and it was more than hinted that
he had squandered his means and substance on a certain lady to whom he
had been greatly attached. However, these little incidents were not so
rare as to cause any great surprise, and the Colonel and his affairs
were soon forgotten, and the world went on as usual. Colonel Ignatof
had been in his grave about twelve months, when Moscow was furnished
with another sensation. Although he had died poor, relatively, his
nephew had got something like three thousand pounds, besides a fair
amount of jewellery, some plate, books, and other odds and ends. The
young fellow had never been very steady, and after his uncle’s death
launched out into excesses which brought him under the notice of his
superiors; and he was warned that he would have to regulate his conduct
a little better or he might be called upon to resign his commission,
as his name was mixed up with a good many scandals, and there had been
much talk about certain gambling debts he had incurred and was unable
to meet. However, an unexpected and effective stop was put to his
‘goings on,’ and set everybody talking again.

Late one night a man was picked up near one of the gates of the Kremlin
wall in a state of unconsciousness, and was conveyed by a police patrol
to the nearest station-house, as the natural inference was that he was
intoxicated. He was speedily identified as Captain Peter Baranoff, from
cards and letters found in his pockets. Within half an hour of his
admission his symptoms had become so serious as to cause alarm, and
it was deemed advisable to communicate with the military authorities.
No time was lost in doing this, but before any instructions could be
received Baranoff collapsed, and within an hour of his admission he was
dead, in spite of all the efforts made to restore him to consciousness
and prolong his life.

The case, as may be supposed, surrounded with mystery as it was,
caused an immense sensation. The deceased man’s social position, his
connection with the army, and the financial difficulties in which it
was thought he was involved, removed the matter out of the sphere of
an ordinary affair, and it was the ‘talk of the town.’ As no reason
could be assigned for his premature decease, an autopsy was made, and
it was then found that, as in his uncle’s case, there was violent
inflammation of the coats of the stomach and the intestinal track.
In the stomach itself were the remains of some half-digested morsels
of fish; and it was also made evident that a little while before
his death the deceased had partaken freely of vodka. This led to
the supposition--which was probably correct--that intoxication was
accountable for the unconscious condition in which he was found; but
intoxication would not account for his death. He was a young fellow of
splendid physique, and none of the organs were diseased. His death,
therefore, was not due to any natural cause; and after some discussion
amongst the medical men, it was decided to certify that he had died
from eating impure food, which, by its poisonous action, had set up
inflammation, which had been much aggravated by the vodka. Of course,
there was a good deal of curiosity to know where he had spent the
evening, and how it was he should have been wandering alone outside
of the Kremlin until he fell unconscious. The inference was that
he had been revelling with friends at one or other of the numerous
haunts which abound in Moscow, and which often lure young men to their
destruction. Some attempt was made to trace his movements on the
evening of his death; but all the attempt resulted in was that it was
proved he left his quarters between six and seven. He was in private
clothes, and he incidentally mentioned to a friend that he was going to
the opera, and afterwards intended to sup with a lady acquaintance. He
did go to the opera, but left early--that is, before ten o’clock. From
that time until he was picked up unconscious later there was a blank
that could not be filled in.

Strangely enough, at this time there was no suspicion of foul play.
That he should die in a similar manner to his uncle was considered
rather remarkable, but there the surprise ended. But within a week
of the burial a sharp-eyed and thoughtful medical student, who was
pursuing his studies in the great college at Moscow, addressed a few
lines to the _Moscow Gazette_, in which he ventured to suggest that the
doctors who examined Baranoff’s body had failed in their duty in not
causing a chemical analysis to be made of the contents of the deceased
man’s stomach; and he advanced the opinion that both Baranoff and his
uncle had been wilfully done to death.

At first this idea was laughed at. It was spoken of as being
‘ridiculous,’ and the suspicion of foul play utterly unjustified. In a
few hours, however, public opinion changed. It would be difficult to
tell why, unless on the hypothesis that a new sensation was wanted.
A clamour arose, and grave doubts were thrown upon the doctors’
judgment. Now, in Russia public opinion has not the weight that it has
in England, and the popular voice is often stifled whenever it begins
to grow a little too loud. But in this case there were certain details
which lent a good deal of weight to the suspicion of foul play; and in
official quarters, after much discussion, it was considered advisable
that some notice should be taken of it. Probably it would have been
otherwise but for the seeming fact that the medical men had done their
duty in a very perfunctory way, and had not been at sufficient pains to
establish the accuracy of the conclusion they came to from what they
saw during their scientific investigations. It was pointed out that
all the symptoms exhibited by the two men were quite compatible with
the suggestions of drug-poisoning; that the theory that both met their
end through inadvertently partaking of stale fish was so remarkable a
coincidence that it could not be regarded as a commonplace matter; and
that in the interest of justice, no less than of science, some further
investigation should be permitted.

In the end an official order was issued that Baranoff’s body should
be exhumed, and the usual means taken to test, by the aid of chemical
knowledge, whether or not the deceased man came by death through an
accident, through natural causes, or as the victim of foul play.
In order to leave nothing to be desired in the way of research, a
Professor of Chemistry, who stood at the very top of the profession,
was instructed to make the analysis. This he did, with the result that
he came to the conclusion that the deceased had met his death from
a strong dose of black hellebore. As soon as the authorities were
informed of the result of the analysis, they had Colonel Ignatof’s body
taken up and subjected to chemical examination. And in this instance
also the Professor declared that death had been brought about by black
hellebore.

At this period black hellebore was by no means a well-known poison
outside the medical profession, and the average doctor was perhaps
quite ignorant of the morbid symptoms it set up in the human subject
when a fatal dose was administered. It is classed amongst what is
known as the true narcotico-acrids, and bears the botanical name
of _Helleborus niger_, and is familiar to the general public as
the Christmas rose. Few people, however, who admire the beautiful
rose-tinted flowers of the Christmas rose, which serve to enliven the
house in the gloomy winter months, have any idea how deadly a poison
can be extracted from its roots and leaves. Its active principle,
according to chemists, is an oily matter containing an acid. Its
effects on the human being are violent retching and vomiting, delirium,
convulsions, and intense internal pains. These symptoms generally
appear in from an hour to two hours after the fatal dose is swallowed,
and death usually results in about six hours. If administered in
alcohol or food of any kind, no suspicion is aroused on the part of
the person who takes it, as the taste is quite disguised. The morbid
appearances produced in the human body are inflammation of the stomach,
the digestive canal, and particularly the great intestines. Poisonous
fish or food of any kind almost will produce these symptoms. Therefore
the medical men who certified that Colonel Ignatof and his nephew,
Captain Baranoff, both died from the effects of impure fish used for
soup were misled, and jumped to too hasty a conclusion. Some excuse
would be found for them, however, in the fact that the effects of
hellebore were not as well known then as now; at any rate, not in
Russia. And as the Colonel’s own dying opinion was that his illness
was due to the iced fish soup he had partaken of, it was perhaps
pardonable, all the other circumstances considered, that the doctors
should have been put upon a false scent, and it is pretty certain that
but for the medical student’s letter to the _Moscow Gazette_, which
sounded the alarm, no suspicion of foul play would have been aroused.

Like most vegetable poisons, hellebore is difficult to detect, and it
can only be discovered in the dead body by means of the most delicate
tests. The chemical Professor who was charged with the important duty
of examining the remains of Ignatof and Baranoff had made toxicology
an especial study, and he had given particular attention to the very
large class of vegetable poisons, having travelled for this purpose in
various countries. He stood at the head of his profession in Russia,
and it was owing to his skill and care, and the technical knowledge he
brought to bear, that he was enabled, beyond all doubt, to establish
the fact that the two subjects he was charged to examine were the
victims of poison.

So much having been determined, the question was mooted whether or
not the poison had been administered wilfully or accidentally. The
theory of accident was at once negatived. It was like an outrage on
common-sense to ask anyone to believe that two men, related to each
other, should each die within a year from precisely the same cause. The
coincidence was too remarkable to be admitted as probable; therefore
the matter resolved itself into murder--it was an ugly word, and all
the incidents suggested a tragedy of no ordinary kind. The case was
placed in the hands of the chief of police, who was instructed to use
every means possible to unravel the mystery. An attempt was at once
made to trace the movements of the two men for some hours before their
death. In the Colonel’s case this was not an easy matter, as he had
been dead for a year; but it was discovered that Captain Baranoff
called on a friend of his--a civilian named Alexander Vlassovsky, who
lived in a villa just on the fringe of the town--and they went together
to a café-restaurant, where they dined. After dinner they played
billiards for a short time, when they separated, as Vlassovsky had an
assignation with a lady. He did not know where Baranoff was going to.
He did not ask him, and the Captain volunteered no information. It was
proved, however, that he went to the opera, and left about ten. It was
stated most positively that when Baranoff quitted the café he was in
the pink of health, and in most excellent spirits. Some hours later he
was found in a state of unconsciousness outside of the Kremlin walls.
It followed, therefore, if the story about the café was correct--and
there was no reason to doubt it--that Baranoff must have partaken of
the fatal dose a short time before he was discovered, for the action
of the poison is very rapid. From the time, however, of his leaving to
the time he was discovered unconscious all remained a blank. Nothing
could be ascertained of his movements. It was obvious that wherever
he had been to, or whoever were the people he had been with, somebody
had an interest in keeping his movements dark, as the efforts of the
police quite failed to elicit any information. It was the same in the
Colonel’s case, and no one could discover where he had been to on the
fatal night. Moscow is a large city, honeycombed with evil haunts;
crime flourishes there to a greater extent than in any other town or
city in the whole of Russia. It has been the scene of very many deeds
of violence, for blackguardism is rampant, and numerous are the traps
for the unwary. Its population is perhaps more varied than that of any
other city of the world. Here may be seen cut-throats from the Levant;
fishermen and sailors from the Baltic; Circassians, Cossacks, Tartars,
Persians, Bokharians, Georgians, Greeks, and Jews of almost every
nationality. It may be imagined that in such a place, and amongst such
a heterogeneous collection of humanity, wickedness of every description
finds a congenial soil. Notwithstanding that, Moscow is known to all
Russians as ‘The Holy City,’ and a devout Russian, who pins his faith
to the Russo-Greek Church, regards Moscow with the same veneration that
a Mohammedan looks upon Mecca.

After several weeks of fruitless effort to solve the mystery in which
the deaths of Colonel Ignatof and his nephew was involved, the police
had to confess themselves baffled. It seemed pretty evident that both
men had been cruelly done to death by the hand of an assassin. But
whose was the hand that committed the deed, and the motive for it,
could not be ascertained.

It was at this stage of the proceedings that a request was made to
Michael Danevitch--who was then in St. Petersburg--to come through
to Moscow, and endeavour to solve the mystery. He complied with the
request, and at once waited upon General Govemykin, the military
governor of the city, by the General’s special desire.

‘I want you,’ said the General, ‘to use every means that your skill
can suggest to clear up the mystery surrounding the deaths of Colonel
Ignatof and Captain Baranoff. Both these gentlemen were murdered; of
that there seems to be no doubt; and the murderers must be brought to
book. During the last few years a good many soldiers have lost their
lives in this city by foul play, and in several instances justice has
gone unsatisfied. Now two officers, men of unblemished reputation and
good social position, are killed by the same means, and yet the police
are unable to bring the crime home to anyone. It seems to me that it is
little short of disgraceful that the police supervision of a city like
this is so deficient.’

‘Is it deficient?’ asked Danevitch.

‘Yes; otherwise, how is it officers and gentlemen can be brutally done
to death and the murderers escape?’

‘As far as I gather, this is no ordinary crime,’ remarked Danevitch.

‘Well, perhaps not; but it shows a weakness in the organization when
our police fail to get the slightest clue to the perpetrator of the
crime. Now, what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Danevitch answered, as brusquely as the General asked
the question.

‘If you don’t know, what is the use of your taking the matter in hand?’

‘Pardon me, General, but I am not a prophet, therefore I cannot
foretell what I am going to do.’

‘Well, no, perhaps not; but you must have some idea of the lines you
intend to proceed upon.’

‘I shall simply try to succeed where the police have failed.’

‘And you may fail, too,’ exclaimed the General, who was a little piqued
by Danevitch’s brusqueness.

‘Oh, that is very likely,’ was the answer.

‘If you do, I’ll take some other and more drastic means to solve the
problem. Officers and men under my control shall not be done to death
with impunity.’

Danevitch was not affected by this display of temper, and when the
subject had been exhausted he withdrew. He recognised that the case was
a difficult one, and, in view of the fact that the police had exhausted
all their efforts, he was by no means sanguine, although he was of
the opinion that the ordinary methods of the Russian police were very
clumsy, and, in their eagerness to lay their hands on somebody, and
their fossilized belief that the whole populace was ever engaged in
some deep and dark conspiracy against constituted authority, they often
committed the most ludicrous errors. He never hesitated to condemn
the police methods of his country. He described them as inartistic,
unscientific, and brutal. His outspokenness on this score made him very
unpopular with the police, and they did not like him to have anything
to do with cases in which they had failed. It is needless to say this
did not disturb him. He had an independent mind; he worked by his own
methods, and he never allowed himself to be influenced by jealousy or
ill-will.

His first step in connection with Colonel Ignatof’s death was to try
and get hold of his private letters and papers, as he was of opinion
that they might furnish him with a keynote; but he was informed that
private documents of all kinds belonging to the Colonel had passed into
the possession of his nephew, and when the nephew died all his papers
were secured by his executor, who declined to allow them to be seen by
anyone until he himself had gone through them; for, though he did not
give it as his reason, he was afraid of anything becoming known that
might cause a family scandal. Danevitch next sought an interview with
Alexander Vlassovsky, with whom Captain Baranoff had dined on the night
he met his death.

Vlassovsky was a fashionable young man, and lived in what was known
as the Slobodi quarter, where most of the wealthy merchants had
their villas. The business he carried on in the city was that of a
stockbroker, and, judging from his surroundings and the style he kept
up, he was in a flourishing way. He was a bachelor, and made no secret
about it that he was fond of gaiety.

According to the account he gave, he had been acquainted with Baranoff
for a long time, and had lent him considerable sums of money to enable
him to keep up his extravagances; for though Baranoff’s people were
people of note, and exceedingly proud, they were not rich. At any rate,
the young man was not able to get much from them, and his pay as a
Captain was too small to enable him to uphold the position he aspired
to. Of course, his financial transactions with Vlassovsky had been kept
very secret, for had they become known to the military authorities, he
would have got into serious trouble.

It will thus be seen that the relations between the young men were
those of borrower and lender. They were not friends in the ordinary
sense. Indeed, Vlassovsky remarked to Danevitch with some bitterness:

‘You know, like most young officers, he was as proud as Lucifer, and
seemed to think I was not his equal; though he was never averse to dine
with me and drink wine at my expense.’

‘Why did he come to you on the night of his death?’

‘To borrow money.’

‘Did you lend him any?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Two hundred roubles.’

‘What security did he give you for the various sums you lent him?’

‘Nothing beyond his acknowledgment.’

‘And you were satisfied with that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, if he had failed me at any time, I could have reported him to
the military authorities, and that would have been his ruin.’

‘But you never had occasion to do that?’

‘No, certainly not.’

‘Did he ever pay you back any of the money he borrowed?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Where did he get the money from to pay his debts?’

‘How can I tell you that? He did not make me his confidant.’

‘Did he owe you much at the time of his death?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Nearly ten thousand roubles.’

‘That is a large sum! I suppose you will lose it?’

‘Oh dear no!’

‘Why? Did he die worth money?’

‘His life was insured for ten thousand. I hold the policy and a letter
from him to the effect that, should he die before paying me my due, I
was to receive the policy money.’

‘Have you any idea where he spent his last evening, after leaving you?’

‘It is known that he went to the opera, because some acquaintances saw
him there.’

‘But after that?’

‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’

‘Do you know nothing of his affairs of gallantry?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘You think, however, that he had lady acquaintances?’

‘I should say there isn’t a doubt about it. He was wild.’

‘And possibly his death was due to jealousy on the part of a rival?’

‘Very possibly.’

‘Did you know his uncle?’

‘I did.’

‘Did you accommodate him with money?’

‘Yes, occasionally.’

‘Was he in your debt when he died?’

‘No; he paid me all he owed me a little while before his death.’

‘Have you any theory to suggest with reference to the deaths of these
two gentlemen?’

‘None whatever.’

‘Were you very much surprised when you heard of the strange way in
which they both died?’

‘I can’t say that I was.’

‘Why were you not?’ asked Danevitch quickly.

‘In the first place, I didn’t know they had been murdered.’

‘But when you did?’

‘Then I thought they had made themselves obnoxious to somebody, and the
somebody had put them out of the way.’

‘And yet you have no idea who that somebody is?’

‘No.’

Danevitch stopped his questioning at this point. As he left the house
of Alexander Vlassovsky he was of opinion he had ‘struck a trail’--to
quote his own words--and he began to think out the ways and means of
proving whether he was right or wrong.

In a semi-fashionable quarter of St. Petersburg lived a lady known
generally as Madame Julie St. Joseph. She was of French origin, but had
been a great many years in Russia. Her husband had carried on business
in Moscow as an engraver and chromo-lithographer. He had been dead,
however, a very long time, and seemed to have passed from the public
mind; but it was vaguely remembered that he was almost old enough at
the time of his death to have been his wife’s grandfather.

Julie St. Joseph was exceedingly handsome, and at this period was about
forty years of age. She might have passed, however, for being even
younger, as she was remarkably well preserved, fresh-looking, bright
of eye, and with an abundance of animal spirits, which seemed rather
to indicate the girl than the matured woman. Much wonder was very
naturally expressed that the pretty widow had remained a widow so long,
for, as was well known, she had had offers of marriage innumerable, and
might, had she been so disposed, have made an excellent match. But the
pretty Julie was fond of gaiety and freedom. As a wealthy widow--it
was universally believed that she was wealthy--she could do as she
liked, and attract around her men of all sorts and conditions, and of
all ages. They paid her homage. She held them, so to speak, in her
hand; she could twist them round her fingers. Quarrels about her were
innumerable, and more than one jealous and hot-blooded fellow had lost
his life in a duel of which the bewitching Julie was the cause.

The style she elected to live in was compatible with the possession of
riches. She kept up a splendid establishment; her house was sumptuously
furnished; she had numerous servants, many horses. Her winter sledges
were renowned for their luxurious appointments; her summer carriages
were almost unique. She was a woman of the most sybaritic tastes; and
every taste was pandered to and pampered. Among her servants was a
Creole; he was a man of medium height, though of powerful build, and
with a sullen, morose expression. He was always called Roko, but of his
origin and history nothing was known. He seemed to be very strongly
attached to his mistress, and always attended her wherever she went;
but no man endowed with the faculty of speech could have been more
silent than he was. He rarely spoke, except when compelled to answer
some question; and it was rumoured that, like a faithful hound, he
slept at his mistress’s door, and kept watch and ward over her during
the hours of night, while during the day he obeyed her slightest beck
or call.

It was the beginning of the Russian New Year, and Madame Julie St.
Joseph gave a ball. It was a very grand ball; everything was done
on a lavish scale, and the pomp and magnificence was almost on a
par with a State function. The people, however, who attended the
widow’s festive gathering could not lay claim to any high social
position--at any rate, not so far as the ladies were concerned.
The ladies who were in the habit of frequenting the pretty Julie’s
salons were of questionable reputations. Julie was not recognised as
a person of social distinction, and in the female world some rather
cruel things were said about her. The men, however, represented many
grades of life: the Army, Navy, Law; the Diplomatic Service; Art,
Literature, the Drama--intellectual Bohemia generally, though not a
few of these men were at considerable pains to conceal the fact that
they visited the charming widow, for, had it been generally known,
their own women-folk might have protested in a way that would have
been anything but pleasant, and they would have found themselves
ostracised in those higher circles in which many of them moved.
Probably Madame St. Joseph was indifferent to the opinions of her own
sex, so long as she could exact homage from men; and there could be no
two opinions about the power which she wielded over the sterner sex.
It was, therefore, scarcely matter for wonder that the ladies of St.
Petersburg should feel embittered against her. When a man is jealous,
he takes a rough-and-ready means of showing his jealousy; if he has a
rival, he generally ‘goes for him,’ and the best man wins. A woman’s
jealousy, on the other hand, finds expression in a different way. In
her bitterness she would sully the reputation of a spotless angel, and
her mother-tongue has no words strong enough wherewith to express her
hatred. No wonder that the old painters, in depicting jealousy, always
took a female as a model. Of course Madame Julie St. Joseph’s beauty,
and the power it enabled her to wield, made the women very jealous
indeed; but if her female guests lacked quality, the deficiency was
amply compensated for by the high standing of many of the men. She
knew, and was proud of the fact, that there was hardly a man in Russia,
no matter how exalted his position, that she could not have brought to
her footstool had she desired to do so. Such a woman was necessarily
bound to become notorious and have numberless enemies. But the widow
was beautiful, she was rich, she gave grand receptions, she spent money
liberally; therefore she had no difficulty in rallying around her a
powerful body of adherents; and, while half St. Petersburg spoke ill of
her, the other half lauded her.

Amongst the guests who attended the ball in question was a
dark-skinned, somewhat peculiar-looking man, said to be a Polish
Count, named Prebenski. He had a heavy moustache and beard, and wore
spectacles. As he appeared to be an entire stranger to the company,
the hostess took him for a time under her wing; but, as he could not
or would not dance, and seemed to find irresistible attraction in
the buffet, where there were unlimited supplies of vodka, as well as
wines of all kinds, she left him to his own devices, and bestowed the
favour of her smiles on more congenial guests. At length the Count,
from the effects, apparently, of too great a consumption of strong
drinks, sought a quiet nook in an anteroom, and ensconcing himself
in a large chair, sank into a heavy sleep. Some time later, when the
night was growing very old and the grayness of the winter dawn was
beginning to assert itself, and the guests had dwindled down to a mere
handful, Roko, the Creole, entered the room. Seeing the Count sleeping
there, he paused for a moment as if surprised; then he shook the guest
roughly, but getting no response, save a grunt, he went away, returning
in a few minutes with another man. That man was Alexander Vlassovsky,
who approached the Count, shook him, called him, and being no more
successful in his efforts to arouse him than Roko had been, he told
Roko to carry him upstairs to a bedroom. That was done, and the Count
was tossed upon a bed and left there; but before half an hour had
passed Vlassovsky came into the room carrying a small shaded lamp, for
though it was fully daylight heavy curtains were drawn at the window.

He passed the light of the lamp over the sleeping man’s eyes, shook
him, called him, but as the Count remained unconscious of these
efforts, the intruder placed the lamp on a small table and, seating
himself in a chair by the bedside, began to search the pockets of
the guest. The search resulted in the production of a miscellaneous
collection of articles, which were duly returned; but at last a
pocket-book was drawn forth; it was opened, and found to contain a
considerable number of bank-notes, representing in the aggregate
a large sum of money. These notes Vlassovsky took the liberty
of transferring to his own pocket, and replacing the lightened
pocket-book, withdrew.

Some hours later Count Prebenski rang the bell in his room, and in
response to the summons Roko appeared, bearing a lamp. The Count eyed
him for some moments in apparent astonishment, and then asked:

‘Where am I?’

‘In the house of Madame Julie St. Joseph.’

‘What is the hour?’

‘It is three o’clock.’

‘In the morning?’

‘No. The afternoon.’ Roko drew the curtains, and revealed the bright,
steel-coloured winter sky, tinged a little towards the horizon with a
flush of red.

The Count seemed puzzled. He stared first at the sky, then at the
Creole.

‘How is it I am here?’ he asked.

Roko revealed all his gleaming teeth as he grinned in reply.

‘How is it I am here?’ repeated the Count, peremptorily and hotly.

‘Your Excellency indulged too freely in liquor, and we had to put you
to bed.’

‘Umph!’ mused the Count; ‘it was kind; now, tell me, did your mistress,
Madame St. Joseph, know of my condition?’

‘She did.’

‘Was she angry?’

‘Well, Excellency, she certainly wasn’t pleased.’

‘Ah! I fear I have made a bea---- a fool of myself. Give me the
wherewith to put myself in a presentable condition, and I will see
madam. By the way, has she risen yet?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Good; as soon as I have performed my toilet, return here and conduct
me to your mistress.’

Roko bowed and withdrew. In half an hour he came back again, and,
followed by the Count, led the way to Madame St. Joseph’s boudoir, a
very comfortable little retreat, daintily furnished, cosy and bright
with knick-knacks, cushions, curtains, luxurious rugs, and warmed to
the high temperature beloved of Russians by means of a polished metal
radiating stove. Dressed in a most elegant fur-trimmed dressing-gown,
madame was stretched upon a divan. Beside her was a Moorish table,
on which stood coffee and cigarettes. She was smoking as the Count
entered. Without rising, she extended her delicate white hand to him,
and, smiling sweetly, said:

‘Pray be seated, Count. Roko, pour out some coffee. Will you take vodka
or cognac with it, Count?’

The Count chose vodka, and his wants having been supplied, the lady
bade Roko retire.

‘I owe you an apology, madame,’ began the Count. ‘I forgot myself last
night. It was good of you to take care of me. I am deeply indebted to
you for your hospitality.’

‘Oh, a mere trifle,’ smiled the lady. ‘My faithful slave found you
asleep in a chair, and as his efforts failed to awaken you, he carried
you upstairs by my orders.’

At this point in the conversation the door opened, and Vlassovsky
appeared on the threshold; but seeing that madame had a visitor, he
quickly withdrew.

‘I am sorry to say I am the victim of a strange weakness,’ answered the
Count. ‘I am a temperate man, but should I be tempted to indulge beyond
my ordinary allowance it throws me into a sort of coma, from which I
only recover after many hours of death-like sleep.’

‘You are to be pitied, Count.’

‘Your pity is worth having,’ he answered. ‘Now, tell me, madame, what
penalty am I to pay for having so far forgotten myself?’

‘Penalty, Count!’

‘Yes. I am wealthy. Money is no object to me. I have notes. I am almost
alone in the world.’

‘Indeed!’ exclaimed the lady, with animation, and regarding her guest
with new-born interest; ‘you are fortunate. I presume you are staying
here temporarily?’

‘Yes. I am travelling for my pleasure. When our mutual friend Trepoff
was good enough to ask you to extend your courtesy to me, and sent me
an invitation to your ball, I accepted it with pleasure, and was glad
to leave the loneliness of my hotel; but it grieves me sorely to think
that I so forgot myself.’

‘Pray, Count, do not let the matter give you any concern,’ said the
charming widow, as she sat up and again extended her soft hand to him
to kiss. ‘Are you likely to remain in St. Petersburg long?’

‘My stay will be regulated by the amount of pleasure I experience here.
But a hotel is not the most comfortable place in the winter, and I
confess I feel dull and lonely.’

The lady fixed her keen eyes upon him as she remarked:

‘Indeed, I can well understand that, Count. Now, if I might venture to
ask you to make my poor abode your residence during your stay in the
city, it would afford me great pleasure to play the hostess. Will you
accept of my hospitality?’

‘Really, Madame St. Joseph, I, I----’

‘Pray, no thanks or excuses, Count; the pleasure is mine, and I will
endeavour at least to prevent your suffering from ennui.’

The Count rose, and warmly pressing her hand, said he was overwhelmed
by her goodness, and no less enchanted with her beauty. He accepted her
invitation in the spirit, in which it was given, and without losing any
time would hasten to his hotel, pay his bill, and remove his things at
once to madame’s house. An hour later he drove up in a drosky with his
luggage, and was conducted to the handsomest of the guest-chambers.
That night he dined _tête-à-tête_ with madame, and in the course of the
dinner he told her that the previous night he managed to lose, or had
been relieved of, in some way, a large sum of money. When she uttered
exclamations of regret, and expressed her sympathy with him, he laughed
carelessly, made light of his loss, and said that, large though the sum
was, it gave him no real concern, and he would regard it as a fine he
had paid for his rudeness.

The widow sighed and told him he was a fortunate man in being able to
bear such a loss without feeling it.

A fortnight passed, and the Count found himself in comfortable
quarters. As if desirous of monopolizing his company, the widow
invited nobody to the house, and those who paid the ordinary courtesy
calls she speedily dismissed; while gentlemen who had been in the habit
of dropping in of an evening to play cards and sup with pretty Julie
were told by Roko that she was suffering so much from the fatigues of
the ball that she could see no one. One caller, Peter Trepoff, who came
specially to inquire about the Count, was told that though he had been
there he had departed, without saying where he was going to. All that
fortnight she remained very secluded. She would not accompany the Count
when he invited her to go out, and she so strongly persuaded him not
to go that he yielded and remained indoors. Every fascination, every
talent she possessed, she put forth and exerted to amuse and entertain
him, until he was as pliable as clay in her hands. One night he had
retired to rest, and had been in his room about an hour, when he heard
the handle of his door move. The door was not locked; indeed, there was
no key wherewith to lock it, and he had not concerned himself about
it in any way. Very gently, and almost without a sound, the latch was
raised and the door pushed open. Presently Roko entered on his hands
and knees. He paused and listened. Certain nasal sounds seemed to
indicate that the Count was sleeping very soundly. Roko carried a tiny
little lantern, and he flashed a ray across the sleeper’s face. Having
satisfied himself that the Count was asleep, he drew from his pocket a
phial containing a colourless liquid, and, approaching a night-table,
on which stood a jug of barley-tea, which the Count had in his room
every night, as he said it had been his custom for years always to
drink barley-tea in the night-time, the Creole poured the contents of
the phial into the jug, and having done that, he withdrew as stealthily
as he had entered. Soon afterwards the Count rose, procured a light,
and took from his portmanteau a large flask, into which he emptied the
barley-tea. Then he addressed himself to sleep again, and slept the
sleep of the just.

At the usual morning meal he did not put in an appearance; but he sent
a request to madame, asking her to be good enough to come and see him.
The request was speedily complied with. When she appeared she looked
as charming and as radiant as ever. He was profuse in his apologies
for having troubled her to come to his room, but pleaded as an excuse
a feeling of extreme illness. She displayed great anxiety and concern,
and wanted to send for a doctor; but he told her it was nothing. He
thought something had disagreed with him; that was all. It would pass
off. A doctor was not needed. She declared, however, that if he felt no
better in an hour’s time she would insist on his seeing a doctor. An
hour slipped by, and he was still in the same condition, so a messenger
was despatched for a doctor, who speedily put in an appearance.

To the doctor’s inquiries, the patient said he believed he had eaten
or drunk something which had upset him. The doctor was of the same
opinion, and prescribed accordingly. In the course of the afternoon
the Count said he felt somewhat better, and though the hostess tried
to dissuade him from doing so, he announced his intention of going out
to get a breath of fresh air. He wanted her to accompany him. That she
stoutly refused to do; and when she saw he was determined to go she
withdrew her opposition, and expressed a hope that he would speedily
return. He assured her that he would do so. He said he was going to
have a drive in a sledge on the Neva for two or three hours. Having put
on his Shuba, his fur gloves, fur-lined boots, and fur cap, he took his
departure.

After an absence of about three hours, he returned, and declared that
he felt much better. He spent about an hour with the lady in her
boudoir, then retired. She was very anxious that Roko should sit up
with him, but he resolutely set his face against that, saying that
there was not the least necessity for it. He was an exceedingly sound
sleeper, and he was sure he would sleep as soundly as usual. About
midnight his door was opened silently, as on the previous night, and
once again Roko crept stealthily to the bed-table, and emptied the
contents of a phial into the barley-tea. Soon after he had withdrawn
the Count jumped up, poured the tea into another flask, which he
produced from his portmanteau, and then lay down in the bed again
until a neighbouring church clock solemnly and slowly tolled out two
o’clock. Almost immediately the Count rose, and dressed himself. That
done, he took from his portmanteau a revolver, and having examined it
to ascertain if it was properly loaded, he lighted a lantern provided
with a shutter, to shut off the light when required. Going to the
door, he opened it gently, and listened. All was silent. There wasn’t
a sound, save that made by the wind, which whistled mournfully through
the corridor. Having satisfied himself that nothing human was stirring,
the Count proceeded cautiously along the corridor, descended a short
flight of stairs to another corridor, along which he passed, and gained
the main door that gave access to the street. He opened this door,
though not without some difficulty, as there were bolts and chains to
be undone, and he worked cautiously for fear of making a noise.

At last all obstacles were removed, and the heavy door swung on its
hinges, letting in a blast of icy air, and revealing the brilliant
stars that burned like jewels in the cloudless black sky. In a few
minutes eight men filed into the house noiselessly, and the door was
closed, but chains and bolts were left undone. The men exchanged a few
sentences in whispers. Then, following the Count, they proceeded to the
sleeping apartment of Madame Julie St. Joseph. In an anteroom, through
which it was necessary to pass to reach her room, Roko, enveloped in
furs, lay on a couch, locked in sleep. A shaded lamp stood on a bracket
against the wall.

Four men remained in this room; the other four and the Count entered
the lady’s chamber. Here, again, a shaded lamp burned on a bracket,
and close to it an ikon--or sacred picture--hung. The pretty widow
was also sleeping. By this time the Count had undergone a strange
transformation. His beard and moustache had disappeared, revealing
the smooth-shaved, mobile face of Michael Danevitch, the detective.
He shook the lady. With a start she awoke. The four policemen had
concealed themselves; Danevitch alone was visible. It was some moments
before madame realized the situation; then, seeing a strange man by
her bedside, she uttered a cry, and called for Roko. He sprang up, and
instantly found himself in the grip of two stalwart men, while the
revolver under his pillow, which he tried to get, was seized.

‘Madame Julie St. Joseph,’ said Danevitch, ‘get up and dress yourself.’

‘What does this mean?’ she asked, with a look of alarm on her pretty
face, as she thrust her hand under the pillow, where she likewise had a
revolver concealed. But in an instant Danevitch had seized her wrist in
his powerful grasp, and one of his colleagues removed the weapon.

‘It means,’ he answered, ‘that your career of infamy has come to an
end. You are under arrest.’

A look of terror and horror swept across her face as she asked in a
choked sort of voice:

‘On what grounds am I arrested?’

‘That you will learn later on. Sufficient for you to know that you are
a prisoner. Come, rise and dress yourself.’

She recognised the hopelessness of resistance, and, of course, she
understood that her faithful watch-hound Roko had been rendered
powerless. She was trapped; that she knew. But it did not dawn upon her
then that the Count and Danevitch were one and the same. Consequently
she was puzzled to understand how her downfall had been brought about.

With a despairing sigh she rose and put on her clothes. Half an hour
later she was being conveyed to the gaol with Roko, accompanied by
Danevitch and three of his colleagues. The other five had been left in
charge of the house. When madame had somewhat recovered her presence of
mind, she assumed a bravado which she was far from feeling, and asked
Danevitch airily if he knew how her guest the Count was.

‘Oh yes,’ answered Danevitch. ‘He is perfectly well, as you may
judge for yourself; for I it was who played the part of the Count so
effectively.’

With an absolute scream madame bit her lip with passion, until the
blood flowed, and dug her nails into the palms of her hands.

‘What a fool, a dolt, an idiot I’ve been! But tell me, how was it Peter
Trepoff asked me to invite you to the ball?’

‘Peter Trepoff is my agent, madame.’

With a suppressed cry of maddening rage, the wretched woman covered her
face with her hands and groaned, as she realized how thoroughly she had
been outwitted.

That same night, or, rather, some hours before the widow and Roko
were swept into the net which had been so cleverly prepared for them,
Alexander Vlassovsky was arrested in Moscow. Danevitch learned that
fact by telegraph when he went out in the afternoon. He had first
begun to suspect Vlassovsky after that interview when he was making
inquiries about the death of Captain Baranoff. The result was that he
intercepted letters from Madame Julie St. Joseph, who had returned to
St. Petersburg. She had a small house in Moscow, which she occasionally
visited in order to secure victims. In Moscow, where he was well known,
the wily Vlassovsky did not go near her, but he helped her as far as
he could in her fiendish work. He had been very cleverly trapped by
the notes which he relieved the supposed Count of. Those notes were
not genuine, and when he attempted to pass them he was arrested, for
Danevitch had notified the Moscow police.

Subsequent revelations brought to light that the wretched woman had
been in the habit of luring men to their doom by means of her fatal
beauty. She bled them of their money, her plan being to cajole them
into giving her a lien on any property they might possess. This was
most artfully worked by the aid of Vlassovsky, and when the victim had
been securely caught, he was poisoned. The poisons were concocted by
Madame St. Joseph herself, and when she could not do it herself, Roko
administered the fatal dose or doses. She had picked up this man in
Spanish America, where she had been for some time, and, weaving her
spell about him, had made him absolutely her slave.

Vlassovsky, who, up to the time that he made her acquaintance, had been
an honest, industrious man, fell under the magic of her influence, as
most men did, and became her all-too-willing tool. His nature once
corrupted, all scruples were thrown to the winds, and he hastened to
try and enrich himself. It seemed that the miserable woman really
loved him, and though he was fatally fascinated with her, he was
afraid of her; and, as he confessed, his aim was to accumulate money
as quickly as possible, and then flee from her and the country for
ever. But unfortunately for himself, during that memorable interview
following Captain Baranoff’s death, he had aroused the suspicions of
Danevitch, whose marvellous perceptive faculties had enabled him to
detect something or another in Vlassovsky’s manner, or answers to the
questions put to him, which made him suspicious. For Danevitch to
become suspicious meant that he would never rest until he had proved
his suspicions justified or unfounded.

It need scarcely be said that with her arrest in St. Petersburg
Madame St. Joseph’s career came to an end. From the moment that
Danevitch entered her house her doom was sealed. Believing him to be
the person he represented himself to be, she begged of him to help
her financially; and, seeming to yield to her entreaties, he drew up
a document which purported to make over to her at his death certain
estates in Poland. Of course, these estates had no existence. Having
secured him, as she thought, her next step was to poison him by small
doses of black hellebore, so that he might gradually sicken and die.
Her devilish cunning was evidenced in every step she took. She would
not appear in public with him, nor did she allow any of the visitors
to her house to see him. Consequently it would not be generally known
that she had associated with him. As his illness developed by means of
repeated doses, she would have had him removed to a hotel, and she knew
pretty well that, as in Colonel Ignatof’s case, he would shrink from
letting it be known that he had been intimate with her. Her cunning,
however, overreached itself; she was defeated with her own weapons;
Danevitch had been too much for her. The poisoned barley-tea he
submitted to analysis, and the evidence against her was overwhelming.
But when she found that there was no hope, she was determined to defeat
justice, and one morning she was found dead in her cell: she had
poisoned herself with prussic acid. The acid was conveyed to her by a
warder, who was heavily bribed by one of her friends to do it. It cost
him his liberty, however, for he was sent to Northern Siberia for the
term of his natural life.

Roko died very soon afterwards from typhoid fever contracted in the
prison, but he was faithful to the last, for never a word could be
wrung from his lips calculated to incriminate the strange woman who had
thrown such a spell around him. Vlassovsky was deported to Northern
Siberia in company with the treacherous warder. He very soon succumbed,
however, to the awful hardships he was called upon to endure and the
rigours of the Arctic climate.

The number of Madame St. Joseph’s victims was never determined. That
they were numerous there was not the slightest doubt; and had it not
been for the cleverness of Danevitch she would probably have continued
to pursue her infamous career for years longer, and ultimately have
passed away in the odour of sanctity. Her downfall, it need scarcely be
said, caused great satisfaction in St. Petersburg and Moscow, where she
had destroyed so many of her victims.



THE STRANGE STORY OF AN ATTACHÉ.


It can readily be understood that Danevitch led not only an active
life, but a varied one; and the cases he was called upon to deal with
revealed many remarkable phases of human nature. He never attempted
to pose as a moralist, but he frequently deplored the fact that
wickedness and evil should so largely predominate over goodness. He
was also apt to wax indignant against the vogue to decry anything in
the nature of sensation. He was in the habit of saying that life from
the cradle to the grave is full of sensations, and that the inventions
of the fictionist are poor, flat, and stale, when compared with the
realities of existence. But this is undoubtedly the experience of
everyone who knows the world and his kind. It is only the cheap critic,
the bigot, or the fool, who has the boldness to deny the existence of
sensation in real life, and to sneer at what he is pleased to term
melodramatic improbabilities. There is no such thing as a melodramatic
improbability. The only charge that can legitimately be levelled
at the so-called sensational writer is his tendency to grotesque
treatment of subjects which should simply be faithful reproductions
from life. The curious story of young Count Dashkoff, the Russian
attaché, with whom this narrative is concerned, illustrates in a very
forcible way the views advanced in the foregoing lines. Indeed, as
Danevitch himself says, if anyone had invented the story and put it
into print, he would have raised the ire of the army of critics--the
self-constituted high-priests of purity, who, being unable to improve
or even equal that which they condemn, are all the more violent in
their condemnation.

Count Dashkoff was a young man, a member of a very old Russian family,
who had in their day wielded great power, and before the abolition
of serfdom took place, had held sway over more serfs than any other
family in the whole of the empire. The Count had distinguished himself
in many ways. His career, up to the time of the extraordinary events
about to be recorded, had been marked by brilliancy and shade. As a
student and a scholar he had attracted the attention of many notable
men, more particularly by his well-known and remarkable work, entitled
‘The Theory of Creation,’ which is conspicuous for its erudition,
its deep research, and its wide grasp and clever treatment of a
tremendous subject. The book is, and will ever remain, a standard,
and consequently an enduring monument to the Count’s ability and
industry. On the other hand, he had made himself notorious by certain
excesses, and a recklessness of conduct which had shocked the
proprieties and outraged the feelings of those who were interested in
him and hoped that he would ultimately rise to power and position.
Of course, excuses were forthcoming on the grounds of his youth,
and, as if trying to establish a right by two wrongs, it was urged
that he had simply done what most Russian youths do who are born to
high estate and have control of wealth. As a stepping-stone to the
future greatness predicted for him by his friends, the Count, after
a probationary course in the diplomatic service at home, was sent as
an attaché to the Russian Embassy in Paris. As might be supposed, he
took kindly to Parisian life. He was what is usually termed an elegant
young man, with æsthetic tastes. When he first went to Paris he was
about eight-and-twenty, and, apart from the advantages of youth, he
had wealth, good looks, sound health, and a cheerful disposition. He
enjoyed life, and showed no disposition to mortify the flesh by an
austere or monastic régime. His private residence in the Champs Élysées
was conspicuous for the magnificence of its appointments, and was the
rendezvous of the élite of Paris society--that frivolous section
which lives for no higher purpose than to live, and is attracted to
wealth and luxury as bees are attracted to sugar. It seemed that this
apparently fortunate young man, who could be serious enough when
occasion required, was fond of attention and homage. He loved to be
surrounded with a crowd of admirers, who flattered him, praised his
bric-à-brac, and gorged themselves with the good things he invariably
set before them. He knew, no doubt, that they were all fawners and
sycophants, but, still, they made up a little world over which he
ruled, and wherever he led the noodles would follow.

Two years of this sort of life passed, and then Danevitch was
instructed to proceed with all haste from Russia to try and discover
what had become of the Count, for he had suddenly and mysteriously
disappeared, and all efforts of the Paris police and the boasted
skill of the Parisian detectives had failed to reveal a trace of him.
The facts of the case were as follows: In the course of the month of
January the Count gave a grand ball and reception at his elegant hotel,
and the event drew together the gilded youth of both sexes. These
functions at the Count’s residence were always marked by a magnificence
of splendour and a lavish expenditure which seemed hardly consonant
with his position as a mere attaché. But it must not be forgotten that
he was the heir to great wealth, and represented a noble family who had
ever been distinguished for the almost regal style in which they lived.

About two o’clock in the morning the Count drew an intimate friend of
his--a Monsieur Eugène Peon--on one side, and told him he wanted to
slip away for an hour, but he did not wish it to be known that he had
gone out. He would be sure to be back in about an hour, he added. A few
minutes later the concierge saw him leave the hall. He was attired in
a very handsome and costly fur coat, with a cap to match; and though
the weather was bitterly cold and the ground covered with snow, he wore
patent-leather shoes. The concierge, who was much surprised at the fact
of his master leaving the house in the midst of the revels, asked him
if he wanted a carriage. To this question the Count answered curtly,
and, according to the porter, angrily, ‘No.’ The night wore itself out.
The dancers danced themselves into limpness and prostration, and began
to depart. Some surprise had been expressed at the Count’s absence, and
various inquiries had been made about him; but it was suggested that
the seductive influences of the wine-cup had proved too much for him,
and he had retired. This hint or suggestion appeared to satisfy the
light-headed revellers, who gave no further thought to the matter. His
friend, Eugène Peon, considered it very strange that the Count should
go away and remain away in such a manner, to the neglect of his guests,
for he was the most punctilious host. But Peon set it down to an
assignation, and thought that he had found the society of some fair one
more attractive than the glitter and glare of the ballroom. The day had
very well advanced before there was anything like real surprise felt at
the Count’s prolonged absence.

It appeared that Eugène Peon called at his friend’s hotel soon after
three o’clock in the afternoon, and, ascertaining that he was not at
home, went down to the Embassy to inquire for him there, but to his
astonishment was informed that the Count had not been there for two
days. Although astonished, Peon was not uneasy. He stated that he
saw no cause to be uneasy, although he had never known his friend do
such a thing before, and was aware that he was most attentive to his
duties. When he called again on the following morning, however, and
was informed that the Count was still absent, he began then to fear
that something was wrong, and he at once communicated his fears to some
of the Count’s close personal friends; he had no relations in Paris
at all. A consultation was held, but there seem to have been divided
counsels, and no steps were taken to ascertain the Count’s whereabouts,
though some inquiries were made of the members of the household, but
all that could be elicited was that the concierge saw his master go out
about two o’clock, and that he was dressed in patent-leather boots, a
heavy fur coat, and a fur cap. From the tone in which he said ‘No,’
when asked if he wanted a carriage, he appeared to be angry; but there
was no indication in his gait or speech that he was under the influence
of wine. It was not until another whole day had passed that anything
like real alarm had set in. The alarm by this time had reached the
Embassy, and it was decided that the police should be communicated
with. Strangely enough, the police did not at first attach any serious
importance to the matter. They made certain inquiries in a perfunctory
manner, and for some inscrutable reason--unless it was sheer, downright
pig-headedness, a quality often enough conspicuous in the French
police--they came to the conclusion that ‘Monsieur le Comte’ had been
guilty of some little escapade, and would turn up very shortly. As this
prediction had not been fulfilled when another twenty-four hours had
elapsed, a much more serious view was taken of the young man’s absence,
and dark hints were let drop that he had been inveigled into one of the
haunts of vice which abound in the gay city, and had been murdered. The
murder theory was at once taken up; detectives were communicated with,
and the theory of murder found general acceptance.

As may be imagined, a gentleman, who by reason of his position and his
riches had cut a conspicuous figure in society, disappearing suddenly
in this way was bound to cause a sensation, and as the Parisians dearly
love a sensation and a scandal, the matter was a fruitful topic of
conversation for several days, while much ink was expended over it by
the journalists. But notwithstanding the publicity given to the matter,
and the efforts of police and detectives, another week passed, and not
a trace or sign of the missing man had been obtained.

Up to this point the Count’s relatives in Russia had not been
communicated with, from a desire to avoid alarm, for there were those
who still hoped he would turn up again all right; but now his Russian
friends in Paris regarded the affair as too serious to be longer
withheld. As a preliminary, a message was at once sent asking if the
Count had returned home, and almost simultaneously with the despatch
of that message a courier set out for Russia with the tidings and
details.

As the Count--as far as was known--had not returned to Russia, great
consternation was caused amongst his friends by the report that reached
them, and no time was lost in securing the services of Danevitch,
who was instructed to leave for Paris without a moment’s delay, and
institute independent inquiries.

‘I found, on arriving in the French capital,’ says Danevitch, ‘that by
order of the Russian Ambassador all the Count’s things had been sealed
up and his house temporarily closed. My preliminary investigations
were directed to trying to discover if there were any grounds for
believing that the missing man had committed suicide. This inquiry was
necessarily forced upon one--at any rate upon me, although I learnt
that the possibilities of suicide had never entered the heads of the
French police. And though at first they had suggested murder, they
soon abandoned that idea, for no other reason, as it appeared, than
that they had not been able to find his body. And in consequence of
this they insisted that he had taken himself off to some other country
in order to avoid the results of conduct unbecoming a gentleman and
a member of the Embassy. When they were asked to give a name to his
conduct, they declined, but darkly hinted at something very dreadful. I
myself could find no grounds for the theory of suicide, while everyone
at the Embassy, as well as all who knew him, indignantly repudiated the
slur which was sought to be cast upon the young gentleman’s character.
I could find no one who had a word to say against his honour. That he
might have had _affaires d’amour_, as the French call them, was readily
admitted; but as all is considered fair in love, as in war, these
matters were not supposed to reflect on the honour of a man.

‘As Monsieur Eugène Peon had been very intimate with the Count,
I questioned that gentleman very closely concerning his friend’s
movements, and elicited that he had been a pretty general lover, but,
so far as he knew, the Count had formed no serious attachment to
anybody. Peon could suggest no reason why the Count should have left
his guests so abruptly, unless it was to keep an assignation.

‘Now, it must be remembered that when he left his house it was about
two o’clock on a winter morning, and, according to the concierge, he
seemed angry when he went out. This seemed to me to point to two things
as absolutely certain. Firstly, the Count’s going out at such an hour
was not premeditated. Secondly, whatever appointment he went to keep,
it was not an agreeable one to him, and, being annoyed, he displayed
his irritation in the sharp answer he gave the concierge. These points
seemed to me of great importance, and naturally led me to an inquiry
directed to finding out if one of his servants had delivered any
message to him, or conveyed any letter during the evening.

‘The servants had been dismissed, and it was not an easy matter to
reach them all; but by persevering I succeeded in doing so, and found
at last that the Count’s body-servant, a Frenchman, named Auguste
Chauzy, had been out all the evening, after having dressed his master,
and knowing that he would not be wanted again until the morning. He
returned, however, soon after midnight, and just as he was about to
enter the house, a man stepped up to him hurriedly, and, putting a
sealed envelope into his hand, said, “Give that immediately to your
master, Count Dashkoff. Fail not to do so, as it is a matter of life
and death.”

‘When Chauzy got into the hall, he glanced at the envelope, and saw
that it simply bore the Count’s name--no address; but in the left-hand
corner was the French word _Pressant_ (Urgent) underlined. The valet
could not get near his master for some time after this, but as soon as
an opportunity occurred to do so, he handed him the note. The moment
the Count’s eye caught the superscription, a frown settled on his face,
and, with a gesture of annoyance, he thrust the letter unopened in his
pocket. About half an hour later, however, the valet was informed by
another servant that the Count required his fur coat and cap. They
were to be placed in his dressing-room ready for him.

‘I questioned Chauzy about the man who had handed him the letter in
the street; but the only description he could give of him was that he
seemed to be well dressed, was of medium height, and had a dark beard
and moustache.’

Having brought to light the fact about the letter, Danevitch struck a
keynote, as it were--and one which had not been touched upon by the
French police. If that letter could have been found, it might have
revealed much; but it was almost certain that if the Count did not
destroy it before leaving the house he had it in his pocket when he
went out. Danevitch’s deduction from the letter incident was this: The
Count went out owing to some communication made to him in that letter.
He did not go willingly; consequently his errand was a disagreeable
one, and could hardly have been to keep a love tryst. Whoever the
writer of the letter was, he or she must have had some powerful hold
on the Count to induce him to leave his friends and guests, and go
out at two o’clock on a bitter winter morning. This line of reasoning
was one which Danevitch could not avoid, for it was his wont to argue
his subject from a given set of premises, and a strict regard for
probabilities. He was led--and it was but natural he should be--to the
conclusion that the Count’s disappearance was due to conduct which had
brought him in contact with unscrupulous people, into whose power he
had fallen. It was clear that if he was still living he was forcibly
detained somewhere or other, and was in such a position that he could
not communicate with those who were so anxious about him. If this was
not the case, it was hard to understand why he should have remained
silent, knowing well enough the anxiety and distress his prolonged
absence would cause. The other hypothesis was--the idea of suicide not
being entertained--that he had been murdered. If that was the case, the
motive for the murder was either revenge or robbery. It seemed almost
absurd to think of robbery, for this reason: it was hardly likely
that anyone would have chosen such an inopportune moment; for, at two
o’clock in the morning, and entertaining a house full of guests, he
would scarcely have much valuable property on his person. If he had
been murdered, the crime had been prompted by feelings of revenge, and
committed by someone who believed he had a deadly grievance against
the young man--a grievance that could only be compensated for by the
shedding of the Count’s blood.

It was impossible to ignore what, on the face of it, seemed to be a
fact--that the writer of the letter was personally acquainted with
the Count, and possessed knowledge which placed a weapon in his hand.
Of course, the Count’s friends wouldn’t listen for a moment to any
suggestion that he had been guilty of conduct unbecoming a gentleman,
and, having discovered that, Danevitch kept his views to himself;
though he closely questioned Eugène Peon, who, while admitting that
he had had numerous little adventures with the Count, declared that
these adventures were only those which a young, handsome, and rich
man would engage in, and while they might be described as foolish and
reckless, they were never of a nature to reflect upon his honour. They
were, in short, simply the follies and venial sins of youth, such as
were common, in a greater or lesser degree, to all young men. Nothing
further than this could be elicited from Peon, who appeared to be a
reserved and reticent person, giving Danevitch the impression that
he always had something in reserve--that he had an _arrière pensée_,
and would not tell more than it suited him to tell. At any rate, he
declined to suggest any theory that would account for his friend’s
sudden and mysterious disappearance.

