On arriving at his hotel Volenski found a telegram from Baron de
Hermansthal, asking for his immediate presence at the detective
office. Wishing to avoid anything that might in any way seem
suspicious, he went at once, although he had ceased to care now what
the police were doing in the matter; whatever they did, could not
affect the candlesticks, as he would be in London long before the
promptest investigations could possibly lead to the discovery of
Grünebaum’s agent abroad. Baron de Hermansthal had, however, quite a
great deal of news for him; the night before, the woman Grete
Ottlinger had been arrested outside the “Kaiser Franz” for being drunk
and disorderly, and had been induced this morning, by the examining
magistrate, to reveal the name of Moses Grünebaum, a well-known
dealer on the Kolowrátring, as the receiver of all the stolen
property she and her accomplices brought into the city. The man would
probably be arrested that afternoon.
“I thought you would be relieved to hear this,” the amiable baron
added; “if you like to call at my office later in the day, I might
give you a special permission to view the suspected articles in
Grünebaum’s shop, and if his Eminence’s candlesticks are among them,
and the police satisfied as to your claim to them, they might be
handed over to you in the course of a few days.”
Oh! all this bureaucracy and red-tapeism, how thankful Volenski was
that he was independent of it! A few days indeed! time to allow Madame
Demidoff, who naturally would be communicated with at the same time as
himself, to claim the candlesticks as part of _her_ stolen property.
In a few days Volenski hoped to be in Petersburg, back from London,
the fatal papers handed over to Taranïew, and then his own connection
severed from the brotherhood. To that he was fully resolved. The last
few days had taught him a lesson that would take a lifetime to forget.
“I am exceedingly obliged to your Excellency,” he remarked somewhat
drily, “for the trouble you have taken in this business; as I am
obliged to quit town for a few days I will leave the matter now
entirely in your hands.”
“I don’t think you can do better,” said Baron de Hermansthal. “It is
now merely a question of time, for your property is in the charge of
the police, no doubt, along with the other goods in Grünebaum’s shop,
and I will give strict orders that no candlestick is to be tampered
with, till you or Madame Demidoff have identified those belonging to
his Eminence.”
“I suppose,” said Iván tentatively, “that Madame Demidoff has been
communicated with?”
He was anxious to hear what her movements had been so far, how near
she had been on his track.
“I am expecting Madame Demidoff this morning, as I sent her an
official communication, asking her to favour me with a call. She came
back to Vienna yesterday, having exhausted all inquiries round about
Oderberg, and resolved to let us do what we could on her behalf.”
“No doubt, then, she will identify his Eminence’s candlesticks,” said
Iván, much relieved to find that Madame Demidoff could not possibly
have seen Grünebaum privately in the short interval that elapsed
between his own interview with the Jew and the subsequent police raid.
He took his hat and bowed politely to the amiable baron, as he once
more thanked him for his kindness, then took a hasty leave, eager as
he was to get away.
The quest after the fateful papers had become an all-absorbing one.
Iván Volenski seemed unable to think of anything while he was on this
mad chase after the compromising documents. He seemed almost to have
forgotten the very existence of the prisoner in the Heumarkt, the
comrades at Petersburg, who had not yet heard the news, and those at
home, who would be wondering when and how he had started on his
important mission, and how soon their manifesto would be placed in the
Tsar’s hands, and Dunajewski and the other brethren safely across the
frontier; little knowing that the entire fabric, on which the
Socialist brotherhood rested, was in danger of crumbling at any
moment.
And delay… delay was so dangerous! What had Count Lavrovski done? Were
the Russian detectives on the track of the conspiracy? Would they
succeed in discovering the captive before any important good had
resulted from the daring abduction? In any case nothing but disaster
to the cause and its followers could ensue, while the papers that held
all their secrets were in strange hands. To get those back was life
and death to one and all, and with that all-absorbing, fixed idea in
his mind Volenski, having packed up a few necessaries, was ready to
start for London by the afternoon express.
He had plenty of time during the forty hours’ journey to England, to
meditate on the folly of all this plotting and planning, that
inevitably led all those who indulged in it, into perils of their
lives and liberty. He himself, with ample means and a brilliant career
before him, what a fool he had been to risk all his prospects for the
sake of Utopian ideas, that would take perhaps centuries to develop,
but surely could not be advanced by hot-headed _coups_ such as
Dunajewski, Taranïew, and he himself planned. Would a handful of
young enthusiasts revolutionise Russia, when the _moujiks_, for whose
benefit they were supposed to plot and plan, were the very last to
lend them a helping hand?
