IN THE FOG

I

The Grill is the club most difficult of access in the world. To be

placed on its rolls distinguishes the new member as greatly as though he

had received a vacant Garter or had been caricatured in “Vanity Fair.”

Men who belong to the Grill Club never mention that fact. If you were

to ask one of them which clubs he frequents, he will name all save that

particular one. He is afraid if he told you he belonged to the Grill,

that it would sound like boasting.

The Grill Club dates back to the days when Shakespeare's Theatre stood

on the present site of the “Times” office. It has a golden Grill which

Charles the Second presented to the Club, and the original manuscript

of “Tom and Jerry in London,” which was bequeathed to it by Pierce Egan

himself. The members, when they write letters at the Club, still use

sand to blot the ink.

The Grill enjoys the distinction of having blackballed, without

political prejudice, a Prime Minister of each party. At the same sitting

at which one of these fell, it elected, on account of his brogue and his

bulls, Quiller, Q. C., who was then a penniless barrister.

When Paul Preval, the French artist who came to London by royal command

to paint a portrait of the Prince of Wales, was made an honorary

member--only foreigners may be honorary members--he said, as he signed

his first wine-card, “I would rather see my name on that than on a

picture in the Louvre.”

At which Quiller remarked, “That is a devil of a compliment, because the

only men who can read their names in the Louvre to-day have been dead

fifty years.”

On the night after the great fog of 1897 there were five members in

the Club, four of them busy with supper and one reading in front of the

fireplace. There is only one room to the Club, and one long table. At

the far end of the room the fire of the grill glows red, and, when

the fat falls, blazes into flame, and at the other there is a broad

bow-window of diamond panes, which looks down upon the street. The four

men at the table were strangers to each other, but as they picked at

the grilled bones, and sipped their Scotch and soda, they conversed

with such charming animation that a visitor to the Club, which does

not tolerate visitors, would have counted them as friends of long

acquaintance, certainly not as Englishmen who had met for the first

time, and without the form of an introduction. But it is the etiquette

and tradition of the Grill that whoever enters it must speak with

whomever he finds there. It is to enforce this rule that there is but

one long table, and whether there are twenty men at it or two, the

waiters, supporting the rule, will place them side by side.

For this reason the four strangers at supper were seated together, with

the candles grouped about them, and the long length of the table cutting

a white path through the outer gloom.

“I repeat,” said the gentleman with the black pearl stud, “that the days

for romantic adventure and deeds of foolish daring have passed, and that

the fault lies with ourselves. Voyages to the pole I do not catalogue

as adventures. That African explorer, young Chetney, who turned up

yesterday after he was supposed to have died in Uganda, did nothing

adventurous. He made maps and explored the sources of rivers. He was

in constant danger, but the presence of danger does not constitute

adventure. Were that so, the chemist who studies high explosives, or

who investigates deadly poisons, passes through adventures daily. No,

'adventures are for the adventurous.' But one no longer ventures. The

spirit of it has died of inertia. We are grown too practical, too just,

above all, too sensible. In this room, for instance, members of this

Club have, at the sword's point, disputed the proper scanning of one

of Pope's couplets. Over so weighty a matter as spilled Burgundy on a

gentleman's cuff, ten men fought across this table, each with his

rapier in one hand and a candle in the other. All ten were wounded. The

question of the spilled Burgundy concerned but two of them. The eight

others engaged because they were men of 'spirit.' They were, indeed, the

first gentlemen of the day. To-night, were you to spill Burgundy on

my cuff, were you even to insult me grossly, these gentlemen would not

consider it incumbent upon them to kill each other. They would separate

us, and to-morrow morning appear as witnesses against us at Bow Street.

We have here to-night, in the persons of Sir Andrew and myself, an

illustration of how the ways have changed.”

The men around the table turned and glanced toward the gentleman in

front of the fireplace. He was an elderly and somewhat portly person,

with a kindly, wrinkled countenance, which wore continually a smile

of almost childish confidence and good-nature. It was a face which the

illustrated prints had made intimately familiar. He held a book from him

at arm's-length, as if to adjust his eyesight, and his brows were knit

with interest.