‘Do you not know if he had any serious love affair?’ asked Danevitch
with some sharpness, as he came to the conclusion that Peon was not as
candid as he ought to be.

‘I don’t,’ answered Peon emphatically.

‘But surely, intimate as you were with him, you must know something of
your friend’s little gallantries?’

‘I do not, beyond what I have told you.’

Peon gave this answer with a sharpness and decisiveness which made it
clear that he would not submit to pumping, and would not be drawn on
the subject of his friend’s amours.

During the time that Danevitch was searching for a clue--without
avail up to this stage--the Count’s friends did not remain inactive.
Necessarily, they were impatient, and grew more restless as the weeks
sped by without bringing any tidings of the missing man. The police
confessed themselves baffled, and seemed to be at a loss to suggest
a feasible theory, and they urged the friends to offer a substantial
reward for information that would lead to the discovery of the Count
if living, and a lesser reward for his body if dead. The friends
yielded, and intimated that they would pay ten thousand francs for the
Count’s recovery living, or five thousand for his body. The police
quite believed this reward would have the desired effect, and that they
would be relieved from an embarrassing situation. Of course, the human
water-rats who haunt the Seine kept a very sharp look-out indeed, and
every corpse that they dragged from the foul and reeking waters of the
sluggish river was eagerly scrutinized in the hope that it would turn
out to be the body of the missing Count. But though it was reported
several times that the dead Count had been fished out of the river, the
report, on investigation, proved to be false. Nor did the offer of the
ten thousand francs prove more potent. Not a trace of the missing man
was discovered.

This failure of the substantial reward to bring forth any tidings
confirmed Danevitch in the opinion he had formed that the Count’s
disappearance was the result of some plot, and those engaged in it
were in a position which rendered them indifferent to the reward. This
did not imply that the detective considered it a certainty that the
Count was living. On the contrary, he inclined to the belief that he
had been murdered, but, necessarily, the murderers could not produce
his body for fear of betraying themselves. In his own way, Danevitch
worked away quietly and unostentatiously. He was perfectly convinced
that the clue to the mystery would be found in the habits of the
Count, or among some of his possessions. But the friends in Paris
opposed strong objections to any exhaustive search of his effects
being made, influenced thereby, no doubt, by a fear of anything being
made public calculated to reflect on the missing man’s honour. This
supersensitiveness was annoying, and at last Danevitch applied to the
relatives in Russia, and asked them to give a peremptory order for
him to be allowed to go through the Count’s papers. In response to
this application, the Count’s father came at once to Paris, and took
possession of everything belonging to his son, and he and Danevitch
went through the papers together. There was a mass of official
correspondence and business letters, but very few private letters,
except those from his parents and his near relatives, and love letters
from a young lady residing in Russia. She was of high family, and
well known to the Count’s people, who hoped that he would ultimately
make her his wife, as in every way the match was a desirable one. The
letters evinced a very strong attachment on the lady’s part, and were
in many instances couched in warm, even extravagant, phrases of love.
But there was nothing in them calculated to throw light on the mystery.
She knew of her lover’s disappearance, and was prostrated with grief
and anxiety, so the Count’s father asserted.

The result of the examination of the papers so far was very
disappointing, but a small diary was found in which were some rather
remarkable passages. It was not a diary of doings and events from day
to day, but seemed to be the outpourings of the writer’s feelings and
emotions, written in a fitful and irregular manner. Those which struck
Danevitch the most were as follows:

       *       *       *       *       *

‘I often wonder whether we are really free and responsible beings;
whether the evil we do is the result of deliberate sinning, or whether
it is due to some inward promptings which we are absolutely powerless
to resist. If the latter, to what extent can we be held liable for
our sins? I am sorely troubled at times with this thought, and yearn
for someone to whom I could appeal with a hope of receiving such an
answer as would seem to me satisfactory. The teachings of my Church
do not satisfy me. The Church says that to do evil is to incur the
wrath of Heaven; but if I cannot resist doing evil, is it right that I
should be held responsible? Of course, the world would say that this is
sophistry, but when I find myself on the one hand trying with all my
might to avoid doing anything which, according to the laws of ethics
and the canons of the Church, could be construed into wrong-doing, and,
on the other, being drawn by some vaguely defined power, which I am too
weak to resist, into doing that which I am conscious it is not right to
do, I ask myself if I can really be held responsible. It seems to me
that I have two distinct characters, clearly separated, and entirely
antagonistic to each other. The one leads me into paths that I would
fain avoid; the other causes me to weep for my frailty. I wonder if all
men are constituted like this? Perhaps they are, but are less sensitive
than I am.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘If a man entangles himself in a net, he may exhaust himself in his
struggles to get free again, and it may even be that the more he
struggles the more tightly he may enmesh himself, until he realizes
the horror that he is doomed to remain powerless until death itself
releases him. This is figurative language, but it is by such language
that we can best convey our true meaning. It is but speaking in
parables, and parables better than anything else often enable us to
understand and grasp what would otherwise be obscure. Unhappily, I am
entangled in a net, and I have struggled in vain to free myself. If I
could undo the past, I might know true happiness once more; but that
which is done is done, and though we weep tears of blood, we can never
obliterate the record which is written on the tablets of memory. I
wonder what the pure being in Russia, to whom I gave my heart, would
say if she knew how I had wronged her. Can I ever look into her clear
honest eyes again with the frank, unflinching gaze of the happy
days past and gone? I fear not. Indeed, I feel that I dare not meet
her again. I have dug a gulf between us, and that gulf can never be
bridged. But I suffer agony of mind when I think how she will suffer
when she knows my baseness, as know she must, sooner or later. It is
hard to have to live two lives, as I am doing. To my friends I appear
all they would believe me to be; but in the solitude of my chamber my
heart bleeds as I realize how false I am.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘I have been weak, but am growing strong again. Desperation is lending
me strength, in fact; and I shall burst these accursed bonds asunder.
I have still youth and energy, and must make an effort to climb to
higher heights. I have been walking blindly hitherto, and have missed
my way, but I see it clear enough now; and a resolute and determined
man, who finds himself surrounded by obstacles, should sweep them away.
He who hesitates is lost; I have hesitated, but will do so no longer.
Great things are expected from me, and I must not disappoint those who
have placed their hopes upon me. Marie must not be allowed to keep me
bound down in the gutter. It is not my place. I was destined to walk
on higher heights; and since it is impossible for me to raise her,
she must be cut adrift. It may seem cowardly; it may be cruel for me
to do this; but it must be done, for I cannot endure the double life
any longer. Is a man to suffer all his life for one false step? Am I
justified in breaking the hearts of parents and betrothed? No. It must
not be--shall not be. In a few weeks I shall send in my resignation,
and quit Paris for ever. It will cause a nine days’ wonder, but what
of that? People will say I am a fool, but it won’t affect me. I shall
plead that I know my own affairs best, and that circumstances of a
private and pressing nature necessitate my hasty return to Russia. This
I am determined to do, cost what it may. I have taken Eugène Peon into
my confidence. He will help me, and satisfy the curious when I am gone.’

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a significance in the foregoing passages which was not
lost upon Danevitch. The Count gave himself away, though, of course,
he never expected that any eyes but his own would read what he had
written. It will be said, of course, that it was foolish for him to
have committed his thoughts to paper; though it must be remembered that
there are some men who seem to derive a strange pleasure in recording
their evil deeds. It is a well-known fact that some of the greatest
criminals have kept diaries, in which they have written the most
damning evidence of their guilt. The Count’s diary proved conclusively
that there were certain ugly passages in his life, and two points were
made clear--there was a woman in the case, and Eugène Peon knew more of
the Count’s affairs than he cared to own to, and confirmed Danevitch
in his belief that Peon was a crafty man, and by no means carried his
heart upon his sleeve.

As may be imagined, the Count’s father was much cut up, as he realized
that his son had been guilty of evil which was calculated to reflect
upon the honour of the family, that honour of which the old man was so
proud, and which he would gladly have died to shield.

Of course it became necessary now to find out who the ‘Marie’ referred
to in the diary was; for it was obvious that she was directly or
indirectly responsible for the Count’s disappearance. No letters
could be discovered which were calculated to throw any light on the
subject, but in a small drawer of the Count’s desk there was found the
photograph of a young woman, and on the back, in a scrawling hand, was
the following:

  ‘For ever and ever thine.
                        MARIE.’

The likeness was that of a singularly handsome girl of about
two-and-twenty; but the handwriting was so bad it suggested that the
writer was not educated.

Danevitch felt now that he was in possession of a clue--a vague one, it
was true, but it was possible it might lead to very important results.
Marie must be found, though he did not know at the moment how he was
going to find her. Paris was a big place; Marie was a very common name.
Danevitch, however, having once got on the scent, was not likely to go
very far astray, and he generally found some means of bringing down his
quarry at last. He was not indifferent to the self-evident fact that
in this case there were no ordinary difficulties to contend against;
this was proved by the large reward having failed to bring forth any
information. It showed that those who were responsible for the Count’s
disappearance had very powerful motives for keeping their secret; and
whether few or many were interested in that secret, ten thousand francs
was not strong enough to tempt one of them; and it seemed as if it
was not the Count’s money that was responsible for his disappearance.
He kept a banking account in Paris, but this had not been drawn upon
since the week before he went away, when he cashed a cheque for three
thousand francs. But at this stage a curious incident was brought to
light, which put a new complexion on the matter altogether.

The incident was this: It appeared that the Count also kept a
considerable account at the Moscow branch of the Bank of Russia. He
owned a good deal of property in and about Moscow, part of it being a
flourishing flax-mill, which turned over a princely revenue. His Moscow
affairs were managed by an agent who had been connected with the family
for nearly half a century. It was his duty to pay all money that he
received into the bank without delay. Consequently, there was generally
a large balance standing to the Count’s credit. One day a three
months’ bill of exchange, purporting to be drawn on the Count by Paul
Pavlovitch and Co., flax merchants, at Riga, for one hundred thousand
francs, and accepted by the Count and payable at the bank in Moscow,
was duly presented by an individual, who stated that he was a member of
the firm. As all seemed right, the bill was paid, and a receipt given
in the name of Peter Pavlovitch, who represented himself as the son
of Paul. A week later the cancelled bill passed into the hands of the
Count’s agent, and he at once declared it to be a forgery. Pavlovitch
and Co., of Riga, were immediately communicated with, and they denied
all knowledge of the Count, had never had any business transactions
with him, had never drawn a bill upon him, and knew nothing of Peter
Pavlovitch. This was a revelation indeed, and pointed conclusively to a
conspiracy. It seemed to Danevitch pretty evident that the person who
forged the bill knew a good deal about the Count, and if that person
could be laid hold of the plot might be unmasked. There was another
thing, too, that appeared to be no less clear: the forger of the bill
was acquainted with the Count’s affairs, and also with Russia. The firm
of Paul Pavlovitch and Co., of Riga, was an old-established firm, and
there was nothing to strike a stranger as peculiar in their holding a
bill of the Count’s; for the Count was the owner of a flax-mill, and
did business with a good many flax merchants. Nevertheless, the bank
in Moscow was blamed for having been somewhat lax in paying the bill
without having taken steps to satisfy themselves that the person who
presented it was the person he represented himself to be. Moreover,
in the business world bills of that nature were usually collected by
a bank. However, the Moscow bank people defended themselves by saying
that, though a little out of course, there was nothing extraordinary in
a bill being presented by a member of a firm holding it.

As soon as Danevitch heard of the incident of the forged bill, he
returned at once to Moscow, deeming it probable that he might there
pick up some thread which would lead him to a clue. The man calling
himself Peter Pavlovitch, to whom the money was paid, was described as
of medium height, of muscular build, dark-complexioned, black hair,
beard, and moustache, in age about thirty. He was well dressed, and the
receipt he gave was written in a bold, clerkly hand. Of course, there
was nothing in this description to distinguish him from thousands of
others, and Moscow was a large place; but Danevitch went to work on
the assumption that the man, whoever he might be, was well acquainted
with the Count, and he knew a good deal of his business; that, to some
extent, narrowed the inquiry, which was necessarily directed to trying
to discover a person upon whom suspicion could justifiably fasten.

The Count’s agent was a Pole named Padrewski. He was a man of high
repute, and one in whom his employer placed the greatest confidence. He
could not even vaguely identify the self-styled ‘Peter Pavlovitch’ from
the description given, and was of opinion that he was not a resident
in Moscow, though probably not a stranger. If he was not a resident
in the city, it was likely enough that he sojourned there long enough
to enable him to transact his business, and having possessed himself
of the money, he would depart without delay. Danevitch ascertained
that the bill was presented for payment about half-past ten in the
morning. That argued that the person who drew the money and gave the
receipt had slept in the city, and probably lodged at some café or
hotel. So the detective set to work at once to make inquiries at the
various hotels and lodging-houses. In Russia, as in France and Germany,
every lodging-house-keeper and hotel proprietor is compelled by law to
keep a register of his guests. It is therefore far easier to discover
anyone who occupies temporary lodgings than it is in this country.
Now, it struck Danevitch that, if the presenter of the forged bill had
come to Moscow for the sole purpose of drawing the money, he would in
all probability select a place near the railway-station. There were
several hotels and cafés in the vicinity of the station. At all of
these inquiries were made, and, at a third-rate café-restaurant, called
in Russian The Traveller’s Joy, it was found that a man answering
the description of the one required had stayed in the house for four
days, and had taken his departure by train on the same day that the
bill was presented; and on that very day he had paid his account with
a brand-new five hundred rouble note, receiving the change in small
money. As the restaurant-keeper could not cash the note himself, he got
it done at a money-changer’s in the neighbourhood. The money-changer
made an entry of the number of the note, and by that Danevitch was
able to prove that it was one of the notes paid by the bank to
‘Peter Pavlovitch.’ This, of course, was an important discovery,
as it conclusively proved that the man who handed the note to the
landlord was the one who got the money for the forged bill. This was an
important link, and another was soon discovered.

‘From information received,’ to quote the common police-court
expression, Danevitch learnt that during the time the pseudo Peter
Pavlovitch was staying at The Traveller’s Joy he was visited daily by a
pretty young woman, who, from her manner, style of dress, and general
get-up, was supposed to be connected with the theatrical profession.
Every evening Peter went out with her, then both returned together
and supped, and after that went out again, and some time later Peter
returned alone. The deduction from this was, assuming she belonged to
the theatrical profession, that Peter took her to the theatre at night,
brought her back to supper after she had done her work, and then saw
her home to her lodgings. Fortunately, a very minute description of the
woman was forthcoming, and from this Danevitch ultimately identified
her as a Fräulein Holzstein, supposed to be of Austrian or German
nationality. She was a music-hall singer, and had been fulfilling
an engagement at a hall in Moscow, but had then left and gone to a
place of entertainment in St. Petersburg, whither Danevitch journeyed
without delay. He soon discovered the lady he was seeking, but was
very cautious not to let her know that she was under surveillance. He
had no difficulty in making her acquaintance, in the capacity of a man
about town who enjoyed the privilege of being allowed on the stage;
and on one or two occasions she deigned to accept an invitation to sup
with him. He learnt from her that when her engagement terminated in
St. Petersburg, as it would do in a few days, she was going to Vienna
for a week, thence to Berlin for a fortnight, and after that to Paris
to perform in a sensational drama at the Châtelet. Danevitch was now
instinctively certain that he was on the trail, and he resolved not to
lose it. Therefore, when Fräulein Holzstein took her departure from
the Russian capital, he left by the same train, though she was not
aware of it. He followed her to Vienna, from Vienna to Berlin, from
Berlin to Paris. When she arrived at Paris she was met by a man who was
at once identified from the description Danevitch had received as the
man who had presented the forged bill for payment at the Moscow bank.
The scent was now getting warm, but at this stage it would have been
premature to have taken any steps calculated to frighten the quarry
which was being so patiently shadowed. This man and woman were not the
only actors in the drama, if, as was thought probable, they were in any
way connected with the Count’s disappearance; and Danevitch had yet
to prove that there was any connection between that incident and the
forged bill.

The man who had passed himself off as Peter Pavlovitch in Moscow was
known in Paris as Henri Charcot, and by calling he was a theatrical
and music-hall agent. He rented a small office not very far from the
Châtelet Theatre; but, judging from appearances, he was not in a very
flourishing way of business, although Danevitch gathered that at one
time he had had an extensive connection. He had lost it, however, by
inattention and shady practices. Fräulein Holzstein was, or at any rate
represented herself to be, the wife of Charcot.

Another discovery was now made by the patient and watchful Danevitch.
A man was in the habit of visiting the Charcots. He occupied a much
higher social position than they did; but it was made evident he did
not care for his visits being known to other people, for he always went
at night, and invariably wore a cloak of such ample proportions that
his figure was practically disguised, while a broad-brimmed, soft hat
served to conceal his features. The Charcots lived in rather a poor
quarter of Paris, not far from the Gare de l’Est. In this region was a
very popular and much-frequented restaurant, largely patronized by the
inhabitants of the neighbourhood. The Charcots invariably went there
to dine. And when the strange man visited them, he generally went with
them to dine or sup, as the case might be, on those occasions. They
indulged in the privacy of a _cabinet particulière_, as it is called in
France--that is to say, a private room.

One night the three went to the restaurant for dinner, and were shown
into a snug cabinet, where a small stove dispensed a comforting warmth,
for the night was excessively cold, and to protect the occupants from
draught a heavy screen was drawn between the table and the window. When
the coffee and cognac were placed on the table, and Madame Charcot and
the two men had lighted their cigarettes, the waiter was dismissed and
the door closed. Then the lady and her two companions, feeling under no
restraint, freely indulged in conversation.

‘Do you people intend to remain in Paris?’ asked the stranger.

‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Charcot. ‘I don’t see that there is much
to fear. No one suspects us, and it is not worth while giving up our
business, such as it is.’

‘You feel sure that your visit to Russia in connection with the bill is
not known?’

‘Perfectly sure. My wife and I managed the business too cleverly for
suspicion to be directed against us.’

‘But you mustn’t forget that Michael Danevitch has got the matter in
hand.’

Madame Charcot broke into a mocking laugh, as she exclaimed:

‘Pooh! There is nothing to fear from Danevitch. He is a very much
overrated man. All the wonderful stories that one hears about him are,
I believe, invented by himself; any way, I am not afraid of him. It
seems to me that it was impossible for anyone to get a clue in Russia.
No, mon frère; the business has been managed too cleverly, and unless
we give ourselves away we are perfectly safe.’

‘I am not so sure of that,’ answered the stranger musingly.

‘But you’ve not heard or seen anything to cause you alarm, have you?’
asked Charcot.

‘No, no, not at all,’ said the stranger, pulling his moustache and
looking grave; ‘but one never knows.’

‘You are surely in a despondent mood, cher frère. The dinner must have
disagreed with you,’ madame remarked banteringly.

‘The dinner was all right; but I haven’t been easy in my mind for some
time.’

‘It’s the liver, the liver, my dear boy,’ Charcot remarked.

‘What’s the use of troubling yourself about shadows?’ put in the lady.
‘Haven’t the Paris police used some of their best men, and yet failed
to get a scent?’

‘That’s true,’ said the stranger; ‘but the affair must come to light
sooner or later.’

‘And what if it does?’ asked madame. ‘How are we to be identified with
the case?’

‘Not easily, if he is dead,’ answered the stranger. ‘The dead tell no
tales.’

‘Then, why in the name of common-sense should he live?’ asked Madame
Charcot, blowing a stream of smoke from her nostrils, and speaking with
energy.

The stranger shuddered, and said:

‘I’ll have nothing whatever to do with his death.’

‘You are chicken-hearted, man,’ Charcot remarked. ‘One word and an
extra hundred francs to old Pierre, and every danger would be removed.’

‘It might, or might not. Any way, I would rather not speak the word.
The business has been bungled as it is, and instead of its proving
a source of wealth to us, we only made a miserable hundred thousand
francs between us, and it’s hopeless to expect that we can get any
more.’

‘You should have played your cards better,’ remarked Charcot.

‘But who in the name of Satan thought that he was going to peg out as
he has done.’

‘Well, there is one thing we mustn’t forget,’ said madame; ‘unless
Pierre’s palms are kept well greased, he’ll let the cat out of the bag.’

‘No, I don’t think he will do that. He has already been well paid; and
before I gave him the last thousand francs I made the old rascal sign
a document, in which he confesses his share in the business, so that
if he turns traitor I’ve got him on the hip. But, any way, it strikes
me this is not a safe place, and I shall go abroad. No living soul
suspects me, but one never knows what may happen; it’s best to be on
the safe side.’

‘Well, you are a soldier of fortune,’ said Charcot, ‘and can march
at an hour’s notice; but we’ve got interests here, and unless danger
really menaces, it would be folly for us to sacrifice those interests.
What do you say?’ turning to his wife.

‘Oh, I think it’s all right. If we have reason to believe there is
any danger, we can clear out; but my own impression is that there is
not much chance of our being suspected. Besides, we must have more
money yet. Fate has been against us in that respect. We bungled in the
beginning, and are paying the penalty of the error. By-and-by, however,
we may be rewarded.’

‘If you think so, you are much more of an optimist than I am,’ the
stranger remarked.

‘You’ve always been disposed to look on the gloomy side of things,’
said madame sharply. ‘What is the use of meeting trouble half-way?
We’ve played our cards, and must abide by the game. At any rate, you’ve
done fairly well, and fortune has favoured you throughout your life.
You’ve no just cause to grumble.’

‘But suppose the game goes against us?’ now asked the stranger.

‘What is the use of supposing? It hasn’t done so up to the present, and
we’ve netted a fair stake.’

‘But nothing nearly as much as we ought to have done.’

‘That can’t be helped. We’ve not lost, any way. But, for goodness’
sake, don’t mope like that. You make me miserable. We’ve bled our
victim pretty freely, and though he has plenty more blood in him, if we
cannot get it, we had better be satisfied.’

‘It’s tantalizing, nevertheless. Don’t you think we might risk another
bill here?’

‘No; it would be too dangerous,’ said madame.

‘I would have nothing to do with it,’ added her husband, ‘Any attempt
of that kind would betray us as sure as fate. No, no, mon cher; it
can’t be done.’

The stranger sighed, and resigned himself to the situation, for he was
forced to admit that the arguments used against him were unanswerable.

In a little while the party broke up. The stranger embraced the woman
warmly, and, shaking hands with the man, hurried away.

Charcot and his wife lingered for a while to smoke another cigarette,
and for the man to consume an absinthe.

‘Eugène is melancholy,’ the woman remarked; ‘but it’s folly to weep
over the milk that is lost. If matters hadn’t turned out as they have
done, we might all have raked in a snug little fortune. But, as it is,
we haven’t done so badly, and we’re safe.’

‘But not as safe as we should be if the Count were dead,’ the husband
remarked.

‘That’s true,’ said the woman thoughtfully, while her pretty face
took on a very wicked expression. ‘But you know Eugène is far too
sentimental. It doesn’t do to be sentimental in a case of this
kind. We’ve got ourselves to consider, and, having gone so far, it
is downright folly to hesitate to take the final step, which would
complete the work. What do you think?’

‘I agree with you.’

‘Then, you go and see Pierre, and give him a quiet hint.’

‘I’ve a good mind to,’ mused the husband.

‘Don’t spoil a good mind, dear.’

‘But, you know, we should have to give the old rascal two or three
hundred francs more.’

‘And it’s worth it; we can afford it. Better to pay that than allow a
risk to remain that we can remove.’

‘You are right--you are right, dear,’ said the husband.

‘And you will go and see Pierre?’

‘I must consider the matter.’

‘Tut, man! What does it want consideration for? We are agreed on the
subject. Vacillation shows weakness. Hesitation may cost us dear. Make
up your mind at once.’

‘It’s made up,’ said the husband, after some reflection.

‘And you will go?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘To-morrow morning.’

‘Good. That’s a point settled, and my mind is easier.’

The man and woman now took their departure; but little did they dream
that every word of the conversation which they and the stranger--who
was none other than Eugène Peon--had uttered had been most carefully
taken down in shorthand. Behind the screen a young man had patiently
sat the whole evening, with note-book and pencil in hand. He was
a trusted agent of Danevitch, who had made arrangements with the
landlord of the restaurant. And thus the conspirators had been neatly
trapped. Nevertheless, the story was not all learnt yet, and Danevitch
considered it would have been premature to make any move or show his
hand until he found out where the Count was concealed. Of course, a
close watch was set on Eugène Peon’s movements, so that no chance
should be afforded him of slipping through the meshes of the net which
was so cleverly being drawn around him and his companions in guilt.
Charcot was also closely shadowed, and the next day was followed to
an old house situated in the western part of Paris, outside of the
barrier. It was a curious, ramshackle, tumble-down-looking building,
mournful and melancholy in its ruin, and mournful and melancholy in its
surroundings. At one time it had probably been the country residence
of some rich person, standing in pleasant gardens, on the banks of a
stream, and commanding a fine panoramic view. But that was in the long
ago. The grounds were now a howling wilderness; the stream was a foul
and stagnant strip of slimy water, from which protruded the decaying
ribs of a half-sunk barge.

Within twenty or thirty yards were the grim and blackened ruins of
a burnt-out mill that at one period had been a flourishing concern.
The stream communicated with a canal a quarter of a mile away, and
time was when barges came and went. The house had been the private
residence of the owner of the mill, and he lived there for many years
in contentment and comfort with his wife and son and daughter. Then
misfortune overtook him. His daughter was accidentally drowned in the
stream. Some time afterwards the son died of consumption. Then the
unfortunate father gave way to dissipation, and neglected his business,
with the usual result. At length the mill was destroyed by fire, and
when the owner went to the insurance offices to claim the amount for
which he had insured, the people refused to pay it, alleging that
the fire was due to incendiarism, and a charge was laid against the
unfortunate man; but he rendered it useless by drowning himself in the
stream. And his widow did not long survive him; grief killed her. Then
litigation ensued about the property, and as a legal heir could not be
found, it fell into ruin and neglect. For many years a man named Pierre
Mousson had been allowed to occupy the place, subject to the payment of
a nominal rental. He was a rag-picker by calling, and a reputed miser:
a low-browed, villainous-looking rascal, who had once served a term of
imprisonment for nearly beating a companion to death during a quarrel
about a franc, which he accused his companion of stealing from him.
With that exception, there had been no charge against him. He was a
big, muscular old fellow, with a suggestiveness in his appearance that
he could be very dangerous in defence of himself or his belongings. His
mother lived with him. She was an old woman, upwards of eighty years of
age, and half imbecile.

To this place Charcot was followed by Danevitch and three French police
officers, all heavily armed; and while Charcot and old Pierre were
conferring together, the Russian and his companions entered, to the
utter amazement of the two rascals, who were made prisoners before
they could recover from their surprise. To both of them this _coup_
must have been like a thunderbolt, but perhaps more particularly so to
Charcot, who only the night before seemed to think he was in little or
no danger. In a cellar or vault, below the level of the putrid stream,
a man was discovered in a state of idiocy. He was lying on a low
truckle bed, close to the damp, slimy wall, to which he was fastened by
a chain and staple, and a broad leather belt round his waist. The vault
was fœtid, and inconceivably horrible with filth and noisomeness, and
the wretched man’s feet and hands had been partly gnawed by rats. That
man was Count Dashkoff, the once brilliant and handsome attaché, but
now a pitiable and unrecognisable wreck. His hair was matted with slime
and dirt, his beard unkempt, his eyes sunken, his face awful in its
corpse-like appearance. His body was so emaciated that he was simply an
animated skeleton, while the few rags that clung to his vermin-covered
body scarcely sufficed to hide his nakedness.

As soon as possible, the poor fellow was removed in an ambulance to
a hospital, the imbecile old woman was conveyed to an asylum, while
Charcot and Pierre were hurried to prison. An hour later Eugène Peon
and Madame Charcot were arrested, and before the day was out--thanks
to certain letters found in Madame Charcot’s possession--another man
was being searched for. His name was Buhler, and he had recently acted
as secretary to the Count, replacing a young man who had died. Buhler
was a Russian, but had long resided in Paris. He was recommended to
the Count by Eugène Peon. As was subsequently proved, Buhler had once
before fulfilled the position of a secretary, but been dismissed for
dishonesty. Since then he had got his living as a waiter, until he
became a creature of Peon’s. The strangest part of the tale has now to
be told.

As most people know, the mode of procedure in France in connection
with criminal cases is very different to that adopted in England.
In a certain sense it partakes somewhat of the nature of the
Inquisition. A functionary, who is known as a Judge of Instruction
(_Juge d’Instruction_), with his assistants and clerks, subjects a
suspected person to an ordeal of examination which few can pass through
unscathed, unless they be absolutely innocent. The Judge is a legal
man of wide experience, and generally with a very intimate knowledge
of human nature. He is an adept in the art of cross-examination, and
the ‘suspect’ must be clever indeed if he can outwit this examining
Judge. Where several persons are under suspicion of complicity, they
are confronted with each other, and very rarely do they fail to condemn
themselves, and betray their guilt, if they are guilty, under the
pitiless fire of questioning to which they are subjected. In this way
the truth is brought to light, and piece by piece a story is built up.
The story that was partly wrung from the prisoners in this case, and
partly learnt from other sources, was as follows:

Years before the events already narrated, an Austrian named Schumacher
took up his residence in Paris, with his wife and two daughters,
named respectively Rosine and Anna, and a son, Fritz. The girls were
at that time quite children. Schumacher, who was a cabinet-maker by
trade, and his family ultimately became naturalized French subjects.
As the girls grew up, they developed remarkable beauty; but this was
allied to vulgar tastes and loose habits, well calculated to bring
them to trouble sooner or later. At quite an early age they showed
talent for the stage, and began life at a café-chantant. In the
course of time Anna married a theatrical and music-hall agent named
Charcot; and Rosine, who seems to have had numerous lovers, joined a
theatrical company, and travelled for some time, but ultimately secured
a permanent engagement at a Paris theatre. Soon after that, when she
was only one-and-twenty years of age, and noted for her good looks,
she made the acquaintance of Count Dashkoff. The Count was young,
impressionable, foolish; the girl artful, cunning, clever. And there
is no doubt she resolved to play her cards with a view to gaining a
powerful influence over the Count. In this matter she was aided and
abetted by her brother Fritz, though that gentleman was no longer known
as Fritz.

At quite an early age Fritz had come under the notice of an old
and rather eccentric lady, who sent him to school, fostered in him
expensive tastes, luxurious habits, and led him to dream of future
greatness. He received a good education, and spent four years--from
sixteen to twenty--at the Lyceum. Unfortunately for him, his patroness
died. It was then found that, though she had made a will leaving a
million and a half francs to the young man, she was not worth a million
sous. She had simply enjoyed a life interest in a property which
produced her a handsome income, though she expended it to the last sou
every year. Fritz had also taken her name of Peon, and had substituted
Eugène for that of Fritz.

To find himself penniless was a great blow to his hopes and pride. His
natural talents and the education he had received should have enabled
him to have done well, but he hated work; he lacked energy, and so he
set himself to live by his wits. He was a fascinating young fellow,
with the power of attracting both men and women. When he made the
acquaintance of the Count, the Count at once took to him, and Peon was
far too clever to lose such an opportunity of benefiting himself; for
clever as the Count was, he was rash and weak-minded in many respects,
and no match for an unscrupulous adventurer like Peon, who arranged
with his sister Rosine that they were to keep their relationship
secret, and use every endeavour to trap the Count into a marriage.
Rosine was quite equal to playing her part in this nefarious little
scheme. Her fascinations proved too much for the Count, and when he
found that she was deaf to all his entreaties, and proof against his
costly presents, he came to the conclusion that she was a model woman,
a paragon of virtue, a credit to her sex, and in an evil hour he
married her. After that it did not take him long to discover what a
terrible error he had made. The wife’s rapacity for money, jewellery,
dress, was insatiable, and her brother Eugène took good care to share
her purse.

For a considerable time the Count yielded to the bleeding process
tamely; and his secretary, Buhler, working in connection with Peon
and Rosine, succeeded in drawing from him large sums of money. Of
course, all this time the unhappy Count believed that his friend
Eugène Peon was true and reliable, that Buhler was the most faithful
of secretaries, and he began to yearn for some means of breaking the
matrimonial bond with which he had bound himself. He found that Rosine
had developed a taste for drink; he encouraged this in every possible
way, and induced her particularly to consume large quantities of
absinthe. The result was, she soon became a confirmed dipsomaniac; and
one night, to the horror of the band of conspirators, she either threw
herself into the Seine or fell in accidentally; at any rate, she was
drowned. That was at a little village about twenty miles from Paris,
where the Count had installed her, and where, under an arrangement with
him, she lived as a single woman.

Peon, Buhler, and Anna Charcot and her husband managed to keep the news
of his wife’s death from the Count, and he was given to understand
that she had taken herself off somewhere. A few months passed, and the
conspirators felt the loss of their supplies severely. Then, in their
desperation, they concocted a scheme which, for daring and wickedness,
had not been surpassed for a long time. The scheme was nothing more nor
less than the abduction of the Count, who was to be kept a prisoner
until he secured his release by the payment of a large ransom.

The night of the ball was chosen as a fitting opportunity to put the
plan into execution. Buhler wrote a letter closely imitating Rosine’s
handwriting. The letter stated that she had been away from Paris, but
had come back seriously ill, and was then unable to leave her bed. She
craved him to go and see her immediately, and promised that, if he
would give her a sum of money down, she would go away and he should
never hear of her again. If not, she would proclaim the following
morning to all Paris that she was his lawful wife, and would also send
an intimation to that effect to the Embassy. The note wound up by
saying that a carriage would be in waiting not far from his house to
convey him to her lodgings, and that he could easily get back again in
an hour or an hour and a half.

This letter was delivered to the Count in the way that we have seen,
and, unhappily for himself, he was influenced by it. He found the
carriage at the spot indicated, and was driven out to the barrier to
Pierre’s house. Two powerful ruffians, who were to be well paid for
their part of the work, had ridden on the box beside the coachman.
When the destination was reached, the Count alighted, and then the
lonely spot seems to have caused him to suspect that he had been
brought there for some villainous purpose. He at once stepped into the
carriage again, and ordered the coachman to drive him back to Paris.
The two ruffians, however, seized him and dragged him out on to the
road, where a desperate struggle took place. To put an end to it, one
of the rascals struck the unhappy Count a violent blow over the head
with a heavy stick, rendering him unconscious. He was then carried into
Pierre’s den.

For two days he remained insensible, and when he recovered it was
found, to the horror of all the wretches concerned, that he was
imbecile, but it was hoped that he would be all right in a few days.
These hopes, however, were doomed to disappointment, and, being pressed
for money, Buhler undertook to forge a bill, and Madame Charcot,
who was then fulfilling an engagement in Moscow, was instructed to
find out something of the Count’s business transactions there; while
Charcot went to Moscow, and, representing himself as Peter Pavlovitch,
presented the forged bill at the bank and received payment for it. The
money was, of course, shared by all concerned. Buhler, who seems to
have been shrewder than the rest of them, having got his share, and
possessed himself of such portable property of the Count’s as he could
lay his hands upon, took himself off somewhere, and managed to elude
justice, though every effort was made to capture him.

As already stated, all this terrible story of fiendish wickedness was
gradually brought to light by the Juge d’Instruction, and there was
little doubt that, had Danevitch not succeeded in unravelling the plot,
the unfortunate Count, who was becoming an expensive burden, and a
menace to the safety of the plotters, would have been placed in a sack
with a quantity of scrap iron, and deposited at the bottom of the foul
and stagnant water opposite Pierre’s hovel. Peon showed considerable
reluctance to resort to this extreme measure, but Madame Charcot,
who was less sentimental and more callous, had no scruples. She saw
clearly enough that as long as the poor Count remained alive there
was an ever-present danger, for if Pierre should get into trouble or
die a revelation was certain. She influenced her husband to take her
view of the case, and had Danevitch not stepped in when he did, murder
would have been added to the other infamy. As it was, the careers of
the wretches were brought to a close, and exemplary punishment was
meted out to all of them. The extradition of both Charcot and his wife
was demanded by the Russian Government, to answer in Russia for the
affair of the forged bill--the man for having presented it and drawn
the money, the woman for aiding and abetting him. But, of course,
this demand was not complied with, as they had first of all to suffer
punishment in France for their deeds there. After that they would
be handed to the tender mercies of the Russian Government, and were
destined to end their days in exile in Siberia.

For a long time Count Dashkoff remained in a pitiable state, but under
tender care and treatment his health was gradually restored, though his
mind was shattered beyond repair. Of course, he could not be altogether
exonerated from blame for the part he had played with regard to his
unhappy wife. But if he had sinned, he had also suffered, and everyone
must admit that it was a terrible ending to a brilliant and what
seemed a most promising career. Unhappily, neither his position, his
wealth, nor his associations could save him from yielding to the fatal
fascinations of vulgar beauty; and the disastrous results that followed
doomed him to social extinction and a living death.



THE FATE OF VASSILO IVANOFF.


Possibly very few readers of these chronicles know anything of the
peculiarity--I had almost said iniquity--of the Russian law. The
freeborn Briton, who in his own country may spout and write treason
as long as it pleases him, and do anything that is not regarded as
a legally punishable offence--and the law is very tolerant in this
respect--is apt to open his eyes in astonishment when he goes on the
Continent and finds himself haled to a prison-house simply because he
has been jotting down some memoranda in a note-book, or mayhap has
taken a snap-shot with a Kodak at a picturesque fortification which he
thinks will look well in his album when he gets home. This arbitrary
and high-handed proceeding is common to all parts of Europe outside
of Great Britain. But though the liberty of the subject and of the
foreigner is ever menaced on the Continent, and a simple indiscreet
act may serve to bring the might of the law down on the luckless
offender, this state of things is nothing as compared with that which
prevails in Russia. It is a plain statement of fact to say that, of all
the countries which boast of their civilization, Russia is the least
civilized. The Russians themselves are a most hospitable people, they
are clever, they make good friends and good neighbours; but their laws
are antiquated, the method of government is barbarous, while the system
of espionage which is in force all over the country would irritate a
Briton into madness. And there is another aspect of the law, which,
though it has been denied, still obtains in Russia, and that is the
power of the law to keep an untried man whose guilt is not proved in
prison indefinitely, and to subject him to such mental or physical
torture that, to escape from it, the victim either confesses to a
crime of which he is innocent or goes raving mad. To understand this,
one must bear in mind that, while in our country a man is considered
innocent until he is proved guilty, in Russia, as soon as ever he
falls under suspicion, he is regarded as a criminal. He can then be
thrown into a dungeon and kept there. If he persists in asserting his
innocence, the law, if it can procure no proof one way or the other,
will persist in regarding him as guilty, and will exhaust every means
to overcome him, and if compelled to let him go will do so with the
greatest reluctance.

This is really no exaggerated statement. A thousand and one proofs
can be furnished in support of it. Danevitch, who was Russian to the
backbone, was nevertheless sufficiently broad-minded to frankly admit
that the laws of his native country left much to be desired. The case
dealt with in this story will illustrate very forcibly what I have
stated in the foregoing lines.

Vassilo Ivanoff was by profession an architect, with, as was supposed,
a large and profitable connection. He was also an artist of some
repute, and two or three of his pictures had found a place on the
walls of the St. Petersburg Salon. His friends sometimes rated him for
devoting too much time to painting pictures that did not pay, and too
little to his profession, which did pay. Ivanoff, however, was young,
ardent, enthusiastic; a dreamer somewhat. He believed in himself,
in his future. The world was beautiful, life was good, all men were
brothers. Such in effect were his principles; but he forgot the maxim
of science, which insists that theory and practice should go together.
Ivanoff was a theorist, but he found it difficult to be practical. He
had long been engaged to Maria Alexeyevina, who had the reputation of
being one of the most beautiful young women in St. Petersburg. She was
a member of an exceedingly good family, who, though poor, boasted
of their noble descent. The marriage of the young couple had been
delayed from time to time on the grounds that, until his financial
position improved, he could not afford to keep a wife. It was a great
disappointment to him, but he set to work with a will, and so far
increased his business that he felt justified at last in appealing to
Maria and her relatives that the marriage should be no longer delayed.

Among Ivanoff’s most intimate friends was one Riskoff by name, who was
said to be wealthy, and also exceedingly practical. He and Ivanoff
had been to school together, and had studied at college together;
but Riskoff, being considerably older than his friend, completed his
studies some years before the other.

Ivanoff was in the habit of consulting Riskoff about many things,
and he took him into his confidence with regard to the marriage; but
Riskoff, knowing that Ivan was improvident, as well as impractical,
strongly counselled him to delay the marriage. Ivanoff, however, was
head-strong, Riskoff was persistent, with the result that the lifelong
friends virtually quarrelled, and in the circles which they frequented
it was a matter of comment that these two men, who had been like
brothers, now passed each other by as if they were strangers.

Unable at last to control his feelings, Ivanoff pleaded so pathetically
to Maria to consent to the marriage that she yielded, and they became
man and wife. The marriage ceremony was one of those semi-grand
affairs peculiar to the middle classes in Russia, and the festivities
that followed were conspicuous by their magnificence and the lavish
expenditure incurred. It was noted with much surprise at the time that
Riskoff was not present at the wedding or the feast. It was known that
there had been strained relations between the two men; nevertheless,
everyone expected that Riskoff would have been invited. But, in spite
of his friend’s absence, Ivanoff was supremely happy; the beautiful
woman for whom he would have laid down his life willingly, had she
desired it, was his at last. What more could mortal man wish for? Life
henceforth would know no pang. The doting couple would exist on each
other’s love, and not the tiniest of clouds should ever obscure the
matrimonial sky. It was all very pretty. Others had thought the same
thing over and over again, only to find, when the first transports of
joy were past, that the married state is not quite the Elysium they
believed it to be when they hastened to exchange single blessedness
for wedded bliss. The blessedness is at least a known quantity, but
the bliss is as often as not found to be little better than a delusive
mirage. Ivanoff, however, did not concern himself about the future.
With him, sufficient for the day was the evil thereof. Why think of the
morrow when the to-day was so full of joy? That was his theory, and he
lived up to it.

The first year of his married life, so far as was known, was a very
happy one; the young couple revelled in each other’s society. Their
social functions were attended by people from far and near, for Maria’s
beauty was the talk of the town, and her husband was very happy and
very proud. He believed that no such woman as his wife had ever walked
the fair earth before. Romance, however, cannot last for ever, and
joy must ever be evanescent in this wicked world. Vassilo Ivanoff was
soon to prove the truth of this. Necessity compelled him at last to
look into his affairs, and he found to his horror that he was on the
verge of bankruptcy. Bills were pouring in upon him, but there was
nothing in the exchequer to meet them with. It was a terrible state
of matters, and to a sensitive man with a poetical temperament little
short of maddening. From his ideal world he had suddenly to descend
to the vulgar commonplace one, where the butcher, the baker, and
candlestick-maker clamour for their little accounts; where summonses
and writs run; and where brokers’ men and sheriffs’ officers have no
bowels of compunction. It was a revelation, and a very terrible one,
to Vassilo, and he had to face the fact that he was heavily in debt,
with no means to meet his engagements. He could not apply to his wife’s
relations for assistance, for they were poor and proud, and, while
unable to help him, they would not have hesitated to rate him for the
disgrace he would bring upon them if his affairs should be made public,
and there was every probability that such would be the case.

It was subsequently brought to light that in his distress he applied
to various friends for temporary assistance; but, because they either
could not or would not render it, his appeals met with no response.
There is no doubt that his affairs at this stage of his career were
in a very complicated state, and he realized for the first time that
he was practically ruined; and to such an extent did it affect him,
that one night he was seen at one of the fashionable and best-known
cafés in a state of intoxication. Probably a good deal was due to
his mental excitement rather than to the amount of stimulant he had
imbibed, for he was a most temperate man, and rarely went to excess.
Some acquaintances tried to persuade him to go home, but his excitement
only increased, and he was heard to exclaim: ‘It’s a burning shame that
I should be poor when there are thousands less worthy than I am rolling
in wealth. I feel as if I could do murder on those who hoard their gold
when so many are suffering for the want of common necessaries.’

This little outburst of passion and ill-will was no doubt due entirely
to his condition; but it was a dangerous sentiment to give expression
to in a Russian café, though, but for subsequent events, no importance
would have been attached to it.

With some difficulty the unfortunate man was taken to his home, and it
would appear that on the following day, when no doubt he, figuratively
speaking, sat on the stool of repentance, he resolved, in his
extremity, to appeal to his whilom friend Riskoff. With that intention
he went to Riskoff’s house, but found that he was out; and, as it was
uncertain when he would return, Vassilo asked for pen and paper, and
wrote a letter, in which he confessed that he had been living in a
fools’ paradise. But he had come to his senses, and intended to be more
business-like in future. He wound up with begging Riskoff to lend him
two thousand roubles, promising faithfully to repay the loan in six
months’ time. The following day he received this reply:

  ‘DEAR IVANOFF,

  ‘I confess to feeling some surprise, after the coolness there has
  been between us of late, that you should apply to me in your monetary
  difficulties for assistance. It is true I have the reputation of
  being a rich man, and it is highly probable that under different
  circumstances I would have accommodated you with this loan. But
  I flatly refuse to do so now. I do not consider you have treated
  me well. I was your warm friend at one time, and would have done
  anything for you; but you thought proper to trifle with that
  friendship, so there’s an end of it. As you have made your bed, so
  you must lie upon it. I don’t know that I am an unkindly man--indeed,
  I am sure I am not; but I feel angry now, and my heart hardens
  against you. I am truly sorry for your beautiful wife, and consider
  that you have done her a gross wrong in bringing her to this state of
  poverty. It is no use your writing to me or calling here again, as
  to-morrow morning I set off on my journey to visit my estates, and
  shall not be back for a month. I hope in the meantime you will pull
  through your difficulties, and that the lesson which poverty teaches
  will not be lost upon you.

                                                              ‘RISKOFF.’

It is easy to understand the effect a letter of this kind would have
upon a sensitive and proud man. The refusal of his friend to help him
must have been a stinging and bitter blow to Ivanoff. It appeared that
for a long time he sat in moody and gloomy silence. Then he showed the
letter to his wife, and it was a shock to her. Up to that moment she
had not quite realized that things were as bad as they were. Allowing
her feelings to get the better of her, she reproached her husband, and
he made an angry retort, with the inevitable result that other harsh
things were said on both sides, until the young wife, in a fit of
petulance and wounded pride, hastily put on her cloak and bonnet and
went off to her parents. Soon afterwards the unhappy husband also went
out, and was absent for some hours. In the evening his wife returned,
accompanied by her brother. She had repented her hastiness, and her
people had told her that her place was at her husband’s side. In the
meantime he also had come back. He seemed in a much happier frame of
mind, and Maria’s brother witnessed a very pleasant reunion. He spent
the evening with her. They had supper, and were happy. Before retiring,
Vassilo told his wife that he was in funds again, and all would be
well. He said the little cloud that had over-shadowed them had passed,
and that henceforth they would live in clover. She asked him how he
had managed to so suddenly bring about the change, but he laughingly
replied that he couldn’t explain just then, but would do so later on.

The next day Ivanoff rose betimes. He attended to some business
matters, paid several of the most pressing claims against him, and at
mid-day he and his wife lunched at a café, and in the evening they
dined at their own house in company with some friends who had been
invited. In the midst of the dinner the company were suddenly startled
by the violent ringing of the large bell which hung at the gate. It
was by no means an ordinary ringing, but suggestive of impatience and
anger. The servant whose duty it was to attend to the door had not
time to get down before the bell was rung a second time still more
violently. The servant hurried to the door, and, flinging it open,
was confronted by an important-looking official known as a Judge of
Instruction, accompanied by his two legal satellites and two armed
policemen.

‘Is your master in?’ demanded the Judge angrily.

‘Do you mean Mr. Vassilo Ivanoff?’

‘Of course I do. Why have you kept me so long at the door?’

‘I came immediately, sir,’ answered the frightened servant.

‘Very well. Now, is your master in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Take me to him, then.’

‘He is dining with some friends.’

‘Blazes and thunder!’ roared the official; ‘what do I care whether he
is dining with friends or whether he isn’t? Conduct me to him. Men,
follow me.’

The now speechless servant led the way to the dining-room, and close
at her heels were the Judge and his men. As the intruders thus
unceremoniously entered, Vassilo jumped to his feet, and his wife
uttered a little cry of alarm, while the visitors looked aghast, for
the presence of the Judge and the police with drawn swords was ominous.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ growled the Judge gruffly.

‘What do you want here?’ asked Ivanoff sharply.

‘I’ve come on business.’

‘What business?’

‘Very unpleasant business. I am empowered to search your house. Here is
my authority.’ He displayed a blue document bearing the Government seal.

Vassilo’s wife had recovered her presence of mind by this time, and,
going to her husband’s side, she remarked:

‘Oh, I suppose this is some absurd denunciation on the part of an
enemy, for I am afraid that even I and my husband have enemies. But,
happily for us, we never interfere in politics; we are content to lead
peaceful lives.’

‘It is not a question of politics,’ answered the Judge, his gruff
manner somewhat softening as he gazed upon the beautiful young wife and
felt sympathy for her.

‘Not politics!’ she exclaimed, in new alarm, as she glanced at her
husband’s face, which had become very pale.

‘No; my visit has nothing to do with politics.’

‘Why are you here, then?’ demanded Mrs. Ivanoff anxiously.

‘I am here on very serious business indeed. Your husband is accused
of--well, that is, he is suspected of murder.’

‘Murder!’ broke like an echo from the wife’s lips, and all present
started to their feet in deadly alarm, as if a bombshell had been
exploded in the room.

‘I am accused of murder?’ gasped Ivanoff, looking dazed, as if he had
received a blow on the head that had half stunned him.

‘Yes, murder,’ answered the Judge solemnly.

‘The murder of whom?’ asked the wife, a half-incredulous smile on her
face.

‘Mr. Riskoff.’

‘Riskoff!’ echoed the poor lady, as the smile gave place to a look of
terror, and she fixed her eyes on her husband as if every hope she had
on earth hung on the words he would next utter.

‘Is he dead?’ Ivanoff gasped, the dazed expression strengthening.

‘Yes,’ said the Judge, ‘and you are charged with having murdered him.’

Ivanoff broke into a strange laugh as he exclaimed:

‘This is positively absurd. Why, I was with him yesterday.’

‘Yes, that fact is well known. You went to his house to see him?’

‘I did.’

‘No one was with him after you left him?’

‘That I have no knowledge of,’ moaned Ivanoff, as he passed his hand
distressfully over his head from his forehead backward.

‘Soon after you had taken your departure from his house he was found
dead in his library.’

Poor Mrs. Ivanoff was now almost in a state of collapse, and would have
fallen had not one of the ladies present caught and supported her.

The Judge had become stern and hard again. His assistants had out their
note-books, and while one wrote the questions and replies in shorthand,
the other took them down in longhand.

‘You possessed a revolver?’ asked the Judge.

‘I did,’ muttered Ivanoff.

‘Where is it?’

‘I--I lent it to--to my friend Riskoff.’

‘You lent it to him!’ exclaimed the Judge ironically.

‘Yes.’

‘Why did you lend it to him?’

‘Because he asked for it.’

‘Ah! very likely,’ remarked the Judge, still more ironically. ‘Why did
he ask you for it?’

‘He told me he was starting at once to visit his estates, and as he was
without a revolver mine would be useful to him.’

‘Why did you take your revolver to his house?’

The Judge glanced at his assistants as he asked this question, then
fixed a searching glance on the suspected man’s ghastly white face.
Mrs. Ivanoff also gazed at her husband with staring eyes, and waited
breathlessly for his answer. She had been led to a chair, and her
friends were crowding round her; but with outstretched arms she kept
them back, so that they might not obstruct her view of her husband, who
stood motionless as a statue, save for the rapid rising and falling of
his chest; and he was white as a statue, while his hands were clenched
firmly together.

‘Give me an answer, sir,’ exclaimed the Judge angrily, as the suspected
man remained dumb. ‘Why did you take your revolver with you to your
friend’s house?’

Ivanoff was still silent. The assistants were busy writing. The Judge
became more peremptory.

‘Again I ask you: Why did you take your revolver to Riskoff’s house?’

Ivanoff glanced nervously round the room now, and his eyes fell upon
his wife. The pitiable sight she presented broke him down, and,
covering his face with his hands, he burst into tears, and stammered
forth, in a broken, emotional voice, the following reply:

‘I went to my friend to ask him to lend me some money. I took the
revolver with me, determining to shoot myself if he refused.’

‘Or shoot him,’ said the Judge, with a sneer.

‘No, no--on my soul and before my God, no!’ cried Ivanoff, raising his
hands to heaven.

‘Well, your friend was killed with a bullet fired from this revolver.’
He produced a revolver as he spoke. ‘Do you recognise it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your name is engraved upon it. It was picked up on the floor of his
room. Riskoff had been shot in the back of the head. The murderer,
therefore, was behind him.’

A shudder ran through all present as this announcement was made. There
was an exception, however. It was Mrs. Ivanoff; she sat motionless, as
if she had been petrified. Her eyes were still fixed on her husband.

‘Have you any money?’ asked the Judge.

‘Yes,’ answered the wretched man.

‘In notes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let me see them.’

Ivanoff put his hands into his pocket, and produced a well-filled
pocket-book. The Judge took it, opened it, and disclosed a packet of
new notes. He examined them carefully, and consulted certain memoranda
he had made in his note-book.