Aye! the reform of that great country would come some day; soon,
perhaps, as it came in France, violently--sweeping like a tornado a
throne, a dynasty before it--but that would be when the people’s hour
had come, when the nation themselves knew what they were craving for,
when liberty had ceased to be a word in the mouth of a few, and had
become a desire in the hearts of all. Time then for all Russians that
had pride in manhood to join in the cause of freedom and attack the
throne if it stood in the way, sweep away the powers that be, if they
do not tend to the desire of the people. But let it be the people that
have that desire; let it be a spark in their heart, placed there by a
divine hand, and not kindled slowly and forcibly by the breath of a
few fanatics.
Amidst these conflicting thoughts Volenski had reached the English
capital. He left his bag at Charing Cross Terminus Hotel, meaning to
start back for Vienna that same evening, and, as soon as he had
swallowed a light breakfast, he took a hansom and drove to No. 14,
Great Portland Street.
This time he was sure of his ground; there was no occasion to exercise
any diplomatic skill. He walked straight into the shop, asked to see
Mr. Davies, and said in quiet, business-like tones, in fairly good
English--
“I noticed in your shop, a day or two ago, a pair of antique china and
gold candlesticks that took my fancy at the moment. I hadn’t the time
to look at them then, but would be very glad if you will show them to
me. They were of gold, with very pretty _vieux Vienne_ Cupids with
bows and arrows. Do you recollect the ones I mean?”
“Perfectly, sir, perfectly. I regret, however, that I cannot oblige
you, as I sold those same candlesticks to one of my customers late
yesterday afternoon. He is a great collector of curios of all kinds,
and, like yourself, sir, was greatly taken with the beauty of the
_vieux Vienne_ Cupids. But I have some very beautiful candlesticks,
both antique and modern, that you might care to look at----”
“No,” said Volenski, whose excited brain refused to take in the Jew’s
assertion, “I want those particular ones--I must have them--no matter
what I pay for them. Here,” he added, as he noticed that Davies was
beginning to eye him suspiciously, “is my introduction from your
Viennese partner,” and he handed him Grünebaum’s card; “you will see
by that, that I am a friend, and if you will deal fairly with me, no
harm shall come to you, but if you refuse to help me to regain my
property--for those candlesticks are mine--I will find means of
setting the police on your track as a receiver of stolen goods. Now
bring me those candlesticks at once, and name your price for them. I
am in a hurry, as I want to catch a train.”
Isaac Davies took his accomplice’s card, and turning it about between
his fingers, still eyed Volenski with a remnant of suspicion.
“I tell you no harm shall come to you,” said Iván impatiently. “I am
even willing to pay you a very handsome price for those candlesticks;
you see, therefore, that you can but gain by being frank with me.
Grünebaum gave me this card, that you should have no fear.”
“Sir, I have told you the truth,” said Isaac Davies at last drily,
adding with an indifferent shrug, “as for your threats, they have no
weight with me; I am free from blame. Grünebaum’s is a good and
well-known firm in Vienna. I have a perfect right to buy goods from
him without falling under the suspicion of receiving stolen property;
I deny that the articles Grünebaum sends me _are_ stolen, and I defy
you to prove it. Whatever information, therefore, I choose to give
you, I do so because my Viennese correspondent has recommended you to
me, and not from any fear of your threats or the police.”
“Then,” gasped Iván, who was beginning to realise that the Jew was
telling the truth, and the candlesticks were really out of his reach
once more, “those candlesticks are sold?”
“To a Mr. James Hudson, of 108, Curzon Street, Mayfair, a great
collector of antiquities and great connoisseur. You may probably have
heard of him. No? Well, I sent him those candlesticks to look at
yesterday, knowing well that if he saw them, he would take a fancy to
them. They were very beautiful things, sir, and if you happen to have
anything more of the same class of goods I shall be very happy----”
“To the point, man. For God’s sake tell me, did he buy them?”
“He did, sir,” said Isaac Davies, nettled at this curious customer’s
impatience. “I knew he would. What is the next thing I can do for you,
sir? Nothing? Good-morning, sir.”
And seeing another client entering his shop, Isaac Davies turned on
his heel and took no further notice of poor Volenski, annihilated by
this last most cruel blow of all.
