CHAPTER I.

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!

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DARK DEEDS.

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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