‘Ah, this is very damning evidence!’ he said at last. ‘Riskoff drew
from his bankers yesterday a large sum of money in notes. These notes
are part of those he drew from the bank.’

Mrs. Ivanoff started to her feet now, and uttered a low moan of
agony. Somebody wanted to support her, but she pushed them back, and,
steadying herself with a tremendous effort, she said:

‘Vassilo, what does this mean?’

‘Some hideous mistake,’ he murmured.

‘I hope so. God grant it is so,’ sobbed the unhappy lady. ‘But I
remember Riskoff’s answer to your application for a loan. And now
Riskoff is dead, your revolver is found in his house, and you are in
possession of notes which he drew from his bank. Oh, my God, it’s
awful! It’s too, too horrible! I am going mad!’

She uttered a suppressed scream, pressed her hands to her head, reeled
and staggered, and fell fainting into the arms of some of her friends.

Apparently unmoved by this sad and pathetic scene, the Judge preserved
his sternness and stolidity.

‘So Riskoff wrote to you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ answered Ivanoff in a mechanical way.

‘Where is the letter?’

‘I will give it to you. Come with me.’

The Judge motioned to the armed men, and they placed themselves one
on either side of the suspect, while the Judge himself brought up the
rear. In this order they proceeded to Ivanoff’s studio, where, opening
a bureau with a key he took from his pocket, he produced the letter he
had received from Riskoff, wherein he point-blank refused to lend the
money, and handed it to the Judge, who, having perused it, remarked:

‘This is a fatal piece of evidence against you. You had better make a
clean breast of the whole affair.’

By this time Ivanoff had somewhat recovered himself, and said firmly:

‘I have nothing to confess. I am innocent before God.’

‘Most criminals declare themselves innocent at first,’ answered the
Judge coldly. ‘However, I have no doubt you will tell another tale
before we have done with you. I charge you now with being the murderer
of Mr. Riskoff, and make you my prisoner. Secure him and bring him
along.’

The policemen seized the wretched man, and fastened his wrists together
with a pair of handcuffs. He begged to be allowed to write two or
three letters, but this request was refused, and he was taken from the
house, still protesting his innocence, and without being able to take
a final leave of his wife, who remained unconscious. In accordance
with the mode of procedure peculiar to Russia, the suspected man was
conducted to the office of the criminal prison, where he was subjected
to another cross-examination, and the Judge of Instruction handed in
his procès-verbal, as the French call it. The Judge, having finished
his part of the affair so far, received an official receipt for his
prisoner’s body and left, while the prisoner himself, having been
stripped of his clothing, and a prison suit allotted to him, was
consigned to a secret cell, which meant that he would be kept isolated
from everyone until the police had worked up sufficient evidence to
secure his conviction. But in the event of their failing to do that,
the prisoner himself would in all probability ultimately confess in
order to be relieved from the awful horror of solitary confinement in a
secret dungeon.

The case against Ivanoff seemed perfectly clear. The public condemned
him from the first, for the evidence was so strong. There was the
letter which Riskoff had written declining to lend the money Ivanoff
had applied to him for. Yet within thirty-six hours of that letter
being received, Riskoff was discovered dead in his own house. He had
that very morning drawn from his bank a large sum of money. A portion
of the money was found in Ivanoff’s possession. Riskoff had been shot
from behind. A bullet had entered the back part of the head, traversing
the brain and producing instant death. The deed was done with a
revolver, which was left in the room, no doubt by an oversight on the
part of the slayer. The revolver was the property of Ivanoff, as proved
by a little silver plate let into the butt, on which his name was
engraved. On his own confession, Ivanoff had visited Riskoff. He knew
that he was about to set out on a journey. He knew also that he would
draw money from the bank for the purposes of his journey. Therefore,
having been refused the loan he had asked for, he went to the house
with the deliberate intention of killing his erstwhile friend and
robbing him of his money.

Such was the construction put upon the case, and it seemed as if no
one but an idiot could doubt for a moment that Ivanoff had committed
the crime. And as a piece of strengthening evidence the words he had
uttered in the café were raked up against him. ‘It’s a burning shame,’
he had said, ‘that I should be poor when there are thousands less
worthy than I am rolling in wealth. I feel as if I could do murder on
those who hoard their gold when so many are suffering for the want of
common necessaries.’

All these things taken into consideration left no room to doubt that
Ivanoff was a murderer. He had committed a clumsy crime, and left such
tracks behind him that in a very short time the outraged law had him in
its grip.

The tragedy aroused more than the usual amount of interest, as both
Ivanoff and Riskoff were well known, while the prisoner’s story was not
without a certain romance which added to the interest. His poetical
tendencies; his essays in art; his struggles; his wooing of the
beautiful Maria in opposition to the sage counsels and earnest advice
of his school-fellow and friend, Riskoff; his marriage; his monetary
difficulties; his appeal for help to the man whose advice he had
scouted--all these things afforded the general public subject-matter
for discussion; they were so many chapters in an exciting tale, the end
of which was murder.

As may be imagined, Mrs. Ivanoff’s friends were furious, for, though
poor, they were as proud as Lucifer, and felt strongly embittered
against the man who had brought such disgrace into the family. Poor
Maria came in for a fair amount of blame. She was told very bluntly
that she had no business ever to have married such a man. These
reproaches made her dreadful position still harder to bear; but when
the first shock of the disclosure and the arrest had passed, she rose
equal to the occasion, and startled everyone she knew by declaring her
unalterable belief in her husband’s innocence. This seemed to most
people like flying in the very face of Providence. The accused man’s
guilt was so obvious that it was an outrage on intelligence to argue
otherwise. But Maria Ivanoff was a young and newly-married woman. She
had married for love. Her husband had always treated her with the
greatest tenderness and consideration. Over and over again he had
told her he worshipped the very ground she walked upon, and had done
everything in his power to prove that he did not speak mere words. She
believed in him; she believed in his assertion that he was innocent;
and though all the world condemned him she would not. She was his wife,
his loving wife, and she would try to save him. The poor woman saw
clearly enough that she stood alone, and that she could expect neither
sympathy nor help from anyone. Nevertheless, she was not daunted, nor
was she deterred, and her first step was to seek an interview with
the Minister of the Interior, or, as we should call him, the Home
Secretary. It was not easy to obtain this interview, but thanks to the
influence of a gentleman holding a high official position, with whom
she was acquainted, she succeeded at last, and found herself face to
face with the proud and pompous personage who was invested with such
tremendous power that he could snatch a person from his doom even at
the eleventh hour. To the Minister she pleaded, literally on her knees,
for an order to visit her husband. At first the official was obdurate;
but her tears, her eloquence, her distress, and perhaps, more than all,
her beauty, softened him; and she left his bureau with a Government
order which granted her a twenty minutes’ interview with the prisoner.
She flew to the gloomy prison, presented the order, and in a little
while, in the presence of numerous officials, husband and wife met
again; but it was in a dismal corridor, and they were separated from
each other by an iron grill.

Although only little more than a week had elapsed since that cruel
night when he was torn from her side, a wonderful change had taken
place in him. He looked ten years older. He was haggard and ghastly,
and no wonder, for he had suddenly changed the sunshine and brightness
of the world for a pestiferous dungeon, far below the ground, where
every movement of the prisoner was watched, where the walls were lined
with felt to deaden all sound; where miasma rose up from the ground,
and ooze and slime dropped from the roof; where no human voice was
heard, for the stern warders were prohibited from opening their lips to
a prisoner; where the food was horrible, and even the common decencies
of life were not observed. No wonder that in such a place men went mad;
no wonder that even in a few weeks youth and vigour were changed to
tottering age.

Maria was startled and horrified. She would have thrown her arms about
her wretched husband’s neck, but cruel bars kept them asunder. Ivanoff
iterated and reiterated again and again that he was innocent. He
swore it by all that a Russian holds most sacred, and he begged with
streaming eyes that his wife would use every means possible to prove
his innocence and secure his release, otherwise he would in a very
short time be raving mad.

When Maria Ivanoff left that awful place and got into the light again,
she felt like one who had come up out of a tomb, where she had looked
upon death. She knew that there was but little hope for her husband
unless his innocence was made clear as day. She thoroughly believed
his assertions; and she made a mental resolve that she would rest
neither night nor day until she had exhausted every possible means to
release him. Her friends were angry with her; everybody said it was an
impossible task to prove a guilty man innocent. Her distress of mind
may be imagined, not described; she told her friends she herself would
go mad if somebody did not come to her assistance. Then it was that her
brother, with what he intended to be the most pointed irony, said:

‘You are seeking to do that which is impossible. Now, if there is a man
in all Russia who can perform seemingly impossible deeds, that man is
Michael Danevitch, the Government detective. Why don’t you go to him?
He might perform a miracle, who knows?’

Maria Ivanoff jumped at the suggestion, though it was never intended
she should take it seriously. But she sought out Danevitch. She laid
all the facts of the case before him. It was the first he had heard of
the matter. It was the first time he had ever set his eyes on Maria.
But her moving tale stirred him; her beauty won him; her tears found
their way to his heart. He consoled her in a measure by a pledge that
he would examine the case from every possible point of view, and
communicate with her later on. Nearly a fortnight passed before she saw
him again.

‘There is one point, and a very curious point it is,’ he said, ‘that
makes the evidence against the accused weak, and yet nobody seems to
have noticed it.’

‘What is it?’ cried Maria, breathless with new hope.

‘On the day that Riskoff was murdered, he drew from the bank three
thousand roubles. Your husband had one thousand of this sum, according
to his own statement, and the most critical investigation has failed
to prove this statement false; not a rouble over and above the one
thousand has been traced to his possession.’

‘Yes, yes; go on,’ moaned Maria, as she clasped her hands together with
the emotion the detective’s words begot. ‘What has become of the other
two thousand?’

‘Ah, that is what I want to know. If your husband murdered Riskoff for
the sake of the money, why did he only take one thousand roubles and
leave two thousand? And if he left two thousand behind, what has become
of them?’

Maria was holding her breath with that intensity of nervous emotion
which one experiences when it seems as if some revelation is about to
be made which means life or death to the listener. Danevitch remained
thoughtful and silent. His eyes were fixed on vacancy; his lips were
closely compressed; he looked absorbed and dreamy, as was his wont when
he was unusually thoughtful. At last Maria could endure her pent-up
feelings no longer, and in a husky voice she asked:

‘What inference do you draw?’

‘An inference which on the face of it seems to corroborate your
husband’s assertion of his innocence. Mark you, I only say it seems to
do so. I do not say it does.’

Maria covered her face with her hands and wept passionately, but her
tears were rather the result of hope than of despair. Her over-strained
nerves were in that state when they were as liable to give way under
the effects of joy as they were under the effects of sorrow. She fell
on her knees at Danevitch’s feet, and, clasping her hands in passionate
appeal, implored him to save her husband. He raised her up, and said
softly:

‘I will do what I can.’

It was really remarkable that it should have been left for Danevitch to
bring out that curious point about the money. All the police officials
had overlooked it. They were cock-sure, for they believed that the case
was so clear against the prisoner that it would not admit of a doubt.
For some days after the interview with Maria, Danevitch concerned
himself with endeavouring to prove if Ivanoff had had more than the
one thousand roubles, but the most exhaustive inquiries, and the most
rigorous search of his house, failed to get a trace of a single rouble
beyond the one thousand which he had declared Riskoff had lent him,
a portion of which he had paid away to his creditors. When it became
known that Danevitch was engaged on the case, and that he was trying to
find out what had become of the two thousand roubles out of the three
thousand drawn from the bank, not only was public curiosity aroused,
but to some extent opinion swung round, and sympathy was expressed for
the prisoner. The police, however, were not moved, unless it was to
become still more prejudiced against Ivanoff. They knew the power of
Danevitch, and the influence he had in high quarters, and they were
determined not to lose their prey. They therefore resorted to all the
forms and pressure allowed by the Russian law to exact from the unhappy
man a confession of his guilt. Beyond the facts they had already got
together, they could obtain no other evidence. They knew that it was
just possible those facts might fail to secure a conviction, whereas a
confession wrung from the suspected man, no matter under what torture
it was obtained, would be accepted without question. Such was the law
in Russia.

Weeks passed, and it leaked out that the prisoner’s obstinacy had at
last been overcome. All that remained, therefore, to be done was to
bring him up for trial, which would be a mere perfunctory business,
and fix the date for his transportation. At last he appeared before
the judges. The interest the case had aroused caused the court to be
crowded to suffocation. When the prisoner appeared at the bar, those
who had known Ivanoff previous to his arrest were shocked. They saw
now an old white-haired man, with a haggard, hunted expression of
face, and a wild stare in the restless eyes, as if he had suffered
some tremendous mental shock. He seemed stunned, and as if he did not
recognise anyone, and could not realize his position. Truly it is
said of him who is sent to a Russian dungeon: ‘He shall return no
more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more.’ The
prisoner had been chained, tortured, and punished until he had become
imbecile. But what of that? Was he not the slayer of a fellow-man--a
scarlet-handed murderer who for the sake of a comparatively small sum
of money had ruthlessly taken the life of his best friend? He himself
had confessed to it, so that no one could raise up a doubt. The counsel
for the prosecution seemed to have an easy task of it. He went over
all the evidence that was known. Ivanoff had applied to his friend for
a loan; the loan was refused, and the letter of refusal was read in
court with a great flourish. Nevertheless, the prisoner went to his
friend’s house, taking a revolver engraved with his own name with him.
What passed between them would never be known until the secrets of
all hearts were revealed; but a little later Riskoff was found dead.
Some distance from him was Ivanoff’s revolver. The dead man had been
shot with a bullet from that revolver. The bullet had gone through
his brain. By an inconceivable act of folly, the prisoner left his
revolver behind. It must have fallen from his hand when he was rifling
the victim’s pockets for the money, and he had forgotten to pick it
up. Subsequently the money was found in his possession. Was ever there
clearer circumstantial evidence in the world? But to make assurance
doubly sure, there was the prisoner’s confession, taken down from his
own lips in his cell, by the Judge of Instruction; there it was for the
jury to inspect, duly witnessed and attested and legalized by the great
seal of the Minister of the Interior.

The prosecuting counsel sat down with the air of one who had performed
a noble deed and scored a great triumph. The prisoner was silent,
motionless, his eyes staring blankly into space, and his white face
without any expression. Amidst a hush that was painful, the counsel
for the defence--one of the ablest men in Russia--rose to his feet,
and, adjusting his gown with professional gravity, said: ‘I claim one
of two things: either an immediate acquittal of the prisoner on the
grounds of lack of condemnatory evidence, or an adjournment of the
trial for a few days, when I shall be able to prove his innocence. As
everyone knows, Riskoff, the murdered man, drew three thousand roubles
from his bankers on the morning of his death. One thousand roubles
only was traced to the prisoner. All the money was in small notes. I
have here one thousand five hundred of the missing two thousand. There
are witnesses present from the bank who will identify every note. We
hope to regain the other five hundred shortly. These notes were not in
possession of the prisoner, but of another man, the man who committed
the murder, and who will yet be brought to justice. The prisoner at the
bar is innocent.’

The effect of this announcement was startling and dramatic in the
highest degree. Everybody seemed affected except the prisoner--he
was unmoved; he continued to stare into space. There was a hasty
consultation among the jury, and a hurried whispering with the Judge,
who asked if it was true that Michael Danevitch had the case in hand.
He was answered in the affirmative, and in the end he announced that no
verdict would be given that day, but the prisoner would be put back for
a fortnight.

Mrs. Ivanoff had not been present at her husband’s trial. She was
prostrated with illness, the result of long mental strain and intense
anxiety; but a day or two before the case came on Danevitch called
upon her and bade her be of good cheer, for her husband was innocent.
Although she knew that Danevitch was not likely to make such a definite
statement as that without warrant, she exclaimed:

‘But it is rumoured that my husband has confessed the crime.’

‘I have heard the same rumour,’ Danevitch answered; ‘but a confession
that is wrung from a prisoner is not always reliable. But come, now,
take heart. I told you, in the first instance, that I was much struck
by the fact that only one thousand roubles could be traced to your
husband. If he murdered his friend for his money, why did he not
take the lot? It seemed absurd that, having committed the crime, he
contented himself with one-third only of the amount he could have had.
His story was that he visited Riskoff, who repented of his hastiness,
and said he had written the letter of refusal when he was in a bad
temper, and that had your husband not called, he was going to write
an apology to him and enclose him one thousand roubles. As it was,
he handed him the money, for which your husband gave a receipt as an
acknowledgment that he was indebted to Riskoff to the extent of a
thousand roubles. Subsequently, on Riskoff saying he was going to a
gunsmith’s to buy a gun and a revolver to take with him on his journey,
your husband pulled his own revolver out and offered the loan of it to
his friend. The offer was accepted, and soon afterwards the two men
parted. On the first blush this story had the appearance of being very
far-fetched, and calculated to tax one’s credulity; but when I came
to examine it in connection with all the circumstances, it presented
itself to me as a statement of fact. Now I have no hesitation in saying
that in the main, if not in actual detail, it is true.’

Mrs. Ivanoff heard this in silent thankfulness. She felt that her
prayers had been heard, for night and day the poor woman had prayed
that her husband might be proved innocent. Like most Russian women,
she had an intense faith in the rites of her Church and the efficacy
of prayer. Needless to say that after Danevitch’s statement her faith
was strengthened, for she knew he was not the man to express such a
pronounced opinion without he had a very good foundation for it.

As he himself had said, when he came to look into the matter the
case presented itself to him in a very different aspect, and the
prisoner’s story appeared probable. If that story was true, it
necessarily followed that a third person must have been aware of the
monetary transaction between the two men, and, taking advantage of
the circumstances, had himself committed the crime for the sake of
the two thousand roubles. It was upon that theory that Danevitch set
to work. Riskoff led a bachelor life. His household consisted of two
female servants and a man servant. On the morning of the crime the
man had gone to the market. One of the females was an old woman who
had been in the service of the family for upwards of fifty years, and
had nursed Riskoff when he was a baby; the other was a young girl of
about eighteen. The old woman at the time was in bed suffering from
an ulcerated foot, the result of a cut with a piece of glass on which
she had inadvertently stepped. Consequently the girl--Olga was her
name--was in charge of the house. She admitted Ivanoff, and very soon
afterwards her master and the visitor went out, and were absent nearly
an hour. Her master told her that he was going to the bank to draw some
money for his journey on the morrow. The two men returned together.
In about half an hour afterwards she opened the door for Ivanoff
to depart. The murder was not discovered until the return of the
man-servant. Then Olga went to her master’s room to inquire whether he
intended to dine alone that evening or whether there would be guests.
On opening the door, she was horrified to find her master lying dead on
the floor.

Such was Olga’s story, and it seemed probable enough, but Danevitch
was not satisfied. The missing two thousand roubles set him pondering
deeply, and he had a private interview with the old housekeeper, and
questioned her about Olga.

‘Was Olga a steady girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had she a lover?’

The old woman thought not; at any rate, no one who came to the house.
But did nobody visit her? Well, yes, a brother had been to see her the
previous day. Her brother was called Andrey. He was a soldier stationed
at Cronstadt, but was on furlough, and passed through St. Petersburg on
his way to visit his parents, who resided at a place called Ladeinoe
Pole, a little village lying to the north of St. Petersburg and the
east of Lake Ladoga.

‘Was the brother at the house on the day of the murder?’

The housekeeper did not know. She thought not. But, still, he might
have been without her knowing it.

Pursuing his inquiries, Danevitch found that this soldier brother had
left St. Petersburg on the night of the murder for his home. Danevitch
followed him there, but found on his arrival that, his furlough being
up, he had returned to Cronstadt. The parents were peasants, and,
like most Russian peasants, living a miserable sort of life; but
Danevitch learnt this fact, that quite recently they had been to a
neighbouring market-town and purchased a horse and two cows, which
made the neighbours quite envious; and, of course, such an event in
so small a village was a nine days’ wonder, and was much commented
upon. The soldier son, who was so good to his parents, had no doubt
provided them with the money. Danevitch, however, was well aware that,
however dutiful and affectionate the son was, he could not save from
his miserable pay a sum sufficiently large for the purchase of two cows
and a horse. The pay of the Russian private is about one halfpenny a
day. It is therefore impossible for him to save money. Having regard
to these facts, the detective deemed some explanation imperatively
necessary. But before he took his departure from the little village,
it came to his knowledge that Andreyvitch, the father of Andrey, the
soldier, was carrying on negotiations with a Jew--Weissmann by name--a
nationalized German, for the purchase of a little plot of land in the
village. Weissmann had had a mortgage on the land, had foreclosed, and
was anxious to sell. At last a bargain was struck, and Andreyvitch paid
one hundred roubles as earnest money. The hundred roubles was paid in
notes. They formed part of the amount Riskoff had drawn from the bank.
Thereupon Danevitch confronted old Andreyvitch with two armed officers
of the law, and demanded to know where he got those notes from. The
simple and ignorant old peasant at once answered that he had received
them from his son.

‘Where did the son get them from?’

The father understood that his son had found a roll of notes, and
though he ought to have delivered them at the bureau of police, his
strong affection for his poor old parents prompted him to commit a
breach of the law by retaining the money and giving it to his father.

‘Had the father any more notes?’

Yes, he had a roll of them. He produced them from a hole in the thatch
of his house. They were carefully wrapped up in a piece of sheepskin
to keep them from the damp. There were notes to the value of one
thousand five hundred roubles. The old people had already spent about
five hundred roubles in the purchase of the cows and the horse, and in
clearing off certain debts. To the astonishment and terror of the old
people, the notes were retained, and steps were taken to recover those
that had already been paid away.

With the money in his possession, Danevitch returned to St. Petersburg,
and handed it over to the defending counsel in time for him to make
that dramatic _coup_ in court. The next step was the arrest of Olga
and Andrey. They were arrested simultaneously, though one was in St.
Petersburg, the other in Cronstadt. The woman was terrified at first,
but when she was confronted with the Judge of Instruction, she became
sullen, and refused to answer any questions. Not so Andrey; he at once
confessed that he had stolen the money, but vowed that he did not
commit the murder.

‘Who did commit the murder, then?’

He believed that Ivanoff did. All that he knew about it was what his
sweetheart had told him; she said she had found her master shot. He was
lying on the floor with a bullet-wound in the head, and on the table
was a pile of bank-notes. She asked him to go to the room and take the
notes, which he did.

Danevitch saw at once the discrepancies in this story. It was not at
all likely that Ivanoff would have gone off leaving a large number of
bank-notes on the table. So Olga and Andrey were each consigned to a
secret dungeon. In the course of a week the discipline of the dungeon
life had worked its effects on Olga, and with blanched lips she related
the following story to the Judge of Instruction.

Her soldier lover had come to see her two days before the crime, and,
unknown to her master, she had kept him in the house during those
two days. On the morning of the crime, when her master and Ivanoff
returned from the bank, she had to go into the room to take in some
refreshments. She saw a great heap of notes on the table; she heard
the conversation about the revolver, and saw Ivanoff hand his to her
master. When the visitor had departed and she had closed the door upon
him, she thought how easy it would be to murder the master, take his
money, and let it seem as if Ivanoff had done it. Her fellow-servant
was ill in bed; the man-servant was out. Her lover was at hand, and
nobody knew that he was there. She hurried to him. She told him all. He
was entirely under her influence. She went to her master’s room again.
The notes were still on the table, so was the revolver. He was busy
making up his books, and did not seem to notice her. As she removed
a tray containing glasses and biscuits, she secretly took away the
revolver also. Then she flew to Andrey, gave him the weapon, and they
returned to the room. She opened the door gently; Riskoff was sitting
at the table, still writing. Andrey crept in on his hands and knees
and shot him. He took the notes and the receipt given by Ivanoff to
his friend for the thousand roubles, and immediately left the house.
In six months’ time he would be drafted into the reserve; then he and
Olga would be married, and go to live with his people. Nobody would
suspect them of the crime. The case was clear against Ivanoff; he would
probably die, and there would be an end of it, for dead men tell no
tales.

All would no doubt have turned out just as the wretches desired, had
Danevitch not been brought upon the scene. The horrible story as
told by Olga was corroborated in every detail, and the receipt given
to Riskoff by Ivanoff was recovered. Andrey expiated his crime in
the mines. Olga was sent to Northern Siberia for life. Ivanoff was
released, but he was a mental wreck, and his loving and devoted wife
had to place him in a lunatic asylum. Danevitch had saved him from
Siberia, but could not save him from the living death to which a cruel
fate had doomed him.



THE MERCHANT OF RIGA.


Ferguson, Tauchnitz and Co. were the largest firm of exporters in Riga.
Their trade consisted of tallow, timber, corn, flax, hemp, flax-seed,
quills, furs, etc. They had agents all over the great Russian Empire,
including the far eastern and far northern parts of Siberia. The trade
was principally with Great Britain, and it was said the firm employed
a fleet of upwards of a hundred steam and sailing vessels, besides
numerous small craft for the navigation of the Russian rivers.

Donald Ferguson, the head of the firm, was a Scotchman, naturalized in
Russia, where he had lived for nearly forty years. He had married a
Russian lady, by whom he had several children.

Ferguson enjoyed the distinction of being reputed one of the wealthiest
merchants in Russia, and he was no less conspicuous as a prominent
citizen, who had done an immense deal for his adopted country. For many
years he had taken a very active part in all philanthropic movements.
He had spent large sums of money in the improvement of Riga and its
harbour; he had built and endowed a national hospital; had founded
schools, and done much for the improvement of the lower classes, whose
cause he espoused with great warmth and enthusiasm. He had earned for
himself, from one end of Russia to the other, a name for fair dealing,
probity, and honourable conduct. In the mercantile world he and his
firm were held in the highest repute.

One night at the beginning of spring he was found lying dead in his
private office at his warehouse on the quay at Riga. It was thought at
first that he had died a natural death, that he had had an apoplectic
seizure; but when the body came to be examined, there was conclusive
evidence of his having been strangled. On each side of the throat were
unmistakable signs of thumb pressure, and a post-mortem examination
made it clear that strangulation had caused death. Such a prominent
and well-known man could not have died in an ordinary way without his
fellow-citizens experiencing a shock and being deeply affected, but
when the news spread that he had been murdered it caused a profound
sensation. Then there was a universal expression of regret, followed
by a cry of indignation and horror, and a demand for vengeance, swift
and pitiless, on the slayer of this good man. Naturally enough, the
first thought was that he had been killed in order that some of his
property might be carried off, but a little investigation soon put a
very different complexion on the affair, and proved that the crime was
mysterious, inexplicable, and remarkable. When many hours had passed,
and no trace of the murderer could be got, Michael Danevitch was
communicated with.

The warehouse of Ferguson, Tauchnitz and Co. was an immense block of
buildings on the Grand Quay at Riga. The counting-house was in the very
centre of the block, and faced the quay and the harbour. Adjoining,
but at the back of the counting-house, was Mr. Ferguson’s private
room. This room was lighted by a large window overlooking a covered-in
courtyard. On three sides of this yard were platforms provided with
cranes and communicating with different floors, and it was here that
carts and waggons were loaded and unloaded.

Frequently when business was very brisk, work was carried on all
night at the warehouse; but the murder was committed in the early
spring, when the export trade was only beginning, and the usual hour
for closing up was six o’clock, and three o’clock on Saturdays. Mr.
Ferguson met his death on Saturday, March 3, about seven o’clock. He
was the last to leave the office, as he remained behind to close
up some business he was engaged upon. It was then four o’clock, or
thereabouts. He proceeded to his home on foot, being greeted on the way
by many people who knew him.

His private residence was in the suburbs of Riga. His family at home
consisted of his wife, two grown-up sons, and two daughters. He had two
other sons, one being established in Hull as the English agent of the
firm. The other travelled all over Russia, and was absent at the time
of his father’s death. On arriving at his home, Mr. Ferguson partook of
some refreshment. He then told his wife that he had suddenly remembered
something of importance he neglected to do at the office, and he would
go back. He did not say what this something was.

Mrs. Ferguson asked her husband how long he was likely to be, and he
answered that he would return in an hour, or an hour and a half at
the outside. When he left his house it was a few minutes past five.
At this time his sons were out. They arrived a little after seven,
and as their father had not returned, they set off, expecting to meet
him. Failing to do that, they went on to the warehouse. On arriving
there they were surprised to find the main entrance door slightly ajar.
They pushed it open and entered. The place was in pitch darkness, and
there was unbroken silence. They naturally thought there was something
wrong, otherwise the door would not have been open, but did not feel
any alarm. They groped their way to their father’s room. Darkness and
silence there. In moving about, Donald, the elder of the two, struck
his feet against something soft and yielding; he started back with a
cry of horror.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked James, the younger one.

‘I don’t know,’ answered Donald; ‘but I believe there is a body lying
on the floor.’

The young man procured a light as speedily as possible. Then was
revealed to them sure enough the sight of their father lying on his
back, with his left leg up, and his right arm bent under his body. At
first the sons thought he had fainted, but the peculiar and ghastly
appearance of his face soon undeceived them, and when they touched him
they had painful evidence that their worst fears were well founded.
Terribly alarmed, they rushed out and sought assistance, which was soon
forthcoming. The police were informed and a doctor was procured. The
latter at once said that Mr. Ferguson was dead, that he had been dead
about an hour. The time then was a little after eight o’clock.

‘What has my father died of?’ asked Donald.

‘I am not prepared to say right off,’ said the doctor, ‘but I suggest
apoplexy.’

Ferguson was a fine man. He was above medium height, well proportioned,
muscular, and looked much younger than his years. His age was
sixty-eight. He had gray hair, and a long flowing beard turning gray.

It was now noted by all present that the place was in great disorder.
Ledgers, cash-books, and other books were lying in a confused jumble
on the floor; papers and documents were scattered about in a very
unbusiness-like way on the desk. A large safe was open, and its
contents of papers and books had been hastily dragged out. These
signs were suggestive of robbery, and the doctor was induced thereby
to make a more thorough examination of Mr. Ferguson’s body. For this
purpose the dead man was carried into a packing-room and placed on a
counter. Then the medical man noticed the marks on the neck, and having
satisfied himself that he was correct, he said it was a case of murder;
Ferguson had been strangled, and there were indications of great force
and strength having been used. Several scratches were noticeable on
the dead man’s hands, and abrasions on his head, from which a little
blood had flowed. These things had escaped the doctor’s notice in the
uncertain light, but were revealed on closer inspection. They were
suggestive of a struggle, a fight for life, and this was corroborated
by the way things were scattered about the room.

Other policemen were now brought in, and means were taken to ascertain
to what extent robbery had been committed; but, strangely enough, on
the desk was a cash-box. It was open, and contained a considerable
sum of money. In the safe, so conspicuous that it could not have been
overlooked by the eager eyes of a thief who had committed murder
in order to rob, was a leather bag full of money. Apparently the
bag had not been touched; the mouth was still tied up with tape.
On Mr. Ferguson’s person were many valuables, including money. It
was difficult to understand how all this money should have remained
untouched, if the deed of violence was the result of greed for gain.
Why did the criminal, having committed murder, not avail himself of the
hoard that lay to his hand? The investigators were naturally puzzled in
the face of such an inexplicable state of matters.

In the meantime Ferguson’s partners had been communicated with, and
arrived on the scene as speedily as possible. When they had made an
examination, they expressed an opinion that nothing had been taken
away. That the deceased had been murdered was evident; that no robbery
had been committed was scarcely less evident. Here was a problem at
once.

Did the murderer enter the premises to rob, and, finding the master
there, slay him, and having done this fearful deed, did he become so
indifferent to his first intent as to go off without the blood-money,
which was there for the taking? Having realized the extent of his
crime, was he so appalled that in his eagerness to escape from the
awful scene he forgot the gold? Such a thing might be possible, but it
didn’t seem probable. At any rate, it was hardly in accordance with the
principles of debased human nature.

Mr. Tauchnitz, the second partner, who was intimately acquainted with
the working of the business, and had been with Ferguson most of that
day, could suggest no reason why the deceased should have gone back to
the warehouse. He had never been known to do such a thing before.

As may be imagined, it was a dreadful night for the friends
and relatives of the deceased; and the hour being so late when
the discovery was made, the police were placed at a tremendous
disadvantage. Riga is a large place. It is a populous and busy
seaport, doing an enormous trade with other parts of Europe. An immense
number of ships of various nationalities were lying in the harbour. As
in all maritime places, there was a very rough element always prominent
in the town, and after dark many shameful and brutal scenes took place.
In addition to the sailors who came and went, there was always a large
garrison, for the town is strongly fortified. So what with sailors and
soldiers, and the nondescript hangers-on who are always to be found in
their wake, law and order were not so well observed as in some other
towns; and it will be understood that in the low quarters of such a
place a criminal might find safe refuge from pursuing justice. In the
instance we are dealing with, all the police could do was to notify
the facts to their agents and spies as speedily as possible; but,
necessarily, this was the work of hours; and through the long, dreary
winter night--for, though nominally spring, the winter still lingered,
though the ice had broken up--not much could be done. This, of course,
was all in favour of the criminal. He had a big start, and unless he
was absolutely a fool he would avail himself of his advantages.

The murder was supposed to have been committed about seven. The
discovery was made a little after eight, but it was after nine--in
fact, close upon ten--before the police really began to bestir
themselves. During the time from half-past six to ten, several
trains had left the town, vessels had left the harbour, and vehicles
innumerable were driven forth in all directions. It will thus be seen
that the murderer had many roads of escape open to him, and it could
not be doubted that, if he was really desirous of saving his neck, he
would avail himself of the chance he had to get clear.

That the murder was brutal could not be gainsaid; but on the face
of it the crime was not one of the ordinary type. Danevitch’s
preliminary investigations led him to the conclusion that the motive
which had prompted the deed was not robbery. That admitted--and there
was evidence of it--the case was invested with a certain mystery
suggestive of many things. Tauchnitz and the other partners were
questioned by Danevitch as to why Mr. Ferguson had remained behind
at the office on that fatal Saturday afternoon, when everybody else
had gone. No satisfactory answer could be given to this question.
Tauchnitz, who had been with Ferguson all the morning, declared that
there was no reason whatever, as far as the business was concerned, why
the ill-fated man should have stayed at the office.

‘Was he in the habit of staying?’

‘No.’

‘Was he a methodical man?’

‘Most methodical.’

‘Was he given to making confidants?’

‘No. He was very reticent.’

‘But he bore the reputation of being straightforward, honest, upright,
and just?’

‘Unquestionably. He won the respect of all men. His character, so far
as one knew, was without blemish.’

The members of the dead man’s family spoke of him with profound sorrow
and regret. He had proved himself a model husband, a kind, indulgent
father, and though he was not communicative, either to his family or
anyone else, no importance was attached to that. It was his nature to
be somewhat silent and reserved.

Furnished with these meagre particulars, Danevitch began his work.
From the first he formed the opinion that there was a deep and
underlying motive for the crime, which, however, he did not consider
was premeditated. And his reason for so thinking was this: A man
who deliberately sets forth to slay another in cold blood generally
provides himself with some lethal weapon. In this case the slayer would
hardly have trusted entirely to his hands, unless he was a man of
gigantic strength; for though Ferguson was well advanced in years, he
was not only unusually vigorous, but unusually powerful. He was known
also to be determined, resolute, fearless. Such a person was not likely
to yield up his life easily. Consequently, anyone who was acquainted
with him would surely have hesitated before engaging in a personal
encounter. Of course it may be suggested that the murderer was an utter
stranger, and knew nothing of his victim. But that was not the opinion
of Danevitch, whose deductions were as follows:

Firstly, the murder was unpremeditated.

Secondly, the murderer met his victim by appointment. There were
several reasons for thinking this. It was Saturday afternoon, and
Ferguson had never been known to go back to the office after it was
closed on Saturday afternoon before. His partners were emphatic in
saying that there was nothing in connection with the business which
required his personal attention at that time. No valuables having been
carried off, so far as could be ascertained, and the confusion in which
the papers were found, pointed to the motive being a desire on the part
of the murderer to obtain possession of some document which certain
circumstances and conditions, not definable at that stage, gave a
greater importance to than money.

Thirdly, the victim and the murderer having failed to agree upon some
point, and the former, perhaps, proving stubborn and immovable, the
latter, in a sudden frenzy of passion, fell upon him, and got so much
advantage in the very initial stage of the struggle that he was enabled
to conquer with comparative ease, although the victim had made an
effort to free himself from the death-grip.

Fourthly, the crime having been thus accomplished, and without
forethought, the criminal, agitated and filled with fear and alarm,
frantically turned over papers and books, and rummaged the contents of
the safe, in his eager desire to find what he wanted. Finally, without
discovering what he wanted to discover probably, he fled, and in his
hurry and confusion forgot to close the door after him.

The foregoing was the line of reasoning that Danevitch pursued, but he
kept it to himself. It was absolutely and entirely opposed to public
opinion, and to the theories set forth by the police.

As is invariably the case at such times, some very wild suggestions
were made; but there was a general tendency to believe that robbery
was responsible for the crime, notwithstanding that nothing appeared
to be missing. But public opinion did not influence Danevitch. He saw
with his own eyes and thought with his own brains, and he came to the
conclusion that he would probably find the key to the puzzle if he knew
more of Mr. Ferguson’s private life. There, of course, he was at once
confronted with great difficulty. Everyone spoke well of the victim.
His family believed him perfect. For Danevitch, therefore, to have
breathed a word calculated to tarnish, even by suggestion, the fair
fame of this merchant prince and good citizen would have been to incur
odium and ill-will. But he knew human nature too well to run any such
risk for the sake of a mere hypothesis. The problem, however, had to be
solved if possible, and he proceeded upon his own lines to search for a
tangible clue.

In taking up a case of this kind, one must ever feel in the initial
stage that he is groping in the dark; but the trained mind at once
begins to reason the matter out, and the very first thing sought for
is a feasible and probable motive. Motive is the very keynote in all
detective work, and when the motive has been more or less accurately
guessed, the next stage is to try and determine who was likely to
have been actuated by that motive. These remarks necessarily apply
to complicated cases, where the mystery surrounding them seems
impenetrable. When a man is found murdered in his house, and his
valuables have been carried off, the motive is apparent enough. That
is a crime of mere vulgar sordidness, and the motive is writ large.
All crime is, of course, more or less vulgar, but sordidness is not
always the actuating influence. Whether sordidness was or was not at
the bottom of this Riga crime, it was difficult at that stage to say;
but the inquirer was confronted with the remarkable fact that nothing
seemed to have been stolen.

In spite of the many rumours of this, that, and the other, and the
various opinions expressed, all of which were counter to his own views,
Danevitch remained uninfluenced by them, and adhered to the opinion he
had formed, which, as I have endeavoured to show, was based on sound
reasoning. The many documents scattered about the office where the
murder took place, although carefully examined by Danevitch, did not
help the inquiry, as they were all business papers, and obviously had
been discarded by the murderer as of no value to him. They had been
dragged rudely out of the large safe, and scattered broadcast on the
ground. Now, that was either the act of a madman, or of someone who was
searching hurriedly for something he knew or believed to exist, and
which he expected to find in the safe.

Danevitch’s next step was to examine the contents of a large
waste-paper basket that stood in the office. The basket was full of
paper, torn and otherwise. He records that this proceeding of his was
regarded as an absolutely useless one; but those who condemned it
did not know what he was looking for. I have already said that, in
weighing all the particulars he had gathered up so far, he formed an
opinion that Mr. Ferguson had returned to his office to meet somebody
by appointment. The reasons for this opinion have been set forth. One
of his strong points was, having formed an opinion, which he never did
until after much reflection, and a very careful examination of all
details, so far as he could gather them up, he would not swerve from
that opinion until he had proved it wrong; and as soon as ever he was
convinced that he was in error, he was always ready to admit it.

It is strong testimony to the wonderful perseverance and patience of
the man that every scrap of paper in the basket was carefully examined.
Amongst the great mass he found some fragments which attracted his
attention. One scrap bore the following words: ‘Door at five.’ It was
a coarse, common enough paper, of Russian make, and the formation of
the letters indicated that the writer was an uneducated person. With
infinite trouble and pains he searched for the corresponding morsels
of paper. And if anyone wants to know what a difficult task it was,
let him fill a basket with fragments and shreds of paper, shake them
well up, and then endeavour to pick out certain pieces and fit them
together. No Chinese puzzle, complicated and ingenious as most of them
are, was ever harder to do. But human ingenuity, coupled with exemplary
patience, will accomplish much, and Danevitch at last succeeded in
getting all the scraps together. Then he pasted them in their proper
order on a sheet of foolscap, and was thus enabled to read the
following:

  ‘This is the last chance I shall give you. You must see me. I will be
  opposite your warehouse door at five on Saturday. We can then discuss
  the matter alone and undisturbed. You need not try to shuffle me off.
  If you fail to do justice to those you have wronged, I will make the
  whole affair public. So stay away at your peril.’

The importance of this discovery could not be overrated; and it not
only gave Danevitch a clue, but proved him right in his surmises.
The letter was clearly a laboured one. It was a man’s handwriting,
and the writer showed that he was not a practised correspondent.
There were smudges and smears, and words wrongly spelt, although in
the translation given above it has been deemed advisable to give the
correct spelling, because in rendering it from the original into
English, if the inaccuracies were retained, all sense would be lost to
the reader.

It was very evident now to Danevitch that Ferguson had had a
secret--the secret of some dark transaction, which placed him so far in
the power of an uneducated person that he had obeyed the command to go
to the office, after all was closed up for the day, in order to hold an
interview with the writer, who neither dated his missive nor signed his
name.

Of course Danevitch kept this discovery to himself; and he set to work
with all the caution and skill for which he was famed to get some
accurate and reliable information of Ferguson’s disposition and his
peculiarities of temperament. Everyone spoke highly of him--indeed,
there seemed a general desire to belaud him, even beyond his merits,
perhaps. In common phraseology, his word was considered as good as his
bond. His acts were above suspicion; he was eminently respectable; he
was charitable, though there was a feeling that there was a tendency to
ostentation in his giving. In other words, he could hardly be ranked
amongst that class of men who will not let their right hand know what
their left hand gives. His marked peculiarities were an obstinately
strong will, and his refusal to budge from a position he had once taken
up. In this Danevitch saw a probable cause of the crime, when it was
taken in consideration with the letter. The writer had not premeditated
the crime, but had been exasperated into madness by Ferguson’s
obstinacy. This was the detective’s first deduction, and as he advanced
step by step it seemed to receive remarkable confirmation. Finally, as
an estimate of Ferguson’s character, he was regarded as a faithful and
honourable husband, an affectionate father, a loyal friend. Amongst
his workpeople he was looked up to with respect, if not with actual
affection. He was, however, thought an exacting master, requiring the
full measure of labour he bargained for; but that rendered, he could be
considerate enough, and, in fact, did much for the physical and moral
welfare of those who served him.

Danevitch had now reached a stage in his investigation when he could
congratulate himself on having obtained a clue. It is true it was a
slender one, but to such a man it was of great value. He found himself
handicapped, however, by the very obvious disadvantage he would be
placed in if he had ventured to suggest that there was a flaw in
Ferguson’s character--that he had done something or other which had
placed him in the power of a person who was far below him in the
social scale. Whatever the error was he had committed, it was clearly
serious enough to draw him back to his warehouse after business hours,
in order to have a clandestine interview with that person. As showing
Danevitch’s difficulty, it is worth while recording a conversation
he had with Mr. Tauchnitz, who, as his name implies, was a German--a
very shrewd, long-headed fellow, who held his partner in the highest
estimation. Tauchnitz had been associated with Ferguson in business for
a great many years, and he claimed to know and understand him better
than anyone else outside his own family.

‘Do you think, Mr. Tauchnitz,’ Danevitch asked--‘do you think that your
late lamented partner had by some rash act compromised himself to such
an extent with an inferior as to be completely in the power of that
inferior?’

Tauchnitz looked as though a thunderbolt had suddenly fallen at his
feet, and Danevitch had to repeat his question. The answer was an
emphatic, ‘No. Certainly not. I believe that Ferguson was absolutely
incapable of anything of the kind.’

‘You had the most perfect faith in him as a business man?’

‘Indeed I had.’

‘His business integrity was above suspicion?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘He concealed nothing from you you were entitled to know?’

‘I have no hesitation in saying he did not.’

‘Nevertheless, he was regarded as a reticent man.’

‘About his own affairs he certainly was reticent.’

‘Now, if I were to suggest he had been guilty of some dishonourable
action, what would you say?’

‘I should say you were doing the man a gross injustice,’ replied
Tauchnitz warmly.

‘Had you free access to all the books and papers relating to the
business?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘But is it possible that Mr. Ferguson had transactions in his office of
which you knew nothing?’

‘I won’t admit the possibility at all,’ answered Tauchnitz, waxing
wroth.

‘You must remember, sir,’ said Danevitch severely, ‘I have been
instructed to try and unravel the mystery surrounding your late
partner’s death----’

‘But I don’t think you are going the right way to work,’ interrupted
Tauchnitz.

‘That is a matter of opinion,’ was the quiet rejoinder. ‘But be good
enough to tell me if Mr. Ferguson kept any private papers in his
office?’

‘Oh yes; I believe he did.’

‘Ah! That is a point gained.’

‘He had a large tin box,’ proceeded Tauchnitz, in explanation, ‘in
his own room, in which he kept documents which did not relate to the
business.’

‘You don’t know what was in that box, I suppose?’

‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’

‘Could I have access to the box, do you think?’

‘No; I am sure you could not. I have sent it away to his family.’

The opinion expressed by Mr. Tauchnitz of his partner’s probity
and honour was but a reflex of that which was held throughout the
town--indeed, it is not too much to say throughout the greater part
of Russia; for Ferguson belonged to that class of men who understand
the art of getting themselves talked about. He had been wonderfully
successful as a merchant, and his name was associated with so
many public acts, and he had shown so much public spirit, so much
enterprise, and had advocated so many measures calculated to benefit
the working classes, that he had come to be regarded as a benefactor, a
philanthropist.

It is interesting to dwell upon these points, because the sequel will
be in the nature of a surprise. Danevitch’s next step was to seek
an interview with Donald, Mr. Ferguson’s eldest son, who was also a
partner in the business--as, in fact, all the sons were. Danevitch
displayed great caution in dealing with Donald. His experience with
Tauchnitz impressed him with the necessity of exercising all the
diplomacy he was capable of exercising. Donald was much distressed
by his father’s sad end, and expressed a desire that no stone should
be left unturned to bring his murderer to justice; but he evidently
inherited his father’s reticence, and displayed in a very marked manner
the Scotch characteristic of so-called caution.

‘Can you make any suggestion as to the motive for the murder?’ asked
Danevitch.

‘It isn’t for me to do that,’ was the answer.

‘We know that it wasn’t robbery,’ Danevitch said.

‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘But nothing is missing.’

‘As far as we know at present, nothing is.’

‘Then, do you think something may have been stolen?’

‘I won’t express an opinion one way or the other.’

‘Still, as far as one can judge, nothing was carried off.’

‘So far as we can judge, that is so,’ answered Donald; ‘but the ways of
thieves are incomprehensible.’

‘Then, you think that the man who strangled your father was also a
common thief?’

‘I cannot say he was, and I cannot say he wasn’t. We have the broad
fact before us that my father was murdered. It is for you to try and
find out why he was murdered.’

‘I understand, Mr. Donald, that your father kept a box of private
papers in his office.’

‘He did.’

‘Where is that box now?’

‘We have it here.’

‘Would you allow me to examine the papers?’

‘Why?’ asked Donald, evincing some surprise.

‘Because it is possible--I only say it is possible--that I might find
something amongst them that will help me in my inquiry.’

Something like an ironical smile flitted across Donald’s face as he
said:

‘I don’t think that is at all likely.’

‘And yet, in the interest of all concerned, I should like to put it to
the test. May I do so?’

‘You may,’ answered Donald, after a pause, ‘if my mother and brother
have no objections to your taking that course.’

The mother and brother being consulted, they gave their consent,
subject to the two sons being present at the time of the examination.
That being agreed to, the box was brought forth and opened. It was not
unlike the tin boxes seen in lawyers’ offices, but it was furnished
with a peculiar and unusually strong lock, and as the key to fit it
could not be found, the services of a blacksmith were secured, and
after a great deal of trouble he got the lid open. The very first thing
that Danevitch’s eye fell upon was a packet, tied round with red tape,
and marked in the corner very legibly, ‘In the event of my death burn
this packet unopened.’

By an adroit movement he seized that packet unseen by the others and
slipped it into his pocket. He had a feeling that it contained the
solution of the mystery, and he considered that, in the interests of
justice, he was perfectly entitled to appropriate it and examine it.

It was the law of Russia, at any rate, that any papers or documents,
however private, could be seized if justice was to be aided thereby.
If he was mistaken in his surmise, then he would certainly carry out
the dead man’s request and burn the packet, and any secrets it might
reveal to him would never be breathed to a living soul, and the packet
once burnt, no one would be any wiser. The other papers in the box
were looked through, but there was nothing found that could be of any
use--nothing of a compromising character, and the sons seemed gratified
and pleased.

An hour or two later, locked in his room at the hotel where he was
staying, Danevitch opened the packet, and its contents revealed to him
in a very short time an astounding story, and put him on the track of
the murderer.

He found, as he had all along suspected, that Donald Ferguson, the
upright merchant, the man of unimpeachable honour, the philanthropist,
the public-spirited citizen, the defender of the weak, the faithful
husband, the good father, had been very human, very weak. From the
particulars furnished by the secret packet of papers, Danevitch
gradually learnt the following story.

A woman named Blok had come some years before Ferguson’s murder to
reside in Riga. She had spent the greater part of her life in a small
town in the far interior of Russia. Her husband had followed the
occupation of a boatman on the Volga, being assisted by his two sons,
Alex and Peter. He had two daughters, Catherine and Anna. The Blok
family were held in high estimation by all who knew them. Although
occupying but a comparatively humble position in the social scale,
they were eminently respectable, and were regarded as hard-working,
honest people. Of course, they were very poor, and were not able to
make much, if any, provision for old age or accident. One day Blok and
his son Alex were drowned. A steamer laden with convicts on their way
to Siberia ran their boat down during a dense fog. At certain seasons
of the year fogs are very prevalent on the Volga River. The breadwinner
of the family being thus suddenly taken away, the Bloks found
themselves without means of support. The youngest son, Peter, was then
but eighteen, and unable to earn more than would suffice for his own
wants. Under these circumstances, and acting on the advice of a married
sister, who resided in Riga with her husband, who was a shipwright,
Mrs. Blok removed to Riga with her two daughters, hoping that in the
busy seaport they would all be able to find some employment.

Catherine, the younger of the two girls, was noted for her good looks.
They were both pretty girls, in fact, but Catherine was exceptionally
attractive. Moreover, she was bright, intelligent, and in a certain way
clever. They had not been in Riga very long before they both obtained
work in the firm of Ferguson, Tauchnitz, and Co. It appears that they
very soon attracted the notice of Mr. Ferguson, who displayed great
interest in them and improved their position very much. Six months
later Anna fell seriously ill through blood-poisoning, caused by
pricking her finger at the warehouse, and, in spite of the best medical
advice provided for her by Mr. Ferguson, she died.

It was well known that Mr. Ferguson showed the greatest kindness to
the family during their trouble, and all the expenses of the funeral
were defrayed by him. Peter Blok, the only surviving son, came to Riga
at this time to attend his sister’s funeral, and it seemed that Mr.
Ferguson took a fancy to him, and gave him employment in the warehouse,
where he remained for about three months. At the end of that time he
was sent on board a vessel belonging to the firm, and made several
voyages, and finally he was placed in command of a river-boat employed
in the Astrakhan trade.

About two years after Anna’s death the Blok family, to the surprise
of everyone, suddenly left Riga. The reason of their going, and the
place where they were going to, were alike kept secret. For a few weeks
before they went, Catherine remained at home on the plea of ill-health.
She did not seem ill, and nobody thought she was ill, consequently
the astonishment of her companions was great, as may be imagined. It
would appear that Catherine Blok was a somewhat remarkable girl in
this way. She was exceptionally good-looking. She was far above the
average peasant in intelligence. Had the opportunity been afforded,
her intellectual powers would probably have enabled her to take a
superior position in life--that is to say, superior to vast numbers
of people occupying the same plane as herself. What is meant by this
will be better understood if it is borne in mind that, as a rule, the
Russian peasantry are more ignorant and more stupid, probably, than
any other peasantry in the world. There are two main causes for this.
The primary one is climatic; the secondary the powerful influence
of the Church. The climatic conditions are a very long and terribly
severe winter, which for a period ranging from seven to eight months
prevents the peasant from labouring out of doors; in consequence of
this he is reduced to much the same condition as hibernating animals.
His winter life, in fact, is one of enforced indolence and inactivity.
His house is insanitary, comfortless, and more or less filthy. His
whole surroundings are calculated to debase and brutalize him. He has
no intellectual enjoyments because he has no intellectual yearnings.
He is content to live as his father and grandfather before him lived.
What was good enough for them is good enough for him, he says. As
regards the influence of his Church, that makes itself felt from his
earliest years. He is taught to believe that he has no right to reason
or question. Everything must be accepted in blind, implicit faith.
Such education as he receives is of the most elementary character;
and having inherited from his forefathers dulness of perception and
a lethargic temperament, he does not concern himself about anything
beyond gratifying his animal wants.

Of course, there are exceptions to all this. Among the teeming millions
of Russia this must obviously be the case. The Blok family were a very
notable example indeed, and Catherine was the head of them.