Ill-luck was, indeed, pursuing him. Every now and then a ray of
hope-would pierce the darkness of his misery, only to be again dimmed
by some terrible difficulty, each of which seemed more insurmountable
than the last.
The unfortunate young man was coming to the end of his endurance, and
for one brief moment, as he reeled out of Davies’ shop, the idea
crossed his mind of ending all this misery, once for all, by throwing
himself underneath the first omnibus that passed; but it was only for
a brief moment, the next he had realised that his death now, at this
point, would mean hopeless, irretrievable ruin to his friends and
comrades--all the more so as they would be unaware of their danger,
completely ignorant, as they were, of the loss of the compromising
papers. It was still on his coolness, his pluck, and perseverance that
hung the lives of his comrades, and he determined to make one more
effort to save them. “The last,” he thought hopefully.
His plans now would have to be more complicated, and Volenski gathered
all his faculties together for the laying of these plans. He had
almost mechanically walked out of the Jew’s shop, and, still
unconsciously, was turning his footsteps towards Curzon Street. One
thing was certain, he must see Mr. James Hudson--any pretext would
serve for that--he would think of one later on. What he must think out
at once was, what he should say to Mr. James Hudson when he did see
him. He knew him well by reputation. He was a man of boundless wealth
and boundless eccentricities, generous to a fault, and had been a
great favourite with the ladies in Prince Albert’s days. No doubt he
was a gentleman, and if… Yes, that was it. The whole interview flashed
before his fevered brain as if he saw it on a stage.
Characters: The courteous, benevolent old gentleman, a sort of modern
Bayard--Mr. James Hudson. The young man with a past that involved a
lady’s honour--himself. Scene: A drawing-room in Curzon Street,
Mayfair.
The young man with a past: “Sir, you hold in your hands the honour of
a lady. Will you give me back the letter?”
Courteous old gentleman: “The letter, sir, what letter?”
The Y.M.W.P.: “It lies concealed in yon candlestick that adorns your
mantelpiece. Sir, years ago we were foolish; we sinned, she and I.
Having no means of approaching each other, we used the graceful toys
as love’s letter-box. One of those letters--hers--was forgotten,
there--she is now married--I am married--we are all married, but you,
sir, hold the candlesticks--you hold her fate! Will you give me back
the letter?”
Courteous old gentleman: “Sir, pray take it--it is yours!” Tableau.
There is no doubt that, at this stage, poor Volenski’s dreams had
become the wanderings almost of a lunatic; his agitated manner, his
wild, excited gestures attracted the attention of the passers-by.
He made a violent effort at self-control, and having arrived at No.
108, Curzon Street, rang the bell, and asked the footman who opened
the door whether Mr. James Hudson was at home.
The elegant specimen in knee-breeches, silk stockings, and powdered
hair looked down at him from the majestic height of his six foot odd
inches, and asked, in what seemed to Volenski, very astonished tones--
“Mr. Hudson, sir?”
“Yes; will you please give him my card, and tell him I desire to speak
with him at once?”
“Sorry I can’t take the card, sir,” said the footman gravely, and he
added in solemn tones, “Mr. James ’Udson died, sir, this morning,
suddenly, at ’alf-past two; death bein’ due to hapoplexy, sir. ’E will
be buried hat ’Ighgate cemetary on Thursday, sir, at eleven o’clock:
no flowers by request. The ’ousekeeper will see you, sir, if it is
himportant.”
The voice sounded to Volenski as if it came from very far away--so
far, in fact, that it had ceased to have an earthly sound. The man’s
face began to dance before his eyes, then to whirl past him at
terrific velocity, as did the house, the furniture, the windows. He
had only just sufficient strength to tell the man to call him a cab,
to get into it, shouting to the driver to take him to Charing Cross
Terminus Hotel. After that his senses mercifully left him for a time;
the poor, tired brain refused to grasp this last calamity, the failure
of this last hope. Volenski never remembers how he got to his room at
the hotel, or what happened for the next few days, as complete nervous
prostration followed the intense mental and physical tension.
The people of the hotel sent for a doctor, who, under the
circumstances, felt justified in opening Volenski’s pocket-book, and,
seeing it well filled with banknotes and drafts, ordered a couple of
hospital nurses and everything else that was needful, which was
chiefly absolute quiet and rest.