It presents a most interesting study in psychology--though it cannot
be touched upon here except in a passing way--that Ferguson, the
rich merchant, the broad-minded citizen, the respected husband and
affectionate father, should have been irresistibly attracted to
Catherine Blok, the very humble-born and ignorant peasant. Yet so
it was, and when Catherine left Riga, she was influenced thereto by
Ferguson, and her object in going was to conceal, as far as could be
concealed, the fact that the merchant prince and the peasant girl
had met on a common ground; and as is invariably the result under
such circumstances, and in such a case, the meeting was fraught with
terrible consequences to both of them.

When Mrs. Blok and Catherine left Riga, they retired to Valdai, in
the Valdai Hills, in the province of Novgorod, to the south of St.
Petersburg. Valdai was a very quiet, out-of-the-way place. Here the
mother and daughter took up their quarters in a stone-built house, and
enjoyed comfort, convenience, and luxury, which must have been very
novel to them. They knew no one, and were utterly unknown; nor did they
seek to be known or to know. At regular intervals, about once a month,
a man visited them. He was in the habit of going to St. Petersburg.
There he posted to Valdai, a distance of nearly a hundred miles. He
could have gone quite close to the place by train, but he preferred the
round-about way for reasons of his own. He invariably arrived at Valdai
at night, and when he left he always went away early in the morning.

This sort of thing went on for something like three years. Then the
visits of the man ceased, but correspondence passed between him and
Catherine, who was the mother of a son about two and a half years old.
The man had looked after her and her offspring, but not as liberally
as he might and ought to have done. At last differences arose between
them. These differences were traceable to Mrs. Blok. She thought,
probably not without some justification, that her daughter had not been
treated well. In the end the man exacted from Catherine a document,
which was signed by herself and counter-signed by her mother. In this
document, which was very artfully drawn up, and was not, it is needless
to say, Catherine’s composition, the man was represented as having been
the victim of extortion and blackmailing, and the girl stated that it
was impossible for her to fix the parentage of her son. It need hardly
be said that the man who was in the habit of visiting Catherine at
Valdai, and who took such extraordinary precautions to prevent his
visits being known to anyone else, was Donald Ferguson, the merchant of
Riga.

By means of the papers found in the packet which he took from
Ferguson’s private box, aided and supplemented by many and patient
inquiries, Danevitch was enabled to work out the foregoing pitiable
little story. During the time he was so engaged--it extended over
several weeks--there was an outcry against him. He was expected to
do so much; and those who ought to have known better thought he was
doing so little. Of course the general public did not know that he
was engaged in the business at all, and, with the pig-headedness and
stupidity peculiar to a mob, they railed against the authorities,
saying it was shameful that so popular, upright, and true a man as Mr.
Ferguson should be strangled to death in a place considered to be so
well policed and watched as Riga; and yet all the vigilance and all the
cleverness of the police were powerless alike to stay the crime and to
bring the criminal to justice when the crime had been committed.

‘Our lives and property are not safe,’ exclaimed the rabble. ‘The
police are supine; they are useless; they are in league with the knaves
who prey upon honest citizens. If this is not so, how is it they have
not brought Mr. Ferguson’s murderer to book?’

This was the tone adopted by a low Radical anti-Government paper, which
styled itself the organ and the mouthpiece of the people. Although as
a rule it was opposed to the moneyed and privileged classes, it was
pleased in this instance--because it gave it a _raison d’être_ for
hurling abuse at the heads of the authorities--to place Mr. Ferguson
upon a pinnacle of greatness, and to speak of him almost as if he were
a martyred saint. The rulers in Russia are peculiarly sensitive to, and
intolerant of, criticism, and the authorities in Riga, stung by the
lashings of the local organ, lunged out, so to speak, and grabbed the
first person they could lay their hands on. The Russian police have a
habit of doing this when driven to desperation.

In the Riga case the arrests were made so indiscriminately and
fatuously that the unfortunate suspects, after enduring much misery
and indignity, were set at liberty with a growl that was not unlike a
curse, and the local paper hurled more thunderbolts at the heads of the
police, and showed a disposition to canonize the murdered man at the
expense of the authorities. During all the time that this agitation
was going on, Danevitch was working slowly but surely at his task of
drawing aside the curtain and revealing the mystery. But those in
authority above him, in spite of his record, considered that he was
fumbling in the dark, and looking for clues in impossible places. But
having learnt something about Mr. Ferguson’s skeleton from that packet
of private papers, which was to be destroyed unopened in the event of
Mr. Ferguson’s death, he proceeded on his own lines. It would not be
easy to give a reason that would satisfy all minds why Mr. Ferguson
kept those incriminating documents; but no doubt he thought that as
long as he lived the confession--if it could be so called--which he
had exacted from Catherine Blok would effectually protect him against
any further claims she might be inclined to make against him; because
he could confront her with that document, and say, ‘Look here, you
acknowledge certain things. Here is your confession in black and white
signed with your name. Therefore, if you don’t leave me alone I will
charge you with blackmailing me.’

This, of course, was the weapon of a cunning and artful man which he
used to menace and subdue the ignorant, the weak and wronged woman. He
knew well enough in his own mind that he dare not make that document
public; for though part of the girl’s statement might be believed, he
would not come off scot-free, for would not people say, ‘If you had
nothing to fear, why did you get that confession from her?’

The first step which Danevitch took after reading the contents of the
sealed packet was to learn something of the Blok family; and to that
end, in the character of an old vagrant man, he visited the mother
and the daughter in their retreat at Valdai. It took him some time to
gather the materials for the little family history already narrated.
Necessarily, before he could do that, he had to worm himself into their
confidence, and he would not have succeeded in doing that had he not
laid a pretended claim to occult powers, which enabled him to read the
past and divine the future. With such people as the Bloks this went
a long way. They, in common with their class, had a fixed belief in
charms, fortune-telling and spells.

When Danevitch saw the infant son of Catherine, he exclaimed:

‘Ah, that is a fine child! but alas for his future!’

‘How so? What mean you?’ asked the young mother in alarm.

‘The child that knows not his father is ill-starred.’

‘Knows not his father!’ echoed Catherine, with flashing eyes, and a
voice tremulous with indignation. ‘How dare you say that?’ she added
menacingly, as she stamped her foot.

‘Think you,’ asked the pseudo-seer, ‘that I can be deceived? I see with
eyes different to yours. That child knows not his father, and never
will know him, for he is dead.’

Here Catherine burst into tears, and between her sobs she exclaimed:

‘It’s true, it’s true, it’s true!’

‘Of course it is,’ said Danevitch, with an air of triumph.

Catherine recovered herself, and in an irascible tone said:

‘No doubt you are very clever; but I doubt if you can tell me how his
father died.’

Danevitch closed his eyes for some moments, and drew his hand down his
face like one deeply immersed in thought. Then, suddenly starting up,
he answered solemnly:

‘He was done to death foully. He was strangled.’

Catherine was terribly distressed, and, sinking into a chair, she
covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly.

Mrs. Blok, who was present, was indignant, and said angrily to
Danevitch:

‘Get you out of the house. You distress my daughter. She is an honest
woman, and we do not want to hear anything more from you.’

‘Be not angry, good mother,’ said Danevitch. ‘Your daughter questioned,
and I answered.’ Then, with sudden and startling abruptness, he asked,
‘Where is your son?’

The mother’s face grew pale, and, with evident distress and emotion,
she said:

‘He is dead.’

‘Yes, one is; he moulders at the bottom of the Volga; but the living
one, the living one, where is he?’

Mrs. Blok looked appalled, and drew back from this strange old man from
whom nothing seemed hidden, and before she could answer, Catherine
started up, passionate and flushed, and cried excitedly:

‘Leave us, leave us! in the name of the Great Father, go! My brother is
far away; hundreds of versts of sea divide him from his native land,
and mayhap he will come back no more.’

‘It were well for him if he stayed away,’ remarked Danevitch with
solemnity. ‘But why grow angry with me, my child? I have sorrow for
you; I have tears for you. You have been ensnared, deluded, cheated;
and he who ensnared you and cheated you stood high in the estimation of
men. The penalty of his folly was his life. He has paid it. For your
weakness blood lies at your door, and nothing can ever wash it away.’

At these words Catherine uttered a smothered cry, and fell into her
mother’s arms, and Mrs. Blok, excited and enraged, screamed at him:

‘Out of the house, I tell you, out of the house! You lay murder to our
charge, and you lie. Go away! I command you in God’s name to go.’ She
crossed herself as she spoke, and with her finger drew an imaginary
cross between herself and the prophet of evil, murmuring as she did so:
‘We are defenceless women; God shield us!’

The painful and dramatic scene affected Danevitch, and he silently
withdrew; but he felt that he had got confirmation of his surmises, for
as soon as he learnt the story of the family, he came to the conclusion
in his own mind that the man who had deprived Ferguson of his life
was Catherine’s unhappy brother. The young fellow, proud-spirited and
honest, flamed up at his sister’s wrong, and, taking the matter in his
own hands, had penned that letter to Ferguson demanding an interview.
It was obvious there had been other letters written, because the writer
said, ‘This is the last chance I shall give you.’ Who could have
written that letter--which Danevitch so patiently pieced together from
the shreds picked out of the waste-paper basket--if it had not been
the broken-hearted brother? He knew Ferguson, he had been employed in
the warehouse; and the great wrong his sister had suffered made him
desperate--made him forget the social division which separated him from
his sister’s wronger. He went to him, not with robbery in his heart--he
was too proud for that--not with murder in his heart, but to demand
that the false statement which had been wrung from poor Catherine
should be given up to him, and that Ferguson should recognise the
claims the girl and the child had upon him.

It was easy to work out the sequel. Peter went to the office; he wanted
the paper his sister had signed. He probably grew angry, and threatened
his employer. The employer was obstinate, stubborn, perhaps insulting,
until, stung into frenzy, the unhappy youth flew at him, and, blinded
by his passion, Peter had crushed the life out of the man before
he knew it. Youthful strength and fury made Peter Blok a murderer,
although he may have had no wish to slay his victim. Finding, to his
dismay, that death had silenced for ever the lips of his sister’s
betrayer, he made a frantic effort to discover the paper which he knew
was in Ferguson’s possession. But his search proving fruitless, he fled
with remorse, no doubt, gnawing at his heart.

Danevitch says that never throughout his career did he start to hunt
down a man with greater reluctance than he did in the case of Peter
Blok. With the exception of Danevitch himself, no one suspected Peter,
and as it had taken him some weeks to learn what he had learnt, the
young fellow had got a start which would probably save him from the
law’s vengeance.

Danevitch, proceeding with great caution and tact, found out that Peter
had been second in command of a river-boat engaged in bringing furs
down from Astrakhan. The boat was one of the river fleet belonging to
Ferguson, Tauchnitz, and Co. Three weeks before the crime in Riga,
Peter obtained leave of absence in order to visit his mother, who was
sick. As it was a long journey to where his mother was living, his
lengthened absence did not arouse any suspicion. After the commission
of the crime, there was every reason to believe he quitted Riga at
once, and Danevitch satisfied himself that Peter had not gone to Valdai
again. As he had already spent several days there with his mother and
sister, had he returned he must have been noticed, for it was a small
place, and a stranger was spotted immediately.

From what Danevitch had gathered during his interview, in the character
of a gipsy, with Catherine and her mother, he inferred that Catherine,
at any rate, if not Mrs. Blok, knew that Peter was going to see
Ferguson. And from what Catherine said during the interview--‘My
brother is far away; hundreds of versts of sea divide him from his
native land, and maybe he will come back no more’--the deduction was
Peter had gone to sea. Being a sailor, he would probably experience no
difficulty in obtaining a ship. And it was equally feasible to suppose
that before going he wrote to his sister, telling her he was going far
beyond the seas.

The most diligent and careful inquiries in Riga failed to elicit any
sign that Peter had sailed from that port, and it was likely enough
that he had made his way to some other port on the Baltic Sea, or else
to Cronstadt. Anyway, he could not be found; and as Danevitch could not
entertain a doubt that Peter had killed Ferguson, he felt bound, as a
matter of duty, to circulate a description of him. This description,
however, was not made public, but placed in the hands of the police
and their thousand and one spies. A whole year passed, however, and
no trace of Peter was obtained. The crime had died out of the public
memory, though not out of that of the police. They have long memories,
and thus it came to pass that one day it was announced that the
supposed murderer of Donald Ferguson, the merchant of Riga, had been
arrested in St. Petersburg. Although he had grown a beard and whiskers,
he was soon identified as Peter Blok, and a ship’s discharge upon him
showed that he had come from New York to Cronstadt in an American ship.

Up to this point Danevitch had kept his knowledge of Ferguson’s
wrong-doing to himself, but now that Peter Blok was under lock and key
he was bound to make the matter public. To the people of Riga it was
like a bombshell suddenly dropped in their midst. Everywhere where
Ferguson’s name was known, it was a shock. At first doubts were thrown
upon it; then there were open and loud expressions of disbelief; but
the damning documents were produced, and could not be gainsaid. Then
many sympathizers with Peter came forward when the reaction set in,
and he was provided with funds for his defence; and, of course, at the
trial the whole miserable story was pitilessly unfolded, until everyone
knew it. It was a bitter, terrible blow to the Ferguson family. It
redounds to their credit, however, that they unostentatiously made the
most ample provision for Catherine and her mother, and the boy was
provided for in such a way that it was not likely he would ever want,
and it was stated that he was to be well educated and well brought up.

The trial of young Blok clearly proved that nearly all Danevitch’s
surmises and deductions were correct. The lad had heard through his
mother of his sister’s wrong, and from his sister herself he learnt how
Ferguson, in order to save himself, had wrung from the unhappy girl
that false confession, which, when she signed, she knew very little
about. It was not until later that she realized how she had belied
herself. Naturally that incensed her, and her brother--smarting with
shame and broken pride--placed himself in communication with Ferguson,
who at first tried to ignore him, until at last, threatened with
exposure, he granted that interview which proved fatal to him.

When the story was all told, a revulsion of feeling in the prisoner’s
favour took place, and he received the mild sentence of seven years’
banishment in Siberia.



THE GREAT CONSPIRACY.


Count Obolensk had resided in London for a good many years. He occupied
a magnificent house in the neighbourhood of Hyde Park, where he lived
in almost regal style. He kept a retinue of servants. The furnishings
and appointments of his princely abode were said to be unique; and he
dispensed hospitality with a lavish hand. He was known to be wealthy,
to be a member of a very old and influential Russian family, and at one
time to have held a high political position in his own country. Here
the general knowledge of his affairs ended; but there were vague and
ill-defined impressions in the public mind that he had been expelled
or had fled from Russia owing to some of those political causes which
in Russia count for so much, but which in most other countries, or
at any rate in England, would be treated with contempt. But whatever
the reasons were which had induced the Count to take up his residence
in London, those who enjoyed his acquaintance and hospitality did
not allow themselves to be troubled by them. In his own country he
might have been regarded as little short of Satanic in his iniquity
for aught that the throngs of people who attended his receptions,
his at-homes and parties, knew or cared. The majority of mankind, in
its concrete selfishness and gluttony, thinks little and cares less
about the personal qualities of those who minister to its sensuous
gratifications; what most concerns it is the quality and nature of
the giver’s gifts. Let these be liberal and lavish, and nothing more
is asked. In Count Obolensk’s case it was universally admitted that
he excelled as a host, that his benevolence knew no bounds, and he
dispensed charity with a cosmopolitan open-handedness which was worthy
of all praise. Personally he was a handsome man, with the tact and
refinement of a courtier, and the delicacy and deference of a true-bred
gentleman. He was a widower, with two grown-up daughters--Catherine
and Nathalia--both handsome young women; while at the head of his
household, as general manageress, was an English lady, known as Mrs.
Sherard Wilson, who, it was generally understood, had lived in Russia
for a good many years. She was a fine-looking woman, of commanding
presence and strong personality. She invariably presided at the
Count’s social functions, and acted as chaperon to his daughters. Of
her history no one knew anything, and nobody seemed concerned about
it. She was a power in the Count’s household; and while she proved
herself to be a woman of exceeding great tact, and one who had made the
art of finesse a study, there was a tacit understanding that anyone
who offended her ever so slightly could never hope to enjoy again
the hospitality of the house over which she presided. Her general
characteristics could be summed up thus: she was clever beyond the
ordinary, well educated, a good linguist, a tasteful and excellent
hostess; she was well informed, had more than a passing taste for
politics, and appeared to have been acquainted with many of the leading
statesmen of her time. Of them she would talk freely; about herself
she was silent, and he would have been a bold man indeed who would
have made the attempt to ‘draw her out’; he would most certainly have
come to grief. She was frequently absent from London; sometimes for a
few days, at others for weeks. But where she went to, why she went,
and what she did, were mysteries, and the eye of vulgar curiosity was
unable to penetrate them. One thing was noted as peculiar: the Count’s
daughters never accompanied her.

One night at the end of January, a night that, according to Russian
reckoning, was New Year’s Eve, and usually celebrated with great
ceremony in Russia, there was a reception at the Count’s house. It
was one of the few occasions when every nationality save Russian was
excluded. It had been one of those trying and maddening days, peculiar
to the English climate in January. A leaden sky, a choking, foggy
atmosphere, a general gloominess, and a sense of that awful depression
which seems to justify all the hard things said about our climate by
foreigners.

However, the weather notwithstanding, there was a large gathering at
the Count’s house. Russians had come from France, from Germany, from
Switzerland, in order to be present, and they made up a brilliant
assembly. According to Russian custom, there was a religious ceremony
first of all. Then followed a sumptuous repast, which included almost
every known Russian dish. After that the Count and his guests retired
to a large, heavily-curtained room, which, compared with other
apartments in the house, was plainly furnished. It was lighted by
three long windows on the east side, but each of these windows was
screened by massive velvet curtains, which completely shut out the
fog and the gloom, while a very handsome twelve-light gaselier, with
tinted, rose-coloured shades, diffused a soft and agreeable light
throughout the apartment. The floor was covered with an unusually thick
carpet laid on very stout felt. Not only was this most comfortable to
the feet, but it deadened sound, and the footfalls of the heaviest
person walking across the room could not be heard. At one end of the
room was a deep angle or recess, and placed diagonally in this recess
was a large carved oak bureau or writing-desk. The entrance to the
chamber was by a panelled doorway, closed by an ordinary door, masked
by a second door lined with thick red felt or baize. This excluded
draught as well as sound. And assuming that anyone had been prompted
by curiosity or other cause to play eavesdropper, he would have
needed an abnormally acute sense of hearing to have gathered any of
the conversation carried on in the room. At the opposite end of the
apartment--which was oblong--was another door, giving access to a small
anteroom, the walls of which were lined with shelves filled with books.

On the evening in question, when the Count and his guests retired to
the large chamber described, they made it evident that they wished to
be free from any possibility of interruption, for the baize-covered
door was locked inside, and so was its companion door. The curtains
at the windows were so closely drawn that human eye could not by any
possible means have discerned from the outside what was going on in the
inside.

In this room the Count and his visitors remained for over two hours.
They talked much, but not loudly nor excitedly. Nearly everyone smoked,
until the atmosphere became heavy and thick, in spite of a large
ventilator in the ceiling. But nobody seemed to mind the heat or the
fœtidness. Every man appeared to be very earnest and absorbed with what
was going on, and when he rolled a new cigarette, he generally did it
in a preoccupied and automatic sort of way. Occasionally the host, who
sat at the large desk in the recess, made notes, and read them out to
the company. Sometimes what had been written was approved of; at others
dissent was expressed, and discussion ensued. Then the writing would
either be altered or allowed to remain as first written, according to
the wishes of the majority.

It was two o’clock in the morning when the meeting broke up. Then the
Count carefully locked his desk, and placed the keys in his pocket. He
unlocked the doors, and led his guests to the spacious dining-room,
where light refreshments were provided. A quarter of an hour or twenty
minutes later a man very cautiously rose up in the recess in the room
where the meeting had been held, and where he had been concealed behind
the bureau or writing-desk, and, stretching his cramped limbs, he got
out, crept towards the door, listened intently, and, having assured
himself that the coast was clear, hurried out. At three o’clock such
of the guests as were not staying in the house began to take their
departure, a few in broughams, the majority in cabs, which had been
waiting through the bitter night.

As most people know, the Russian New Year time is kept up with great
festivity; and, hospitable though he was at all times, the Count,
if possible, excelled himself on this occasion, and those who were
privileged to be present went away with a feeling that they might
have travelled the wide world over without meeting with such princely
entertainment so delicately and gracefully dispensed. Host, hostess,
and the host’s daughters were always voted perfect, and very lavish
praise was uttered when Mrs. Sherard Wilson was referred to, the
English people particularly, who had the _entrée_ to the Count’s rooms
during the festive gatherings, expressing their admiration in no
measured terms.

At last the series of New Year receptions and entertainments came to an
end, and there was a lull, which was taken advantage of by the Misses
Obolensk to make their arrangements for a forthcoming ball, which they
intended to give on a grand scale. The organizing of this ball was left
entirely to the young ladies, as Mrs. Sherard Wilson was on the eve
of departure on a journey to the Continent. The Count never concerned
himself about his domestic or social arrangements; he left everything
to the ladies. He was a great reader, and he wrote a good deal. Such
exercise as he took he got either in his carriage or on horseback. He
did not visit much, but was passionately fond of music, and went to all
the principal concerts, and occasionally attended the theatres. His was
a routine life; he was very regular in his habits, and one day was much
like another with him. His position in every way seemed an enviable
one, and apparently he lived in amity with all men. All those who knew
him respected and honoured him.

About a fortnight after the gathering of Russians at his house to
celebrate the New Year’s Eve, Miss Nathalia Obolensk was descending
the main stairway in a white satin evening dress, with a magnificent
red camellia in her hair, for she was going to a grand concert with
her father, and the carriage was waiting at the door. Coming after her
was a liveried man-servant bearing a large tray full of tea-things,
including a kettle of hot water, a silver teapot with the remains of
the tea in it, a large jug of cream, and other things, that he had just
brought from the drawing-room. He was a stolid, stupid-looking man,
and suddenly he justified his looks by stumbling and scattering the
contents of the tray over the young lady, tea, hot water, jelly, being
poured over her splendid dress, to its ruin. She uttered a shrill cry
of alarm, which quickly brought her father, Mrs. Wilson, and some of
the other servants into the hall, and a very dramatic scene ensued. The
shock to her nerves, and the realization that the mishap had not only
spoilt her pretty frock, but would prevent her going to the concert,
had such an effect upon Nathalia that she flew down the few remaining
stairs, flung her arms about her father’s neck, and fainted.

In the meantime the author of the mischief presented a very sorry
spectacle. He seemed thoroughly ashamed of himself, and undecided
whether to bolt at once or gather up the wreckage. Nor was his
confusion and distress lessened by the torrent of abuse and passionate
scolding which fell from Mrs. Sherard Wilson’s lips. In the choicest of
Russian she told him he was a ‘dolt,’ an ‘idiot,’ a ‘fool,’ a ‘brute
beast.’

‘Leave the things, you stupid!’ she exclaimed fierily. ‘Ever since you
entered the house, you have done nothing but make mistakes and smash
things up. But it’s the last chance you’ll have of doing mischief here.
In ten minutes you’ll be out. Do you mark what I say? Ten minutes only,
and if you are not out of the house, then the other servants shall kick
you out.’

‘If you please, my lady,’ whined the man, ‘I am entitled to a month’s
notice or a month’s wages.’

‘You will get neither, you blockhead!’ replied the lady. ‘Why, your
month’s wages won’t pay for the things you’ve broken. And what business
had you coming down the main staircase. It was your place to use the
servants’ staircase.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ moaned Andrey, ‘and beg your pardon----’

‘Sorry, you wretch! well you may be!’ exclaimed the irate lady,
unappeased by the culprit’s penitence; ‘but get out of my sight, and
in ten minutes you must have left the house. Paul’--this to the
head-butler--‘Paul, I charge you to see the fellow is off the premises
in ten minutes.’

With this peremptory command, she hastened to the reception-room,
whither the Count had had his daughter conveyed. He was much annoyed,
but did not allow his annoyance to find expression, as Mrs. Wilson did.

Nathalia had by this time recovered from her faint, and was bewailing
her woe-begone condition, and the blighted prospects of an evening’s
enjoyment. Her father was urging her to go upstairs and change her
dress, saying that they could still be in time for the concert, but she
said it was impossible; she was too much upset, and had neither energy
nor inclination to perform her toilet over again, notwithstanding that
she had two maids to wait upon her. Finding that she was inflexible on
this point, her father expressed a hope that she would soon regain her
composure, and that he would see her at supper-time, and leaving her to
the care of Mrs. Wilson, he retired to his study. In a little more than
ten minutes the butler came to Mrs. Wilson and announced that Andrey
had gone.

‘Thank goodness!’ exclaimed the lady. ‘I am sure I never had such a
stupid person in my service before. Whatever were you doing to engage
such a dolt?’

‘He came to me very well recommended, madame.’

‘Then, those who recommended him ought to be ashamed of themselves;
that’s all that I’ve got to say. It’s really shameful that people who
call themselves honest should recommend incompetent servants in order
to get them off their hands.’

‘I am afraid it’s frequently done, madame,’ the butler remarked.

‘That is no excuse.’

‘I do not offer it as an excuse, madame. I agree with you that it is
shameful.’

‘But surely when you engaged Andrey you might have seen that he was a
fool.’

‘No, madame, I did not,’ answered the butler with some show of wounded
dignity. ‘He seemed sharp enough at first. His stupidity set in
afterwards. I fancy he is a little given to drink, though I’ve never
missed anything, and have never seen him really the worse for liquor.’

‘How long is it since he came here?’ demanded the lady warmly.

‘Just six weeks, I think.’

‘That’s six weeks too long. Take good care that the next man you engage
knows his business.’ The butler bowed and was retiring, when Mrs.
Wilson called him back. ‘Stay a minute. You are aware that I am leaving
London to-morrow, and may be absent three or four weeks. You had better
not engage anyone else until I return.’

‘But, madame, we shall be short-handed, and----’

‘I don’t care whether you are short-handed or not. You will do as I
tell you.’

Paul knew that it would be fatal to his interests to attempt to argue
with his mistress when she was in a bad temper, so he made his bow and
discreetly withdrew.

‘Now, Nathalia,’ said Mrs. Wilson, when the man had left them, ‘away
you go upstairs, change your dress and take your father to the concert.
You know how disappointed he will be if he doesn’t go, and as I am
leaving to-morrow, I don’t wish to see him miserable and unhappy. You
know what a sensitive man he is, and though he doesn’t say much, he
feels the more.’

This appeal had its effect. Nathalia’s ruffled feelings had smoothed
down.

‘Very well, I will go,’ she said; ‘but it’s an awful nuisance having to
change my things in a hurry.’

She rang for her maids, and while Mrs. Wilson gave orders that the
carriage was to be kept at the door, Nathalia hurried to her room,
reappearing in about twenty minutes, looking, as far as personal
appearance was concerned, as if nothing had happened, though there
was still an expression of worry and concern on her handsome face.
Mrs. Wilson had already warned the Count not to settle himself to
his reading, as he would still be able to go to the concert. He was
delighted at this, for he did not like to have his plans changed, and
he was waiting in the hall when his daughter came downstairs.

‘Well, my dear,’ he said to her in complimentary strains, ‘you look
charming in spite of the little contretemps. It’s an ill wind that
blows nobody any good, and I suppose the spoilt dress means a fresh
order to your dressmaker, and a further lightening of my purse.’

He laughed pleasantly, and, following his daughter into the carriage,
they drove off, and after all were in time to hear the best part of the
concert.

When Mrs. Wilson and Nathalia appeared at the breakfast-table the next
morning, they had both recovered from the previous evening’s little
annoyance. Mrs. Wilson was somewhat hasty-tempered, but she very soon
got over her small outbursts, and her usual condition was a very
pleasant geniality. During the breakfast, Andrey’s gross stupidity
was discussed and laughed at; and when the Count, with his usual
generosity, said he thought that the fellow’s wages should be sent to
him, for, in spite of his stupidity, it was after all an accident,
the lady acquiesced, and a little later she put up the amount in a
packet, and instructed Paul to see that Andrey got it. Then she busied
herself during the rest of the day in seeing that everything was in
‘apple-pie order’ previous to her departure, for whenever she was away
the management of the household devolved almost entirely upon the
servants. It was true there was an excellent housekeeper, and Catherine
was exceedingly domesticated; besides this, she took an interest in the
house. Nevertheless Mrs. Wilson was always under the impression that
her absence meant disruption, and that it was impossible for things
to flow smoothly while she was away. It was a pleasant little bit of
conceit and did no harm, for while it gratified her it amused the
others.

Dinner was unusually early that evening, for Mrs. Wilson had to catch
the night mail to Dover. Her luggage--she never travelled without a
considerable quantity--had previously been conveyed to the station,
and, dinner over, she arrayed herself in a costly and handsome Russian
fur cloak, and, in company with her maid, was driven in her brougham
to Holborn Viaduct, and a first-class compartment was specially
reserved for herself and her companion.

The weather was still atrocious. It was bitterly cold. There had been a
drizzling rain all day long. The mud in the streets was of inky colour,
and of glutinous consistency. People flitted by in the foggy atmosphere
like ghosts, and not all the lights of London could relieve the gloom
and depressing atmospheric effects. There were very few passengers that
night; but amongst them was a man of medium height, attired in a long
ulster and a seal-skin cap, the flaps of which were turned down until
his face was all but hidden. He had taken a second-class ticket, and
he and a young German, a commercial traveller, were the only occupants
of the compartment. When Dover was reached, the rain was pouring down,
the sea roared, and Channelward all was dark as Erebus. The man in the
ulster, whose only luggage consisted of a hand-bag, hurried on board
the small steamer, which was grinding away at the pier as the water
tossed her up and down. Ensconcing himself in the shadow of the funnel,
he watched the passengers as they descended the unsteady gangway; and
having seen Mrs. Wilson and her maid come on board and retire to the
cabin reserved for them, he dived down into the saloon and ordered
supper, for he was hungry.

The crossing was an exceedingly rough one. The wretched cockleshell of
a steamer which the railway company considered good enough to carry
their passengers from one shore to the other was tossed about in a
manner well calculated to alarm any but hardened travellers. The man in
the ulster, however, was not affected. Having enjoyed a good supper,
and washed it down with a pint of champagne, he produced from his case
a very big and very strong-looking cigar, and lighting it, he battened
his seal-skin cap down on his head and went on deck, where he remained
until the steamer glided into Calais Harbour from the storm-tossed
waters of the Channel. He remained until Mrs. Wilson and her maid had
gone on shore. Then he followed, carrying his hand-bag. He went into
the douane, had his bag examined, saw a porter deposit the lady’s
wraps and rugs in the first-class compartment of the carriage labelled
‘Through carriage to Geneva,’ and, that done, placed his own bag in an
adjoining compartment, and as his second-class ticket had only been
from London to Calais, he secured a first-class for Geneva, and was one
of the very few passengers who travelled that dark and stormy night to
the French capital of Switzerland on the shores of Lake Leman.

At the period of this story Alexander II. sat upon the throne of All
the Russias. It is a matter of history now that he was one of the
best-threatened monarchs who ever ruled over a so-called civilized
people. His life had been attempted so many times that he lived in
constant fear and dread, and the most extraordinary measures were taken
for his preservation. He changed his bedroom every night; his palace
was filled with soldiers; his food was cooked by special cooks, who
were solemnly sworn in in accordance with the rites of their Church
to protect him; nevertheless, their _chef_ had to appear in the royal
presence at every meal and taste all the dishes before they were served
to his august master. But even then dozens of eyes watched the man’s
every movement, lest he might adroitly slip poison into the food. It
was a terrible penalty for an Emperor to have to pay for his greatness,
but, unhappily, it was a condition of things that had been familiar,
more or less, to Russian rulers for a long time. Michael Danevitch
was held high in the esteem of the Czar, who regarded him as one of
his strongest safeguards. The famous detective’s restoration to the
Treasury of the stolen million roubles was a thing of the past, and was
almost forgotten; but that exploit had made his reputation, and gave
him an absolutely independent position as well as power. Since then he
had displayed remarkable zeal and acumen. He had unearthed numerous
dastardly plots, and had sent to the fortress of Peter and Paul, the
prison of Schlusselburgh, and to Siberia, many desperate men, who
believed that the way to freedom and reform was by the destruction of
human life and the shedding of innocent blood.

It was well known throughout Russia at this time that a secret Nihilist
organization existed of vast proportions, and that one of the main
objects of the association was to bring about the death of the Czar.
It is difficult to understand how men and women, claiming to be
intelligent and reasoning beings, could come to believe that by slaying
their monarch they would redress their own wrongs, real or imaginary.
Everyone was aware that the moment the breath was out of the body of
one Czar, another would step into his place. The cry of ‘Le Roi est
mort!’ would be echoed back by ‘Vive le Roi!’

There could be no interregnum for a single hour, unless a tremendous
social upheaval took place and a republic was proclaimed. But while
that is the easiest thing imaginable in France, it never has been
possible in Russia; firstly, on account of the enormous extent of the
country; secondly, by reason of the varied nationalities represented;
and thirdly, owing to the want of anything like homogeneousness among
the vast masses of people swayed by the Imperial rule. Nevertheless, to
kill the Czar was the constant aim of thousands and tens of thousands
of his subjects. It thus became necessary for his Imperial Majesty
to take the most extreme measures for the preservation of his life.
It was like a game of check and counter-check. The Nihilists watched
with a thousand eyes; they plotted and planned with busy brains. But
they in turn were watched; and the forces of the law were constantly
at work against them. The Nihilists, however, had the best of it. They
played the cleverer game. For in the army, the navy, in the law, the
civil service, in all classes and ranks of society, even in the Church
itself, they had their spies and agents, and those who were on the
side of the Czar found all their energies, all their vigilance, taxed
to avoid the mines which the others were ever ready to spring. Amongst
the Czar’s most devoted adherents and trusted followers was Colonel
Vlassovski, who was in command of the military guard which night and
day did duty at the Winter Palace, where the Emperor was then residing.

The Winter Palace of St. Petersburg is the largest residential palace
in the world, with the exception of Versailles and the Vatican. Its
length is four hundred and fifty-five feet, and its breadth three
hundred and fifty. So spacious is its interior that as many as six
thousand persons can be easily accommodated there at one time. It
will be readily understood that to effectually guard a place of these
stupendous dimensions from a crafty, cunning, and silent enemy, who
gave no sign of his presence until he had struck his blow, was not an
easy task; and the tremendous responsibility and ceaseless strain on
the nerves which were inseparable from Colonel Vlassovski’s position,
transformed him in a few months from a comparatively young man to an
old and haggard one. One day in the month of December the Colonel sent
an urgent message by special courier to Danevitch, in whom he had the
utmost confidence. The message was to the effect that he wished to see
Danevitch immediately. The detective hurried at once to the palace,
and was immediately ushered into the Colonel’s private cabinet, where
there were numerous telegraphic machines that placed the chief in
communication with all parts of the city, and nearly every part of
Russia. The Colonel temporarily dismissed his clerks and attendants
when Danevitch arrived, and bolted the door so that they might be alone
and free from interruption.

‘I have sent for you,’ he began, ‘to make an investigation. Last night
one of the guard in the interior of the palace, a young soldier named
Vladimir, who was on duty near the Czar’s apartments, was surprised by
the corporal in the act of making drawings and plans of that part of
the palace. He was immediately arrested, but made the most desperate
efforts to destroy his papers. He was prevented, however, from doing
this, and an examination proved them to be drawings to scale of certain
portions of the interior of the palace. Vladimir, before he joined the
army, was in an architect’s office. On being questioned he grew sullen,
and resolutely declined to say anything.’

‘And what inference do you draw from the man’s act, Colonel?’

‘What inference! Why, can there be any doubt that he is a Nihilist spy?’

‘Where is he now?’

‘In the fortress of Peter and Paul.’

‘What will be his punishment?’

‘As a soldier on duty he has been guilty of treason--for it has
been declared treason for any unauthorized person to make drawings
or tracings of any part of a royal residence--he will therefore be
summarily tried, and, if proved guilty, will be instantly shot.’

‘And you think he will be proved guilty?’

‘There is not a doubt about it. He was discovered making drawings of
the palace without orders. When questioned, he declined to give any
explanation, and his endeavours to destroy the plans showed that his
motives were not innocent ones. Of course we shall try, before he is
executed, to get information from him.’

‘Which you will fail to do.’

‘Why?’

‘Because these Nihilists’ agents will not betray their comrades.’

‘But he will be tortured into a confession.’

‘You may torture him, but he will not confess. The Nihilists are
pitiless. A traitor to their cause not only destroys himself, but all
those belonging to him, for the vengeance falls also on his family and
connections, however innocent they may be. Vladimir knows that, and you
may depend upon it that, punish him as you will, you will never wring
from him a word of confession.’

‘What’s to be done, then?’ asked the Colonel, in distress.

‘Let the fellow go free. Reinstate him.’

The Colonel stared in blank amazement; then he broke into a mocking
laugh, as he asked caustically:

‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Danevitch, or become a fool?’

‘Neither.’

‘Explain, then. What do you mean?’

‘A dead man cannot speak; a live one can. Put Vladimir back into his
place again, and leave the rest to me. He is a key, as it were. With
him you may open many doors. Kill him, and the doors will remain closed
against you.’

A new light broke on the Colonel. He looked thoughtful, and for some
moments remained silent; then he remarked:

‘But there are a thousand difficulties now in the way of setting him
free.’

‘Under ordinary circumstances, yes. But in this case a stroke of the
Czar’s pen can do it. You are in the Emperor’s confidence. Explain to
him what is required, and in two hours’ time Vladimir can be back in
the palace again. Then he will betray himself by some act, some sign;
on the other hand, all the resources of Peter and Paul will fail to
wring from him a word that will be of use to us.’

The Colonel saw the force of the argument, and said that he would
lose no time in procuring an interview with the Czar. That was done;
result, in the course of the day Vladimir was reinstated. He had been
told that on investigation the authorities were not disposed to take a
serious view of his offence. He was a young soldier, and of value to
the State, and another chance would be given to him. So he was severely
reprimanded, and brought back to the palace, much to his own amazement.
He had considered himself doomed, and his restoration to liberty
puzzled him; but he was too obtuse to divine the real cause, and he did
not dream how every movement of his was being watched. Some days later
he justified Danevitch’s prediction. Being off duty, he went into the
city, and, making his way to one of the quays on the Neva, now frozen
over, he met a young woman, and was seen to hand her a paper. They did
not confer together long, and when they separated, the young woman
was followed to her home by Danevitch. Had he been a mere subordinate
of the chief of police, he would have been compelled to have reported
this incident, with the result that a domiciliary visit would have
been paid to the house, and as a natural corollary of that action,
assuming that, as was suspected, she was in conspiracy with others,
her co-conspirators would be warned, and justice might be defeated.
Danevitch was aware of all this, and, like a well-trained sleuth-hound,
he did not attempt to strike his quarry until he was absolutely sure of
it. He knew that at the most Vladimir could be but a humble instrument;
behind him and influencing him were more powerful foes to the State.
These were the people he wanted to lay his hands upon. It was no use
casting his net for the little fish only; it was the big ones he fished
for. After witnessing the meeting between Vladimir and the young woman,
Danevitch had another interview with Colonel Vlassovski, during which
he informed him that Vladimir was dangerous, and should be closely
watched, though care was to be taken not to allow him to suspect that
he was being watched. A few days later Danevitch again went to the
Colonel, and said:

‘I believe I am in the way of bringing to light a great conspiracy, and
I am going to leave Russia for a time.’

‘But how in the world can you bring the conspiracy to light if you are
out of Russia?’ asked the Colonel in alarm. ‘Your presence is required
here if there is danger.’

‘No. I can do better elsewhere. There is danger, but it does not
threaten immediately. The head of the movement is not in Russia. If the
head is destroyed, the tail is sure to perish. I am going to seek the
head. The tail, which is here, can be trampled on afterwards.’

‘Where is the head, do you think?’

‘I don’t exactly know. In Berlin, perhaps; in Geneva, Paris, London.’

‘Ah, Geneva and London!’ exclaimed the Colonel angrily. ‘Those two
places are responsible for much. They offer refuge to the vilest of
wretches so long as they claim to be merely political offenders. Like
charity, that term covers a multitude of sins, and under its protecting
influence some of the most desperate and bloodthirsty scoundrels who
ever walked the earth have found sanctuary.’

‘True,’ answered Danevitch; ‘but we cannot help that. There are ways
and means, however, of dragging rascals of that kind from their
sanctuary. I am going to see what can be done.’

‘You will keep in touch with me,’ the Colonel remarked.

‘Certainly I will. In the meantime, draw a closer cordon round the
palace, and let no one sleep. You must not forget, Colonel, that the
plots we are called upon to checkmate are hatched not in Russia, but
in some of the European capitals. The poor fools who execute the work
here are mere tools. We want to lay hands on the principals, the people
who from a safe retreat supply the money. Stop the money, and the tools
will cease to work.’

All that Danevitch urged was undeniable. The Colonel knew it. Those
in power knew it. The Czar himself knew it. But hitherto the great
difficulty had been to secure the principals. The prisons were full
of the hirelings; hundreds and hundreds of them dragged out their
miserable lives in Siberia; but still the danger was not lessened, for
as long as ever money was forthcoming men and women could always be
found ready and willing to pit their liberties and lives against the
forces of the Government. It cannot be denied that amongst them were
some, many perhaps, who were not mere hirelings, but were prompted by
mistaken notions of patriotism; they were generally young people led
away by false sentiments and misplaced enthusiasm. It had been found,
too, that young women, for the sake of men they loved, were willing to
risk all they held sacred on earth at the bidding of their lovers. They
were the most pliant, the most willing tools; but they were also the
weak links in the chain. They acted with less caution than men. They
went to work blindly, and with a stupid recklessness which was bound
sooner or later to betray them. Danevitch had a favourite theory, or
saying, to the effect that, given a plot with a woman in it, all you
had to do was to find out the woman, and you would discover the plot.
In this case he had found out the woman. The one who met Vladimir on
the quay by the Neva was a book-keeper in a general store. She shared
apartments with another young woman in a poor part of the town. At
night, when her duties for the day were over, she was in the habit of
attending secret meetings, mostly of women, with a sprinkling of men
amongst them. One of these women was a Madame Petrarna. She was an
organizer and a leader. Vladimir’s sweetheart was in high favour with
her. Petrarna was the wife of a man who was in exile as ‘a danger to
the State.’ He had been arrested as a suspicious personage, and though
nothing was actually proved against him, he was sent to Siberia.

Having learnt so much about Vladimir’s sweetheart, Danevitch devoted
his attention to Petrarna. He had made the ways of Nihilists a study,
and though they had their spies everywhere, he was often able to outwit
them, and he succeeded in getting around him a little band of devoted
agents who were ready to go anywhere and do anything at his bidding.
Amongst these agents was a clever little woman, and she succeeded
one night in gaining admission to a meeting over which Petrarna was
presiding. The president spoke of the arrest and release of Vladimir,
and how he had been able, after all, to hand to his sweetheart and
their colleague certain drawings of the palace, which would be
invaluable to them in their work.

This and many other things the agent learnt, and conveyed the
intelligence to her employer Danevitch, whereby he was induced to go
abroad to search for the head, as he had told Colonel Vlassovsky.

Weeks passed, and Danevitch was in Geneva. The weather was bitter. The
winter had set in very early, and so far had been unusually severe. At
this period there were something like five thousand Russians living in
Geneva and its environs. The majority of these Russians were Nihilists.
One night, although a black _bise_ was blowing, filling the air with
spiculæ of ice, and freezing to the marrow all those who ventured into
the streets, various individuals--singly, in twos and threes--wended
their way to an old building in a lonely side-street not far from the
Gare. It was a short street, and devoted principally to warehouses,
which were closed at night; consequently it was badly lighted, and
after business hours practically deserted. The entrance to one of
these buildings was by an arched gateway, closed with massive wooden
gates, in one side of which was a small door to allow the workpeople to
pass in and out when the gates were closed. On the night in question,
this little door opened and shut many times; each time it opened,
somebody entered after having been asked for a sign, a counter-sign,
and a password. Without these none could enter. At length there were
nearly fifty persons present. Then the gate was barred and guarded.
In a long back upper room, the windows of which were so screened that
not a ray of light could escape, a meeting was held. It was a Nihilist
meeting, and the chief thing discussed was the destruction of the Czar
of Russia. Reports were also read from many ‘Centres,’ detailing the
progress that was made in what was called ‘The Revolutionary Movement.’
One man brought with him a great quantity of seditious literature in
Russian. It had been printed by a secret press in the town. The meeting
was presided over by a lady; that lady was Mrs. Sherard Wilson. She
distributed a considerable amount of money among those present, and
talked the most violent of language. She was a fluent and eloquent
speaker, and swayed the meeting as reeds are swayed by the wind.

A long discussion followed, and many things were settled. Amongst
others, the date of the ‘Czar’s execution’ was fixed; and Mrs. Sherard
announced that she would leave for St. Petersburg in a very few days to
hasten the ‘good cause.’

The meeting was orderly, business-like, and quiet. Every person
present--man and woman--seemed terribly in earnest, and there was
a grim severity in their tone and speech which argued unrelenting
bitterness and hatred against the ruler of Russia and many prominent
members of his council, all of whom were marked for swift and sudden
death. It was midnight when the meeting broke up. Silently the people
came, silently they departed; and when the last one had gone, and the
door in the gate had been locked, a death-like stillness reigned in
the deserted warehouse. Outside, the black _bise_ roared, bringing from
the lake and the surrounding hills fierce storms of hail.

A little later the door of the gate opened noiselessly, and a man,
having glanced carefully up and down to see that no one was in sight,
passed out, locked the door after him, and disappeared in the darkness
of the night.

That man was Michael Danevitch. He had heard all that had passed at
the meeting, for he had been concealed behind a pile of packing-cases,
and his note-book was filled with the names, so far as he could gather
them, of all those who had taken part in the proceedings.

Three days after the meeting had been held, Mrs. Sherard Wilson took
her departure for Berlin, where she rested for a day and a night, and
had interviews with several influential people, and at a certain bank
and money-changer’s in Berlin she converted an English cheque for a
large amount into Russian money. She was known to the money-changer;
he had cashed similar cheques before. Having completed her business,
she pursued her way to Russia. At the frontier her luggage and passport
were examined. There was nothing liable to duty in the former; the
latter was all in order and duly viséd. The examiners at the frontier,
however, failed to discover in one of her trunks a very artfully
and cleverly contrived false bottom, where lay concealed not only a
mass of inflammatory literature, but documents of the most damaging
description. So she passed on her journey, distributing largess freely,
and regarded by the officials as a lady of distinction, travelling no
doubt on important business, for no one travelled for pleasure in the
winter weather. Mrs. Wilson spoke French, German, Russian, and many
dialects, so that she had no difficulty with regard to tongues. In the
same train with her travelled a man, who was ostensibly a fur merchant,
in reality her shadower--Danevitch the detective.

In due course they reached St. Petersburg, and the lady was driven to
one of the principal hotels, where she engaged a suite of rooms; and
when three or four days had elapsed, during which she was very active
and went about much, she attended a secret meeting, held in the house
of one Alexeyeff, who was a bookseller in a small way of business. In
that house over sixty persons assembled, including the indefatigable
Mrs. Sherard Wilson. When the last person had entered, there gradually
closed around the place a cordon of heavily-armed policemen. They,
again, were reinforced by a body of soldiers with loaded guns and fixed
bayonets. At a given signal, when all was ready, the door of the house
was burst in and the meeting, which had just got to business, was
broken up in wild confusion. The people saw that they had been betrayed
and were trapped. For a moment a panic seized them. Some made a bid
for liberty, and rushed off, but could not get far; the cordon was too
strong to be broken through. Others, with a wild despair, prepared
to sell their lives and liberties dearly. But, as is well known,
Continental police, and particularly the Russian police, stand on no
ceremony when resistance to their authority is offered. The maudlin
sentiment which we in England so often display, even when the most
desperate ruffians are concerned, is quite unknown abroad. Resistance
to the law generally means injury, and often death, to the resister.
On the occasion in question, the police and the soldiers were all
heavily armed, for they were aware that the work they were called upon
to perform could not be undertaken with kid gloves on; the glittering
swords and bayonets which menaced the trapped people had an effect,
and what threatened to be a scene of bloodshed and death ended in a
despairing surrender to the forces that were irresistible. From the
moment that the police broke in upon the meeting Mrs. Sherard Wilson
felt that hope had gone, and she made no attempt either to save her own
liberty or arouse her followers to action.

Under a very strong escort the misguided people were conveyed to
prison, and very soon it was made evident that Danevitch had brought
to light one of the most desperate and gigantic conspiracies of modern
times. Not only had plans been drawn up and arrangements made for
killing the Czar, but many noblemen and high officials were to be
killed. The conspirators were chosen from all ranks of society, and
they had followers in the army and the navy, as well as in the police.
That they would have succeeded in their nefarious designs there is
little doubt, had it not been for the vigilance and cleverness of
Danevitch. He found out that Count Obolensk, who resided in London,
was supplying large sums of money to aid the work of the conspiracy.
The detective therefore decided upon the bold step of taking service
in the Count’s household for a time. This he succeeded in doing,
and on the night of the meeting recorded in the early part of this
story, which was held at the Count’s house, he hid himself behind the
writing-desk and heard all that took place. In order to get away from
the house without raising suspicion, he let the tray of china fall on
the stairs as Miss Obolensk was descending. He followed Mrs. Sherard
Wilson to Geneva, and was present at that other meeting, when he gained
most important information, and subsequently, all unknown to her,
accompanied the lady to Russia.

Investigation brought to light the fact that Mrs. Wilson was the wife
of a Russian of high social position, but he had been sent to Siberia
for life as a political offender. From that moment his wife became the
sworn enemy of the Government and the Czar. She had previously been
acquainted with Count Obolensk, and was able to exert great influence
over him, and, as he was very wealthy, he proved a valuable ally. The
plot failed, however, at the eleventh hour, thanks to Danevitch. How
narrow had been the escape of the Emperor from a violent death was
revealed at the trial of the prisoners, when it was proved that a
considerable number of the officials of the palace, as well as soldiers
and servants, had been corrupted, and on a given date a man was to be
admitted to the palace at night, and he was to throw a bomb into the
Czar’s bedroom.

Simultaneously an attempt was to be made on the lives of several
influential people residing outside of the palace. Desperate and
terrible as all this seems, there is no doubt it would have been
attempted, for the men and women who were mixed up in the plot were
reckless of their lives, and terribly in earnest.

No mercy was shown to the prisoners, and the majority of them were
sent to some of the most inhospitable regions of Northern Siberia,
including Mrs. Sherard Wilson. To her it must have been infinitely
worse than death, and it may be doubted if she ever survived to reach
her destination.



THE CROWN JEWELS.


Moscow--or, as the natives call it, Maskva--might almost be described
as a city within a city; that is to say, there is the Kremlin, and
a town outside of that again. The word Kremlin is derived from the
Slavonic word Krim, which signifies a fort. It is built on a hill,
and is surrounded by a high turreted wall from twelve to sixteen
feet thick. This wall varies from thirty to sixty feet high, and
is furnished with battlements, embrasures, and gates. Within the
Kremlin are most of the Government offices: the Treasury; the renowned
Cathedral of St. Michael, where the monarchs of Russia were formerly
interred; and the Cathedral of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, long
used as a place of coronation of the Emperors.

In the Treasury are preserved the State jewels, which, in the
aggregate, are probably of greater value than any other State jewels
in the civilized world. There are something like twenty crowns of
such a size, splendour, and intrinsic value that each in itself is
a fortune. Tradition says that one of these crowns was given by the
Greek Emperor Comnenus to the great Vladimir. Some are covered with
the most magnificent diamonds; others with turquoises of immense size;
others, again, with rubies and pearls; the groundwork of all is solid
gold, and the workmanship exquisite. Then there are sceptres of massive
gold, powdered with priceless gems. There are diamond tiaras, diamond
cinctures, services of gold and jewelled plate, jewelled swords. These
costly treasures are preserved in a large well-lighted room of noble
proportions, and to this room the public are freely admitted. It need
scarcely be said that the State jewel-room of the Treasury is a source
of great attraction to foreigners, and no one visiting Moscow for
the first time would think of leaving the city without having paid a
visit to the Treasury jewel-room. One morning, on opening the Museum
for the day, there was tremendous consternation amongst the officials
and attendants, when one of the guardians of the treasure-house made
the discovery that no less than three crowns, two sceptres, a diamond
belt and a diamond tiara were missing. The circumstance was at once
reported to the keeper of the jewels--General Kuntzler. The office
was generally held by a retired military officer, and was much sought
after, as it was a life appointment and the salary was good. The keeper
had many subordinates under him, and while they were responsible to
him, he himself was held entirely responsible by the Government for the
safe-guarding of the jewels. General Kuntzler had occupied the position
for about two years, after long and important military service. When he
heard of the robbery, he was so affected that his mind gave way, and
before the day was out he shot himself.

Investigation soon made it evident that a crime of unparalleled
audacity had been committed under the very noses of the Government
officials, and property intrinsically valued at many thousands of
pounds had disappeared. As the affair was a very serious one for
all concerned, no time was lost in summoning Michael Danevitch and
enlisting his services. As can readily be understood, quite apart from
the monetary value of the lost baubles, the associations surrounding
them made it highly desirable that every effort should be put forth
to recover them; and it was impressed upon Danevitch how imperatively
necessary it was to take the most active measures to get on the track
of the thieves immediately, because, as everyone knew, the gold would
be melted down as soon as possible, and the precious relics be thus
destroyed. Amongst the crowns carried off was the one worn by the
last King of Poland. It was a magnificent bauble, and was so thickly
encrusted with gems that in round figures it was worth in English
money something like fifty thousand pounds. It will be seen, therefore,
that the loss in mere value to the State was enormous. It was, of
course, as Danevitch saw clearly enough, no ordinary robbery. It must
have been planned deliberately, and carried out with great ingenuity.
Nor was it less obvious that more than one person had been concerned in
the daring crime.

There was a prevailing impression at first that General Kuntzler must
have had a share in the robbery, but Danevitch did not take that
view. The unfortunate General had an untarnished record, and though
his suicide was calculated to arouse suspicion, it was established by
Danevitch that the poor man--fully realizing the great responsibility
that rested on his shoulders--was unable to face the blame that would
attach to him. It would be said that he had not exercised sufficient
care, and had been careless of the safety of the priceless treasures
committed to his charge. This was more than he could bear, and he ended
the whole business as far as he was concerned by laying violent hands
upon himself.

‘I saw from the first,’ Danevitch writes, ‘that the guilty parties
must be sought for among the ranks of those who make robbery a fine
art, if one may be allowed to so express himself. Mere commonplace,
vulgar minds would have been incapable of conceiving, let alone of
carrying out, so daring a deed as that of robbing the State of its
priceless historical baubles. It was no less self-evident to me that
the affair must have been very carefully planned, and arrangements
made for conveying the articles out of the country immediately, or of
effectually destroying their identity. In their original condition they
would practically be worth nothing to the illegal possessors, inasmuch
as no man dare offer them for sale; but by taking out the gems and
melting the gold the materials could thus be converted into cash. I
ascertained that when the Museum was closed in the evening previous to
the robbery being discovered, everything was safe.’

It appeared that it was the duty of the chief subordinate, one
Maximoff, to go round the hall the last thing, after it had been closed
to the public for the day, and see that everything was safe. He then
reported to General Kuntzler. This had been done with great regularity.
It so happened, however, that the day preceding the discovery that
the jewels had been stolen was an official holiday. At stated periods
in Russia there is an official holiday, when all public Government
departments are closed. This holiday had favoured the work of the
thieves, and some time during the forty hours that elapsed between
the closing of the hall in the evening before the holiday, and the
discovery of the robbery on the morning after the holiday, the jewels
had been carried off.

The holiday was on a Wednesday; on Tuesday evening Maximoff made his
round of inspection as usual, and duly presented his official report
to his chief, General Kuntzler. According to that report, everything
was safe; the place was carefully locked up, and all the keys deposited
in the custody of the General, who kept them in an iron safe in his
office. It was pretty conclusively proved that those keys never left
the safe from the time they were deposited there on Tuesday night
until Maximoff went for them on Thursday morning. During the whole of
Wednesday Maximoff and the attendants were away. Maximoff was a married
man, with three children, and he had taken his family into the country.
Kuntzler remained, and there was the usual military guard at the
Treasury. The guard consisted of six sentinels, who did duty night and
day, being relieved every four hours.

‘The whole affair was very complicated,’ proceeds Danevitch, ‘and I
found myself confronted with a problem of no ordinary difficulty. I
was satisfied, however, that General Kuntzler was entirely innocent of
any complicity in the affair; and, so far as I could determine then,
there was not the slightest ground for suspecting Maximoff. There were
twelve other subordinates. They were charged with the duty of dusting
the various glass cases in which the jewels were deposited, and of
keeping the people in order on public days, and I set to work in my
own way to endeavour to find out what likelihood there was of any of
these men being confederates. It seemed to me that one or more of them
had been corrupted, and proved false to his charge. Without an enemy in
the camp it was difficult to understand how the thieves had effected an
entrance.’

The Treasury was a large white stone building, with an inner courtyard,
around which were grouped numerous Government offices. The entrance to
this yard was by a noble archway, closed by a massive and ornamental
iron gate. In this gateway a sentry was constantly posted. The Museum
was situated in about the centre of the left wing of the main block of
buildings. The entrance was from the courtyard, and the hall, being
in an upper story, was reached by a flight of marble steps. To gain
admission to the hall, the public were necessarily compelled to pass
under the archway, and so into the courtyard. Of course there were
other ways of reaching the hall of jewels, but they were only used by
the employés and officials. General Kuntzler, his lieutenant, Maximoff,
and four of the subordinates, resided on the premises. They had rooms
in various parts of the building.

A careful study of the building, its approaches and its exits, led
Danevitch to the conclusion that the thief or thieves must have
reached the hall from one of the numerous Government offices on
the ground-floor of the block, or from the direction of Kuntzler’s
apartments, and he set to work to try and determine that point. He
found that one of the offices referred to was used as a depository
for documents relating to Treasury business, and beneath it, in the
basement, was an arched cellar, also used for storing documents.
This cellar was one of many others, all connected with a concreted
subway, which in turn was connected with the upper stories by a narrow
staircase, considered strictly private, and used, or supposed to be
used, by the employés only. The office was officially known as Bureau
7. Exit from it could be had by a door, which opened into a cul-de-sac,
and was not a public thoroughfare. It was, in fact, a narrow alley,
formed by the Treasury buildings and a church.

Danevitch was not slow to perceive that Bureau 7 and the cul-de-sac
offered the best, if not the only, means of egress to anyone who,
being on the premises illegally, wished to escape without being seen.
It was true that one of the sentries always on duty patrolled the
cul-de-sac at intervals; but that, to the mind of Danevitch, was not
an insuperable obstacle to the escape of anyone from the building. Of
course, up to this point it was all conjecture, all theory; but the
astute detective brought all his faculties to bear to prove that his
theory was a reasonable one.

He ascertained that the door into the cul-de-sac was very rarely used
indeed, and had not been opened for a long time, as the office itself
was only a store-room for documents, and days often passed without
anyone going into it. Critical examination, however, revealed to
Danevitch that the outer door had been very recently opened. This was
determined by many minute signs, which revealed themselves to the quick
and practised eyes of the detective. But something more was forthcoming
to confirm him in his theory. On the floor of Bureau 7 he found two or
three diamonds, and in the passage of the cul-de-sac he picked up some
more. Here, then, at once was fairly positive proof that the thief or
thieves had made their exit that way. Owing to rough handling, or to
the jarring together of the stolen things, some of the precious stones
had become detached, and by some carelessness or other a number of them
had fallen unperceived to the ground; these as surely pointed the way
taken by the robbers as the lion in the desert betrays his track by the
spoor. This important discovery Danevitch kept to himself. He was fond
of likening his profession to a game at whist, and he used to say that
the cautious and skilful player should never allow his opponent to know
what cards he holds.

Having determined so much, his next step was to discover, if possible,
the guilty persons. It was tolerably certain that, whoever they were,
they must have been well acquainted with the premises. Of course it
went without saying that no one could have undertaken and carried
out such an extraordinary robbery without first of all making a
very careful study of every detail, as well as of every means of
reaching the booty, and of conveying it away when secured. The fact
of the robbery having been committed on the Wednesday, which was a
Government holiday, showed that it had been well planned, and it was
equally evident that somebody concerned in it was intimately acquainted
with the premises and all their ramifications. The importance of
the discovery of the way by which the criminals had effected their
escape could not be overrated, and yet it was of still greater
importance that the way by which they entered should be determined.
To do that, however, was not an easy matter. The probability--a
strong probability--was that those concerned had lain perdu in the
building from the closing-time on Tuesday night until the business
was completed, which must have been during the hours of darkness from
Tuesday night to Wednesday morning, or Wednesday night and Thursday
morning. In the latter case, however, the enterprising ‘exploiters’
must have remained on the premises the whole of Wednesday, and that
was hardly likely. They certainly could not have entered on Wednesday,
because as it was a non-business day a stranger or strangers seeking
admission would have been challenged by the sentries, and not allowed
to pass without a special permit. At night a password was always sent
round to the people residing in the building, and if they went out
they could not gain entrance again without giving the password. These
precautions were, in an ordinary way, no doubt, effective enough; but
the fact that on this occasion they had proved of no avail pointed to
one thing certain, which was that the intruders had gained admission
on the Tuesday with the general public, but did not leave when the
Museum was closed for the night, and to another thing, not so certain,
but probable, that they had been assisted by somebody living on the
premises.

Altogether something like sixty persons had lodgings in the Treasury
buildings, but only fourteen of these persons, including Kuntzler
himself, were attached to the Museum portion. The General’s apartments
were just above the hall in which the Crown jewels were kept. He had a
suite of six rooms, including a kitchen and a servant’s sleeping-place.
He was a widower, but his sister lived with him as his housekeeper.
She was a widow; her name was Anna Ivanorna. The General also had an
adopted daughter, a pretty girl, about twenty years of age: she was
called Lydia. It appeared she was the natural child of one of the
General’s comrades, who had been killed during an _émeute_ in Siberia,
where he was stationed on duty. On the death of his friend, and being
childless himself, Kuntzler took the girl, then between six and seven
years of age, and brought her up. For obvious reasons, of course,
Danevitch made a study of the General’s household, and so learned the
foregoing particulars.

As may be imagined, the General’s death was a terrible blow to his
family, and Lydia suffered such anguish that she fell very ill.
Necessarily it became the duty of Danevitch to endeavour to ascertain
by every means in his power if Kuntzler’s suicide had resulted from
any guilty knowledge of the robbery. But not a scrap of evidence was
forthcoming to justify suspicion, though the outside public suspected
him. That, perhaps, was only natural. As a matter of fact, however,
he bore a very high reputation. He had held many important positions
of trust, and had been elected to the post of Crown Jewel Keeper, on
the death of his predecessor, on account of the confidence reposed in
him by the Government, and during the time he had held the office he
had given the utmost satisfaction. An examination of his books--he
had to keep an account of all the expenses in connection with his
department--his papers and private letters, did not bring to light a
single item that was calculated to arouse suspicion, and not a soul in
the Government service breathed a word against him, while he was highly
respected and esteemed by a very large circle of friends.

It was admitted on all sides that General Kuntzler was a very
conscientious and sensitive man. The knowledge of the robbery came
upon him with a suddenness that overwhelmed him, and, half stunned by
the shock, his mind gave way, and he adopted the weak man’s method to
relieve himself of a terrible responsibility. That was the worst that
anyone who knew him ventured to say; he was accorded a public and a
military funeral, and was carried to his last resting-place amidst the
genuine sorrow of great numbers of people.

‘I confess that at this stage of the proceedings,’ writes Danevitch in
his notes of the case, ‘I did not feel very sanguine of success in the
task imposed upon me; and when Colonel Andreyeff, Chief of the Moscow
Police, sent for me, and asked my views, I frankly told him what I
thought, keeping back, however, for the time being, the discovery I
had made, that the culprits had departed from the building by Bureau
7, and had scattered some diamonds on the way. The Colonel became very
grave when he learnt my opinion, and paid me the compliment of saying
that great hopes had been placed on me, that the reputation of his
department was at stake, and if the jewels were not recovered, and the
culprits brought to justice, it might cost him his position. I pointed
out that I was quite incapable of performing miracles; that while I
could modestly claim to have been more successful in my career than any
other man following the same calling, it was not within my power to see
through stone walls, or divine the innermost secrets of men’s hearts.

‘“But you are capable of reading signs which other men have no eyes
for,” exclaimed the Colonel.

‘“Possibly,” I answered, as I bowed my thanks for the good opinion he
held of me; “but in this instance I see no sign.”

‘“But you are searching for one?” said the Colonel anxiously.

‘“Oh, certainly I am,” I responded.

‘The anxious expression faded from the Colonel’s face, and he smiled
as, fixing his keen gray eyes on me, he remarked:

‘“As long as you are still searching for a sign, Danevitch, there is
hope. There must be a sign somewhere, and unless you have grown blind
and mentally dull, it will not escape you for long.”

‘This was very flattering to my _amour propre_, and I admit that it had
a tendency to stimulate me to renewed exertion, if stimulus was really
needed. But, as a matter of fact, I was not just then very hopeful.
Nevertheless, as I took my leave, I said that, if the problem was
solvable by mortal man, I would solve it. This was pledging myself to a
good deal; but I was vain enough to think that, if I failed by methods
which I had made a lifelong study, to say nothing of a natural gift for
my work, no one else was likely to succeed, except by some accident
which would give him the advantage.’

Like most men of exceptional ability, Danevitch was conscious of his
strength, but he rarely allowed this self-consciousness to assert
itself, and when he did he was justified. His methods were certainly
his own, and he never liked to own defeat. That meant that where he
failed it was hardly likely anyone else would have succeeded. Not only
had he a tongue cunning to question, an eye quick to observe, but, as
I have said elsewhere, a sort of eighth sense, which enabled him to
discern what other men could not discern.

After that interview with Colonel Andreyeff, he fell to pondering on
the case, and bringing all the logic he was capable of to bear. He saw
no reason whatever to change his first opinion, that there had been an
enemy in the camp. By that is meant that the robbery could never have
been effected unless with the aid of someone connected with the place,
and knowing it well. Following his course of reasoning, he came to the
decision that the stolen property was still within the Kremlin. His
reason for this was, as he states:

‘The thieves could not have passed out during the night, as they would
have been questioned by the guards at the gates. Nor could they have
conveyed out such a bulky packet on Wednesday, as they would have been
called upon for a permit. On the other hand, if the property had been
divided up into small parcels, the risk would have been great, and
suspicion aroused. But assuming that the thieves had been stupid enough
to carry off the things in bulk, they must have known that they were
not likely to get far before attracting attention, while any attempt
to dispose of the articles as they were would have been fatal. To have
been blind to these tremendous risks was to argue a denseness on the
part of the culprits hardly conceivable of men who had been clever
enough to abstract from a sentry-guarded Government building property
of such enormous value. They would know well enough that melted gold
and loose gems could always find a market; but, having regard to the
hue and cry, that market was hardly likely to be sought for in any part
of Russia. Therefore, when reduced to an unrecognisable state, and when
vigilance had been relaxed, the gold and the jewels would be carried
abroad to some of the centres of Europe, where the infamous receiver
flourishes and waxes fat on the sins of his fellow-men.

‘In accordance with my custom in such cases,’ continues Danevitch in
his notes, ‘I lost not a moment when I took up the case in telegraphing
to every outlet from Russia, including the frontier posts. I knew,
therefore, that at every frontier station and every outlet luggage
would be subjected to very critical examination, and the thieves would
experience great difficulty indeed in getting clear. But there was
another aspect of the case that could not be overlooked, and it caused
me considerable anxiety; it was this--the gems could be carried away a
few at a time. A woman, for instance, could conceal about her person
small packets of them, and excite no suspicion. To examine everyone
personally at the frontiers was next to impossible. There was another
side, however, to this view, and it afforded me some consolation. To
get the gems out of the country in the way suggested would necessitate
a good many journeys on the part of the culprits, and one person making
the same journey several times would excite suspicion. If several
people were employed in the work, they would be certain to get at
loggerheads sooner or later, and the whole business would be exposed.
I always made it a sort of axiom that “when thieves fall out honest
men come by their due,” and experience had taught me that thieves
invariably fall out when it comes to a division of plunder. Of course,
I was perfectly alive to the fact that it would not do to rely upon
that; something more was wanted: it was of the highest importance to
prevent the stolen property being carried far away, and all my energies
were concentrated to that end.

‘I have already given my reasons for thinking that at this stage the
stolen jewels had not been removed from the Kremlin. Although there are
no regular streets, as understood, in the Kremlin, there are numerous
shops and private residences, the latter being inhabited for the most
part by the officials and other employés of the numerous Government
establishments. The result is that within the Kremlin itself there is a
very large population.’

It will be seen from these particulars that the whole affair bristled
with difficulties, and, given that the thieves were sharp, shrewd,
and cautious, they might succeed in defeating Danevitch’s efforts.
One of the first things he did was to request that every sentry at
the Kremlin gates should be extra vigilant, and subject passers to
and fro to more than ordinary observation, while if they had reason
to suspect any particular person, that person should be instantly
arrested. The precautions which were thus taken reduced the matter to a
game of chance. If the thieves betrayed themselves by an incautious or
careless act they would lose. On the other hand, if they were skilful
and vigilant the detective would be defeated; and as the stakes were
very large, and to lose meant death to them (that being the penalty in
Russia for such a crime), it was presumable that they would not easily
sacrifice themselves. At this stage Danevitch himself confessed that he
would not have ventured to give an opinion as to which of the two sides
would win.

The more Danevitch studied the subject, the more he became convinced
that the thieves must have been in league with someone connected with
the Treasury Department. In face of the fact that false keys had been
used, the theory of collusion could not be ignored; the difficulty was
to determine who was the most likely person to have proved traitor
to his trust. Maximoff bore a high character; General Kuntzler had
reposed full confidence in him. The subordinates were also men of good
repute. That, however, was not a guarantee that they were proof against
temptation. Nevertheless, Danevitch could not get hold of anything
that was calculated to arouse his suspicion against any particular
individual. If there was a guilty man amongst them, he would, of
course, be particularly careful not to commit any act, or utter any
word, calculated to betray him, knowing as he did that Danevitch was on
the alert.

When several days had passed, and General Kuntzler had been consigned
to his tomb, Danevitch had an interview with his sister, Anna
Ivanorna. She was in a state of great mental excitement and nervous
prostration; and Lydia, the General’s adopted daughter, was also very
ill. Anna was a somewhat remarkable woman. She was a tall, big-boned,
determined-looking individual, with a soured expression of face and
restless gray eyes. Her manner of speaking, her expression of face, and
a certain cynicism, which made itself apparent in her talk, gave one
the notion that she was a disappointed woman.

‘This is a sad business,’ began Danevitch, after some preliminary
remarks.

‘Very sad,’ she answered. ‘It has cost my brother his life.’

‘He evidently felt it very keenly,’ said Danevitch.

‘A man must feel a thing keenly to commit suicide, unless he is a
weak-brained fool, incapable of any endurance,’ she replied with a
warmth that amounted almost to fierceness. After a pause, she added:
‘My brother was far from being a fool. He was a strong man--a clever
man.’

‘So I understand. Did he make any observation to you before he
committed the rash act?’

‘No.’

‘Yes, he did, Anna,’ cried out Lydia from the couch on which she was
lying, wrapped in rugs.

Anna turned upon her angrily, and exclaimed:

‘How do you know? Hold your tongue. He made no observation, I say.’

Lydia was evidently annoyed at being spoken to in such a manner, and
she replied with spirit, as she raised herself on her elbow:

‘Don’t snap at me like that, Anna. I know perfectly well. My poor
father said over and over again that he had been betrayed, that there
had been a traitor in the house. It was that that distracted him. He
couldn’t bear the thought of it.’

‘And who do you suppose the traitor was?’ Anna asked angrily. ‘You are
always thinking wrong of people.’

Lydia did not take any notice of this. She lay still, and seemed to be
suffering; keen mental anguish.

‘Have you any opinion how the robbery was committed?’ asked Danevitch
of Anna.

‘No.’

‘But surely you must have some idea.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Do you think it possible, now, that such a crime could have been
committed without a confederate in the camp?’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded the woman sternly, as though she resented
the bare suspicion which the question implied.

‘My meaning is plain, surely. An utter stranger to the place could not
have done this deed.’

‘I suppose he couldn’t. But whoever did it couldn’t have been an utter
stranger.’

‘Do I understand from that that you suggest the culprit or culprits are
people who were employed here?’

‘No, I don’t suggest that. But it stands to reason that anyone
undertaking a deed of this kind would be careful to make himself
acquainted with the building.’

‘And how do you think he did that?’

‘You know as well as I do that the place is open to the public. What is
there to prevent anyone studying the place?’

‘Nothing whatever, so far as the public part of it goes. But, unless
with the aid of a confederate, I do not quite see how anyone could
become acquainted with those parts where the public are not admitted.’

‘Well, Mr. Danevitch,’ said Anna, with a decisiveness which was meant
to clinch the argument, ‘I am not an expert like you, nor do I know
anything at all about the matter, therefore don’t bother me with any
more questions. I am troubled enough, and have enough on my mind
without this affair. I want to forget it.’

‘I make every allowance for you,’ replied Danevitch. ‘I quite
understand that your feelings are lacerated, but I thought it was
within the bounds of possibility that you might be able to throw some
light on the matter. However, I will not disturb you further, but take
my leave.’

Anna showed him out with a sigh of relief, and she shut the door with
a bang that indicated too plainly how glad she was to get rid of him.
At this stage, Danevitch writes, he felt in a quandary. There were
certain signs that suggested probabilities, but it was not easy to
determine just then whether or not the signs were anything more than
shadows, by which he might be misled. Speculation and theory were all
he had to guide him, and he was only too well aware that the most
astute of reasoners is apt to be misled. What necessarily concerned
him was the danger of being led out of the true track by a false sign.
He was not indifferent, of course, to the fact that he had made some
progress--that is to say, he had determined pretty conclusively how
the thieves had left the Treasury buildings when once they had secured
their booty. But what was of still greater importance was to discover
how they got in. Could he solve that part of the problem, he felt sure
it would give him many points.

It was remarkable about Danevitch that, while he was often mistrustful
about his own instincts, he seldom erred. He had made human nature
so close a study that the person who, as the saying is, could have
thrown dust in his eyes would have had to have been preternaturally
clever. He maintained, and proved it over and over again, that the face
was so certain an index to what was passing in the mind that every
thought of the brain was communicated instantly to the features, which
indicated it as unmistakably as a delicately-balanced needle notes
the slightest current of electricity. Of course, it was necessary to
understand these face-signs. That in itself is a science. Indeed, the
power to understand it is a gift, and he who fully possesses it is what
is termed to-day ‘a thought-reader.’ Danevitch did not call himself
that, but he possessed the power in a marked degree, nevertheless;
and no one could be indifferent to the extraordinary strength and
power of his eyes. When he looked at you, you felt somehow as if he
was looking right into your brain. Mr. Gladstone is said to have that
peculiar eye, and it can readily be understood that anyone with guilty
knowledge having to meet the piercing gaze of such an eye is almost
sure to betray himself by face-signs, which to the expert are full of
meaning. Danevitch had brought this study to such perfection that it
proved invaluable to him, and often afforded him a clue which otherwise
he would never have got. Another strong trait in his character was the
persistency with which he stuck to an idea when once he had thought it
out. That, again, was largely responsible for the success that attended
his efforts in the art of solving criminal problems. Of course,
his ideas were generally very sound ones, and the result of much
cogitation. He never jumped to hasty conclusions.

The foregoing little disquisition is not out of place in view of what
follows, and will certainly add to the reader’s interest.

About three weeks after that interview between Danevitch and Anna
Ivanorna, three men were seated in a restaurant situated in what is
known as the Zemlidnoi-gorod, which, being interpreted, means ‘earthen
town,’ and it is so called because at one time it was surrounded
by an earthen rampart. This part of Moscow contains a number of
drinking-places, spirit-stores, shops, cafés and restaurants. The
one in which the three men were seated was a very typical Russian
fifth-rate house. The ceiling was black with smoke. Flimsy and frouzy
curtains hung at the windows; the floor was sanded; long, rough,
wooden tables, forms, and common chairs constituted the furniture. At
one end of the room was a small counter, covered with lead, on which
stood sundry bottles, glasses, and plates of caviare and sandwiches; at
the other end was the indispensable stove--a huge affair with a massive
convoluted iron flue, that was suggestive of a boa constrictor.

The night being very cold, the three men were crowded round the stove,
engaged in deep and earnest conversation. Two of the men were young;
one about two or three and twenty, the other a year or two older.
They were well dressed, and apparently belonged to a class not given
to frequenting drinking-places of that kind. The third man was of a
somewhat striking appearance. He was swarthy as a gipsy--a black beard
and moustache, black eyes, black hair, cropped close to the skull. In
his ears he wore small gold rings, and his style, manner, and dress
proclaimed him unmistakably a seafaring man.

Presently the glazed door of the shop swung open, and a Jew tumbled in.
He was heavily bearded; on his head was a small black, tightly-fitting
skull-cap. He wore long boots, with his trousers, which were very
baggy, tucked into the tops, and a fur-lined coat, which must have been
in existence for a generation at least. He divested himself of this
coat and hung it on a peg, and then ordered vodka and caviare.

The three men ceased their conversation when the stranger entered; and
he, when he had finished his repast, rose, and with somewhat unsteady
gait, as if he had been drinking, walked to the stove and asked if he
might be allowed a seat there. The other three, with by no means good
grace, made room for him. The seafaring man was smoking a very black,
very strong cigar. The Jew produced from his pocket a huge pipe, and,
filling it with coarse tobacco, asked the seafarer for a light, which
was given. When his pipe was fairly in swing, he said to the man with
the cigar:

‘Unless I’m mistaken, you reek of the salt sea.’

‘I suppose I do,’ answered the other brusquely. ‘Any way, I’ve been
soaked with it often enough. Where are you from?’

‘Constantinople.’

‘So. A trader, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you trade in?’

‘Anything on earth, so long as it will turn me in money.’

‘Bah!’ sneered one of the young men--‘just like you Jew dogs. It’s
always money with you--money, money. It’s your only prayer.’

‘In that respect I’m not sure that there is much difference between the
Jew dog and the grasping Christian. But I don’t want to quarrel with
you. I’m a stranger in the town. Will you drink at my expense?’

‘Yes,’ answered the three as one man.

So drink was ordered, and for a time the conversation was friendly and
general, and when it flagged a little the Jew said:

‘That’s a curious robbery that has taken place lately.’

‘What robbery?’ asked one of the young men, eyeing the Jew keenly.

‘The robbery of the Crown jewels.’

‘Oh yes; very curious.’

‘By Father Abraham!’ exclaimed the Jew, with a great puffing out of his
breath, ‘but I should like to call some of the precious stones mine.
The God of Jacob! I wonder what has become of them. They haven’t caught
the thieves yet, I suppose?’

‘No,’ was the curt answer.

‘Ah! they are clever fellows; must be wonderfully clever to do such a
deed. But I expect they’ll be laid by the heels yet.’

‘No fear,’ answered one of the youngsters. ‘You can depend upon it they
know what they are about.’

‘Ah! just so, just so,’ mused the Jew--‘just so. It’s a clever bit of
business--clever, clever; by God it is! I wonder, now, what has become
of those jewels. They are worth risking body and soul for.’

‘I say, stranger,’ remarked the seafarer, ‘you had better be careful
what you say, or you may land yourself in trouble.’

‘True, true, true!’ moaned the Jew. ‘But, God in heaven, only to think
of all those precious gems! It almost turns one’s brain.’

He sank into a moody silence, and stared fixedly at the stove, as
though he was dreaming dreams about the gems. The other three men
conversed in low tones for a little time, until the two younger ones
rose up, said ‘Good-night,’ and left, for the hour was getting late.
Then the Jew seemed suddenly to wake up from his reverie, and he asked
the seafarer if he was going.

‘No; I am lodging here,’ was the answer.

‘So. That reminds me. Landlord, can I have a bed?’

He was told he could. There was some haggling about the price to be
paid, but the matter was amicably settled in the end, and the Jew
invited the seafarer to have some more vodka. True to the traditions of
his kind the world over, the sailor man accepted the invitation, and
the two sat drinking until the landlord came to remind them it was time
they retired.

The sailor was pretty far gone in his cups, and the Jew offered to
assist him up the stairs to bed. With some difficulty the pair managed
to mount the greasy, rickety stairs to where the sleeping chambers
were, and the Jew accompanied the sailor man to his room, and then from
his capacious pocket he produced a bottle of vodka, and they set to
work to discuss it. Presently the Jew murmured in a maudlin way, as his
thoughts still ran upon the gems:

‘By Father Abraham, but it was a big haul! Why, there must have been a
million roubles’ worth of them.’

‘Of what?’ asked the skipper, who, though pretty well soaked, seemed to
have his wits about him.

‘The stolen jewels,’ mumbled the Jew. ‘I would buy every one of them at
a price; I would, so help me God!’

‘Now, what price would you give?’

‘How could I tell--how could I tell, unless I saw them?’

The sailor man became thoughtful and silent, and the Jew sank down in a
corner like a sack, mumbling incoherently guttural sentences, in which
the words ‘gems, jewels, gold,’ predominated. Presently the sailor was
overcome by his potations, and stretching himself on the bed, boots and
all, was soon snoring in drunken sleep. A couple of hours later the Jew
crept from the room, sought his own chamber, and was speedily sound
asleep in the bed.

The next morning the two men drank their tea together, and having
lighted one of his long black cigars, the sailor invited the Jew forth
into the city.

‘You say you are from Constantinople?’ asked the sailor, as they walked
together.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you reside there?’

‘Yes.’

‘In what part?’

‘The Jews’ quarter.’

‘And, I suppose, like all your tribe, you don’t know your own wealth?’

The Jew sighed dolefully.

‘Alas, alas!’ he exclaimed; ‘by Abraham in heaven, I swear I am very
poor.’

‘Ah! you all say that.’

‘It’s true, it’s true. But why do you ask?’

‘Oh, nothing; only, if you had been rich, I might have put something in
your way by which you could have doubled your riches.’

‘What is it? What is it?’ cried the Jew eagerly. ‘Tell me; I can get
money. Thousands, tens of thousands, millions of roubles, if needs be.
But tell me what it is. I want to grow rich; I want money--want it by
sackfuls. It is my dream; I worship it.’

‘Ah,’ grunted the sailor, with a smack of his lips, ‘you are all alike.
Have you any friends in Moscow?’

‘No; I am a stranger. I have come to trade. I will lend money at
interest on good security, or I will buy anything that I can sell
again.’

The sailor became very thoughtful. He puffed away at his rank cigar
like a man who was deeply absorbed, and the Jew ambled on by his side,
mumbling to himself. Presently the sailor addressed him:

‘Do you stay in the same lodgings to-night?’

‘I do.’

‘Good. I’ll meet you at nine o’clock, and may be able to put something
in your way. I must leave you now.’

‘Count on me,’ said the Jew. ‘If we can do a deal together, I’ll put
money in your purse.’

‘You bet you will! You don’t suppose I’m going to serve you without
serving myself. I don’t love your race enough for that. It’s a matter
of convenience. But till to-night, adieu.’

‘By the way, how are you called?’

‘I am known as Captain Blok. I command a small trader doing business in
the Black Sea.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘She is being overhauled at Azov.’

‘Will you be alone to-night?’

‘No. The two friends you saw last night may be with me.’

‘Good. This looks like business. I will meet you without fail.’

The sailor went off, and the Jew continued his jaunt through the
town. When nine o’clock came, it found him by the big stove in the
restaurant. There were several other customers there, but he held aloof
from them, for one had a little before called him ‘a dog of a Jew,’
saying he had no business to be there amongst Christians, and tried to
pick a quarrel with him. As a quarter-past nine struck, Captain Blok
entered. He was alone. He addressed a few preliminary remarks to the
Jew, then requested that he would follow him to his bedroom.

‘What is your name, Jew?’ asked Blok, as he shut the door.

‘Nikolai--Israel Nikolai.’

‘Are you a Russian?’

‘I was born in Poland, but have been trading in Constantinople and the
Levant for many years.’

‘You are good for a deal in a big way?’

‘Yes.’

‘And can be secret?’

‘As the grave.’

At this point the door opened, and Blok’s companions of the previous
night entered. They looked at Blok inquiringly, then at the Jew
suspiciously.

‘He’s right,’ said Blok. Then turning to the Jew, he continued: ‘Now
look here, Israel Nikolai, you say you can command money?’

‘Yes, to any extent.’

‘Very well; now, we’ve got some stuff to sell, and we are going to take
you to see it. The stuff is contraband, therefore you must be careful.
And if you play us false, just as sure as God Almighty is up in heaven,
your throat will be cut, and your dirty carcase will be flung into the
river Maskva.’

The Jew smote his breast, and wailed out with passionate eagerness:

‘Trust me--trust me! To those whom I serve, I am as stanch as steel.’

‘That’s right. Now, then, come with us.’

The four men descended the greasy staircase, and went forth into the
street. It was an intensely dark night. A few hazy stars were alone
visible in the black sky. The street-lamps in that part were very poor
affairs, and gave but little light. The four proceeded for a short
distance; then Blok said:

‘Nikolai, before we go any further, you must let us blindfold you.’

The Jew protested, but at last yielded, and a thick scarf was bound
about his eyes. Then one of the men took his hand and led him. They
walked along in silence for quite half an hour, until, by the sound of
flowing water, the Jew knew he was near the river. A halt was made.
There was the grating of keys in a lock, a door was opened, and Israel
was led forward into a passage, while the door was locked and barred.
He was then taken down a flight of stairs, where the bandage was
removed from his eyes, and a light was procured. He found himself in
a cellar, with an arched brick roof, from which water dripped, while
the floor of red brick was slimy and foul. The place was furnished with
a single trestle table and a stool or two. In one corner was a large
trunk, bound with cowhide. This was opened, and some bundles lifted
out, placed on the table, and untied, and there were revealed to the
wondering Jew heaps of precious stones, including diamonds, rubies,
amethysts, pearls, sapphires, turquoises. At the sight of the gems
the Jew rubbed his hands together, and his eyes glistened with almost
unnatural brilliancy.

‘Father Abraham!’ he exclaimed. ‘What wealth! what a fortune! Are they
all real? Let me feel them; let me examine them.’

Blok so held the lamp that its rays were thrown full on to the heaps of
gems, and the three men watched the Jew’s every movement. He examined
the stones carefully, picked out some of the finest, weighing them in
his hands, holding them close to the light so as to see them better,
then placing them in little heaps.

A full hour was spent in this way. But few remarks were made, though
every now and again the Jew broke into an exclamation of delight. At
length Blok asked Nikolai what he thought of them.

‘Splendid! wonderful! magnificent!’ was the gasped answer.

‘Now, then, are you open to trade?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you buy the lot?’

‘At what figure?’

‘A million roubles.’

The Jew started back with a look of disgust on his face.

‘It is too much--too much!’ he almost screamed. ‘They are not worth it.’

‘You lie, you dog!’ put in one of the young men. ‘You know they are
worth a good deal more. But we want to sell them quickly, and you shall
have them as a bargain for a million roubles.’

Nikolai groaned, swore, protested, declared by all the fathers that the
price was outrageous, and at last, when he had exhausted himself, he
wound up by offering seventy-five thousand roubles for the lot. After
much haggling, the three men agreed to take the price, and Nikolai said
he would go next day to the Bank of Moscow, to which he had letters,
and draw the money, and it was arranged that the four men were to meet
the following night outside of the restaurant, and proceed again to the
cellar, where the money would be exchanged for the jewels. And Blok
added:

‘As soon as the bargain’s completed, you had better clear out. You can
travel with me to Azov, if you like, and I’ll give you a cheap passage
to Constantinople.’

The Jew turned to Blok, with a glance full of meaning, and replied:

‘I may sail with you, but I’ll send my jewels a safer way.’

The business, so far, being concluded, Nikolai was once more
blindfolded. The lamp was extinguished, and they all left the house
together. After going some distance, the bandage was removed from the
Jew’s eyes. The two young men went away, and Blok and Israel continued
their walk to their lodgings.

The following morning Nikolai told Blok that he was going to the bank
to arrange about the money, but that the deal would have to take place
that evening in their bedroom at the café, as he would not trust
himself with them in the cellar with so much money about him. To this
Blok answered that the transaction would have to be arranged in the
cellar, that everything would be perfectly square and fair.

Reluctantly the Jew yielded, and went away. He met the captain again in
the evening at the restaurant, and Blok anxiously inquired if he had
got the money, whereupon the Jew pulled from a deep pocket inside his
vest a bundle of notes, the sight of which caused the captain’s eyes to
sparkle.

A little later they set off, being met on the route by the two young
men. Nikolai resolutely declined to be blindfolded again. He said there
was no necessity for it. He also warned his companions that he was well
armed, and was prepared to resent any treachery. They laughed, and
said he was a fool not to see that they were anxious to trade, and not
likely to offer violence, which would imperil their own safety.

The house by the river was at last reached. It had formerly been a
store of some sort, but had apparently long been untenanted, and was
falling into decay. One of the young men had inserted the key into the
lock of the door, and was about to turn it, when a whistle was blown,
and almost as if it was by magic the four found themselves surrounded
by armed men, who seemed to come through the earth. Before they could
offer the slightest resistance, Blok and the two young men were seized
and ironed, and a guard set over them. Then a police officer, the Jew,
and three or four other men, entered the premises, descended to the
cellar, and, having ascertained that the gems were in the trunk, they
bore the trunk out, and placed it on a cart that was in readiness, and
under a strong escort the stolen jewels were conveyed to the Treasury,
where several high officials were waiting to receive them; and Blok
and his companions realized that they had been tricked, trapped, and
betrayed by the ‘dog of a Jew,’ who was none other than Danevitch.

He says it was one of the proudest moments of his life, for his part
had been played with consummate art, and his triumph was complete. It
remains now to explain how he managed to get on the track of his men,
and net them so cleverly.

After his interview with Anna Ivanorna, he began to think that she
could throw some light on the mystery if she liked, and he had her
shadowed. He ascertained from Lydia that Ivanorna had a son about
five-and-twenty. He had paid court to Lydia, but she did not like him.
A few months before the robbery this young man had spent a fortnight
with his mother during the temporary absence of General Kuntzler.
His mother was blindly devoted to him, although he was known to be
an idle, dissolute vagabond. He had been well educated, and had once
held a position in the Post Office, but had been discharged for some
irregularity. His name was Peter, and one night, some days after the
robbery, he and his mother were seen to meet in a lonely part of the
suburbs.

From that moment a close watch was kept on Peter’s movements, and it
was ascertained that he was associated with another young man, called
Maiefski. They were always together, and in a little while were joined
by Blok, who was Peter’s half-cousin. The old disused store on the
banks of the river was taken in Maiefski’s name, ostensibly to store
grain there; but little by little the gems from the stolen articles,
which were ruthlessly broken up, were conveyed from a house in the
Kremlin which Peter rented to the place on the river bank.

Blok had secured lodgings in the miserable restaurant in the poor
quarter of the earthen city, as he hoped thereby to escape attracting
any notice. At this restaurant the three rascals were in the habit of
meeting. Then it was that Danevitch, being sure of his ground, assumed
so successfully the rôle of the Jew.

On the night when he and Captain Blok staggered up to the latter’s
room, Danevitch was perfectly sober, although he assumed the gait and
manner of an intoxicated person. When Blok had gone to sleep, Danevitch
searched his person, and in a pocket-book found letters of a most
compromising character. They seemed to show that the first idea was
that the three men were to travel singly to Azov, each man carrying
as many of the gems as he could without causing suspicions. They were
to be deposited on Blok’s vessel, and when all was ready Blok and his
companions were to sail away to Constantinople, where they hoped to
dispose of the gems, but if not, they were to take a journey to Persia,
where precious stones could always be sold.

The appearance of the Jew on the scene altered their plans, and they
thought if they could only get him to buy them their risk would be
greatly lessened, and the moment they touched the money they were
prepared to clear out, and seek safety in some other country. Their
little scheme, however, was entirely frustrated, thanks to the
cleverness of Danevitch.

At Peter’s lodgings the battered gold of the stolen property was found,
but ultimately the Polish crown was restored almost to its original
state, and may still be seen in the museum at Moscow.

As the plot of the robbery was gradually unfolded, it was proved that
Anna Ivanorna was the victim of her perfidious son. She was a weak,
rather stupid woman--at any rate, where he was concerned--and she fell
a victim to his wiles and wickedness. If she did not actually assist
him, she shut her eyes while he made wax impressions of various keys,
and on the night of the robbery she unquestionably helped him and his
companion, Maiefski, who was secretly admitted. It is possible that,
when Kuntzler heard of the crime, he had some suspicion that his
sister knew something about it, and, unable to face the awful shame of
exposure, he took his life.

Neither Maximoff nor his subordinates had anything to do with
the robbery. They were all exonerated after a most exhaustive
investigation, which led to the conviction of the guilty parties, who,
with the exception of Anna, were sent to the Siberian mines for life.
She was condemned to ten years’ incarceration in the prison fortress of
Schlusselburgh. That was practically a living death.



THE STRANGE STORY OF A SECRET TREATY.


‘I received orders,’ says Danevitch, ‘to proceed without delay to the
official residence in St. Petersburg of Prince Ignatof,[A] who was then
Minister of Foreign Affairs. He had the reputation of being one of the
most powerful Ministers who had ever held the position in Russia. It
was said of him, as it used to be said of Bismarck, that he was a man
of blood and iron. He was dead to emotion; he had no nerves; he was
pitiless; he was anti-everything that wasn’t Russian; but he was also a
born diplomatist--clever, brilliant, unscrupulous, far-seeing, polished
as a rapier, and as deadly as a rapier when occasion called for it.

‘Such was the common report about him, and no doubt it was, in the
main, true. He was a widower, with one grown-up daughter. There was a
deadly feud, however, between them, and he had disowned her, as she
had chosen to marry against his will, and very much beneath her, as
her father averred. Her husband was in the consular service. His name
was Kasin; he was a member of a middle-class family who had made money
in trade; but Kasin himself was said to be poor, and almost entirely
dependent upon his salary.

‘These facts were common property, and naturally it must have caused
the Prince great annoyance to know that his daughter’s name was in
everyone’s mouth, and that she was vulgarly referred to as the wife of
a poor devil of a consul, who found it difficult to rub two roubles
together. Caste is very strong in Russia, and the line of demarcation
separating class from class is exceedingly well defined.

‘The Prince was an utter stranger to me; I had heard much about him,
but had never seen him. On being ushered into his bureau, I beheld a
small-made, delicate-looking man, with a remarkable and striking face.
The mouth was small and firm; the nose prominent; the eyes deep-set,
and of exceptional brilliancy; the eyebrows were thin, but well
defined; and the forehead, in proportion to the small, sharply-cut
features, seemed enormous. He was slightly bald in front, and such hair
as he had was turning gray. His face was clean-shaven. When his lips
parted, he revealed a splendid set of teeth, absolutely without a flaw.

‘As I looked upon this remarkable man, everything I had heard about
his personal character seemed to me to be more than confirmed. It was
impossible to study the mouth without feeling that it was capable of
uttering cruel, cutting, bitter things. It was no less impossible not
to understand that the small, brilliant eyes could peer into men’s
brains, and almost read their secret thoughts. Every line of his face,
every feature, every glance, indicated an iron, a relentless, will; and
when he spoke, the smooth, incisive tones confirmed this. His hands
were small, well shaped, but sinewy, as were his wrists. This was no
doubt due to many years’ practice with the sword and the foil. He was
a noted swordsman, had fought many duels, and had always succeeded in
either severely wounding or killing his man. Physically and mentally
he could be a deadly antagonist; one glance at him was sufficient to
determine that fact, for fact it was.

‘He was perusing a document as I entered. He glanced over the edge of
the paper, motioned me to be seated, and went on reading.

‘For ten minutes the silence was unbroken, save for the rustle of the
paper as he turned over the leaves. Only a man of very pronounced
characteristics could have remained silent so long under such
circumstances.

‘He finished his manuscript, folded it up, and placed it in a safe.
Then he condescended to address me.

‘“You have the reputation of being able to unravel mysteries when other
men fail?” he commenced.

‘I could only bow to this.

‘He drew an elegant little penknife from his pocket, and began to trim
his nails, but I noted that all the time his piercing eyes were fixed
on me.

‘“You are reliable?” was his next remark.

‘It was put in the form of a question. In other men the remark might
have seemed commonplace. Coming from the Prince’s lips, it was full of
meaning; it even covered a menace. That is to say, it carried with it
the implication, “Woe betide you if you are not!”

‘“If I were otherwise,” I answered, “I should not occupy the position I
do.”

‘“True,” he replied. “Now, the matter in which I am going to enlist
your services is a delicate one.”

‘He paused, and fixed his eyes upon me again, and toyed daintily with
the penknife.

‘“I have had to do with many delicate cases,” I said.

‘“Ah! And have been successful?”

‘“More frequently than not.”

‘“You’ve been employed in Government business before?”

‘“Yes,” I answered shortly, as I felt somewhat annoyed at the manner in
which he put his questions.

‘“I am impressed with you,” he was good enough to say.

‘I returned no answer to that, merely making a very formal motion of
the head.

‘“Our little introduction places us _en rapport_ with each other,” he
continued, closing the blade of his penknife with a snap. Even this
remark was pregnant with meaning. It really meant that he understood
me, or believed that he did. “And now I will tell you the business.”

‘He had been standing up to this moment, but here he seated himself,
crossed his legs, and thrust his hands into his pockets. To the
ordinary observer he would have appeared as the most unconcerned person
in the world, but I could not fail to see that he was a master in the
art of restraint. It was not difficult to determine that, beneath
the cold, passionless, immobile face was tremendous anxiety, and a
suppressed nervous energy, that could only be kept in subjection by
extraordinary will-power.

‘“A special, confidential, and trusted courier,” he continued, “arrived
here yesterday afternoon, and placed in my hands the draft of a secret
treaty of the very greatest importance.”

‘Here he paused again, and looked at me in his peculiar manner, as
if he was trying to thoroughly understand how I was affected by the
information he was giving me. Or, on the other hand, it might have been
that he had not quite made up his mind whether or not I was a fit and
proper person to be entrusted with State business of such a momentous
nature.

‘“Pray proceed, Prince,” I said, with the greatest unconcern.

‘“Bah!” he muttered, almost inaudibly, allowing irritation to display
itself for a brief instant. His irritation arose, I inferred, because
he failed to read me as easily as he imagined he could do. Perhaps
that was not quite the case, but it was something of the kind. The
exclamation had scarcely left his lips when he broke into a smile--a
cold, cynical smile, but full of meaning. “That draft has been stolen,”
he added abruptly, and watched to see what effect that announcement
would have upon me.

‘But I merely said:

‘“I anticipated that.”

‘“Why?” he asked sharply.

‘“By your manner, Prince.”

‘He smiled again, and said caustically:

‘“I didn’t know I was so shallow, and could be so easily fathomed. But
pardon me; I had forgotten for the moment that you are a master in your
craft. We shall get on together. Yes, you are clever; the draft has
been stolen. What that means you will better understand when I tell you
that it may possibly plunge this country into war.”

‘“I recognise the seriousness of the matter, Prince,” I said, “and,
seeing how very serious it is, I would suggest that there should be no
restraint, no reserve. If I am to be of use, I must not only have a
free hand, but be trusted absolutely.”

‘“You are right, you are right,” he replied quickly. “But the whole
business is fraught with such terrible potentialities that extreme
caution is needed.”

‘He rose, and paced up and down for some moments, still keeping his
hands in his pockets. His face betrayed no agitation, but his manner
did. Nevertheless, his self-restraint was very remarkable. I waited for
him to continue the conversation, and presently he stopped and faced me.

‘“Ah, yes!” he said, speaking in an absorbed way. “Well, these are
the particulars: The courier, who had been travelling night and day,
arrived, as I have already said, yesterday afternoon, and delivered
to me a draft of a treaty. Having perused it, I placed it in a
despatch-box and locked the box in that safe; but, notwithstanding the
precaution, it has been stolen.”

‘“The box?” I asked.

‘“No; the treaty only.”

‘“When did you make that discovery?”

‘“This morning.”

‘“At what time?”

‘“Soon after eight o’clock.”

‘He did not proceed to give me all the particulars in narrative form,
as another person might have done, but I had to drag them from him, so
to speak, by question and answer.

‘“Where did the courier come from, Prince?” I asked.

‘“Bulgaria.”

‘“Was he aware of the importance of the despatches he carried?”

‘“Certainly.”

‘“You don’t doubt his honesty, I suppose?”

‘“I don’t see the slightest reason for doing so. He is one of the best
men in the service.”

‘“Has he been here since?”

‘“No. He was excessively fatigued with his long and trying journey, and
being relieved of his responsibility, he said he should sleep for the
next twenty-four hours.”

‘“I suppose you have caused a search to be made?”

‘“No,” answered the Prince, with great decisiveness; “what was the use
of doing that? The thief who steals a State document of that kind is
not likely to leave much trace behind.”

‘“Of course a good many persons have access to your establishment?”

‘“Yes--that is, to the business part of the establishment; but my
official residence is private; and this bureau is sacred to myself; no
one but very privileged people can enter here.”

‘“Do you suspect anyone?”

‘“No. It’s a mystery.”

‘“But is it clear that, whoever the person is, he must have been well
acquainted with this place?”

‘“Yes,” answered the Prince thoughtfully, as he stroked his chin.

‘“He must also have known that the draft had been delivered to you?”

‘“True, true,” the Minister responded, with increased thoughtfulness.

‘“That argues that he was behind the scenes; he knew a good deal of
what was going on, and was particularly well acquainted with the
importance of the treaty.”

‘“Obviously.”

‘“And the document has been stolen for political purposes?”

‘“Obviously, again.”

‘“Or the thief, being a traitor to his country, if he belongs to this
country, was actuated by mercenary motives only, and stole the draft to
sell it to our enemies?”

‘The Prince fixed his eye upon me again, and answered very slowly, and
with emphasis on every word:

‘“It might be so--perhaps it is so.”

‘“Very well,” I said. “Now, Prince, I must ask you to let your mind
dwell upon everyone in touch with you, and tell me if there is a
single one of them against whom you might justifiably entertain some
suspicion.”

‘“There is no one,” he answered, after a thoughtful pause.

‘“And yet an utter stranger to the place could hardly have committed
such a theft?” I suggested.

‘“That seems a feasible theory.”

‘“You’ve no reason to suppose, Prince,” I asked, “that the despatch-box
was opened on the bare chance of its containing something of value?”

‘“No. My deliberate opinion is the thief wanted that draft, and that
alone. He is an enemy--a traitor; and if he can be identified the
penalty of his crime will be death.”

‘“If your opinion is right, the thief, of course, must have known the
draft of the treaty was there?”

‘“Quite so.”

‘“Who was likely to have known it, do you think?”

‘Another long pause ensued before the Prince answered. Then he said:

‘“Legitimately, very few indeed. It is one of the State secrets. There
are many people who come and go here, and an alert traitor might learn
much. I see no sign to guide me. Clearly enough, the thief must have
been in possession of certain information supposed to be known to this
bureau alone, and he has availed himself of the knowledge to purloin a
document of extraordinary political importance. Heaven and earth will
have to be moved to stop the thief leaving the country; but, what is of
more consequence, he must be prevented sending the document away, or
any abstract of it.”

‘“That is easily said,” I remarked, with a smile, for he seemed to me
to be underrating the difficulties of the case.

‘“And it must be done,” came from him in a tone so commanding, so
authoritative, so decisive, that it revealed the man in his true
character. Moreover, his face wore a look of iron determination, and
his eyes appeared to glow with a strange, almost unnatural, light.
After a pause, he added: “You have the resources of an empire behind
you--a well-organized police force, an army of spies, the telegraph
system. These things, added to your own skill, should enable you to
bring the miscreant to justice, and save the State secret from passing
to our enemies.”

‘He spoke with a great deal of subdued force, and I could see that his
mental anxiety was painful; and yet there was an outward semblance
of calm. The extraordinary power of self-subjection which the man
possessed enabled him to almost entirely hide the nervous excitement
which would have entirely overcome any ordinary man.

‘The situation was certainly a singularly trying one; for here was a
responsible minister of the Crown, who, being entrusted with a State
document of stupendous importance, had to confess to its having been
stolen within twenty-four hours of its coming into his possession.
There appeared to have been great carelessness somewhere, and I
could see that the Prince was terribly anxious, in spite of his
self-possession.

‘“You say that the document was delivered to you yesterday afternoon,
Prince?” I remarked, for I found it necessary to still question, in
order to make clear certain points which were very necessary for my
own guidance, and his natural reticence kept him from giving me every
detail right off.

‘“Yes,” he answered shortly, as though he considered the question
superfluous, for he had already told me what I now wanted repeating,
but I intended that the question should lead up to others.

‘“How long did the courier remain with you after he had delivered the
papers into your hands?”

‘“Not more than five minutes.”

‘“When he left did anyone else come into your bureau?”

‘“No.”

‘“You perused the document, of course?”

‘“I did. And to-day it was to have been laid before his Majesty the
Emperor.”

‘“How long did you remain here after the departure of your courier?”

‘“An hour.”

‘“And you are sure nobody came in during that time?”

‘“Absolutely certain.”

‘“And are you as certain, Prince, that nobody was concealed in the room
without your knowing it?”

‘The question seemed to startle him, but in an instant he controlled
himself again, and, with a cold smile, remarked, as he glanced round
the room:

‘“I am quite as certain. You can see for yourself that there is no
place where a person could conceal himself.”

‘I had to admit that that was so.

‘“If I have not misunderstood you,” I went on, “when you had perused
the document, you placed it in the despatch-box?”

‘“I did. Both safe and box were afterwards locked. I locked them
myself, and took the keys with me.”

‘“When did you discover the loss?”

‘“About an hour and a half ago.”

‘“Had the lock of the safe been tampered with?”

‘“Not at all.”

‘“It was intact?”

‘“Certainly.”

‘“And the despatch-box?”

‘“That was intact also.”

‘“Then, both safe and box must have been opened with keys that fitted
them?”

‘“That is obvious.”

‘“Are there any duplicate keys in existence?”

‘“Yes; there are duplicate keys of all the despatch-boxes and all the
safes in this department, but they are in possession of the Emperor
himself. They are kept to guard against any possible contingency.”

‘“But presumably it would be very difficult for any unauthorized person
to obtain possession of them?”

‘“I should say that the difficulties in the way are so great that we
may dismiss it as being practically impossible.”

‘“That throws us back, then, on the theory that somebody must have got
possession of your keys.”

‘“There, again, the difficulties are so great that I cannot think it
possible. Come with me, and I will show you the safeguards that are
adopted.”

‘I followed him out of the room. At the door of his bureau was an armed
sentry. We traversed a long corridor. On each side were doors. At the
end of the corridor another sentry was posted. We gained a large square
hall, where several liveried servants stood. Two came forward, and
partly drew aside the massive velvet curtains hung before the marble
stairs; these stairs were covered with massive carpet, into which the
feet sank.

‘On the landings more liveried servants were posted. We passed along
a carpeted passage to the Prince’s official residence, and entered a
magnificent room, and thence into a luxuriously furnished boudoir,
where a lady sat alone, perusing a book. For a moment she did not
notice me, as I was some little distance behind the Prince, and partly
screened by the velvet portière at the door. She jumped up, and was
about to throw her arms around his neck, but catching sight of me, she
blushed, drew back, and said to him:

‘“I did not expect you so soon.”

‘“I am engaged on some important business, Catarina,” he replied, a
little brusquely. “You had better retire for a time.”

‘Without another word she withdrew. She was a young woman, about four
or five-and-twenty, and one of the few I have seen whose beauty might
be said to be without blemish. Complexion, features, eyes, teeth, lips,
hair--the whole figure was perfect. She was ravishing--a woman for whom
a man would have perilled his soul.

‘From the boudoir we entered a spacious and magnificently arranged and
furnished sleeping apartment. In one corner was a large cupboard. The
Prince drew a peculiarly constructed key from his pocket, opened the
door, and flung it back, remarking as he did so:

‘“That door is of steel. In that niche in the cupboard all my keys are
deposited every night. The door is then secured, and the key of the
door, together with many other keys, are given into the charge of the
confidential clerk, Vladimir Nicolayeff. He is an institution here, and
has been in the Government service upwards of forty years.”

‘“Does he reside on the premises?” I asked the Prince.

‘“He does,” was the answer; “and you will now see how difficult it is,
with all these precautions, for anyone to abstract the keys.”

‘In answer to this, I could not refrain from remarking:

‘“And yet, Prince, there is the hard fact that your safe and
despatch-box have been opened, and a State document stolen.”

‘He looked very thoughtful and grave as he replied somewhat sternly:

‘“That is so. And what you have got to do is to endeavour to find out
how they have been opened, who opened them, and where the papers have
gone to. Please commence your work at once, as every hour’s delay is in
favour of the thief.”

‘“You must pardon me, Prince,” I remarked; “but I have a few more
questions to ask, and you must allow me to work in my own way.”

‘“Oh, certainly!” he exclaimed, a little peevishly, which somewhat
astonished me, having regard to the way he had controlled himself so
far; but it was another indication of the anxiety that was consuming
him.

‘Nor was it to be wondered at, for he himself had hinted that if this
State secret was made known to the enemies of Russia it was quite
within the bounds of possibility that war might ensue.[B]

‘No man, much less the Prince, could have been indifferent to that, for
it was an open political secret that Russia at that moment was far from
being in a fit condition to take the field against a powerful foe. The
signs of the times pointed to a coming conflict at no distant date, and
fully aware of that, it was known, or believed, that the Prince, who
was intensely patriotic, intensely ambitious, and no less intensely
desirous of enormously expanding the Czar’s dominions, had been making
herculean efforts to consolidate the Empire, and gain the allegiance,
or at least the neutrality, of certain States, without which Russia’s
aims might, and in all probability would, be frustrated. Bearing all
this in mind, the reader will be at no loss to understand how a man
like the Prince would be distressed by the danger which confronted him;
for if anyone did know, he certainly did, that the internal weakness
of Russia was too great just then for a responsible Minister to risk a
great war.

‘By further questioning the Prince, I ascertained that he had a private
and confidential secretary, in addition to twelve ordinary secretaries.
But not one of them was admitted to the private bureau, where for
the time being the State papers were deposited, without the Prince’s
permission. His official business was transacted in another department,
and the inner sanctum sanctorum was in a measure sacred to the Prince
himself. A sentry was always posted at the door, and he had strict
orders to allow no one to enter who had not special business, and who
was not furnished with a pass.

‘Being hedged round with these precautions, it seemed very difficult to
comprehend how anyone could have gained access to the room in order to
obtain possession of the precious documents. In constructing a theory,
there were many points that could not possibly be overlooked. The
chief of them was the all but absolute certainty that there had been a
conspiracy, and a traitor and a spy was in the camp. He had known of
the negotiations that were going on with respect to the treaty; he knew
that the special courier was travelling post-haste to Russia; that the
draft was delivered into the Prince’s hands, and deposited temporarily
in the Prince’s safe, where all documents relating to the Prince’s
department--that is, political documents--requiring the Foreign
Minister’s close personal attention were placed for his convenience.

‘In the case of a document of such paramount importance as this secret
treaty, no copy of it could be made at first. This was another point
the thief was obviously aware of, and it was also certain that he
must have been pressed for time, or he would have made a copy of the
draft himself, or extracts from it, which it was presumable might have
answered all the purposes for which the document had been stolen. Such
a course would not only have prevented the hue and cry being raised,
but all the resources of a great Empire being put in motion against him.

‘Examining the matter in this light, the question necessarily arose,
Who was there who, having access to the Foreign Office, was enabled, in
spite of all the stringent regulations and safeguards, to penetrate to
the very centre of the temple--if one may use such an expression--and
carry off a secret which was known to comparatively few people?

‘This question was, of course, the crux of the whole affair, but I felt
satisfied in my own mind about one thing. The guilty person was someone
who knew the working of the Foreign Office, was well acquainted with
the internal arrangements, and in close contact with the Prince. It
need scarcely be said, perhaps, that the Prince was exceedingly anxious
to prevent the matter leaking out and becoming public property. It
would necessarily have caused great excitement and grave anxiety, and
I agreed with him that on many grounds it was highly desirable to keep
it from the public.

‘There was one other point I ought to refer to, and it is a very
important one; the theft was clearly committed during the night, or, at
any rate, after business hours. On the first view that might seem to
narrow the inquiry somewhat, though, as a matter of fact, it presented
the affair in a more complex aspect; but, on the other hand, it seemed
to me to point conclusively to several persons being concerned.

‘In setting to work to read the riddle, I proceeded on the analytical
principle, and searched, to begin with, for the motive. That seemed
very apparent. Firstly, it was a secret treaty; secondly, it was framed
against Turkey; thirdly, it was conceivable that it was of vital
importance to Turkey to know what the treaty was likely to do, what it
aimed at; therefore, somebody in the pay of Turkey, or somebody as a
speculation, had stolen the document with a view to pecuniary gain.

‘The latter supposition seemed to me hardly tenable--at any rate, not
so likely as the idea that Turkey had her spies even in the Russian
Foreign Office. I don’t mean to say these spies were Turks themselves.
As can be understood, it would have been next to impossible for a Turk
to have gained entrance to the Foreign Office; but Turkey, of course,
had her emissaries, and Russians were to be found so debased, so dead
to all patriotism, so lost to every sense of honour, so mercenary, that
they were ready to sell their country for the gain of gold. Of course,
black sheep of this kind are numbered in every nation, therefore Russia
was no exception.

‘Everything pointed to the thief being a Russian, and, being a Russian,
he also had some connection with the Foreign Office, a connection which
gave him the right of being under the roof all night.

‘It is necessary to explain that the Foreign Minister in Russia is
provided with an official residence in the Foreign Office itself; that
is to say, a portion of the actual building is set apart for the
accommodation of himself and family and suite. An official of this kind
keeps up a great deal more state than an English Minister does, and his
suite and servants are generally very numerous.

‘In the Prince’s case, there were fewer people about him than usual,
for the reason that he had no family. Nevertheless, I found that,
including footmen, pages, and lower servants, there were forty persons
in his _ménage_, and his domestic affairs were attended to and presided
over by the lady whom he had addressed as Catarina, and whose ravishing
beauty had so struck me. It is not necessary to refer to her by any
other name. This lady had two private maids, and she exercised very
considerable influence over the Prince’s personal and domestic affairs.

‘At this stage of my theorizing it seemed to me very clear that the
miscreant would be found amongst the personnel of the Prince. The
consideration of all the facts forced me to this, the most feasible
conclusion. But I did not lose sight of the almost absolute certainty
of a conspiracy, because it was hardly conceivable that one person, and
one person only, would have committed such a daring act of treason; for
an act of that kind was very foul treason indeed, and in Russia was
punishable with death.

‘Assuming that I was right with regard to my surmises, it would seem
that a member of the household had been tampered with; pressure
and temptation had been brought to bear upon him from outside. The
temptation must have been great; heavy payment would be made; the
traitor had been willing to sell his country for blood-money, and I was
at pains to try and ascertain if any member of the Prince’s _personnel_
had given indications of being in possession of an unusual amount of
money.

‘I have endeavoured so far to make clear to those who may read this
narrative the mental process by which I tried to lay hold of a clue.
I need scarcely say that at the outset in a case of this kind one
gropes in the dark. There is not a ray of light at first to guide him,
and he must proceed cautiously and warily lest he go astray, and,
while he is straining his eyes in one direction, his quarry is safely
flying in another. Seeming impossibilities have to be reconciled with
probabilities, and probabilities reduced to certainties. And when a
clue, no matter how faint, has once been struck, it must be followed up
patiently, intelligibly, and doggedly. There are three golden rules to
be strictly observed by him who would succeed in connecting crime with
its author. They are patience, silence, watchfulness.

‘Human craft and human cunning are very difficult things to deal
with, nor can one deal with them at all unless he is deeply read in
human nature. In this instance craft of no ordinary kind had to be
encountered. The criminal, to begin with, was not of the ordinary type.
It was probable that up to this time he had lived a seeming virtuous
life, and knowing how terrible was the penalty attaching to his
wrong-doing, he would strain every nerve to prevent suspicion falling
upon him. I had necessarily to consider all these little details, for
they were essential to success.

‘Although the Prince bore the reputation of being a cool, calculating
diplomatist, who had outwitted every other diplomatist in Europe with
whom he had had dealings, I found that in this matter of the stolen
treaty he somewhat discredited his reputation; for he was by no means
cool, and seemed unable to enter into the calculations which were
necessary to a clear understanding of the course to be pursued if the
mystery was to be unravelled. He had at the outset reminded me that
I had the resources of an empire at my command, and he insisted on
the telegraph being set instantly to work, and the police throughout
the country being placed in possession of the facts. I was opposed to
that course myself; I thought it was as likely as not to frustrate
our efforts. But, of course, he had his own way, and he soon began to
display not only irritation, but decided anger, when he found that I
narrowed my search to the Foreign Office, and showed no inclination
to go further afield. “It seems to me,” he cried warmly, “that you
are simply wasting time, and giving the enemy a chance. While you are
hanging about here the traitor is making good his escape. Is it not
certain that, whoever it is who stole the document, he is now hurrying
to Turkey with it as fast as he can?”

‘“No, Prince,” I replied; “it is by no means certain that such is the
case. On the contrary, I incline very strongly indeed to the belief
that the traitor will be found here under this roof; that he has not
stirred away, and is not likely to stir away.”

‘“You are wrong,” he said sharply.

‘“We shall see,” I answered. “I admit that it is highly probable the
document is being conveyed to the Turkish Government. If that is so, we
cannot hope to overtake it, and another move will have to be made on
the diplomatic board in order to checkmate those who have circumvented
you. Your splendid skill in the game will enable you to determine the
move. You may depend upon it that those who have entered into this
conspiracy to convey valuable information to our country’s enemy have
well calculated the chances of success, and have taken means to ensure
the information reaching its destination. But the key of the puzzle
must be searched for here. If we find that key quickly, we may be able
to prevent the information reaching the Turkish Government; but it is
useless trying to do so without the key.”

‘“Then, you suspect someone in the department?” the Prince asked.

‘“I don’t suspect anyone at present,” I answered.

‘“What I mean to say is, you think the thief is one of the employés of
the Foreign Office?”

‘“I think the thief is a member of your own household, Prince.”

‘He looked at me in astonishment; then something like a smile of
incredulity flitted across his stern face as he exclaimed, “Oh,
nonsense!”

‘“Why do you think it nonsense?” I asked.

‘“It seems to me simply impossible that it could be so. No member of my
household could have gained access to the bureau.”

‘At this I reminded him that, whereas in the daytime the corridors of
the Foreign Office were patrolled by sentries, they were withdrawn when
business hours closed, though sentries were on duty all night outside.

‘“But all communication between my residence and the office is shut off
at night by locked doors,” he answered.

‘“That only serves to show how very cunning and very clever the thief
was to succeed in reaching your room and opening the safe in spite of
bolts and bars,” I said.

‘The Prince grew very thoughtful. He seemed greatly struck by my
theory, and ultimately confessed that he had not seen the matter from
that point of view before. The result was he said I was to work in my
own way, to follow my own lead, and to have an absolutely free hand.

‘“It is a dastardly business,” he exclaimed with warmth, “and even if
the traitor were to turn out to be my own brother, I would not hesitate
to shoot him, for nothing short of instant death would be a fitting
punishment.”’

Of course, all the resources peculiar to the Russian police system
were utilized so far as they could be in a case of this kind. But the
difficulties in the way will at once be apparent when it is borne in
mind that the fact of a treaty having been stolen from the Foreign
Office had to be kept as secret as possible. If the matter had leaked
out, and become generally known to the public, the excitement would
necessarily have been tremendous, and the objects in view--that is, the
capture of the thief and the recovery of the missing document--would,
in all probability, have been frustrated.

It will not be out of place here to explain that in Russia there
is an armed police answering to the French gendarme; then there is
a municipal police, very similar to the police of Great Britain;
and lastly there is a vast army of spies, or _mouchards_, as the
French call them. In this army both sexes are represented, and they
overrun Russia. The three branches of the police service are not
worked and controlled from one centre, owing to the vastness of the
country; and this want of centralization has always been a flaw in
the administration, as it is sometimes difficult to bring the various
centres into complete harmony.

From these particulars, it will be gathered that a great deal must
depend on individual effort, for while in the concrete the system
may present weak parts and differences that are irreconcilable, in
the abstract there is a unity of motion which gives the individual
tremendous power, in this way: An accredited Government agent moving
from point to point could demand, and would receive, every possible
assistance, and the lumbering methods of the bureaucracy would be
dispensed with.

In our own country we often complain very bitterly about the
red-tapeism which so seriously clogs and hampers freedom of movement.
But this red-tapeism of ours is nothing as compared with Russia.
Russian red-tapeism is responsible for tremendous evils, and it often
retards in a painful manner the administration of justice.

It will now be clear, probably, to the mind of the reader that an
individual in Russia, endowed with faculties beyond the ordinary, has a
chance of very signally distinguishing himself. This was certainly the
case with Danevitch; and while nominally he was under the control and
subject to the authorities in St. Petersburg, he was allowed a latitude
and a freedom of action accorded to but few. His peculiar talents and
his individuality begot him this distinction, and while it placed great
responsibility on him, it left him so far untrammelled that he was
enabled to exercise his independent judgment, and pursue the course
which seemed to him, according to the circumstances of the hour, the
right one.

After all, this was but another illustration of the fact that nothing
succeeds like success. Danevitch had been singularly successful, though
his success was due to talents only one remove from genius.

He has already, in his own words, made it plain that, in the case of
the missing treaty, he believed, and in fact felt certain, that the
culprit would be found amongst the Prince’s household, though this did
not prevent him availing himself of all the resources of the police
department, which of course he had a right to do. But necessarily
he was hampered by the secrecy it was so important to observe. What
he did was to request by telegraph that the authorities in all the
principal towns, seaports, and frontier stations should issue orders
for a more than ordinarily strict examination of the passports and
papers of people passing out of the country; that every person from
St. Petersburg should be closely questioned, and should suspicion be
aroused by his answers, he should be detained, and his luggage searched.

This is a measure permissible in Russia, but would not be tolerated
in England. But in the vast dominion over which the Czar rules it is
a necessity, and through its means many a crime has been detected and
many a plot frustrated. It is right to say that the seizure of luggage
is only resorted to when there is strong reason for believing that the
owner is a dangerous person.

Although Danevitch took the steps indicated, he did not believe for
a moment that anything would result beyond a great number of people
being seriously inconvenienced, some innocent persons being arrested,
and a great deal of blundering on the part of jacks in office, and
of boorishness on the part of local police, who, dressed in a little
brief authority, like to exercise it with all the brutal brusqueness
peculiar to ignorant minds. He relied upon his own methods, and felt
convinced that, if the mystery was ever to be unravelled, it could only
be done by his own individual efforts. The more he dwelt upon all the
details of the case as he had gathered them, the more he was convinced
the guilty person would be found to be somebody who was in close
communication with the Prince. Working on this basis, he classified
the household under three heads for the purpose of giving his theory a
somewhat practical form:

Firstly, there were the lower servants of the _ménage_.

Secondly, the upper servants.

Thirdly, the body servants of the Prince and his close personal
attendants, including his secretaries, clerks, shorthand-writers, and
amanuenses.

Those in the first category he dismissed from his calculations
altogether, since it was so highly improbable that any one of them
could have had the opportunities for committing such a crime.
Obviously, in an establishment so constituted as the official residence
of the Prince was, an inferior servant could not have gained access
to the Prince’s private rooms without running the gauntlet of many
vigilant eyes, and incurring so much risk as to make it all but
impossible that he could succeed.

Those who fell into the second category were not passed over without
a little more consideration and a critical examination of the
possibilities which were presented, when they were weighed individually
and collectively. But when all this had been done, Danevitch scored
them off the slate, too, and the sphere of his inquiry was so far
narrowed.

In the third category there were necessarily included persons of
intelligence which ranked higher than that to be found in the other
two. But, as Danevitch progressed with the working out of his theory,
he deemed it important to subdivide this third category, because his
investigations made it clear that only a few of these individuals were
so situated as to have the chance of abstracting the document.

Let it be distinctly borne in mind that the paper was in a
despatch-box, locked. The despatch-box was in a safe, locked. The safe
was in the Prince’s private bureau, where none but the privileged were
allowed to enter, and the door of which was also locked. Now, then, let
it be still further remembered that the keys necessary to open the door
of the safe and the despatch-box were kept in a safe in the Prince’s
bedroom, and the key of that safe was one of a number which every night
were given into the custody of Vladimir Nicolayeff, the Clerk of the
Keys.

There was another point which had to be very closely considered. It was
this: the person who stole the document must have known it was there.
He could not have known it was there if he had not occupied a position
which enabled him to learn a good deal of what was going on; but as
it could not be supposed for a moment that a Minister like the Prince
would have lightly made a confidant of an inferior and irresponsible
person, it was difficult to believe that the crime was the work of one
individual; and here again Danevitch had to build up a theory, which he
did as follows:

A was in possession of a secret that a draft treaty was being conveyed
from Bulgaria to Russia, and would reach the Prince at a certain hour
on a certain day, and for political or mercenary motives imparted the
information to B, who, probably for political motives only, wished to
make it known to the Government of the country against which the treaty
was framed. B had to fall back upon C to procure the keys, without
which the documents could not be carried off.

Here at once a conspiracy was suggested, and, a conspiracy admitted,
it was impossible to dismiss the courier and Vladimir Nicolayeff
from it. These two men, of course, represented extremes of position.
The courier, whose name was Boruff, was a trusted and confidential
Government officer of good birth and high social position. Nicolayeff,
on the other hand, was a porter--a trusted servant, it was true, but a
servant of humble origin and low rank. His services, if they had been
given and used, must have been bought; that is, he had been corrupted,
tempted from his allegiance by money. Next, the third or middle person
had to be considered. What position did he occupy? It was not easy to
answer that beyond saying it was obviously someone very close to the
Prince.

Having arranged these various points, and set them forth in their
order, he felt satisfied that his theory was a feasible one,
and, if acted upon, was more likely to yield results than the
search-for-the-needle-in-the-bottle-of-hay process of stopping people
at the frontiers. At any rate, while that process was being carried
out, Danevitch proceeded on his own lines, and his first step was
directed to learning some particulars about Boruff.

In age the courier verged on forty. He had been in the Government
service for fifteen years. Every confidence was reposed in him, and
he was greatly respected. He had been engaged on courier duty for
something like four years, and had made many journeys between Turkey
and Russia. Formerly he had been a confidential clerk at the Russian
Consulate at Smyrna.

He was a married man, and had four children, but lived apart from his
family. There had been serious disagreements between him and his wife,
owing, so it was stated, to his infatuation for another lady, which had
led to all sorts of complications, difficulties, and domestic jars.
These, of course, were purely family matters, and had not affected
his Government position, as it was considered there were faults on
both sides. Boruff was not well off. Such officials are poorly paid
in Russia; and as he was forced to keep up two establishments, and
moreover was extravagant, his resources were severely taxed.

So much did Danevitch learn of Boruff. Not much, if anything at all, to
suggest a probability that Boruff had any guilty knowledge. He was a
poor man; that was the worst that could be said about him. But poverty
lays a man open to many temptations. Starving virtue is sorely tested
when gold is jingled in its ears. It is so easy to be honest when one
wants for nothing.

Such were Danevitch’s reflections, and he put Boruff in his note-book,
as he says, for future use if necessary. He thought it was just
possible that ultimately the courier would prove one of the pieces
necessary to complete the puzzle.

He next turned his attention to Vladimir Nicolayeff, a man of a totally
different stamp. He was an old man--well, that is, he was close on
sixty. He had been in the army, and had seen service in his youth,
but, having been severely wounded, was discharged, and ultimately got
employment under the Government. He had served at the Foreign Office a
great many years. His position, though humble, was an important one. In
his lodge in the entrance-hall all the keys not in use were kept. He
also received messages and parcels, answered questions of inquirers,
and pointed out the way to the different departments.

At this stage Danevitch sought another interview with the Prince, who
cast a quick, keen glance at the detective, and asked curtly:

‘What news?’

‘None,’ was the equally curt answer.

‘Have you entirely failed?’ asked the Prince.

‘At present I can say nothing.’

‘But you have got no clue?’

‘No.’

A look of annoyance swept across the face of the Prince, and he
shrugged his shoulders, as if in disgust.

‘I suppose it is hopeless now to expect any results from your
inquiries?’

‘You forget, Prince,’ said Danevitch, with dignity, ‘it is not
many hours since you instructed me in the matter. I cannot perform
impossibilities.’

‘True, true,’ was the irritable response. ‘But tell me, do you see any
likelihood of being able to bring the guilt home to anyone?’

‘Excuse me, Prince,’ answered Danevitch firmly, ‘I am not given to
expressing ill-formed opinions, and, not being a prophet, I decline to
run the risk of prophesying.’

‘Forgive me,’ said the Prince; ‘I am afraid I have allowed my anxiety
to blind me to common-sense. But the fact is, this loss has preyed upon
my mind terribly. It is a very serious affair indeed--very serious.
Moreover, it shows that there is a traitor somewhere. If we have
traitors about, the State is in danger. Therefore it is imperative that
this matter should be sifted to the very bottom. No time, no money, no
patience, no skill, must be spared. The truth will have to be revealed.’

‘I would venture to remind you, Prince,’ said Danevitch, ‘that the
virtue of patience is one which, above all others, should be exercised
in a case of this kind.’

The Prince was not indifferent to the point of the remark, and, bowing
with consummate politeness, said:

‘Pardon me, Danevitch; I have perhaps been hasty. You understand your
art better than I do. I have no right to dictate to you. Pray proceed
on your own lines.’

‘Thank you,’ Danevitch replied. ‘We shall get on now. My object in
requesting this interview is to ask who conveys your keys to Nicolayeff
at night?’

‘No one. It is his duty to come to me and receive them. But as it often
happens that it is not convenient for me to see him myself, the keys
are then given to him by my valet--a fine youth named André.’

‘Did André give them to him the night before last, when the papers were
stolen?’

‘No; I gave him the keys myself.’

‘There is no mistake about that, Prince?’

‘None whatever.’

‘One more question: Did you go out that night?’

‘I did. I went to the opera.’

‘What time did you return?’

‘About two in the morning.’

‘Did you note if the door of the safe in your sleeping apartment was
closed then?’

‘I haven’t a doubt about it.’

‘But you didn’t try the door?’

‘No.’

‘Were the keys in their proper places in the morning?’

The Prince did not answer immediately. He appeared to be reflecting. At
last he said:

‘Yes, of course they were. I remember now taking them out of the safe
myself, and handing them to my private secretary, who proceeded with
me to my bureau. There is one point I forgot to tell you at our last
interview. When I opened the safe in the bureau, I noticed that the
lid of the despatch-box was wide open. It was that that aroused my
suspicions, and led to my discovering immediately that the papers had
gone.’

‘But the despatch-box had been locked overnight?’

‘I am certain of it.’

‘So that the thief must have forgotten to close it again after
abstracting the papers.’

‘Precisely so.’

After this interview, Danevitch felt more than ever convinced that
someone in very close personal relations with the Prince had been a
party to the deed, and began to look round to see if suspicion could
be justifiably entertained against any one of the inner household, so
to speak. With a view to this end, he arranged the following plan with
the Prince. He was to spend two days at the official residence in the
character of a foreign visitor--the Prince’s guest. André, the valet,
was to be told off to personally attend him.

In due course Danevitch arrived. He was driven to the residence in one
of the Prince’s carriages, which was sent to the station to meet him.
He had a certain amount of luggage, which was deposited in the handsome
bed-chamber allotted to him. He was a German on a secret mission, and
did not understand Russian. His get-up would have deceived his own
mother. He found André a smart, intelligent young man, who seemed to
wear his heart upon his sleeve. There was nothing whatever in his
manner or bearing which caused Danevitch to mistrust him.

The beautiful Catarina presided over the Prince’s household, but never
sat at his table. The detective was a little puzzled at first to
understand the reason of that; and, in fact, Catarina was a kind of
mystery, but in a few hours he had defined her position. Ostensibly
she was his ward. She was the daughter of a very old friend of his, a
military man, who had been killed on active service, and, in accordance
with a solemn compact made between the two men, the Prince undertook
to be a father to the orphan daughter. That was the story generally
believed; at any rate, people affected to believe it. Danevitch did
not. He found that Catarina had great influence over the Prince at
times; but at others he seemed to treat her with coldness, even
disdain, according to his mood. Danevitch came to the conclusion that
Catarina was, in her way, almost as much a diplomatist as the Prince
himself; but he saw signs--trifling ones, but significant to him--that
whatever love or affection there was was on the Prince’s side. He was
sure that Catarina was not happy, but led a lonely, fretting life in
that splendid palace.

Danevitch went for two days, but his visit was extended to a week. When
he was taking his departure, the Prince asked him if he was any wiser
than when he went.

‘A little,’ answered Danevitch.

‘But is there anybody in my household whom you suspect?’ asked the
Prince with some anxiety.

‘Frankly there is,’ said the detective.

‘Who is it?’ the Minister demanded in a peremptory tone.

‘Pardon me,’ said Danevitch, ‘for declining to answer you now. But
unless I am very much mistaken, I shall be able to give you some
valuable information before many days have passed.’

In less than a week Danevitch sought another interview with the Prince.

‘I have a request to prefer this time,’ said Danevitch after some
preliminary remarks.

‘What is it?’ asked the Minister quickly, and possibly reading in his
visitor’s face that he had made a discovery.

‘You have a daughter?’

‘Yes,’ gasped the Prince, who, in spite of his power of self-control,
started at the question, and his brow clouded over.

‘She is the wife of Kasin, who is the Russian Consul at Smyrna.’

A cold, cynical smile of bitterness played about the Prince’s thin lips
as he remarked:

‘That is an open secret. But let me tell you at once, I have not seen
my daughter for years, and never wish to see her again. She is an
ingrate. I have cast her forth from my heart.’

The Prince betrayed the fact that, though he bore the reputation of
being a man of blood and iron, and very likely justified his reputation
when it came to matters of diplomacy, he had hidden springs of deep
emotion and passion which were capable of being called into play.

‘I do not wish to probe you, sir, nor touch upon your domestic affairs
more than can possibly be helped. I have come here to request that you
will influence the recall of your son-in-law from Smyrna.’

The Prince sprang to his feet, and grasped the back of his chair, and
though he tried to control himself, it was evident he was greatly
excited.

‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, ‘do you mean to say that my son-in-law has
had a hand in this business?’

‘I mean to say nothing, sir, at present.’

‘But your request carries with it an accusation. Remember the terrible
responsibility of that. If Kasin has had a hand in purloining these
papers he is a traitor, and the penalty is death.’

‘I am aware of that, Prince.’

‘The disgrace to me would be terrible. I hate him, but he is my
son-in-law.’

The Prince paced up and down the room. He was strongly agitated. His
pride was wounded, perhaps, as it had never been wounded before.
Danevitch remained silent. He had nothing more to say then. Presently
the Prince swung round on his heel, and said sternly, and threateningly:

‘Remember this, Danevitch, not only is your own reputation at stake,
but the honour of my family. You may risk your reputation as much as
you like--it is naught to me; but, by the Virgin! be careful of my
honour, or----’

He suddenly checked himself. Danevitch rose, and, with a cold bow,
remarked:

‘I will withdraw from this business altogether. What I have learnt
shall be a locked secret with me. I wish you good-day, sir.’

‘Stay!’ cried the Prince. ‘I apologize to you. I forgot myself, but
make allowance for my feelings. I am in the wrong; you are in the
right. Forgive me. This matter must go through, let the consequences be
what they may. Though my daughter, my own flesh and blood, be guilty of
this crime, she shall suffer. My country--Russia’s interests have the
first claim upon me. Pray proceed. I was the father a few minutes ago.
I am Prince Ignatof, Russia’s Minister for Foreign Affairs, again.’

He resumed his seat. He was the calm, cold, passionless, unemotional
diplomatist once more.

‘Now, then, tell me all,’ he said peremptorily.

‘At this hour I have nothing to tell you. I am here to prefer a
request. That I have a motive in making that request, you may take for
granted.’

‘You want Kasin to be recalled?’

‘Yes.’

‘It shall be done.’

‘When? Immediately.’

‘Is it so urgent as that?’

‘It is.’

‘Good. He shall be recalled by telegraph.’

‘I would request that he be commanded to leave Turkish soil in twelve
hours’ time, and to telegraph as soon as he is in Russia.’

‘And after that?’

‘And after that I will make a revelation to you.’

‘So be it. In three days’ time, call here again at this hour. You will
find me alone, and prepared to receive your revelation.’

Danevitch took his departure. That same evening Vladimir Nicolayeff was
walking along one of the principal streets. He had been dining at a
café, and was making his way back to his duties at the Foreign Office.
A bearded man suddenly confronted him at a corner of a street, and said:

‘Nicolayeff, what was your reward for being false to your trust?’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded the porter angrily.

‘Why do you answer my question with another? I ask how much were you
paid for being false to your trust?’

Nicolayeff was agitated and confused.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘The devil.’

‘Then, betake yourself to your kingdom.’

‘Not until I have done with you here. Again I ask you how much were you
paid for giving up the key of Prince Ignatof’s safe to the beautiful
Catarina? Or was it her beauty alone that tempted you?’

Nicolayeff reeled. It almost seemed as if he was suddenly seized with
palsy, and he uttered a strange, half-choked cry as he sank to the
ground in a swoon. Perhaps in his superstitious mind he really thought
the bearded man was the Evil One. A policeman approached. The bearded
man whispered something in his ear and disappeared. The policeman
blew a whistle, and assistance came. Then Nicolayeff was carried to
the station, and when he recovered from the swoon he found himself a
prisoner. In the meantime a message had been sent to the Foreign Office
to say that the Clerk of the Keys had been picked up in the street in a
swoon, and was then in custody. The message was conveyed direct to the
Prince.

Three days passed, and Danevitch again presented himself at the
Prince’s bureau.

‘Have you any news, Prince?’ he asked.

‘A code telegram was sent to Kasin recalling him.’

‘Is he in Russia?’

‘I don’t know. He has not answered.’

‘Ah, I suspected that would be the case.’

‘I await your revelation,’ said the Prince calmly.

‘It is here,’ answered Danevitch, as he took a letter from his
pocket-book and handed it to the Prince. ‘Shall I retire while you read
it?’

The Prince glanced at the handwriting, and became very agitated.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘do. Come back in a quarter of an hour.’

As Danevitch went out, the Minister called to the sentry at the door:

‘He will return in fifteen minutes. In the meantime let no one else
enter at your peril.’

When Danevitch went back, he found the Prince seated at his desk. His
face was almost deathly in its whiteness; but he was calm and frigid.

‘You are deserving of your reputation,’ he said. ‘You have indeed made
a revelation. How did you obtain possession of that letter?’

‘I intercepted it. The writer believes, no doubt, that it is now on its
way to Turkey.’

‘Nicolayeff is under arrest.’

‘He is.’

‘See that not a moment is lost in securing Boruff.’

‘That shall be done, Prince.’

‘The interview can end.’

‘Have you no other instructions?’ asked Danevitch significantly.

The Prince understood. A pang of emotion caused his face to twitch, and
he turned away. But in a few moments he was the cold, passionless man
once more.

‘I have no other instructions,’ answered the Prince with equal
significance.

‘And the letter?’

‘I will keep it.’

Danevitch bowed and withdrew.

The following morning, early, a closed carriage, drawn by four superb
horses, left the Foreign Offices. The occupants of the carriage were
Prince Ignatof and the beautiful Catarina. She was elegantly attired,
and looked charming; but there was an expression of some anxiety on her
face, and when she gave certain instructions to her maid, who was to
sit with the driver, there was a tremulousness in her tone which was
not natural to her.

The carriage was driven to one of the Prince’s country estates on the
great Moscow road. It was an old-fashioned mansion in the midst of
pine-woods, and the extensive pine-woods round about swarmed with game,
fur and feathered. The Prince often entertained large shooting-parties
there, but on this occasion he had no guests. The servants in charge
had been apprised of his coming, and had the mansion in readiness.

Two nights later a strange thing happened. The Prince and Catarina were
together in their chamber, when a shrill scream resounded through the
house. It was a woman’s scream. A few minutes afterwards the Prince
flung open the door, and rang his bell for assistance. He was pale and
agitated. When the servants rushed up, he said, ‘Your mistress has been
taken suddenly ill. Attend to her,’ and at the same time he ordered a
man-servant to ride with all speed for a doctor from the neighbouring
village, six miles away.

When the servants entered the room, they found Catarina fully dressed,
lying on the bed. Her face was ashen in its hue. Her eyes seemed
starting from her head. Foam was oozing from her mouth; her limbs were
convulsed. The servants did what they could, but Catarina never spoke.
When the doctor came, she was dead. He examined her, and said she had
died from the effects of some powerful poison. There was a strange
smell in the room; there was a broken glass on the floor. Before
leaving the house, however, he changed his opinion, and certified that
she had died from apoplexy.

Some nuns were brought from a neighbouring convent to pray and watch
by the body. Three days afterwards it was quietly and unostentatiously
buried in a plain grave in the little village cemetery. The Prince
followed as chief mourner. An hour later he was a changed man. He
seemed to have grown ten years older. About three weeks later it was
officially announced in the _Gazette_ and other papers that Prince
Ignatof had retired from the Foreign Office by the advice of his
physicians, his health having completely broken down.

Some few particulars have yet to be told. The letter which Danevitch
intercepted and handed to the Prince was written by Catarina. It was
addressed to Madame Kasin at Smyrna. There are reasons why the letter
should not be given _in extenso_, but its substance can be indicated.
The writer made it evident that Madame Kasin, who was as strongly
embittered against her father as he was against her, conspired with her
husband and Buroff and Catarina to obtain the information contained in
the secret treaty, and sell it for a large sum of money to Turkey, to
whom it was of immense value. Kasin, it appeared, had learnt that a
treaty was being negotiated; and though Buroff would not undertake to
purloin the document himself, he was heavily bribed to inform Catarina
that he had brought it.

Between Catarina and Madame Kasin a very strong friendship existed.
Catarina considered the daughter had been very badly treated. This
sympathy and friendship had led to great ill-feeling between Catarina
and the Prince, who had threatened to send her adrift. She undertook to
abstract the document, but she went to work so clumsily that, as the
saying is, she gave herself away. And her incautiousness in writing
that condemnatory letter showed that she had not in her the qualities
of a trickster and a thief. She told the whole miserable story in the
letter, and said that she herself would convey the precious document
to Smyrna. She did not mention Nicolayeff’s name, but Danevitch felt
certain that the Clerk of the Keys had been corrupted in order that the
key of the Prince’s bed-chamber safe should be procured, and to put his
belief to the test he accosted the unfortunate porter in the street
in the way we have seen. His intention was, if the porter betrayed
himself, to place him at once under arrest. He was not prepared,
however, for the sudden collapse of the wretched man, who did not long
survive the shock and the disgrace.

The whole matter, of course, was hushed up as much as possible. It was
deemed advisable that the details should not reach the ears of the
public. It is perhaps needless to say that the Kasins, who were ready
to prove traitors to their country, never again set foot on Russian
soil. Danevitch confesses that he was anxious, if possible, to save
the Prince the disgrace of having his own daughter arrested, hence the
telegram. He was sure that telegram recalling Kasin would sound a note
of alarm to him, and he would take himself off. That proved to be the
case. When some months had elapsed, Buroff was quietly packed off to
Siberia.

The Prince when he had sold off a large proportion of his estates,
went abroad--to France, it is said--where he spent the rest of his days
in strict retirement. Before leaving Russia, he erected a magnificent
and costly marble monument over the grave of the beautiful Catarina,
the mystery of whose death will never be solved until the secrets of
all hearts are known.



HOW PETER TRESKIN WAS LURED TO DOOM.


THE FIRST ACT--THE PLOT.

The period was the reign of Alexander II. The time, the afternoon of
a day in early summer. The place, an office in the huge building in
St. Petersburg known as the Palace of the Admiralty, one of the finest
and most imposing structures of the kind in the world. Its principal
front is more than a quarter of a mile in length, while its wings,
which extend to the Neva, are nearly seven hundred feet long. In this
palace an enormous number of people are employed, including many women;
and here the whole business in connection with the Imperial navy is
transacted.

The office referred to was a large room lighted by several long
windows. Running the whole length of the room was a flat-topped
mahogany desk, on which were spread a number of plans of vessels,
tracing-papers, compasses, squares, pencils, and other things of a
like kind usually found in the office of a draughtsman. To give the
place its official description, it was ‘Department H, Left Wing, Second
Floor, Room 12. Imperial Yachts.’

It was under the control of a much-trusted Government servant, one
Samuel Snell. That was not a Russian name, but an English one.
Snell was an Englishman--a Cockney, for he was born within sound
of Bow bells. He had been brought up as an engineer’s designer and
draughtsman, and was considered very clever. He left his native country
when he was three-and-twenty, and went to Russia, induced thereto by
a Russian friend in trade in London, who had taught him to speak the
Russian language, and assured him that his talents would find greater
appreciation and a better market abroad than at home. Samuel Snell was
influenced by this, and went. He was fortunate, through his friend’s
influence, in speedily obtaining employment, and having marked ability,
he made his way.

In the course of time he obtained naturalization; married a Russian
lady, the daughter of a gentleman holding an appointment in the naval
construction department; and ultimately, through his father-in-law’s
influence, obtained an appointment himself as assistant copyist in the
Admiralty Palace. His talents soon made him conspicuous; he was singled
out for gradual promotion, until at last he was placed at the supreme
head of the department responsible for the building and repairs of the
Imperial yachts. It was no sinecure, but an important and responsible
position.

In this room, on the day and at the hour in question, two young women
were seated. One had soft brown hair, bright blue eyes, a delicate
complexion, and regular features. She was the daughter of Snell,
and was just twenty years of age. Her name was Catherine. She was
unmistakably of an English type, though born in Russia, of a Russian
mother, and had never been out of the country in her life. Her
companion was as unmistakably Russian; she had dark eyes, black hair,
olive complexion, and was slightly older than the other girl. They
were both good-looking. The brunette was called Anna Plevski. Her face
indicated great strength of character. She had a strong, determined
mouth; intelligence beamed from her eyes; her forehead spoke of
brain-power.

Their respective positions were as follows: Catherine was a
confidential clerk to her father. She had been specially trained for
the work, and had held the appointment for over three years. Anna was
in another department altogether. She was what was termed ‘an indexer.’

The two girls were friends. They had been to school together. Anna had
taken advantage of a little relaxation to slip into Room 12 to have
a chat with Catherine, for she knew Mr. Snell was away; he had gone
down to Kronstadt on official business. But it wasn’t for the sake of
a purposeless chat that Anna went to Room 12. She had a deep and dark
design, as was destined to be revealed at a later stage of this strange
and tragic drama. Her own department was a long way off, in another
part of the huge building, and she was at some trouble to reach her
friend’s office by a very circuitous and round-about route, anxious,
presumably, that it shouldn’t be generally known that she had gone to
Room 12.

‘It’s a beautiful day, Catherine, isn’t it?’ said Anna, after some
preliminary greeting. ‘It’s a pity you and I are not rich.’

‘Why?’ asked Catherine, with a simple expression on her pretty face.

‘Surely you don’t need to ask why. If we were not mere drudges, we
should be able to taste some of the pleasures of the world--go where we
liked, stay as long as we liked, and enjoy ourselves generally, instead
of being stewed up here when the sun is shining.’

‘Well, you know, money doesn’t always bring happiness, Anna, my dear,’
answered Catherine.

‘It may not always do so; but as sure as eggs are eggs there can be
precious little happiness without it.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Contentment goes a long way,’ Catherine said, with
some timidity, for she knew that her friend held very pronounced views,
was unusually strong-minded, and had an iron will, to say nothing of
an unyielding dogmatism, which occasionally, when stirred up, became
objectionable, and at times offensive. In short, Anna had an aggressive
spirit, and was disposed to find fault with all constituted authority.

‘Contentment!’ she echoed with a malicious sort of chuckle; ‘how can
one be contented with a lot that is hard, toilsome, and irritating?
It’s not pleasant to realize every hour of your life that you are only
a drudge. I ask myself over and over again why wealth is so unequally
distributed. Why should it be in the hands of the few, while the vast
majority of mankind are the slaves of those few, and groan and sweat
under the yoke of paid labour--for what? merely to keep body and soul
together.’

Catherine had heard her friend express similar sentiments before, so
that she was not surprised at this bluntness of speech; but as she
herself did not consider she had any particular cause to complain,
and as the views she held were not altogether in accordance with
Anna’s, she ventured to mildly express dissent from Anna’s doctrine.
It only seemed, however, to arouse that young woman to a more vigorous
display of her feelings, and with a pepperiness that was distinctly
characteristic of her, she exclaimed scoffingly:

‘Well, friend Catherine, I can’t help saying that I’ve no patience
with anyone who is willing to accept stripes and lashes without a
murmur. That’s not my spirit. I’ve got brains, so have you, and yet
we are forced to toil long hours every day for bare sustenance, while
thousands and tens of thousands of brainless louts are rolling in
riches. Ugh! It makes me mad to think of it.’

Catherine smiled prettily as she remarked:

‘You seem to have been stirred up to-day, dear. Something has put you
out of temper.’

‘Yes; I am out of temper. I’m dissatisfied. Why, only to-day an order
was issued in our department that we are to work two hours extra every
day owing to pressure of work; but, as you know, the miserly Government
take precious good care they won’t pay us so much as an extra copeck,
no matter how long we work. I say it’s shameful!’

‘But what’s the use of fretting about it if we cannot alter it?’ asked
Catherine.

‘But I say we can alter it. The working classes of this country are the
bone, sinew, and brains of the country; yet they are kept in shackles
and ground into the dust.’

‘And yet, after all, Anna, talent is always recognised, and
individualism will make its mark.’

‘Great heavens!’ cried Anna, lifting her dark eyebrows in amazement,
while she looked at her friend with something like pitying contempt,
‘is it possible that you can cheat yourself into the belief that that
is true? You know as well as I do that talent and individualism are
not worth a rap without influence to advance them. Kissing goes by
favour in this world; and if you’ve no influence you may starve, while
some idiot is pitchforked into power and authority. But, there, don’t
let us wrangle any more at present. Some day I shall convert you, and
bring you round to my views. By the way, I see that our Little Father,
the Czar, is to make a yachting cruise round the coast of Finland
next month, and that his yacht, the _North Star_, is to be entirely
overhauled and refitted.’

‘Yes, that is so.’

‘It’s a very fine yacht, isn’t it, the _North Star?_’

‘I should think so. I’ve never seen it, though.’

‘That’s a wonder. I thought your father could have taken you on board
any of the Emperor’s yachts.’

‘So he could, I’ve no doubt; though he has never done so.’

‘But you have the plans of the _North Star_ in this department, haven’t
you?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I should like to see them. Would you mind showing them to me? I want
to know what this grand vessel is like.’

Catherine hesitated; but failing to see that she would do any harm by
complying with her friend’s request, she went to a huge safe, and took
therefrom a large roll of cartridge-paper, which she spread out on the
desk, and kept it in position by weights at the corners. And then there
was revealed to Anna a scale drawing, showing the hull, the sections,
the ground-plan, and general design of the Imperial vessel, which was
one of several used by his Majesty for pleasure cruises.

This particular one was then in the hands of the Admiralty for refit
and overhaul, and was under orders to be at Kronstadt on the 20th of
the following month; to receive the royal party, including the Czar,
for a trip up the Gulf of Bothnia, and along the coast of Sweden,
returning by the coast of Finland.

Anna looked at the plan attentively, critically. Indeed, she studied
it; and having an excellent memory, the result of training as an
‘indexer,’ she was enabled to carry the whole of the plan in her mind’s
eye.

She would have liked to have made some notes, but did not dare do so,
and so she fixed the details in her mind.

‘The Little Father’s apartments seem very spacious,’ Anna remarked
carelessly, as though she meant nothing.

‘Oh yes,’ said Catherine; ‘but they are all to be reconstructed, and
removed from the after-part of the vessel, where they are now.’

Anna’s dark eyes opened wide, and her ears were all alertness.

‘Indeed! Why?’

‘Well, they are in the extreme stern of the ship now; and as the vessel
pitches very much, they are not comfortable.’

‘Then, where are the Czar’s rooms to be placed?’ asked Anna eagerly.

‘A large deckhouse is to be constructed amidships. It will be fitted up
like a little palace.’

‘Ah! umph! I understand,’ Anna muttered thoughtfully. ‘Then I suppose
that is where the rooms will be?’ and she placed her finger in the
centre of the plan.

‘Yes.’

Catherine made a movement to remove the weights from the corners of the
paper, when Anna exclaimed:

‘Stop a minute. I just want to look at something. All right. Thanks.
It’s most interesting. I wish I were a rich person, that I could have a
steam-yacht like that, and go where I liked.’

‘You should marry an emperor; then you would have all you could
desire,’ said Catherine with a laugh, as she rolled the draft plan up
and restored it to the safe.

‘No; I wouldn’t be an empress if I had the chance,’ Anna replied
tartly. ‘Kings, queens, emperors, empresses, and the like, are all
tyrants. There should be no crowned heads. I don’t believe in ’em. They
are a curse to the world.’

‘Anna, you surprise me!’ said Catherine with a frightened look. ‘I knew
you were peculiar, and held remarkable views, but I had no idea you
were disloyal.’

‘Hadn’t you, dear?’ answered Anna, with a laugh. ‘Well, well, don’t
take me too seriously, you know. I say some queer things sometimes.’

Then, suddenly throwing her arms round her friend’s neck, she kissed
her on both cheeks and sped out of the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

The scene changes. In what is known as the St. Petersburg quarter,
which is situated on the north side of the Neva, is an old and lofty
house, not unlike some of the old buildings in Edinburgh.

The house is let out in tenements, and there is a common stair for
the use of all the tenants, who for the most part are working men,
artisans, and the like. At the very top of the building, immediately
under the tiles, is a long room with a slanting roof. In this room
three men are at work, busily at work, though it is the dead of night.
They carry on their work by lamplight.

Two are seated at a bench, which is covered with a miscellaneous lot of
tools--pliers, small hammers, pincers, files, tiny saws, screw-drivers,
chisels of various shapes, punches, etc. There are also sets of
mathematical instruments; and before the men are carefully-prepared
diagrams and drawings to scale, and to these the men make constant
reference.

They are fitting together an ingenious and clever piece of mechanism
in a small oblong box, lined with tin, and divided into compartments.
It is a sort of clockwork arrangement they are engaged upon, and it is
intended that the motive power of this mechanism shall be a noiseless
spring, acting on a solid brass, notched wheel. In the rim of this
wheel are forty-eight notches. The wheel can be made to revolve slowly
or quickly, as may be desired. As the wheel revolves, every time a
notch reaches a given point, mathematically determined, a tiny, but
powerful, steel lever drops into it, and this causes a steel rod,
something like a miniature shaft of a screw-steamer, to advance at
right angles with the wheel towards a partition at the end of the box.

When this rod or shaft has been pushed forward a stage, the lever rises
again, until the next notch is reached, when the same thing occurs, and
the rod gets a little nearer to the partition, in which, immediately
facing the point of the rod, is a circular hole corresponding in
circumference to the rod itself, so that ultimately the rod must pass
through the hole into a recess between the partition and the end of the
box.

The object of this will presently be seen. The two men, who are
evidently skilled mechanics of a high class, are both young. Neither of
them has yet numbered thirty years.

A third man is engaged in a totally different occupation. He is an old
man, tall and thin, with a grave, professional face, small, keen eyes,
and a high forehead. He is dressed in a long, dark blouse, and wears a
black silk skull-cap. He has a square table before him in the centre of
the room; on it are retorts, crucibles, phials, mortars, and pestles.

In a retort, beneath which burns a spirit-lamp, he is compounding
something from which most obnoxious vapours arise, but immediately
above is a skylight, which is open to give egress to the fumes.

The man watches the retort anxiously and nervously, and every few
minutes he plunges a small thermometer into the boiling liquid, and
then, withdrawing it, reads by the light of an Argand lamp what the
figures indicate. At last he suddenly extinguishes the flame of the
spirit, utters a sigh of relief, and straightens his aching back. As he
does so, one of the two young men turns towards him, and says:

‘Well, Professor, have you finished?’

‘Yes, thank God, I have, and I am glad.’

It seemed like blasphemy that he should have thanked God, having regard
to the deadly objects of his work. But the phrase was either uttered
carelessly, or he was a fanatic who believed that what he was doing was
blessed of Heaven.

Presently there were three light taps on the door. The men paused in
their labours and listened. Then the Professor advanced noiselessly to
the door, and gave three raps himself.

This was followed from outside by two quick raps, then two deliberate
ones. Instantly on receiving this signal the professor turned the key,
opened the door, and admitted a man, who wore a large cloak, which, on
entering the room, he threw off, and a handsome, striking young man was
revealed, with a strongly-marked face, and a well-shaped head covered
with dark, curly hair.

It was a face full of intellectuality. The mouth, which was shaded by
a carefully-trimmed moustache, was well shaped, but the lower jaw was
heavy, and destroyed the general symmetry of the features. His eyes
were almost coal-black, restless, and full of fire. They indicated an
intense nervous energy.

There was something--it is really difficult to define it--about the
man’s whole appearance which suggested the masterful, commanding
spirit--the leader of men. And when he spoke, the full, resonant voice,
the rich, decisive tones, accentuated and emphasized this something,
and proclaimed that he was one to be feared, to be obeyed. Peter
Treskin--that was his name--was in every way a remarkable man. And even
at the present day there are parts of Russia where he is referred to
with sorrow, and spoken of with reverence.

Peter Treskin came of good family. He was intended for the law, and had
studied hard and acquired an immense amount of general knowledge. But
somehow he had been attracted to a set of malcontents, who were for
revolutionizing everything and everybody.

They believed, or fancied they believed, which was much the same
thing, that it was their mission to set the world right; to alter this
and change that, to pull down thrones and set up their own forms of
government, which would be so perfect, so just, so equitable, that
every human wrong and every human sorrow would be done away with.

It was the Utopian dream of lotus-eaters; but fools have dreamed it
through all time; they will go on dreaming it until time closes, and
instead of ending sorrow, they will, as they have ever done, increase
it manifold.

However, these men thought differently, and Peter Treskin’s vanity was
gratified, his ambition found a channel, his fiery disposition a means
of satisfying it; and as he never played second fiddle to anyone, he
was raised to a height, from which he commanded.

In other words, he became the head of a vast conspiracy which had for
its object the destruction of the rulers who then ruled. In short,
Peter, at the head of a mob, so to speak, opposed himself to the
constituted forces of law and order.

It is true those forces were not what they might, and perhaps ought to,
have been. They were stern, in many ways oppressive, in some respects
unjust, and often ungenerous; but Peter Treskin’s methods were not
calculated to change them.

It was astonishing, however, how he was enabled to enlist clever
and intellectual men of all sorts and conditions under his banner,
which, figuratively speaking, was inscribed with one word of ghastly
import--Revolution!

‘Well, friends, how does the work go on?’ he asked, as he entered the
room, wiped his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief, and then,
with a quick, nervous touch, rolled a cigarette and lit it.

‘We’ve nearly finished,’ answered one of the two men. ‘By to-morrow
night the machine will be ready.’

‘Good! excellent! bravo!’ said Treskin. ‘And you, Professor?’

‘My part is also nearly completed. It has been a dangerous operation,
but will be successful.’

The man who spoke was Professor Smolski, a clever chemist, whose
researches and knowledge, if properly applied, might have been of
immense benefit to the world, and have earned him a niche in the
gallery of worthies. But he had ranged himself on the side of the
malcontents, and for the sake of his craze he was willing to sacrifice
the prospects of fame, if not fortune, and to run the almost certain
risk of a shameful death. Truly human nature is a mystery.

The other two men were brothers--Jews, Isaac and Jacob Eisenmann. They
were born in Russia, but their parents had fled from Germany to avoid
persecution, though, in flying from the hornets, they had encountered
the wasps; that is to say, they had found no peace in Russia. They had
been oppressed, persecuted, harried, and their offspring had vowed
vengeance. Isaac and Jacob were sworn foes of the Government. They
were clever mechanics, and their cleverness was used to build up a
destructive instrument of death, contrived with devilish ingenuity and
diabolical cunning.

These men represented a large party, which included women as well as
men; but Treskin was the head, the leading light, the impelling spirit.
His influence, his restless energy, his ambition, his vanity, made him
one of the most dangerous men in all Russia. He seemed able by some
extraordinary power he possessed of swerving men from the paths of
rectitude into the tortuous ways of crime. He led women like lambs to
the slaughter; he bent even strong men to his will.

Strangely enough, however, up to the time that he is brought under the
reader’s notice, he had managed to escape falling under suspicion.
It is difficult to say what this immunity was due to; possibly some
superior cunning, some extraordinary cautiousness. But whatever it was,
Peter was not wanting in courage, and was quite ready to take his share
of risk.

His co-conspirators now proceeded to explain to him the result of
their labours and their ingenuity. The empty recess at the end of the
mechanical box was to be filled with a novel preparation containing a
latent explosive power of immense force. This latent power, however,
could only be aroused into activity by the combination of a chemical
fluid, and in order to bring this about, the mechanism had been
arranged with wonderful precision and cleverness. Professor Smolski
had produced the necessary fluid, and the two Jews had, between them,
constructed the machinery. At the end of the rod or shaft already
described a glass tube, hermetically sealed, would be attached by
fitting into a socket. As the rod was advanced by the revolving notched
wheel, which could be set to do its work in one hour or forty-eight,
the glass tube would ultimately be thrust through the hole in the
partition, where, coming in contact with an opposing rigid bar of iron,
it would break, and then instantly something like a cataclysm would
follow.

This, of course, only describes the machine in rough outline, and that
is all that is intended to be done. Those who are curious to learn the
details of the strange instrument of death and destruction will find
drawings of it preserved in the police archives of St. Petersburg. It
was, at the time, the most perfect and certain thing of its kind that
man’s devilishness had been able to create. And in some respects it is
doubtful if it has been improved upon up to the present day.

Four o’clock was striking when Peter Treskin stole forth from that
reeking den of evil designs, and made his way into the sweet, fresh
air. Overhead the stars burned with an effulgency only seen in a
Northern climate. Peace and silence reigned in the sleeping city. The
clear, pellucid waters of the Neva glistened and glinted as they flowed
to the sea, emblematic of the Stream of Time, which silently but surely
sweeps all men into the great ocean of eternity, and obliterates even
their memory.

Man’s life is a little thing indeed when compared with the
stupendousness of Time and Eternity. The bright stars shine, the
rivers roll for ever; but man is born to-day; to-morrow he is dust
and forgotten. No such feeling or sentiment, however, stirred Peter
Treskin’s emotion as he hurried along to his lodgings. He was elated,
nevertheless, and full of a fierce, wicked joy, for his designs seemed
to be going well. He had that night seen the completion, or almost
the completion, of an instrument of destruction which was calculated
and intended to strike terror into the hearts of tyrants, and he
even believed that the hour was at hand when constituted power and
authority, as it then existed, would be shattered into the dust, and
from its ruins a new order of things would arise, in which he would
figure as a supreme ruler.

Fools have dreamed these dreams before, and awakened with the
curses of their fellow-men ringing in their ears; and then, having
died a shameful death, have been thrust, unhonoured and unwept,
into a nameless grave. But Treskin was not disturbed by any gloomy
forebodings, and having reached his lodgings, he hurried to bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The scene shifts once more, and shows us Kronstadt, a busy, thriving
seaport, arsenal, and naval and military town, at the head of the Gulf
of Finland, exactly thirty-one miles west from St. Petersburg. The
town is built on an island, and is so strongly fortified that it is
called the ‘Malta of the Baltic.’ The greater portion of the Imperial
navy assembles here, and there are armour and appliances, not only
for repairing vessels, but building men-of-war. There are three great
harbours. Two are used exclusively for the Imperial ships, and the
third is a general harbour capable of accommodating seven hundred
vessels. In the winter no trade with the outer world is carried on,
owing to the ice; but during the summer months the flags of various
nationalities may be seen, but by far the largest number of foreign
vessels visiting Kronstadt sail under the British flag.

At this place, one summer afternoon, a man and woman arrived, and
made their way to a tavern near the entrance to the general harbour.
The woman was young, good-looking, very dark, but her features wore a
careworn expression, and she seemed to glance about her with a nervous
fear, as though she was in dread of something. The man was of middle
height; he had an iron-gray beard and iron-gray hair. Judging from his
grayness, he was advanced in years; but his step was firm, his eyes,
which were very dark, were the eyes of youth--they were restless and
full of fire. He carried a leather hand-bag, which he deposited on a
chair beside him as he and the woman seated themselves at a table
outside of the tavern and ordered refreshment, which was served by the
tavern-keeper himself. The stranger got into conversation with the
landlord, and asked him many questions.

‘Where is the Little Father’s yacht, the _North Star_, lying?’ he asked.

‘Out there, moored to that big buoy. You will see she has the Imperial
flag flying.’ As he spoke, the landlord pointed to the outside of the
harbour, where a large steam-yacht, painted white, was moored. A thin
film of smoke was issuing from her funnels, and a little wreath of
steam from her steam-pipes. ‘She has been outside into the roadstead
this morning to adjust her compasses. I see a bargeload of stores has
just gone off to her.’

‘At what hour will the Imperial party arrive to-morrow?’

‘They are timed, I understand, to be here at nine o’clock,’ said the
landlord.

‘The Czar is a stickler for punctuality, isn’t he?’ asked the stranger.

‘Yes. I understand he is seldom behind time if he can help it. Well,
his Majesty will have a good trip, I hope. The weather promises to be
fine. God protect him!’

‘She is a fine yacht, is the _North Star_, I suppose?’

‘Splendid! Magnificent! I once had the honour of going on board by the
courtesy of one of the officers, who gave me an order. But she was
laid up then, and partly dismantled. Now would be the time to see her,
when she is all ready for the Little Father’s reception. But that is
impossible. No one not connected with the vessel would be allowed on
board.’

The stranger smiled, as he remarked:

‘I am not connected with the vessel, and yet I am going on board.’

‘You are!’ cried the host in astonishment. ‘Impossible!’

‘By no means impossible. I have official business.’

‘Oh, well, of course, that’s another thing. Well, I envy you.’

When the landlord had gone about his affairs, the girl said to her
companion, speaking in low tones:

‘You are a fool to talk about your intentions in that way. You are
simply directing attention to yourself.’

‘Tut! hold your tongue! What does it matter? There is nothing to fear
from this thick-headed publican.’

‘But you ought to be more careful--you ought indeed,’ urged the girl
tearfully. ‘You are far too reckless. Remember the tremendous risks
you are running--we are running--for if you sacrifice yourself you
sacrifice me too.’

‘Are you beginning to funk?’ asked the man irritably.

‘No. But there is no reason why the risks should be made greater than
they are. We have a great task to accomplish, and every possible
caution should be exercised.’

‘Well, now what have I done that is wrong?’ demanded the man angrily.

‘You told the landlord you were going on board the yacht. It was
foolish to do that. You drew attention to yourself.’

‘Possibly you are right--possibly you are right,’ her companion
returned thoughtfully. ‘It was a little bit of vanity on my part, but
it slipped out. However, all will be well. Our plans are so well laid
it is impossible for them to miscarry.’

‘Nothing is impossible; nothing should be counted upon as certain until
it is accomplished,’ the girl said.

‘You are a nice sort of Job’s comforter. Do, for goodness’ sake, keep
quiet!’ answered the man snappishly. He was evidently in a highly
nervous state, and very irritable. ‘Well, I must go. Be sure, now, that
you don’t stir from here until I return.’

‘I understand,’ said the girl. ‘But, remember, the suspense will be
awful. Don’t be away from me a minute longer than you can help.’

He promised that he would not. Then, taking up his hand-bag, he
embraced his companion and went out. Making his way down to the quay,
he hired a boat, and instructed the boatman to row him to the Imperial
yacht.

On reaching the vessel, he was challenged by the sentry on duty at
the gangway, and he replied that he had come on official business,
and had a Government order. Whereupon he was allowed to get on to
the lower grating of the steps, where an officer came to him, and he
produced a Government document, stamped with the official seal, and
setting forth that his name was Ivan Orloff, that he was one of the
naval clockmakers, and had been sent down to adjust all the clocks on
board the _North Star_ preparatory to the Czar’s arrival. Such an order
could not be gainsaid, so he was admitted on board, but an armed sailor
was told off to accompany him about the ship, and show him where the
various clocks were situated. There were a good many clocks, as every
officer had one in his cabin.

The man came at last to the Czar’s suite of apartments in the
newly-constructed deckhouse. The sailor paused at the entrance to cross
himself before a sacred picture that hung on the bulkhead, but Orloff
pushed on, and, passing beneath costly and magnificent curtains, he
reached the Czar’s sleeping-cabin, which was a dream of splendour. With
quick, hurried movements he took from his bag an oblong box, turned
a handle on an index dial, and placed the box beneath the royal bed.
He scarcely had time to recover his position, and get to a chest of
drawers on which stood a superb clock, when the sailor entered, and
said gruffly:

‘You ought to have waited for me.’

‘I’m in a hurry, friend,’ said Orloff. ‘I want to get my work finished
and return to St. Petersburg to-night.’

As he lifted the glass shade off the clock, his hands trembled and his
face was as white as marble, but the sailor did not notice it.

Half an hour later Orloff had completed his task, and took his
departure, and landing once more on the quay, he made his way to the
tavern and joined the girl.

‘Have you succeeded?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Yes. But a sailor kept guard over me, and I was afraid the plan
would have miscarried; I racked my brains trying to find an excuse
for freeing myself from him. But fortune favoured me. He stopped to
mumble a prayer before an ikon, and I seized the opportunity to get
into the Tsar’s bed-chamber, where I planted the machine. It is set for
thirty-three hours, and will go off to-morrow night when the Tsar has
retired to his couch.’

The girl looked frightened, and said nervously:

‘Well, let us leave here, and get back without a moment’s delay.’

‘Don’t worry yourself, my child; there is plenty of time. I am going to
dine first.’

He ordered dinner for two and half a bottle of vodka beforehand by
way of an appetizer, and, having drunk pretty freely, he and the girl
strolled out while the dinner was being prepared.

It was a glorious evening. The sun was setting. The heavens were dyed
with crimson fire. In the clear atmosphere the masts and rigging of the
vessels stood out with a sharpness of definition that was remarkable.
There was no wind. The water of the gulf was motionless.

Suddenly there was a tremendous shock as if a great gun had been fired,
and in a few moments a cry arose from a hundred throats that something
had happened on board the Imperial yacht. The air about her was filled
with splinters of wood. Men could be seen running along her decks in a
state of great excitement, and she appeared to be heeling over to the
starboard side. ‘Her boilers have burst,’ cried the people, as they
rushed pell-mell to the quay, while from all parts of the harbour boats
were hurriedly making their way to the _North Star_, as it was thought
that she was foundering.


THE SECOND ACT--THE UNRAVELLING OF THE PLOT.

When the explosion on board the Imperial yacht occurred, Orloff and the
girl were strolling along one of the quays which commanded a full view
of the harbour, and, attracted by the tremendous report, they turned
their eyes seaward to behold a dense column of vapourish smoke rising
upwards, and wreckage of all kinds filling the air. The girl staggered,
and reeled against her companion, and he, clapping his hand suddenly to
his forehead, exclaimed:

‘My God! what have I done? The machine has gone off before its time. I
must have set the index wrong.’

The excitement both on shore and in the harbour was tremendous,
otherwise Orloff and the woman would surely have drawn attention to
themselves by the terror and nervousness they displayed.

‘We are lost! we are lost!’ wailed the woman.

At this the man seemed to suddenly recover his self-possession.

‘Peace, fool!’ he muttered savagely between his teeth. ‘We are not
lost.’

He glanced round him anxiously for some moments; then, seeing a boat
containing a solitary boatman about to put off from the quay, he said
hurriedly to his companion, ‘Stop here for a little while; I will
return shortly.’

She was so dazed and stupefied that she made no attempt to stop him,
and he hurried away, rushed down a flight of stone steps, and hailed
the boatman.

After a few words of haggling and bargaining, Orloff sprang into the
little craft and the boatman rowed rapidly out towards the _North Star_.

The girl waited and waited in a fever of anxiety and impatience. She
paced the quay--up and down, up and down. To and fro she went. Her face
was as white as bleached marble. Her dark flashing eyes bespoke the
fear she felt. Her hands opened and shut spasmodically from the extreme
nervous tension she felt.

All the light of day faded out of the sky. A blood-red streak did
linger in the western sky for a time, but was suddenly extinguished
by the black robe of Night. The girl still paced the quay, but Orloff
did not return. She heard the gossip of people as they returned to the
shore from the harbour, and from this she gathered that the Imperial
yacht had been partially destroyed, and many lives had been lost. The
prevailing opinion was that the mischief was due to the bursting of a
boiler.

Unable longer to endure her misery, the girl went back to the tavern.
The landlord came to her, and asked if she had been off to the wreck.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘My husband has gone. It’s an awful business, isn’t
it? They say the boiler of the steamer blew up, and that there have
been many lives lost.’

‘I heard that half the crew are killed,’ said the landlord. ‘God be
praised that the accident occurred before our Little Father arrived!
It’s a Providential escape.’

‘Yes,’ answered the girl sullenly.

The landlord asked her if she would have dinner, as it was all ready.
She replied that she would wait for her husband. She drank some vodka,
however, to steady her nerves, and smoked a cigarette.

Presently she went forth again, and paced the quay, going back to the
tavern after a time to learn that Orloff had not returned. It was then
a little after nine. And as the last train to St. Petersburg started
at half-past nine, she settled the bill at the tavern, and, taking the
leather bag with her, hurried to the station and got back to town.
She was full of nervous apprehension, and puzzled to account for the
strange disappearance of Orloff. Had he deserted her? Had he been
apprehended? The suspense was horrible. It almost drove her mad.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the news of the disaster on board the Czar’s yacht reached St.
Petersburg, the consternation was tremendous, and a special train
filled with Government officials, including Michael Danevitch, started
at once for Kronstadt to investigate the affair on the spot.

Several bodies had been recovered and brought on shore. They were laid
out in a shed on the quay. The shed was lighted by oil-lamps, and their
feeble glimmer revealed a ghastly sight. The bodies were all more or
less mutilated. Some were unrecognisable. There were nine altogether,
including the chief officer and the chief engineer.

The captain arrived with the Government officials. He had been in town,
and was to have travelled down the next day in the Emperor’s suite.

In mustering his ship’s company, he found that twenty-three were
missing altogether. Nine of that number were lying in the shed. The
rest were being searched for by boats. Several were recovered, but some
drifted out with the currents and were seen no more.

Investigations soon proved that the destruction was not due to the
bursting of a boiler. The boilers were intact. The cause of the
disaster, therefore, was a mystery, until somebody on board, having
recovered his presence of mind after the dreadful shock, referred to
the visit of the Government clock-winder.

That sounded suspicious. As far as the officials knew, no one had
been sent down to wind the clocks. But still, as the fellow had come
furnished with Government-stamped credentials, it was probably all
right.

Owing, however, to some strange oversight or stupid blunder, nothing
could be ascertained then, as no one was at the telegraph-office in St.
Petersburg to receive messages, and so the night wore itself out, and
many hours’ start was given to Orloff and his co-conspirators.

During this time Danevitch was not idle. He knew, perhaps better than
anyone else, how the Emperor was encompassed round about with enemies
who sought his destruction, and the wily detective smelt treason in the
air.

Although it was night, Kronstadt kept awake, for people were too
excited to sleep, and a messenger was despatched to St. Petersburg on
an engine, whose driver was ordered to cover the distance in an hour--a
fast run for Russia. The messenger was furnished with a description of
Orloff--at this time it was not known that a woman had been with him;
it will be remembered she did not go on board--and was told to lose not
a moment in circulating that description.

Then Danevitch began inquiries on his own account in Kronstadt. From
the survivors on board the yacht he ascertained at what time Orloff
went on board; an hour and a half before he presented himself a train
had arrived from St. Petersburg.

He had probably arrived by that train. The boatman who took him off to
the yacht was found. He said the supposed clock-winder carried a black
bag with him both going and coming.

After his return to the shore only two trains left for St. Petersburg.
By neither of those trains did he travel, so far as could be
ascertained.

The sailor who had been told off to accompany Orloff over the vessel
was amongst the missing; but it was gathered that when the clock-winder
had gone the sailor mentioned to some of his companions that he had
been much annoyed by the stranger rushing forward to the Emperor’s
bed-chamber, while he (the sailor) was mumbling a prayer before an ikon
(sacred picture) which hung at the entrance.

When he got into the room, he noticed that the stranger was pale and
flurried, as if he had received a shock. Those who heard the story
thought the sailor’s imagination had run away with him, and so no
importance or significance was attached to what he said.

The destructive force of the explosion on board the _North Star_ had
been tremendous. Not only had the whole of the Czar’s rooms been
completely destroyed, but a large section of the ship’s decks and
bulwarks had been shattered, and one of her plates started, so that
the water came in so fast that the pumps had to be kept going, while
preparations were made to tow her into the docks, for her own engines
being damaged, they would not work.

Soon after six in the morning, the engine that had been sent to the
capital returned and brought some more officials. They stated that,
from inquiries made, no one by the name of Orloff had been sent down to
regulate the clocks on board the Czar’s yacht.

All the clocks on board the Imperial fleet were kept in order by
contract, and no special warrant had been supplied to anybody of the
name of Orloff.

This information made it clear that a dastardly conspiracy was at work,
and it was easy to surmise that the explosion on board the yacht was
premature. The intention evidently was that it should take place after
the Czar had embarked; but the cowardly wretches, by some blundering,
had allowed their mine to go off too soon, and though many innocent
people had been sacrificed, and immense damage done to valuable
property, the life of the Emperor had been spared.

It was not long before Danevitch found out that the man calling himself
Orloff, and a female companion, had put up at a tavern near the quay,
and the landlord gave all the information he could.

He stated that Orloff told him he was going on board the vessel, and
started off for that purpose, leaving the woman behind him. He returned
later, and ordered dinner, and then he and the woman went off again for
a stroll.

After the explosion the woman returned alone, and hurried away by
herself, taking the black bag with her, to catch the last train.

This was instructive, but it was also puzzling. It was established that
the woman did go up by the last train, but not Orloff. What had become
of him?

Danevitch took measures to have every outlet from Kronstadt watched.
Then he set off for St. Petersburg. In reasoning the matter out, it was
clear to him that several, perhaps many, persons had had a hand in the
conspiracy.

The infernal machine carried on board the _North Star_ by the man
calling himself Orloff was hardly likely to be the work of one man. Any
way, a woman was mixed up in the business.

The official document that Orloff had presented was written on
Government paper, and it bore the Government seal. The officer
of the _North Star_ who had examined it before admitting the
pseudo-clock-regulator, and who was amongst those who escaped without
hurt from the explosion, testified to that.

Such being the case, and the order being written on what was known
as ‘Admiralty’ paper, it followed that it must have been stolen from
the Admiralty office. It struck Danevitch that the thief was probably
a female employé in the Admiralty Palace, and that it was she who
accompanied Orloff to Kronstadt.

This was a mere surmise, but it seemed feasible, and with Danevitch all
theories were worth testing. Whoever it was, in the hurry of leaving
the tavern at that town she had left behind her a glove.

It was a black silk-thread glove, ornamented at the back with sprigs
worked in white silk. With this glove in his possession, Danevitch
proceeded to the Admiralty Palace. But as soon as he arrived he learnt
that Miss Catherine Snell had made a statement about Anna Plevski
having visited Room 12 and requested to look at the plans of the _North
Star_.

Anna was at once confronted with Danevitch. Asked where she had been
the night before, she replied indignantly, ‘At home, of course.’

Did she know a person named Orloff? No, she did not. Why did she go to
Catherine Snell and ask her to show her the plans of the _North Star?_
Simply to gratify her curiosity, nothing else. She was next asked if
she had worn gloves the day previous. She replied that she had. What
sort were they? Kid gloves, she answered. Had she those gloves with
her? No; she had left them at home, and had come to the office that
morning without gloves.

After a few more inquiries she was allowed to return to her duties,
but was kept under strict surveillance, while poor Catherine Snell was
suspended for dereliction of duty.

In the meantime Danevitch proceeded to Anna’s lodgings, and a search
there brought to light the fellow to the glove left in the tavern at
Kronstadt. It had been thrown carelessly by the girl on the top of
a chest of drawers. This glove was a damning piece of evidence that
Anna had accompanied Orloff to Kronstadt the day before, and that
established, it was a logical deduction that she had stolen the stamped
paper on which he had written, or caused to be written, the order which
had gained him admission on board of the _North Star_. All this, of
course, was plain sailing. Catherine Snell’s statement had made matters
easy so far. But there was a good deal more to be learnt, a great deal
to be sifted before the truth would be revealed.

When a person in Russia is suspected of crime, the law gives the police
tremendous power, and there are few of the formalities to be gone
through such as are peculiar to our own country; and in this instance
Danevitch was in a position to do almost absolutely whatever he thought
fit and proper to do.

The finding of the glove carried conviction to his mind that Anna
Plevski was mixed up in this new plot for the destruction of the
Emperor. So, without any ceremony, he proceeded to rummage her boxes
and drawers for further evidence. The want of keys did not deter him;
chisels and hammers answered the same purpose. His search was rewarded
with a bundle of letters. These were hastily scanned; they were all,
apparently, innocent enough; the majority of them were love letters.
A few of these were signed ‘Peter Treskin’; the rest simply bore the
initial ‘P.’ There was nothing in any of these letters calculated to
cause suspicion, with the exception of the following somewhat obscure
passage in a letter written a few days before the explosion:

‘The time is at hand when your faith and love will be put to a great
test. The serious business we have in hand is reaching a critical
stage, and success depends on our courage, coolness, and determination.
You and I must henceforth walk hand-in-hand to that supreme happiness
for which we have both toiled. We love each other. We must unite our
destinies in a bond that can only be severed by death.’

Having learnt so much, Danevitch once more confronted Anna. She
confessed she had a lover named Peter Treskin; they had quarrelled,
however, and he had gone away; but she knew not where he had gone to,
and she did not care if she never saw him again.

‘Perhaps you will be able to remember things better in a dungeon,’
suggested Danevitch, as he arrested Anna, and handed her over to the
care of a gendarme.

She turned deathly white, but otherwise appeared calm and collected,
and declared that she was the victim of a gross outrage, for which
everyone concerned would be made to suffer.

Danevitch’s next move was to go to Treskin’s lodgings. He found that
gentleman had been absent for three days. Here also a search was made
for compromising papers. A good many letters from Anna Plevski were
brought to light. They all breathed the most ardent love and devotion
for the man; and the writer declared that she could not live a day
without him, that for his sake she was prepared to peril her soul. But
there were other letters--love letters--written to Treskin by a woman
who signed herself Lydia Zagarin. This person not only betrayed by her
writing that she was desperately, madly in love with Treskin also, but
from her statements and expressions it was obvious that he had carried
on an intrigue with her, and was as much in love with her as she was
with him. She wrote from a place called Werro, in the Baltic provinces.
Danevitch took possession of these letters, and continued his search,
during which he came across a slip of paper which bore the printed
heading, ‘The Technical School of Chemistry, St. Petersburg.’ On it was
written this line: ‘Yes, I think I shall succeed.--SMOLSKI.’

Apparently there was not much in this, but what there was was quite
enough for Danevitch under the circumstances, and he had Professor
Smolski arrested. It was a summary proceeding, but in times of
excitement in Russia anyone may be arrested who may possibly turn out
to be a guilty person. It is not necessary that there should be a
shadow of a shade of evidence of guilt in the first instance; it is
enough that there is a possibility of the police being right. But if
they are wrong what does it matter? The person is released, and the
police are not blamed. Danevitch, however, did not often go wrong in
this respect; and in this instance, Smolski being a Professor in the
Technical School of Chemistry, there were probabilities that he might
be able to afford some valuable information respecting Treskin.

Smolski was one of those extraordinary types of men who, having
conceived a certain thing to be right, are willing to risk fame,
fortune, life itself, for the sake of their opinions. Smolski was
undoubtedly a gentle, high-minded man; nevertheless he believed
that the ruler of his country was a tyrant; that his countrymen
were little better than slaves, whose social and political rights
were ignored; that the ordinary means--such as are familiar to more
liberally-governed countries--being useless to direct attention to
their wrongs, violent measures were justified, and the removal of the
tyrant would be acceptable in God’s sight. Holding these views--and
though he was a family man and one respected and honoured--Smolski had
allied himself with a band of arch-conspirators, whose head was Peter
Treskin. He was calm, dignified, and collected under his arrest, and
when he was interrogated, in accordance with Russian law, by a judge
of instruction, he frankly admitted that he had been concerned in an
attempt to bring about a better form of government; but he steadfastly
refused to denounce any of his accomplices. He could die bravely, as
became a man, but no one should say he was a traitor.

All this would have been admirable in a nobler cause; as it was, he
simply proved that he had allowed his extreme views to blind him to the
difference between legitimate constitutional agitation and crime--crime
that, whether committed in the name of politics or not, was murder,
and an outrage against God’s ordinance. Smolski, in common with most
men, neglected the safe rule that letters should be destroyed when they
are calculated to compromise one’s honour or betray one’s friends. And
thus it came about that when the Professor’s papers were examined, not
only were Isaac and Jacob Eisenmann brought into the police net, but
many others; and in a diary he had kept there was a record of his
experiments with the deadly compound which was destined to blow the
monarch of the Empire into eternity, but which, owing to an accident or
a blunder, had failed in its object so far as the Czar was concerned,
though it had cruelly cut short the lives of many hard-working and
worthy men. Under any circumstances, even if the Czar had been involved
in the destructive influences of the infernal machine, many others must
have perished with him. Such conspirators never hesitate to destroy
nine hundred and ninety-nine inoffensive people if they can only reach
the thousandth against whom they have a grievance.

Piece by piece the whole story as set forth in the first part of this
chronicle was put together, and the plot laid bare; but though many had
been brought under the iron grip of the law, the arch-conspirator, to
whose ruling spirit and genius the plot was due, was still at large,
and no trace of him was at that time forthcoming; but Danevitch did
not despair of hunting him down, of bringing him to his doom. And no
one whose mind was not distorted could say his life was not forfeited.
His whole career had been one of plotting and deceit. His commanding
presence and masterful mind had given him such an influence over many
of those with whom he came in contact--especially women--that he had
proved himself more than ordinarily dangerous, while his reckless
and cowardly wickedness in carrying the infernal machine on board
the Czar’s yacht, and thereby causing the sudden and cruel death of
something like two dozen people, stamped him at once as a being against
whom every honest man’s hand should be raised.

In the meantime, while Danevitch was trying to get a clue to Treskin’s
whereabouts, his co-conspirators--they might truly be described as his
dupes--were tried, found guilty, condemned, and executed. Smolski,
the two Eisenmanns, and four others, were ignominiously hanged in the
presence of an enormous crowd. Smolski met his end with a perfect
resignation, a calm indifference. He firmly believed he was suffering
in a good cause. He died with the words ‘Khrista radi’ (For Christ’s
sake) upon his lips. He posed as a martyr.

Anna Plevski had been cast for Siberia, but before starting upon the
terrible journey, the prospects of which were more appalling than
death, she would have to spend many months in a noisome dungeon in the
Russian Bastile, Schlusselburgh, in Lake Ladoga.

But a circumstance presently arose which altered her fate. Danevitch
had kept his eye on Lydia Zagarin, of Werro. He found she was the
daughter of a retired ship-master, who had purchased a little property
in the small and pleasantly-situated town of Werro. He was a widower.
Lydia was his only daughter. On her father’s death she would succeed
to a modest fortune. Treskin had borrowed money from her, and it was
probable that he had singled her out from his many female acquaintances
as one to whom he would adhere on account of her money. Four months
after the fateful day when the Czar’s yacht was partially destroyed and
many people were killed, Treskin wrote to this young woman, renewing
his protestations of regard for her, and asking her to send him money,
and to join him with a view to his marrying her. He gave his address
at Point de Galle, Ceylon, where, according to his own account, he had
started in business as a merchant. He stated that, though he had taken
no active part in the destruction of the _North Star_, he happened
to be in Kronstadt on the night of the crime, and as he knew he was
suspected of being mixed up in revolutionary movements, he deemed it
advisable to go abroad; and so he had bribed a boatman to convey him
to a Swedish schooner which was on the point of leaving the Kronstadt
harbour on the night of the explosion, and he bribed the captain of
the schooner to convey him to the coast of Sweden. By this means he
escaped. From Sweden he travelled to England; from England to Ceylon,
where he had a cousin engaged on a coffee plantation.

This letter came into the hands of Danevitch before it reached Lydia.
How that was managed need not be stated; but Danevitch now believed
he saw his way to capture Treskin. He knew, of course, that, as a
political refugee, claiming the protection of the British flag, he
could not be taken in the ordinary way. The British flag has over and
over again been disgraced by the protection it has afforded to wretches
of Treskin’s type, and it was so in this instance. To obtain his
extradition was next to impossible. He was a wholesale murderer, but
claimed sanctuary in the name of politics, and he found this sanctuary
under the British flag.

Danevitch, however, resolved to have him, and resorted to stratagem.
He visited Anna Plevski in her dungeon. She knew nothing at this
time of the fate of her lover, though she did know that he had not
been captured. Danevitch, by skill and artifice, aroused in her that
strongest of all female passions--jealousy. He began by telling her
that Treskin had deserted her in a cowardly and shameful manner on the
night of the crime, and did not care whether she perished or lived.
Then he laid before her Lydia Zagarin’s letters to Treskin, which had
been seized at Treskin’s lodgings, and he watched the effect on the
girl as she read them. Finally he showed her the letter sent from
Ceylon.

That was the last straw. Her feelings burst from the restraint she
had tried to impose upon them, and she cursed him again and again.
She declared solemnly that she was his victim; that she was innocent
and loyal until he corrupted her, and indoctrinated her with his
revolutionary ideas. He had sworn to be true to her, and used to say
they would live and die together. On the night of the crime he had
persuaded her to go with him to Kronstadt, because he declared that
he could not bear her to be out of his sight. They had arranged that
on the morrow they were to quit St. Petersburg, and travel with all
speed to Austrian soil. But not only had he basely deceived her, but
treacherously deserted her. She was furious, and uttered bitter regrets
that she could not hope to be revenged upon him.

In this frame of mind she was left for the time. A week later, however,
Danevitch once more visited her. She was still brooding on her wrongs
and her hard fate. To suffer Siberia for the sake of a man who had so
cruelly deceived her and blighted her young life was doubly hard.

‘Would she be willing, if she had the chance, to bring him to justice?’
Danevitch asked.

Her dark eyes filled with fire, and her pale face flushed, as she
exclaimed with passionate gesture that she would do it with a fierce
joy in her heart, and laugh at him exultingly as he was led to his doom.

She was told that the chance would be given to her to betray him into
the hands of justice. She would be set free on sufferance, and allowed
to proceed to Ceylon, and, provided she succeeded in her task and
was faithful to the trust reposed in her, she would, on returning to
Russia, receive a full pardon, and be supplied with a considerable sum
of money to enable her to live abroad if she desired it.

In setting her free, however, in the first instance, the Government
intended to retain a hold upon her, and to that end her youngest and
favourite brother, who was an invalid, and to whom she was devoted,
had been arrested on suspicion of being mixed up with revolutionary
movements. If she did not return within a fixed time, the brother would
be sent to the Siberian quicksilver-mines. While she was away he would
be treated with every kindness, and on her return he would be set at
liberty. His fate therefore was in her hands. If she allowed the false
lover to prevail over her she would sacrifice her brother. If, on the
other hand, she was true to her trust, she would save her brother,
gratify her revenge, and be provided for for life.

She was allowed a week in which to make up her mind; but in two days
she gave her decision. She would go to Ceylon. She would lure Treskin
to his doom. To prepare the way she wrote a letter to dictation. In it
she stated that she had been tried and found not guilty. No sooner was
she released than she had been visited by a wretch of a woman named
Lydia Zagarin, who abused her fearfully for having corresponded with
Treskin, whom she claimed. And in her mad passion she had disclosed
his whereabouts, but vowed that she hated him, knowing that he had been
false to her, and that all he wanted now was her money. Anna, however,
had no such thoughts about him. She loved him to distraction, and could
not live without him. She intended, therefore, to go to Ceylon; and she
had managed to secure some money, which she would take to him. She was
perfectly sure, she added, that he loved her, and that they would be
very happy together.

This letter was duly despatched, and a fortnight later Anna set out on
her strange mission, having first had an interview with her brother,
though she was cautioned against telling him or any living soul where
she was going to. She found him almost broken-hearted, for he declared
he was as innocent of revolutionary ideas as a babe unborn; but he knew
that when once a man fell into the hands of the police as a ‘suspect’
he had very little to hope for. Anna endeavoured to cheer him up by
saying she would do all that mortal could do to prove his innocence;
and as the Government had failed to substantiate their charge against
her, she was sure they would not succeed in his case.

       *       *       *       *       *

The scene changes again for the final act, and shows the beautiful
island of Ceylon and the wide, sweeping bay of Point de Galle, with its
splendid lighthouse, its great barrier reef, and its golden sands. Anna
Plevski had landed there from a P. and O. steamer, and had been met by
Treskin, who, while he declared he was delighted to see her, showed by
his manner he was annoyed.

As a matter of fact, he hoped for Lydia Zagarin, but Anna Plevski had
come to him instead. But there was another cause for his annoyance, as
Anna soon discovered. He had a native mistress; but in a little time
Anna had so far prevailed over him that he put the dusky beauty away.
He had commenced in business as a commission agent and coffee merchant;
but so far success had not attended his efforts. He had neither the
energy, the perseverance, nor the patience necessary if one would
succeed in business, so that he very eagerly inquired of Anna what
money she had brought. She told him that she had not very much with
her, but in a few weeks would receive a remittance. In the meantime
there was enough to be going on with. She thus won his confidence.
Indeed, he never for a moment suspected her mission. There was nothing
whatever to arouse his suspicions. It all seemed perfectly natural and
he believed that under the ægis of the British flag he was perfectly
safe. So he would have been if Danevitch had not played such a clever
move to checkmate him.

A little more than two months passed, during which Treskin knew
nothing of the sword that swung above his head. Then Anna complained
of illness. She thought Point de Galle did not agree with her; she
wanted a change; she had been told that Colombo was a very pretty
place; she would like to see it; and as she had received a remittance
of thirty pounds they could afford the journey. He must take her there.
To this he consented, and they travelled by gharry. It was the first
step towards his doom. With the remittance came another letter to Anna
giving her secret instructions.

Colombo was duly reached. It was the best season. The days were
tranquil and brilliant. The nights were wordless poems. The third night
after their arrival Anna expressed a desire to go out in a native boat
on the water. The sea was motionless. It was like a sheet of glass. The
night was glorious; a soft land-breeze blew, laden with rich scents.
The heavens were ablaze with stars, and a dreamy languor seemed to
pervade the delicious atmosphere. Accordingly, a native boat and two
stalwart rowers were hired, and Treskin and Anna embarked. It was the
second step towards his doom.

The boatmen pulled from the land. The calm water and tranquil night
made rowing easy, and presently a little bamboo sail was hoisted, which
helped the craft along. Treskin lay back in the stern and smoked; Anna
sat beside him, and sang softly snatches of plaintive Russian airs.

When about five miles from the shore, they saw a small steamer creeping
slowly along. She came close to the boat, and an English voice hailed
her and asked if anyone in the boat spoke English.

Treskin answered. The voice then inquired if the occupant of the boat
would kindly take some letters on shore. The captain of the steamer did
not want to go into the port.

Treskin gladly consented, and he was asked to order his boatmen to pull
alongside the steamer, which proved to be a pleasure-yacht.

Without a shadow of suspicion in his mind, Treskin did so, and he was
politely invited to step on board, a ladder being lowered for that
purpose. He turned to Anna, and asked her if she would go. Of course
she would. So she preceded him up the ladder.

As soon as he was on the deck the gangway was closed, and a man in
uniform directed him to the little saloon, where some wine and biscuits
stood on the table. The engines of the steamer were started, though
that did not alarm him; but in a few minutes a stern, determined man
entered the cabin. He wore the uniform of a lieutenant of the Russian
Navy, and had a sword at his side.

‘Peter Treskin,’ he said in Russian, ‘you have been cleverly lured on
board this boat, which is owned by a Russian gentleman, and flies the
Russian flag, in order that you may be taken back to Russia to answer
for your great crime.’

Treskin’s face turned to an ashen grayness, and, springing to his feet,
he rushed to the door, but found his exit barred by armed men. In
another instant he was seized, and heavily ironed. He knew then that
his fate was sealed, and his heart turned to lead with an awful sense
of despair.

Steaming as hard as she could steam, the yacht rounded Point de Galle,
and when about fifteen miles due east of Ceylon she suddenly stopped.
A Russian gunboat was lying in wait. To this gunboat the prisoner was
transferred, but Anna remained on board the yacht.

The gunboat steamed away at once, and shaped her course for Manilla,
where she coaled; and that done she proceeded under a full head of
steam for the sea of Japan and Vladivostock.

The yacht went in the other direction, making for the Gulf of Aden and
the Red Sea, and after a pleasant and uneventful voyage she sailed by
way of the Bosphorus to the Crimea. She made many calls on the way,
and at every port she touched at she was supposed to be on a pleasure
cruise, and Anna was looked upon as the owner’s wife.

As Anna Plevski entered Russia in the west, her false lover entered
it in the far east, and thence under a strong escort he was conducted
through the whole length of Siberia to St. Petersburg, a distance of
something like five thousand miles.

It is an awful journey at the best of times. In his case the awfulness
was enhanced a hundredfold, for he knew that every verst travelled
placed him nearer and nearer to his shameful doom.

He was six months on the journey, and when he reached the capital his
hair was white, his face haggard and drawn, his eyes sunken. He was an
old and withered man, while the terrible strain had affected his mind;
but as he had been pitiless to others, so no pity was shown for him. He
had brought sorrow, misery, and suffering to many a home. He had made
widows and orphans; he had maimed and killed, and he could not expect
mercy in a world which he had disgraced.


THE DÉNOUEMENT.

It is a typical Russian winter day. The sun shines from a cloudless
sky. The air is thin and transparent, the cold intense; the snow is
compacted on the ground until it is of the consistency of iron.

On the great plain outside of St. Petersburg, where the public
executions take place, a grim scaffold is erected. It is an exposed
platform of rough boards, from which spring two upright posts, topped
with a cross-bar, from which depends a rope with a noose.

It is the most primitive arrangement. The scaffold is surrounded with
troops, horse and foot. There are nearly two thousand of them; but the
scaffold is raised so high that the soldiers do not obscure the view.

The plain is filled with a densely-packed crowd; but on one side a lane
is kept open, and up this lane rumbles a springless cart, guarded by
horsemen with drawn swords. In the cart, on a bed of straw, crouches
a man, bound hand and foot. His face is horrible--ghastly. It wears a
stony expression of concentrated fear.

A priest sits with the man, and holds a crucifix before his eyes. But
the eyes appear sightless, and to be starting from the head.

The cart reaches the foot of the ladder which leads to the platform.
The bound man is dragged out, for he is powerless to move. He is pushed
and dragged up the ladder, followed by the priest. As soon as he
reaches the platform and sees the noose, he utters a suppressed cry of
horror, and shrinks away.

Pitiless hands thrust him forward again, and he is placed on some
steps; the noose is adjusted round his neck. No cap is used to hide his
awful face. At a given signal the steps are drawn away, and the man
swings in the air and is slowly strangled to death. A great cheer rises
from the crowd, but it is mingled with groans.

Thus did Peter Treskin meet his doom. He lived like a coward; he died
like a coward. He had talents and abilities that, properly directed,
would have gained him high position, but he chose the wrong path, and
it ended in a dog’s death.

He well deserved his ignominious fate, and yet, even at the present
day, there are some who believe he was a martyr. But these people may
be classed amongst those who believe not, even though an angel comes
down from heaven to teach.



THE CLUE OF THE DEAD HAND

THE STORY OF AN EDINBURGH MYSTERY



CHAPTER I.

NEW YEAR’S EVE: THE MYSTERY BEGINS.


A strange, weird sort of place was Corbie Hall. There was an eeriness
about it that was calculated to make one shudder. For years it had been
practically a ruin, and tenantless.

Although an old place, it was without any particular history, except
a tradition that a favourite of Queen Mary had once lived there, and
suddenly disappeared in a mysterious way. He was supposed to have been
murdered and buried secretly.

The last tenant was one Robert Crease, a wild roisterer, who had
travelled much beyond the seas, scraped money together, purchased the
Hall, surrounded himself with a number of boon companions, and turned
night into day. Corbie Hall stood just to the north of Blackford Hill,
as those who are old enough will remember.

In ‘Rab’ Crease’s time it was a lonely enough place; but he and his
brother roisterers were not affected by the solitude, and many were the
curious tales told about their orgies.

However, Rab came to grief one night. He had been into the town for
some purpose, and, staggering home in a storm of wind and rain with a
greater burden of liquor than he could comfortably carry, he missed his
way, pitched headlong into a quarry, and broke his neck.

He left the place to a person whom he described as his nephew. But
the heir could not be found, nor could his death be proved. Then
litigation had ensued, and there had been fierce wrangles; bitterness
was engendered, and bad blood made. The place, however, remained empty
and lonely year after year, until, as might have been expected, it got
an evil reputation. People said it was haunted. They shunned it. The
wildest possible stories were told about it. It fell into dilapidation.
The winter rains and snows soaked through the roof. The window-frames
rotted; the grounds became a wilderness of weeds.

At last the heir was found. His name was Raymond Balfour. He was the
only son of Crease’s only sister, who had married a ne’er-do-weel of a
fellow, who came from no one knew where, and where he went to no one
cared. He treated his wife shamefully.

Her son was born in Edinburgh, and when he was little more than a baby
she fled with him and obtained a situation of some kind in Deeside.
She managed to give her boy a decent education, and he was sent to
Edinburgh to study law.

He seemed, however, to have inherited some of his father’s bad
qualities, and fell into disgrace. His mother dying before he was quite
out of his teens, he found himself friendless and without resources.

His mother in marrying had alienated herself from her relatives,
what few she had; and when she died no one seemed anxious to own
kindredship with Raymond, whose conduct and ‘goings on’ were described
as ‘outrageous.’ So the young fellow snapped his fingers at everyone,
declared his intention of going out into the world to seek his fortune,
and disappeared.

After many years of wandering in all parts of the world, and when in
mid-life, he returned to Edinburgh, for he declared that, of all the
cities he had seen, it was the most beautiful, the most picturesque.

He was a stalwart, sunburnt, handsome fellow, though with a somewhat
moody expression and a cold, distant, reserved manner. He had heard by
mere chance of his inheritance, and, having legally established his
claim, took possession of his property.

Although nobody could learn anything at all of his affairs, it was soon
made evident that he had plenty of money. He brought with him from
India, or somewhere else, a native servant, who appeared to be devoted
to him. This servant was simply known as Chunda.

He was a strange, fragile-looking being, with restless, dreamy eyes,
thin, delicate hands, and a hairless, mobile face, that was more like
the face of a woman than a man. Yet the strong light of the eyes, and
somewhat square chin, spoke of determination and a passionate nature.
When he first came he wore his native garb, which was exceedingly
picturesque; but in a very short time he donned European clothes, and
never walked abroad without a topcoat on, even in what Edinburgh folk
considered hot weather.

When it became known that the wanderer had returned, apparently a
wealthy man, those who years before had declared his conduct to be
‘outrageous,’ and declined to own him, now showed a disposition to pay
the most servile homage.

But he would have none of them. It was his hour of triumph, and he
closed his doors against all who came to claim kinship with him.

Very soon it was made manifest that Raymond Balfour was in the way to
distinguish himself as his predecessor and kinsman, Crease, had done.

Corbie Hall was turned into a place of revel and riot, and strange,
even startling, were the stories that came into currency by the vulgar
lips of common rumour. Those whose privilege it was to be the guests at
Corbie Hall were not people who, according to Edinburgh ethics, were
entitled to be classed amongst the elect, or who were numbered within
the pale of so-called ‘respectable society.’ They belonged rather to
that outer fringe which was considered to be an ungodly Bohemia.

It was true that in their ranks were certain young men who were
supposed to be seriously pursuing their studies in order that they
might ultimately qualify for the Church, the Law, and Medicine.

But their chief sin, perhaps, was youth, which, as the years advanced,
would be overcome. Nevertheless, the frowns of the ‘superior people’
were directed to them, and they were solemnly warned that Corbie Hall
was on the highroad to perdition; that, as it had always been an
unlucky place, it would continue to be unlucky; in short, that it was
accursed.

Raymond Balfour’s guests were not all of the sterner sex. Ladies
occasionally graced his board. One of them was a Maggie Stiven, who
rejoiced in being referred to as the best hated woman in Edinburgh.

She was the daughter of a baker carrying on business in the High
Street; but Maggie had quarrelled with her parents, and taken herself
off to her only brother, who kept a public-house in College Street.

He, too, had quarrelled with his people, so that he not only welcomed
Maggie, but was glad of her assistance in his business.

Maggie bore the proud reputation of being the prettiest young woman
in Edinburgh. Her age was about three-and-twenty, and it was said she
had turned the heads of half the young fellows in the town. She was
generally regarded as a heartless coquette, a silly flirt, who had
brains for nothing else but dress.

She possessed a will of her own, however, and seemed determined to
shape her course and order her life exactly as it pleased her to do.

She used to say that, if ‘the grand folk’ turned up their noses at her,
she knew how to turn up her nose at them.

When she found out that a rumour was being bandied from lip to lip,
which coupled her name with the name of Raymond Balfour--in short, that
he and she were engaged to be married--she was intensely delighted;
but, while she did not deny it, she would not admit it. It was only in
accordance with human nature that some spiteful things should be said.

‘It’s no for his guid looks nor his moral character that Maggie
Stiven’s fastening herself on to the reprobate of Corbie Hall,’ was
the sneering comment. ‘It’s his siller she’s thinking of. She’s aye
ready to sell her body and soul for siller. Well, when he’s married on
to her he’ll sune find that it taks mair than a winsome face tae make
happiness. But fules will aye be fules, and he maun gang his ain way.’

It is pretty certain that Maggie was not affected by this sort of
tittle-tattle. She knew the power of her ‘winsome face,’ and made the
most of it. She knew also that the scathing things that were said about
her came from her own sex.

She could twist men round her little finger. They were her slaves. That
is where her triumph came in. She could make women mad, and bring men
to their knees.

Whether or not there was any truth in the rumour at this time, that she
was likely to wed the master of Corbie Hall, there was no doubt at all
that she was a frequent visitor there.

Sometimes she went with her brother, who supplied most of the liquor
consumed in the Hall--and it was a pretty good source of income to
him--and sometimes she went alone.

Scarcely a night passed that Mr. Balfour was without company; and
Maggie was often there three or four nights a week. She had even been
seen driving about with him in his dogcart.

It seemed, therefore, as if there was some justification for the
surmise as to the probable match and the ultimate wedding.

These preliminary particulars about Maggie and the new owner of Corbie
Hall will pave the way to the series of extraordinary events that has
now to be described.

It was New Year’s Eve. Raymond Balfour had then been in possession of
his property for something like nine months, and during that period had
made the most of his time.

He had gone the pace, as the saying is; and the old house, after years
of mouldiness and decay, echoed the shouts of revelry night after
night. There were wild doings there, and sedate people were shocked.

On the New Year’s Eve in question there was a pretty big party in the
Hall. During the week following Christmas, large stores of supplies had
been sent out from the town in readiness for the great feast that was
to usher in the New Year.

Some fifteen guests assembled in the house altogether, including Maggie
Stiven and four other ladies, and in order to minister to the wants of
this motley crowd, three or four special waiters were engaged to come
from Edinburgh.

The day had been an unusually stormy one. A terrific gale had lashed
the Firth, and there had been much loss of life and many wrecks. The
full force of the storm was felt in Edinburgh, and numerous accidents
had occurred through the falling of chimney-cans and pots. Windows were
blown in, hoardings swept away, and trees uprooted as if they had been
mere saplings.

The wind was accompanied by hail and snow, while the temperature was so
low that three or four homeless, starving wretches were found frozen to
death.

As darkness set in the wind abated, but snow then began to fall, and
in the course of two or three hours roads and railways were blocked,
and the streets of the city could only be traversed with the greatest
difficulty. Indeed, by seven o’clock all vehicular traffic had ceased,
and benighted wayfarers despaired of reaching their homes in safety.

The storm, the darkness, the severity of the weather, the falling snow,
did not affect the spirits nor the physical comfort of the guests
assembled at Corbie Hall.

To the south of Edinburgh the snow seemed to fall heavier than it did
in the city itself. In exposed places it lay in immense drifts, but
everywhere it was so deep that the country roads were obliterated,
landmarks wiped out, and hedges buried.

In the lonely region of Blackford Hill, Corbie Hall was the only place
that gave forth any signs of human life. Light and warmth were there,
and the lights streaming from the windows must have shone forth as
beacons of hope to anyone in the neighbourhood who might by chance have
been battling with the storm and struggling to a place of safety.

But no one was likely to be abroad on such a night; and the guests at
the Hall, when they saw the turn the weather had taken, knew that they
would be storm-stayed at the Hall until the full light of day returned.
But that prospect did not concern them.

They were there to see the old year out and the new one in; and so long
as the ‘meal and the malt’ did not fail they would be in no hurry to go.

From all the evidence that was collected, they were a wild party, and
did full justice to the stock of eatables and drinkables--especially
the drinkables--that were so lavishly supplied by the host.

When twelve o’clock struck there was a scene of wild uproar, and
everyone who was sober enough to do so toasted his neighbour. During
the whole of the evening Balfour had openly displayed great partiality
for Maggie Stiven.

He insisted on her sitting next to him, and he paid her marked
attention. When the company staggered to their feet to usher in the
new year, Raymond Balfour flung his arms suddenly round her neck, and,
kissing her with great warmth, he droned out a stanza of a love-ditty,
and then in husky tones exclaimed:

‘Maggie Stiven’s the bonniest lass that ever lived, and I’m going to
marry her.’

About half-past one only a few of the roisterers were left at the
table. The others had succumbed to the too-seductive influences of the
wine and whisky, and had ceased to take any further interest in the
proceedings. Suddenly there resounded through the house a shrill,
piercing scream. It was a scream that seemed to indicate intense horror
and great agony.

Consternation and silence fell upon all who heard it. In a few moments
Raymond Balfour rose to his feet and said:

‘Don’t be alarmed. Sit still. I’ll go and see what’s the matter.’

He left the room with unsteady gait, and nobody showed any disposition
to follow him. Something like a superstitious awe had taken possession
of the revellers, and they conversed with each other subduedly.

Amongst them was a tough, bronzed seafaring man, named Jasper Jarvis.
He was captain of the barque _Bonnie Scotland_, which had arrived at
Leith a few weeks before from the Gold Coast with a cargo of palm-oil
and ivory.

Jarvis, who seems to have been quite in his sober senses, got up,
threw an extra log on the fire, and in order to put heart into his
companions, began to troll out a nautical ditty; but it had not the
inspiriting effect that he expected, and somebody timidly suggested
that he should go in search of the host.

To this he readily assented, but before he could get from his seat,
Maggie Stiven jumped up and exclaimed:

‘You people all stay here. I’ll go and look for Raymond.’

Captain Jarvis offered no objection, and no one else interposed, so
Maggie hurriedly left the room. From this point the narrative of what
followed can best be told in the skipper’s own words.


THE STATEMENT OF CAPTAIN JASPER JARVIS.

When Maggie had gone we were six all told. The four ladies had
previously gone to bed. Two out of the six were so muddled that they
seemed incapable of understanding anything that was going on.

The other three appeared to be under the spell of fear. They huddled
together round the fire, and all became silent.

It is curious that they should have been so affected by the scream; and
yet, perhaps, it wasn’t, for somehow or other it didn’t seem natural at
all. But the fact is, we had all been so jolly and happy, and the cry
broke in upon us so suddenly, that it impressed us more than it would
have done otherwise.

And then another thing was, it was difficult to tell whether it was a
woman or a man who had screamed. It was too shrill for a man’s cry, and
yet it wasn’t like the scream of a woman.

When Maggie Stiven had been gone about ten minutes--it seemed much
longer than that to us--Rab Thomson, who was one of three men who sat
by the fire, looked at me with white face, and said:

‘Skipper, you go and look after them. I don’t feel easy in my mind.
I’ve a sort of feeling something queer has happened.’

On that I rose, saying I would soon find out, and went to the door. As
I opened it I heard a sigh, and then a sort of prolonged groan, and I
saw, or fancied I saw, a shadowy figure flit up the stair.

The hall was in darkness, save for the light that fell through the
doorway as I held the door partly open. I’m ashamed to say it, but when
I saw--if I did see it--that ghostly figure glide up the stairs, and
heard the sigh and the groan, I shut the door quickly and drew back
into the room.

Like most sailor men, I’m not without some belief in signs, omens,
wraiths, and those kind of things; though nobody can say, and nobody
must say, I’m wanting in pluck.

I’ve been at sea for thirty-two years, and during that time I’ve faced
death in a thousand forms, and never had any feeling of fear. But, to
be straight, I don’t like anything that’s uncanny. I like to be able to
get a grip of things, and to understand them.

When I started back into the room, Rab Thomson rose to his feet and
asked me what I’d seen. I told him I had seen a shadowy figure glide up
the stairs, and had heard a sigh and a groan.

He laughed, but it wasn’t a real kind of laugh. He was as white as
death, and I heard his teeth chatter, and with a sudden movement he
went to one of the long windows, pulled aside the heavy curtain, and,
pressing his face to the glass, peered out.

I think his intention was to get out of the window and go home; but he
saw what an awful night it was. The snow was still falling heavily;
it was piled up against the window, and no one but a madman or a fool
would have dreamed of going forth in such a storm, for it was all but
certain he would have lost his life in the drifts.

Rab let the curtain fall, and, drawing back, filled himself a measure
of whisky, and, tossing it off, said to me:

‘Why don’t you go and see what’s the matter, man? Surely, you are no’
frightened?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘but you are.’

And I walked to the door again, flung it open wide, so that the light
streamed forth, and as I did so I saw a woman lying huddled up on the
mat at the foot of the stairs.

I recognised her at once by the dress, which was a kind of pink silk,
with a lot of fluffy lace all round the neck part of it, as Maggie
Stiven, and, thinking she had fainted, I rushed forward, lifted her
up with ease--for I am a powerful man, and she was a lightly-built
little woman--and carried her to a big chair that stood empty near the
fire. As I put her in the chair I noticed that her head fell forward
on to her bosom with a strange kind of limpness, and her face was of a
greenish, chalky kind of hue.

I felt frightened, and called out to the others to rouse up James
Macfarlane, who had been studying medicine, but had nearly finished his
course, and expected to get his diploma the next session.

Jamie had stowed away too much liquor in his hold in the early part
of the evening, and had foundered, so somebody had rolled him up in
a rug and put him on a couch, where he had been sleeping for hours.
Notwithstanding that fact, it took a long time to waken him.

In the meanwhile I chafed Maggie’s hand, and Rab tried to get brandy
down her throat, but it flowed out of her mouth again.

When James Macfarlane realized that something was wrong, he pulled
himself together at once, and having felt Maggie’s pulse, he exclaimed
with a horrified expression on his face:

‘My God, boys, she’s dead!’

This was only a confirmation of my own fears; nevertheless, the
definite assertion by one who was qualified to tell was an awful shock
to us.

A little more than a quarter of an hour before, Maggie, radiant with
health and spirits, and looking very bonnie--she was one of the
prettiest girls I think I’ve ever seen--had run out of the room; and
now she was there in the chair, dead.

At Macfarlane’s suggestion we laid her flat on her back on the rug
before the fire, and he tried to force a little brandy down her throat,
but failed; and as he rose to his feet again, he said sadly:

‘There’s no mistake about it, boys: she’s dead as a herring.’

Our first thought now was of our host. What had become of him? I and
Rab, who had recovered from his fright by this time, undertook to go
in search of him. We lit the swinging lamp in the hall, and, taking
candles with us, went upstairs to his room; but he was not there, and
there were no signs of his having been there. Then we went to the room
of the black fellow, Chunda.

The door was locked, and we had to shake and hammer it pretty hard
before we roused him up. As he opened the door and stood before us in
his night-clothes, he looked dazed, as one does when just wakened from
sound sleep.

He did not speak English, but I could manage a little Hindustani,
having been much in India, and I asked him if he had seen his master
lately, and he answered ‘No.’ I told him he must come with me and look
for him, as he knew the run of the house better than I did.

He only stopped to slip on some of his clothes and wrap a heavy rug
round his shoulders, for he felt the cold very much.

Then we roused up the other three house-servants and the temporary
servants, who had retired soon after midnight, and we went from room to
room, passage to passage; in fact, we searched the house from top to
bottom, but all in vain; not a trace of our friend could we get.

Our next step was to ascertain if he had gone out. But all the doors
and windows were fastened. Nevertheless, I undertook to search the
grounds, and, having been provided with a horn lantern, we got the big
hall door opened; but the snow had drifted against it to such an extent
that a great mass of it fell into the hall.

The night was pitch-dark, the air thick with snow. I made some attempt
to go forth, but sank up to my waist, and was forced to return.

We then tried the back of the house, where there was a stable-yard. The
snow was pretty heavy there, but not so heavy as in the front. Two men
slept over the stable. I roused them up, got the keys of the stable,
and went in. Balfour kept three horses, and they were in their stalls
all right.

The stable-yard gate was barred, and it was very clear no one had been
out that way.

I returned to the house, half frozen and very depressed. We then
consulted together, and decided that nothing could be done until
daylight.

It was an awful ending to our merry meeting, and the mystery of the
whole affair weighed upon us like a nightmare.

The ladies of our party, who had gone to bed soon after we had drunk
in the New Year, got up and dressed themselves. In the meantime we
carried Maggie Stiven’s body into another room, where it was laid
out on a table. James Macfarlane’s opinion was that she had died
from a sudden shock of fright; and when that was taken in connection
with the eldritch scream which had so startled us, and the mysterious
disappearance of our host, we felt that there was something uncanny
about the whole business.

The rest of the night was wearily passed. The others of our party,
having been o’er fu’ when they went to sleep, continued to sleep
through it all, and knew nothing of the tragic ending until they awoke
in the morning.

With the coming of the morning our spirits revived a little, though
we still felt miserable enough. It had almost ceased to snow, but the
whole country was buried, and round about the house the drift was piled
up until it reached to the lower windows.

As soon as it was broad daylight we made another careful search of the
house, but not a sign of Raymond Balfour could we see.

Chunda helped us in our search. He was terribly cut up, and became so
ill from grief and the cold that he was obliged to go to bed.

The only reasonable theory that we could find to account for Balfour’s
strange disappearance was that, by some means we could not determine,
he had managed to leave the house, and had perished in the snow.

As it had continued to snow all night, and at eight o’clock was still
falling lightly, all traces were, of course, obliterated.

Every one of the visitors was now anxious to get away, but before
anyone went, I drew up a statement which was duly signed. James
Macfarlane and I then undertook to report the matter to the police in
Edinburgh.

Before any of us could leave, we had to clear the snow away from the
door and dig a path out. And even then it was no easy matter to get
clear.

We were a sorrowful enough party, as may be imagined, and we all felt
that the New Year had commenced badly for us.

The death of Maggie Stiven was a terrible business, and I confess to
feeling surprised that she should have died from fright, for she was
by no means a nervous girl. Indeed, I think she was as plucky as any
woman I have ever known, and I was certain that if fright had really
killed her she must have seen something very awful.

With reference to this, nobody, I think, liked to put his thoughts
into words, but somehow we seemed to divine that each believed Satan
had spirited Raymond Balfour away and frightened poor Maggie to death.
Any way, the mystery was beyond our solving, and we were silent and
melancholy as we straggled into Edinburgh, where armies of labourers
were busy clearing the streets of snow.

It was an awful day. The cold was intense, and overhead the sky was
like one vast sheet of lead. Except the labourers, few people were
abroad, and those few looked pinched up, draggled, and miserable.

God knows, we were miserable enough ourselves! I know that my heart
was like a stone; for I was not so wanting in sense as not to see that
trouble was bound to come out of the business, and I fairly shuddered
when I thought of poor Balfour’s end, for it seemed impossible to hope
that he was still alive.

Look at the matter whichever way I would, it was a mystery which
absolutely appalled me, and it had all come about with such awful
suddenness that, speaking for myself, I felt stunned.



CHAPTER II.

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS.--THE NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY PETER BRODIE, OF THE
DETECTIVE SERVICE.


I was in Liverpool, engaged on a rather delicate matter, when I
received a telegram from the chief of the police in Edinburgh, telling
me to return by the next train. I wasn’t at all pleased by this recall,
for it was wretched weather, and the prospect of a night journey to the
North was far from agreeable.

The date was January 3. During the whole of New Year’s Eve there had
been a violent storm, which seems to have been general all over the
country. The result was a breakdown of telegraph-wires and serious
interruption to traffic.

The telegram sent to me was five hours on the road; and as the ‘next
train’ meant the night mail, I had no alternative but to bundle my
traps together and start.

When we reached Carlisle a thaw had set in, and on arriving at
Edinburgh I thought I had never seen Auld Reekie look so glum and dour.
The streets were ankle-deep in slush.

Snow was slipping from the roofs everywhere in avalanches,
necessitating considerable wariness on the part of pedestrians.

Horses panted, groaned, and steamed as they toiled with their loads
through the filthy snow, and overhead the sky hung like a dun pall.

On reaching the head office, I was at once instructed to proceed to
Corbie Hall to investigate a case of murder, and endeavour to trace the
whereabouts of one Raymond Balfour, who, according to the statement
of a Captain Jasper Jarvis, corroborated by James Macfarlane, medical
student at the Edinburgh College, had mysteriously disappeared soon
after midnight on January 1. The remarkably sudden and unaccountable
death of Maggie Stiven necessitated a legal inquiry, and Dr. Wallace
Bruce was sent to examine the body and report on the cause of death.

On removing the clothes, he noticed that the linen that had been next
to the chest was slightly blood-stained, and an examination revealed
a very small blue puncture, slightly to the left of the sternum, and
immediately over the heart.

On probing this puncture with his finger, he felt something hard. He
therefore proceeded to open the chest, assisted by a colleague, Dr.
James Simpson, the well-known Edinburgh surgeon. To their astonishment,
they found the puncture was due to a thrust from a very fine stiletto,
which had pierced the heart on the left side. The stiletto had broken
off, and four inches of the steel remained in the wound. This, acting
as a plug, had prevented outward bleeding to any extent, but there had
been extensive internal hæmorrhage. There was nothing else to account
for death.

The girl was exceedingly well developed, well nourished, and without
any sign or trace of organic disease. As she could not have driven the
stiletto into her chest in such a way herself, it was obviously a case
of murder.

When I reached Corbie Hall, the country round about was still white
with snow, and Blackford Hill was like a miniature Alp, although the
thaw was making its influence felt.

The Hall was a curious, rambling sort of place, with every appearance
of age. It was a stone building, flanked by a small turreted tower
at each end. It stood in about an acre of ground that was partly
walled and partly fenced round. Two cast-iron gates of good design,
hung on pillars, each surmounted by a carved greyhound, admitted to a
carriage-drive that swept in a semicircle to the main entrance.

Passing through the doorway--the door itself was a massive structure--I
found myself in a large square, paved hall, and immediately in front a
broad flight of oak stairs led up to the first landing, where there was
a very fine stained-glass window.

On the left was a long dining-room, which communicated by means of
folding doors with another room of almost equal dimensions.

On the opposite side of the passage, and close to the foot of the
stairs, was the door of the drawing-room, which was a counterpart
almost of the dining-room.

Between the banisters of the stairs and the partition wall of the
dining-room, the passage was continued to a door that gave access to a
passage communicating with the kitchen and back premises.

The recess underneath the stairs was used for hanging up coats, hats,
and other things. From the second landing the stairs struck off at an
acute angle, and rose to the second story, where there were at least a
dozen rooms, large and small.

Under the guidance of Chunda, the black servant, who seemed very ill
and much depressed, I made a thorough inspection of the house. As he
could not speak English, we had to communicate in signs, which was
rather awkward. In addition to this Indian, Mr. Balfour had kept a
cook and a small girl to help her, also a housemaid. Besides these, he
employed a groom and a coachman. The coachman lived over the stables at
the back with his wife and daughter, a girl of eighteen, and she and
her mother both assisted in the house when necessary. The groom had a
room to himself above the coach-house.

I questioned each of these servants individually and apart from the
others as to whether they had heard the scream alluded to by Captain
Jarvis. The three women living in the house said that they heard it,
but those who lived over the stables did not. The ones who heard it
slept in the right-hand tower. They did not retire until after the New
Year had come in. Although the master had given them some hot drink,
they were quite sober when they went upstairs.

As they were in the habit of doing every night, they extinguished
the hall lamp and a lamp that stood on the bracket at the top of the
stairs, thus leaving that part of the house in darkness. They did not
attach any importance to the scream, as they thought it was some of the
visitors larking, for they had all been very frisky during the evening.

The cook, however--her name was Mary Kenway--opened her door, which
commanded in perspective a full view of the corridor leading to the
top of the stairs, and she saw, or thought she saw, a shadowy figure
standing in this corridor near the top of the stairs. Feeling a bit
nervous, she shut the door hurriedly, and said to her fellow-servants,
who shared the room with her:

‘One of those fools is playing at ghosts or something. Well, when the
wine’s in, the wit’s out.’

She and her companions then got into bed, and some time afterwards were
startled by a loud knocking at their door. The cook hurriedly procured
a light, and on asking who was there, and being informed it was Captain
Jarvis, and that he was searching for the master, who had disappeared,
she slipped on her clothes and opened the door.

The temporary servants, of whom there were three, were sleeping in
a room above her. They had indulged somewhat too freely, and it was
a considerable time before they could be made to understand that
something dreadful had happened.

With these details, and the statement of Captain Jarvis, I felt I was
in a position to begin my researches.

If Captain Jarvis’s statement was true, and there wasn’t the slightest
reason to doubt it, for it was in the main corroborated by Robert
Thomson and others, the whole affair was shrouded in considerable
mystery. Indeed, I think it was one of the strangest cases I ever had
to do with. Maggie Stiven had been foully done to death by some subtle,
deft, and treacherous assassin. She had been struck with great force,
and the breaking of the weapon showed the fury with which her murderer
had done his damnable work.

The skipper’s statement that when he opened the dining-room door he
heard a sigh and sort of groan was compatible with the nature of the
wound, for though the heart was injured, the fact of the piece of steel
remaining in the wound would prevent a sudden emptying of the heart,
and she might have lived after being struck five to ten minutes. The
shadowy figure which Jarvis said he saw ‘gliding’ up the stairs was
no doubt the assassin, although Jarvis--his imagination having been
fired--thought it a supernatural appearance.

The cook also spoke of ‘a shadowy figure,’ and thought that some of the
guests were ‘playing at ghosts.’ This independent testimony suggested
that there was something curious and out of the common about the
figure, and I was led to infer that the person who had done the deed
was small, light of foot, and agile of movement. When he struck Maggie
down he had probably been lurking in the drawing-room, the door of
which, as I have already described, was just at the foot of the stairs,
or he may have been concealed in the recess under the stairs. Whichever
way it was, the girl had not mounted the stairs, and must have been
stabbed the moment she reached the mat where the body was found, and
before she had time to get her feet on the stairs to go up.

Now came the question, Why was she killed? Her going in search of
Raymond Balfour was quite unpremeditated, and the assassin could hardly
have known that she was coming out of the room.

Why, then, did he kill her? On the face of it, it seemed to be an
unprovoked and brutal crime without any reason. But a little pondering,
and a careful weighing of all the pros and cons, led me to the
conclusion that the deed was not as purposeless as it seemed. If it was
the result of madness, there was certainly method in the madness.

Some people expressed the opinion that Balfour himself had murdered the
girl, but that opinion would not hold water.

Firstly, he himself was induced to leave the room by a scream or cry
that was described as ‘uncanny.’ Did he arrange for that cry to be
uttered in order that he might have an excuse for going out, knowing
that the girl would follow him?

Secondly, if he was the slayer, why did he choose to kill the girl in
his own house? for very little reflection must have shown him that to
escape detection would be an impossibility.

No. It was only too evident that he did not kill Maggie Stiven, and his
extraordinary disappearance led me to believe that he also had fallen a
victim to the assassin. But if that was so, where was his body? It was,
of course, of the highest importance that he should be discovered, dead
or alive.

I caused a search to be made of the house from top to bottom. There
wasn’t a room missed, not a cupboard overlooked, not a recess but what
was scrutinized. Every box or trunk large enough to contain a man’s
body was opened without result.

Every hole and corner, every chimney, every likely and unlikely place,
was examined, but not a trace, not a sign, of the missing man was
brought to light.

His bedroom was the largest and most important room in the house. It
was panelled with dark oak panelling. The ceiling was carved wood, and
there was a very large carved oak mantelpiece, which was considered a
work of art. Two lattice-paned windows were in keeping with the place,
which had also been furnished with a view to its character.

A massive four-post bedstead occupied one corner, and near it was an
unusually large clothes-press of oak. This press was spacious enough to
have held the bodies of three or four men, but Balfour’s body was not
there.

From this room a small door gave access to a short, narrow passage,
leading to another door at the foot of a stone staircase of about
twenty steps, by which the top of the tower at that end of the building
was gained. From the roof of the tower a very beautiful view was
obtained. I need scarcely say I critically examined the doors, the
passage, the stairs, the tower itself.

The locks of both doors were very rusty, and it was evident they had
not been opened for some time. In the one at the foot of the tower
stairs there was no key, and it was only after considerable search that
one was found to fit it. And even then the lock could not be turned
until it had been well oiled.

The dust on the stone stairs was the accumulation of months, and bore
not the faintest trace of footprints. It was obvious that no one had
passed that way for a very long time.

Having thus exhausted the interior of the building, I now proceeded to
search outside.

Skipper Jarvis declared that, when he and Bob Thomson went through
the house on the night of the tragedy, they looked to every door and
window, but all were properly secured, and unless Balfour had squeezed
himself through a keyhole or a cranny, he could not have left the
building. Nevertheless, it seemed to me that the man must have got out
in some way; otherwise, if he were dead, how was it we had failed to
find his body in the house? So thorough had been the search that a dead
mouse could not have escaped me.

There was still a great deal of snow on the ground, especially in the
hollows and ravines; but it was soft and slushy owing to the rise in
temperature.

Aided by half a dozen men--mostly gamekeepers--and several dogs, we
commenced systematically to examine the grounds, the country round
about, the burns, the woods, but all to no purpose. Every inch of
Braid Glen was gone over; what is now the Waverley curling pond was
dragged; the Jordan and Braid streams examined; all the quarries in the
neighbourhood--of which there are many--were looked into; the Braid
Hill and all round about the Braid Hill was paced; but the result was
the same. Raymond Balfour was not found.

When our failure became known, the excitement increased greatly,
especially amongst ignorant and stupid people, who stoutly maintained
that the master of Corbie Hall had been spirited away by the Evil One,
who had also killed Maggie Stiven. These good folks failed to explain
why the Evil One should have stabbed Maggie with a stiletto, and have
left more than half the blade in the wound, when he might have deprived
her of life so much more easily. I found that even Captain Jarvis was
not without some belief in this absurd theory.

‘If there is not something uncanny about the whole business, how is it
you have failed to get trace of the man?’ asked Jarvis, with the air of
one who felt he was putting a poser which was absolutely unanswerable.
‘You see,’ pursued the skipper, with an insistency of tone that was
very amusing--‘you see, we were a bad lot. We’d just come there for an
orgie, and the meat and drink that we wasted would have kept many poor
wretches from starving on that awful night.’

‘Do you consider that Raymond Balfour was an exceptionally wicked man?’
I asked Jarvis.

‘Well, no,’ he answered seriously; ‘I shouldn’t like to say that. But
he was a wild fellow.’

‘What do you mean by wild?’

‘Well, he was a little too fond of liquor and the ladies.’

‘Have you known him long?’

‘Yes, several years. I first met him in Madras. I saw a good deal of
him later in Calcutta. He was a very wild boy then, I can tell you.’

‘But still no worse than tens of thousands of other people?’ I
suggested.

‘Oh no; I don’t say he was,’ Jarvis answered quickly, and in a way that
suggested he was anxious his friend should not be painted too black.

‘Now, I want you to tell me this, Captain Jarvis,’ I said somewhat
solemnly, as I wished to impress him with the importance of the
question: ‘was there any love-making between Raymond Balfour and Maggie
Stiven?’

The skipper did not answer immediately. He seemed to be revolving the
matter in his mind. Then, with a thoughtful stroking of his chin, he
replied:

‘Balfour was fond of Maggie.’

‘Did he allow that fondness to display itself before others?’

‘When he was a bit gone in his cups he did,’ answered the captain, with
obvious reluctance.

‘And was she fond of him?’

‘Yes--I think so’--the same reluctance showing itself.

‘Did she show her partiality?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Maggie wasn’t considered to be very stanch to anyone, was she?’

‘Well, she’d a good many admirers. She was an awful good-looking lass,
you see. And lads will always run after a pretty girl.’

‘That scarcely answers my question, captain,’ I said. ‘I want to know
if she openly--that is, before others--showed that she liked Balfour
better than any other body?’

‘You see, Mr. Brodie, I’m not altogether competent to answer that,’
said the skipper, as though he was anxious to shirk the question.

‘But did she do so on the New Year’s Eve, when you were all so jovial?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did she display her liking?’

‘She sat on his knee several times. She kissed him, and he kissed her.’

‘That was before the company?’

‘It was.’

‘Did he make any remark, or did she? I mean, any remark calculated
to engender a belief that this spooning was serious, and not a mere
flirtation, the result of a spree?’

‘Well--I--I heard him say two or three times, “Mag, old girl, I’m going
to marry you.”’

‘He had been drinking then, I suppose?’

‘He had, a good deal.’

‘And what did she reply?’

‘As near as I mind, she said, “All right, old man. We are just suited
to each other, and we’ll make a match of it.”’

‘I must now ask you one or two other questions, captain. There were
several men present, were there not?’

‘There were.’

‘They were all young men?’

‘Yes.’

‘And belonged to Edinburgh or its immediate neighbourhood?’

‘They did.’

‘Consequently they were all more or less well acquainted with Maggie?’

‘Yes. I don’t think there was a man there who didn’t ken her. You see,
in her way she was a kind of celebrity in Edinburgh. Certain folk said
hard things about her, and that made her mad sometimes, so that she
took a delight in just showing how she could lead the lads by the nose.’

‘Now, I want you to give me an answer to this question, captain. Is it
within your knowledge that out of her many admirers there was one who
had been emboldened by her to think that he had the best claim upon
her?’

‘I couldn’t say for certain; but it’s likely enough.’

‘Has it occurred to you to ask yourself if that favoured one was among
Raymond Balfour’s guests on New Year’s Eve?’

The question seemed to startle Captain Jarvis. He looked at me
searchingly and inquiringly, and it was some moments before he spoke,
while his expression gave every indication that he fully understood the
drift of my inquiry. At last he replied, hesitatingly and cautiously:

‘You see, Mr. Brodie, I wasn’t the keeper of Maggie’s conscience. She
didn’t make me her confidant. Nor was I one of her favoured suitors.
I’m an old married man, and she preferred young fellows.’

‘You’ve avoided my question now,’ I remarked, a little sharply, as it
seemed to me he was prevaricating.

‘I’m trying to think,’ he said, with a preoccupied air. Then, after
a pause, he added: ‘I can’t answer you, because I don’t know. What
your question suggests is that some chap who was madly jealous of her
murdered her.’

‘You are correct in your surmise,’ I answered.

‘Then, all I’ve got to say is this: It was impossible for anyone to
have left the room and committed the crime without my being aware of
it. I say again, it would have been impossible. She couldn’t have
been out of the room two minutes before she was struck. You see, she
had even been unable to get up the stair. Her going out was quite
unpremeditated; and until she jumped up from her seat, and said she
would go and look for Balfour, nobody knew she was going out of the
room. No, Mr. Brodie, I’m convinced that no man of that company did the
deed.’

I had every reason to think that Captain Jarvis was perfectly right
in his conclusions. The logic of his argument was unanswerable. I
had already taken means to ascertain some particulars about every
person who had been present on the fateful night, including the extra
servants; and I saw nothing and heard nothing calculated in any way
to justify a suspicion being entertained against any particular
individual. Nevertheless, I had them under surveillance.

What I had to deal with was the broad, plain, hard fact that Maggie
Stiven had been brutally and suddenly murdered, while Raymond Balfour
had disappeared as effectually as if the earth had suddenly opened and
swallowed him, leaving not a trace behind. If he went forth from the
house after quitting his guests, where had he gone to?

The state of the country, owing to the snow, made it physically
impossible that he could have travelled far on that awful night; and
had he perished in the snow near the house, his body must have been
discovered, so thorough had been our search.

Then, again, assuming that he had got away, there would surely have
been some indication of his mode of exit--an unfastened window, an
unlocked door. But the most exhaustive inquiry satisfied me there was
neither one nor the other.

But if Balfour was not out of the house, he must be in the house; and
if he was in the house, it was as a dead man. And where was his body?

It seemed unreasonable to suppose that a human body could be disposed
of so quickly and so effectually as to leave not a trace behind.

Then, again, granting that he was murdered, who murdered him, and
why was he murdered? Who raised the unearthly cry, and was it raised
purposely to draw him from the room in order that he might be
immediately struck down?

Such was the problem with which I was confronted, and I freely confess
that at this stage I felt absolutely baffled. I saw no clue, and
nothing likely to lead me to a clue; but though baffled, I was not
beaten. The mystery was profound, and the whole case so strange, so
startling, that I was not surprised at ignorant people attributing
it to supernatural agency. It had about it all the elements of some
wild, weird story of monkish superstition, lifted from the pages of a
mediæval romance. It was no romance, however, no legend, but a hard,
dry fact of the nineteenth century that had to be accounted for by
perfectly human means.

There was one point, however, which made itself clear through the
darkness. It was that the author of the deed was a person of such
devilish cunning, such brutal ferocity, such crafty ingenuity, that
he would occupy a niche all to himself for evermore in the gallery of
criminals.

As I have already said, though I was baffled, I was not beaten, and
I felt sure I should ultimately succeed in the task set me. I had in
my possession the broken blade of the stiletto, and I knew that might
prove of value as a clue; and having done all that it was practical
to do for the moment, I set to work to define a motive for the crime,
and to construct a theory that would aid me in my efforts to solve the
problem.



CHAPTER III.

THE DEAD HAND SMITES.


Peter Brodie stood very high in his profession. He had made his mark
as a detective, and had solved some very complicated problems. In
recalling him from Liverpool, whither he had been sent on important
business, the authorities felt that if the Corbie Hall mystery was to
be cleared up he was the man to do it. They saw from the first that it
was a very difficult case, when all the circumstances were considered,
but they were sure that Brodie was the one man likely to tackle it
successfully.

It seemed as if the evil reputation of Corbie Hall was never to pass
away, and after this new tragedy people recalled how Peter Crease,
the drunken owner of it, and uncle of Balfour, had broken his neck
in a quarry; how, following that, the gloomy house had fallen into
dilapidation, until it was shunned as a haunted place. When the
rightful heir turned up, they thought he would put things right; but
instead of that he proved himself to be as big a reprobate as his
relative had been: and now his mysterious disappearance, and Maggie
Stiven’s murder, realized the croakings of the wiseacres, who had said
that a curse hung over the house, and that anyone who went to live in
the Hall would come to grief.

Of course, the tradition that a favourite of Queen Mary’s who had once
lived there mysteriously disappeared, and was never heard of again, was
also recalled; and the sages predicted that as that mystery was never
cleared up, so would Balfour’s disappearance go down to posterity as an
unsolved mystery. Possibly it might have done if Peter Brodie had not
brought his intellect to bear upon it.

On the fourth day after his arrival the thaw had been so thorough that
the land was quite clear of snow, and a second search was made for
Balfour, but it only ended in failure, as the first had done.

Brodie was now convinced that the unfortunate man had never left the
house; and yet, having regard to the critical way in which it had been
examined from top to bottom, it was difficult to conceive where he
could be hidden. Nevertheless, Peter stuck to his guns; for as Balfour
had not gone out of the house, he must be in it, and if so, time and
patient search might reveal his hiding-place.

With a view to learning as much as possible about Balfour’s habits,
Brodie had a long talk with Chunda, Captain Jarvis acting as
interpreter. The native stated that he had travelled with his master
extensively through India. He had found him rather a peculiar man. He
was very secretive, and given to fits of moodiness. Although Chunda was
exceedingly fond of him, he did not wish to accompany him to Scotland,
but yielded on the master pressing him. Now he bitterly regretted
having come, for not only did he feel crushed by his master’s strange
disappearance, but the cold and dampness of the climate made him very
ill, and he intended to leave immediately for Southampton, so as to get
a ship for India, as he yearned to return to his own warm, sunny land.
He was dying for the want of sun and warmth.

Asked if his master was much given to flirtations, Chunda, with
flashing eyes and an angry expression in his dark face, said that he
was, and he had frequently got into trouble through it.

After this interview, Brodie came to the conclusion that the motive of
the crime was undoubtedly jealousy. That is to say, someone had been
jealous of Balfour, someone who considered Maggie a rival.

If this was correct, the someone must be a woman--no ordinary woman,
for no ordinary woman would have been capable of carrying out such a
terrible revenge. Besides Maggie Stiven, there had been four other
young women in the party.

One was a married woman named MacLauchlan. Her husband kept a grocer’s
shop in the High Street, but he and his wife didn’t get on well
together. He had no idea, however, that she was in the habit of
visiting at Corbie Hall.

Brodie dismissed her from suspicion. He felt sure she didn’t commit
the deed. She was rather good-looking, but a mild, lackadaisical,
phlegmatic, brainless creature, without the nerve necessary for such a
crime.

Another of the ladies was Jean Smith. She was twenty years of age, and
Maggie Stiven’s bosom friend, and since the night of the crime had been
seriously ill in bed from the shock.

A third was Mary Johnstone. Until New Year’s Eve she had never met
Balfour before in her life. She had gone to the Hall in company with
her sweetheart, James Macfarlane, the medical student.

The fourth was Kate Thomson, cousin to Rab Thomson. She was a
woman about thirty years of age, strong and well knit, but was a
good-tempered, genial sort of creature. She, too, was almost a stranger
to Balfour, and was engaged to be married to a man named Robert
Murchison, who was factor to a Mr. Rennie of Perth.

Brodie was absolutely certain, after studying them all, that not one of
these four women had done the deed. Nor was there the slightest reason
for harbouring a suspicion against the female servants.

He was, therefore, puzzled, but not disconcerted, and he stuck to his
theory that a jealous woman had committed the crime.

That, of course, only made the mystery more mysterious, so to speak.
For who was the woman? Where did she come from? How did she get into
the house? Where did she go to?

These questions were inevitable if the theory was maintained. It did
not seem easy then to answer them.

As Brodie revolved all these things in his mind, he remembered that,
though he had subjected the house to a very careful search, he had done
little more than look into Chunda’s room, the reason being that the
native was ill in bed at the time.

The room adjoined Balfour’s, and at one time was connected by a
communicating door, but for some reason or other the door had been
nailed up and papered over. While less in size than Balfour’s, it was
still a fairly large room, also wainscoted, and with a carved wooden
ceiling. It was lighted by one window, which commanded a good view over
Blackford Hill.

To this room Brodie went one evening when Chunda happened to be absent
from it. It reeked with the faint, sickly odour of some Indian perfume.

On a sideboard stood a small gilt Indian idol, and various Indian
knick-knacks were scattered about. As in Balfour’s room, there was a
massive carved oak mantelpiece, with a very capacious fireplace; and on
each side of the fireplace was a deep recess.

The floor was oak, polished, and dark in colour either by staining or
time. The only carpet on it was a square in the centre. A clothes-press
stood in a corner. It was the only place in which a man could be
concealed. Brodie opened the door, and found nothing but clothes there.
The mystery, therefore, was as far from solution as ever, apparently,
as now there wasn’t a corner of the house that had not been examined
thoroughly and exhaustively.

As Brodie was in the act of leaving the room, his eye was attracted by
something glittering on the hearthstone, where the cold, white ashes of
a wood-fire still remained. He stooped down and picked from the hearth
a scrap, a mere morsel of cloth. It was all burnt round the edges,
and was dusty with the ash; but he found on examination that it was a
fragment of Indian cloth, into which gold threads had been worked; and
it was these gold threads which, in spite of the dust, had reflected
the light and attracted his notice.

Taking out his pocket-book, he deposited that scrap of charred cloth
carefully between the leaves, then went down on his knees and subjected
the ashes to critical examination, with the result that he obtained
unmistakable evidence of a considerable amount of cloth having been
destroyed by fire. There were patches here and there of white, or
rather gray, carbonized, filmy fragments of cobweb-like texture. As
everyone knows, cloth burnt in a fire leaves a ghost-like wrack behind,
that, unless disturbed, will remain for some time.

Brodie rose and fell into deep thought, and he mentally asked himself
why the cloth had been burnt. It was reasonable to presume it was
some portion of clothing, and if so, why should anyone have been at
the trouble to consume it in the flames unless it was to hide certain
evidences of guilt.

‘What would those evidences of guilt be?’ Brodie muttered to himself,
as he reflected on the singular discovery he had made. And suddenly it
seemed to him--of course, it was purely fancy--that a voice whispered
in his ear:

‘Blood! blood!’

Although but fancy, the voice seemed so real to him that he fairly
started, and at that instant the door opened and Chunda entered.
He seemed greatly surprised to find the detective in the room, and
muttered something in Hindustani.

As Brodie did not understand him and could not converse with him, he
made no response, but passed out, and, hurrying to Edinburgh, called on
Professor Dunbar, the eminent microscopist, and asked that gentleman to
place the fragment of cloth found on the hearthstone under a powerful
microscope.

The Professor did as requested, and, after a careful examination, he
said he could not detect anything suggestive of blood. The cloth was
evidently of Indian workmanship, and the bright threads running through
it were real gold.

Brodie did not return to Corbie Hall until the following day. By that
time Maggie Stiven’s body had been removed by her friends for burial,
and he was informed by the servants that Chunda had gone out to attend
the funeral. He was rather surprised at that, and still more surprised
when he found, on going to Chunda’s room, that the door was locked.

He hurried back to Edinburgh, and was in time to be present at Maggie’s
burial in the Greyfriars Churchyard, but he saw nothing of Chunda;
the native was not there, and nobody had seen him. Captain Jarvis was
amongst the mourners, and when the funeral was over he and Brodie left
together.

‘Do you know how long Chunda has been in Balfour’s service?’ the
detective asked, as they strolled along.

‘I believe a considerable time, but I don’t know from absolute
knowledge. As I have already told you, Balfour was a curious sort of
fellow, and particularly close in regard to his own affairs. He was one
of those sort of men it is difficult to get to the bottom of. You may
try to probe them as much as you like, but nothing comes of it.’

‘You possibly were as familiar with him as anyone,’ suggested Brodie.

‘Yes, I should say I was.’

‘And if he had wanted a confidant, he would probably have chosen you?’

‘I think it is very likely he would. So far as such a man would make a
confidant of anyone, he made one of me.’

‘Do you know why he brought Chunda from India with him?’

‘No. What I do know is this: Chunda had been with him for some time,
and when Balfour returned to Scotland, he thought he was only going to
make a temporary stay here.’

‘Was he fond of Chunda?’

‘I cannot tell you whether he was or was not.’

‘Can you tell me this: Has Chunda been in the habit of always wearing
European clothes since he came to Edinburgh?’

‘I don’t know that. You see, I only came into port with my vessel four
weeks ago. When I first called at Corbie Hall, the fellow was wearing
European clothes.’

‘Did you see much of Chunda on New Year’s Eve?’

‘He came into the room now and again. In fact, I think he was in and
out pretty often. Balfour used occasionally to smoke an opium pipe, and
Chunda always filled it for him.’

‘How was the native dressed that night?’

‘He had trousers and vest, and wore a sort of fancy Indian jacket.’

‘Was there gold embroidery on it?’

‘I believe there was a sort of gold thread, or something of that kind.
But, really, I didn’t take much notice. We were all pretty jolly, and I
didn’t look to see how anyone was dressed.’

‘But, still, you have no doubt that Chunda did wear a jacket or robe
similar to that you describe?’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure about that part of the business. It was conspicuous
enough.’

When Brodie parted from the skipper, he felt that he had struck a
trail, although he could not make much of it just then. But it will
readily be gathered that he had begun to suspect Chunda of having
committed the crime.

It was difficult to understand why Chunda should have burnt his gown or
jacket unless it was to destroy traces of guilt. If there was blood on
his jacket, and it was the blood of one of the victims, he would know
that it might prove a ghastly piece of evidence if detected; and so he
had committed it to the flames as the most effectual means of getting
rid of it.

Now, assuming this surmise of Brodie’s was correct, it was obvious
that it was not Maggie Stiven’s blood, because the nature of the wound
that brought about her death was such that there was only very little
outward bleeding. But if Balfour, when he went upstairs to ascertain
the cause of the scream, was suddenly attacked and stabbed to death by
the native, was it not reasonable to suppose that he bled so profusely
as to dye the garments of his murderer?

This chain of reasoning threw a new light on the affair, and Brodie,
who had made up his mind that he would read the riddle if it could
be read, returned once more to Corbie Hall. He learnt that Chunda
had been back about half an hour, and had given the other servants
to understand that he was ill and half frozen, and was going to bed.
Whereupon the detective furnished himself with a lamp, and proceeded
to carefully examine the stair carpet and the landings for suggestive
stains, but saw nothing that aroused his suspicions. As he could not
talk to Chunda, he did not disturb him, but the next morning, quite
early, he went down to the Hall again in company with Jarvis.

Chunda told the skipper, in answer to questions put to him, that he
had not gone out on the previous day to attend the funeral, as stated,
but to make arrangements for taking his departure from the country.
He could not endure the climate; it made him very ill. Besides that,
he felt that he would go mad if he stayed there, for there wasn’t a
soul he could talk to, and his loneliness was terrible. He therefore
intended to start on the following day for Southampton, and two days
later would sail in a P. and O. steamer for India.

All that he had said seemed very feasible, and that he was ill and did
suffer from the cold was evident.

Nevertheless, Brodie’s suspicions were not allayed. It was not easy
to allay them when once they were thoroughly aroused; and having
reasoned the case out from every possible point of view, he had come
to the conclusion that Chunda was in a position to let in light where
there was now darkness if he chose to speak. That is to say, he knew
something of the crime, though, of course, at this stage there wasn’t
a scrap of evidence against the native that would have justified
his arrest. Moreover, Brodie found himself confronted with a huge
difficulty in the way of making his theory fit in. If Chunda had really
murdered Balfour, how had he managed to dispose of the body? That
question was certainly a poser, and no reasonable answer could be given
to it.

It must not be forgotten that, from the moment of the scream being
first heard to the discovery of Maggie Stiven’s body on the mat at the
foot of the stairs, not more than half an hour at the outside had
elapsed. In that brief space of time Balfour had been so effectually
got rid of that there was not a trace of him. It was bewildering to try
and understand how that disappearance had been accomplished, unless it
was with the aid of some devilish art and unholy magic. But as Brodie
had no belief in that kind of thing, he was convinced that, sooner or
later, what was then an impenetrable mystery would be explained by
perfectly rational, though probably startling, causes. Be that as it
might, having got his fangs fixed, to use a figure of speech, he held
on with bulldog tenacity, and he was not disposed to exonerate Chunda
until he felt convinced that his suspicions were unfounded.

‘Do you know, captain, if there are any balls of any kind in the
house?’ he asked abruptly of Jarvis, who looked at him with some
astonishment, for the question seemed so irrelevant and out of place.

‘What sort of balls?’ said Jarvis, expressing his surprise by his
manner and voice.

‘Oh, any sort--billiard-balls, golf-balls, balls of any kind.’

‘There are plenty of golf-balls. But why do you ask?’

‘I want you to get two or three of the balls,’ said Brodie for answer.
‘Put them into your pocket, ask Chunda to accompany you into the
dining-room, and make him sit down in a chair opposite to you. Engage
him in conversation for a few minutes; then, suddenly taking the balls
from your pocket, tell him to catch them, and pitch them to him. Do you
understand me?’

Captain Jarvis stared at the detective as though he could hardly
believe the evidence of his ears. Then, as he broke into a laugh, he
asked:

‘Do you mean that seriously?’

‘Of course I mean it.’

‘And what’s the object?’

‘Never mind the object. Do what I ask you.’

‘And where will you be?’

‘In the dining-room, too. But take no notice whatever of me.’

‘Well, it’s a daft-like sort of proceeding, any way; but I’ll do it.’

Then, having procured some golf-balls, he addressed himself to Chunda
in Hindustani, and in a few moments they went together into the
dining-room.

Brodie followed shortly after, and, taking a book from a little shelf
that hung on the wall, he threw himself on to a lounge and appeared to
be reading.

In a short while Jarvis took the balls from his pocket, and, saying
something to Chunda, who sat on a chair by the window, he threw one
ball after another at him, and the native held forth his hands to catch
them; but, not being in a playful humour, he did not cast the balls
back, but very soon got up and went out, looking very much annoyed.

‘Well, what does that tomfoolery mean?’ asked Jarvis.

‘A good deal to me. I’ve learnt a startling fact by it.’

The skipper would have been glad to have had an explanation, for
naturally his curiosity was greatly aroused, and he couldn’t conceive
what the ball-throwing could possibly have indicated. But Brodie
resolutely refused to satisfy him.

‘You have rendered me a service,’ he said. ‘Now, that’s enough for
the present. If I succeed in fitting the pieces of this strange
puzzle together, you shall know what my motive was. Rest assured I do
nothing without a motive. But I am going to exact a further service
from you now. I want you to stay here all night, as I myself intend to
stay. Chunda talked of leaving to-morrow. He must not leave, and, if
necessary, you must find some means of detaining him.’

‘Do you mean to say you suspect Chunda of having committed the
crime?’--his amazement growing.

‘Frankly, I do.’

‘Well, all I’ve got to say, Brodie, is this,’ answered the skipper
decisively: ‘you are on the wrong tack.’

‘How do you know I am?’

‘I am sure of it.’

‘Give me your reasons for being sure.’

‘Why, I tell you, man,’ exclaimed the skipper warmly, ‘the nigger is as
harmless as a kitten, and no more likely to commit a crime of this kind
than a new-born baby.’

‘That is simply your opinion, Captain Jarvis.’

‘It is my opinion, and it’s a common-sense one. You are doing the
fellow a wrong. I never saw a native servant so attached to Balfour
as Chunda was to his master. I tell you, Brodie, you are on the wrong
scent.’

‘All right, we shall see,’ he said carelessly.

‘But in the name of common-sense,’ cried Jarvis, who was
argumentatively inclined, ‘if there’s any reason in your suspicions,
how on earth do you suppose this nigger chap got rid of Balfour? Where
has he stowed him, do you think? Do you suppose he swallowed him?’

‘Ah! an answer to that question is not easily framed. Perhaps before
many hours have passed I may be able to tell you.’

‘Do you think because he’s black he’s the devil, and has spirited
Balfour away?’ pursued the skipper, with a defiant air, for he honestly
considered that Chunda was being wronged, and he was ready to champion
him.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ answered Brodie, with a smile, ‘because if he
had been the devil he wouldn’t have committed such a clumsy crime as
this.’

‘Well, clumsy as it is, it’s defied you,’ said Jarvis, by no means
satisfied or convinced.

‘For the time being it has. But it won’t continue to do so much longer,
unless I’m very much mistaken. But it’s no use continuing the argument.
A man is judged by his acts, not by his words. If I am wrong, I must
abide by the penalty which attaches to failure. If I am right, I shall
take credit for some amount of cleverness. You will stay here to-night,
won’t you?’

The skipper scratched his head, and looked as though he wasn’t
comfortable.

‘Well, upon my word! I don’t know what to say. I’m not a coward, but
I’m blowed if I like the idea of passing another night in this uncanny
place.’

‘Why?’ Brodie asked with a smile.

‘I should be afraid of seeing Maggie Stiven’s ghost.’

‘And what if you did? A ghost couldn’t do you any harm.’

‘Perhaps not, but I’d rather not see one.’

‘Nor are you likely to, except as a product of your own heated
imagination. However, to cut the matter short, you’ll stay, won’t you?
You’ve got your pipe and tobacco, and I’ve no doubt the cook will be
able to provide us with some creature comforts. We’ll have another log
put on the fire, and make ourselves comfortable; and, if you like, I’ll
give you a hand at cribbage.’

The skipper yielded, and the matter was settled.

‘Before we settle down, I want you to entertain Chunda here for half an
hour during my absence,’ continued Brodie.

‘You are not going out, are you?’ asked Jarvis quickly, and with some
nervousness displaying itself in his manner, indicating evidently that
he did not wish to be left alone.

‘Well, no, not out of the house. But you understand, Captain Jarvis,
I am doing my best to unravel this mystery; you must let me act in my
own way, and take such steps as I think are necessary to the end I have
in view. You can aid me, and I want you to aid me; but you can best do
that by refraining from questioning, and in doing exactly as I request
you to do.’

‘All right,’ said Jarvis. ‘I’ve nothing more to say. You must sail your
own ship, whether you come to grief or whether you don’t.’

‘Precisely. Now, I’ll send one of the servants up for Chunda, and
you’ll keep him engaged in talk for half an hour, or until I come back
into the room. Don’t talk about the crime, and don’t say a word that
would lead him to think I suspect him. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’

‘And will carry out my wishes? It is most important that you should.’

‘To the letter.’

The business being thus arranged, Brodie left the room, and ten minutes
later Chunda entered it. Brodie was absent nearly three-quarters of
an hour before he returned. There was a look of peculiar satisfaction
on his face. Chunda was dismissed; and the two men, having, through
the cook, secured something in the way of eatables and drinkables,
satisfied their wants in that respect, and then engaged in cribbage,
and continued their game until a late hour.

At last Jarvis retired. It was arranged he was to sleep in Balfour’s
bedroom, but Brodie said he would stow himself on a couch in the
dining-room, which was warm and comfortable.

He dozed for three or four hours, and exactly at five rose, and made
his way to the stable-yard, where, according to prearrangement, the
groom was ready with a horse and trap, and Brodie drove rapidly into
Edinburgh. He was back again soon after eight, with two constables in
plain clothes, who were for the time confined to the kitchen, until
their services might be required.

Jarvis did not rise until after nine. He was a good and sound sleeper,
and neither ghosts nor anything else had disturbed him. He was kept in
ignorance of Brodie’s journey into Edinburgh.

A few minutes before ten Chunda made his appearance. He was ready to
start, and he enlisted the aid of the other servants to bring his
luggage down into the hall. Again Brodie requested the skipper to
detain the native in conversation, while he himself went upstairs to
Chunda’s room, where he shut himself in and locked the door. Then he
began to tap with his knuckles the wainscoted walls, going from panel
to panel.

When he reached the deep recess near the fireplace, already described,
he started, as his taps produced a hollow sound. He tapped again and
again, putting his ear to the woodwork. There was no mistake about it.
The wall there was hollow. He tried to move the hollow panel, but only
after many trials and much examination did he succeed. The panel slid
on one side, revealing a dark abyss, from which came a strange, cold,
earthy, clammy smell.

He closed the panel, went downstairs, and told the constables the time
for action had come. They filed into the dining-room, and Jarvis was
asked to tell Chunda that he would be arrested on a charge of having
murdered Raymond Balfour and Maggie Stiven.

If it is possible for a black person to turn pale, then Chunda did
so. Any way, the announcement was like an electric shock to him. He
staggered; then clapped his hands to his face, and moaned and whined.

Brodie went upstairs once more--this time in company with one of the
constables. They were provided with lanterns, and when the panel in
Chunda’s room was opened again, the light revealed a narrow flight of
stone steps descending between the walls; and at the bottom of the
steps lay something huddled up. It was unmistakably a human body, the
body of Raymond Balfour.

Chunda was at once conveyed to Edinburgh, and other men were sent out
from the town to the house. Then the decomposed body was got up. It was
Balfour, sure enough. He had been stabbed in the chest, and the heart
had been pierced through.

At the bottom of the stone steps there was also found the other portion
of the long stiletto.

All this, however, was not proof that Chunda had done the deed. But
there was something else that was.

The dead man’s right hand was tightly clenched, and when it was opened
by the doctor who was called in to examine the remains, a piece of
cloth was released from the death grip. It was a piece of Indian cloth,
interwoven with gold threads, and identical with the scrap that Brodie
had found in the ashes.

The dead hand afforded the necessary clue; it forged the last link. The
dead hand smote the destroyer. It proved beyond doubt that Chunda was
the murderer. He had by some means discovered the secret panel. He had
inveigled Balfour into the room. There he had stabbed him. In his dying
agony the wretched man had clutched at his murderer, and had torn
out a piece of the gold-threaded jacket he was wearing. That jacket
must have been deeply stained with blood, and Chunda had cast it upon
the fire. But murder will out, and the unconsumed fragment gave the
sharp-eyed Brodie the FIRST clue. The dead hand itself of the murdered
man afforded the LAST.

Chunda was the murderer, or, rather, the murderess; for Chunda was a
woman. Brodie had begun to suspect this from a peculiarity of voice,
from the formation of her neck and shoulders, and from other signs, and
his suspicions were confirmed when he resorted to the ball test.

When the balls were thrown, Chunda did not, as a man would have done,
close his knees, but spread them open. A woman invariably does this
when she is in a sitting posture and anything is thrown at her lap.

Chunda subsequently proved to be a woman, sure enough, and the murder
was the result--as Brodie had also correctly divined--of jealousy.

The wretched creature succeeded in strangling herself before she was
brought to trial, and she left behind her a paper written in excellent
English, in which she confessed the crime. She declared that she was
the wife of Balfour, who had espoused her in India. She represented a
very old and high-caste family. Her father was a Rajah, and Balfour had
been in his employ. He succeeded in winning her affections, and when he
returned to his own country she determined to accompany him. He treated
her very badly, and twice he attempted to poison her. His flirtation
with Maggie Stiven excited her to madness, but it was, nevertheless,
a very cunning madness. She had previously discovered by chance the
sliding panel and the secret stairs.

On New Year’s Eve she opened the panel, went to the top of the stairs,
and uttered that eerie screech or scream that had so alarmed the
company. She felt sure it would bring her husband to her. She told
him that she had received a horrible fright in her room; that part
of the wall had opened, revealing a dark abyss, from which strange
noises issued. As soon as he was in the room she stabbed him with a
long Indian stiletto. It then suddenly struck her that, when he didn’t
return, it was very likely Maggie Stiven would go in search of him. So
she hurried down the stairs and hid underneath them, and as soon as
Maggie appeared she sprang upon her and stabbed her with such fury that
the blade of the dagger broke.

Although her husband had treated her so badly, she had yielded to his
earnest entreaties to conceal her identity and continue to pass as a
man. She spoke and wrote English fluently, although he had made her
promise not to let this fact be known.

Such was the story she told, and there was no doubt it was
substantially correct. She considered that she had managed the crime
so well that suspicion would never rest upon her, and, having carried
out her deed of awful vengeance, she would be able to return to her own
sun-scorched land.

That she would have succeeded in this was likely enough had Peter
Brodie not been brought upon the scene. He had worked out the problem
line by line, and at last, when it struck him that if Balfour was
murdered he must have been murdered in Chunda’s room, he proceeded to
examine the floor carefully on the night when he asked Jarvis to keep
Chunda in conversation for half an hour. That examination revealed
unmistakable traces of blood on the boards. Then it occurred to him
that, as the house was an old one, it was more than likely there was
some secret closet or recess in which the body had been hidden.

Chunda had evidently been well educated. In a postscript to her
confession she said that, out of the great love she bore the man who
had so cruelly deceived her, she had, at his suggestion, consented to
pass herself off as his servant. He had assured her that it would only
be for a short time, and that when he had his affairs settled, and sold
his property, he would go back with her to India, and they would live
in regal splendour to the end of their days.

That she loved him was pretty certain. That he shamefully deceived
her was no less certain; and that love of hers, and that deception,
afforded some palliation for her bloodthirsty deed of vengeance.

For some time after the double crime Corbie Hall remained desolate
and lonely. It was now looked upon as a doubly-accursed place, and
nobody could be found who would take it, so at last it was razed to the
ground, and is known no more.

In pulling it down it was discovered that in Balfour’s room was a
secret panel corresponding to the one in the next room, and that the
stone stairs had at one time led to a subterraneous passage, which had
an opening somewhere in Blackford Glen. It had no doubt originally been
constructed to afford the inmates of the house means of escape in the
stormy times when the building was first reared.


THE END.


BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.



FOOTNOTES:


[A] This name is a fictitious one, for obvious reasons, but the
incidents related in the story are well authenticated.

[B] This was quite true. The contingency of war was even less remote
than the Prince’s words suggested. As a matter of fact, it is now
well known that the treaty had been formed between Russia and another
country against Turkey, and had Turkey become aware of it, there is
little doubt she would have flown at Russia’s throat, with results
less disastrous to herself than those which befell her at a later
period, when the legions of Russia crossed the Pruth, and commenced
that sanguinary struggle which entailed such enormous loss of life,
the expenditure of thousands of millions of money, and human agony and
suffering beyond the power of words to describe.



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The chronicles of Michael Danevitch of the Russian Secret Service" ***

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