“Now, were this the eighteenth century,” continued the gentleman with

the black pearl, “when Sir Andrew left the Club to-night I would have

him bound and gagged and thrown into a sedan chair. The watch would not

interfere, the passers-by would take to their heels, my hired bullies

and ruffians would convey him to some lonely spot where we would guard

him until morning. Nothing would come of it, except added reputation to

myself as a gentleman of adventurous spirit, and possibly an essay in

the 'Tatler' with stars for names, entitled, let us say, 'The Budget and

the Baronet.'”

“But to what end, sir?” inquired the youngest of the members. “And

why Sir Andrew, of all persons--why should you select him for this

adventure?”

The gentleman with the black pearl shrugged his shoulders.

“It would prevent him speaking in the House to-night. The Navy Increase

Bill,” he added, gloomily. “It is a Government measure, and Sir Andrew

speaks for it. And so great is his influence and so large his following

that if he does”--the gentleman laughed ruefully--“if he does, it will

go through. Now, had I the spirit of our ancestors,” he exclaimed, “I

would bring chloroform from the nearest chemist's and drug him in that

chair. I would tumble his unconscious form into a hansom-cab, and hold

him prisoner until daylight. If I did, I would save the British taxpayer

the cost of five more battleships, many millions of pounds.”

The gentleman again turned, and surveyed the baronet with freshened

interest. The honorary member of the Grill, whose accent already had

betrayed him as an American, laughed softly.

“To look at him now,” he said, “one would not guess he was deeply

concerned with the affairs of state.”

The others nodded silently.

“He has not lifted his eyes from that book since we first entered,”

added the youngest member. “He surely cannot mean to speak to-night.”

“Oh, yes, he will speak,” muttered the one with the black pearl,

moodily. “During these last hours of the session the House sits late,

but when the Navy bill comes up on its third reading he will be in his

place--and he will pass it.”

The fourth member, a stout and florid gentleman of a somewhat sporting

appearance, in a short smoking-jacket and black tie, sighed enviously.

“Fancy one of us being as cool as that, if he knew he had to stand up

within an hour and rattle off a speech in Parliament. I'd be in a devil

of a funk myself. And yet he is as keen over that book he's reading as

though he had nothing before him until bedtime.”

“Yes, see how eager he is,” whispered the youngest member. “He does

not lift his eyes even now when he cuts the pages. It is probably an

Admiralty Report, or some other weighty work of statistics which bears

upon his speech.”

The gentleman with the black pearl laughed morosely.

“The weighty work in which the eminent statesman is so deeply

engrossed,” he said, “is called 'The Great Rand Robbery.' It is a

detective novel for sale at all bookstalls.”

The American raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“'The Great Rand Robbery'?” he repeated, incredulously. “What an odd

taste!”

“It is not a taste, it is his vice,” returned the gentleman with the

pearl stud. “It is his one dissipation. He is noted for it. You, as a

stranger, could hardly be expected to know of this idiosyncrasy. Mr.

Gladstone sought relaxation in the Greek poets, Sir Andrew finds his in

Gaboriau. Since I have been a member of Parliament, I have never seen

him in the library without a shilling shocker in his hands. He

brings them even into the sacred precincts of the House, and from the

Government benches reads them concealed inside his hat. Once started on

a tale of murder, robbery, and sudden death, nothing can tear him from

it, not even the call of the division-bell, nor of hunger, nor the

prayers of the party Whip. He gave up his country house because when

he journeyed to it in the train he would become so absorbed in his

detective-stories that he was invariably carried past his station.” The

member of Parliament twisted his pearl stud nervously, and bit at the

edge of his mustache. “If it only were the first pages of 'The Rand

Robbery' that he were reading,” he murmured bitterly, “instead of the

last! With such another book as that, I swear I could hold him here

until morning. There would be no need of chloroform to keep him from the

House.”

The eyes of all were fastened upon Sir Andrew, and each saw, with

fascination, that, with his forefinger, he was now separating the

last two pages of the book. The member of Parliament struck the table,

softly, with his open palm.

“I would give a hundred pounds,” he whispered, “if I could place in his

hands at this moment a new story of Sherlock Holmes--a thousand pounds,”

he added, wildly--“five thousand pounds!”

The American observed the speaker sharply, as though the words bore to

him some special application, and then, at an idea which apparently had

but just come to him, smiled, in great embarrassment.

Sir Andrew ceased reading, but, as though still under the influence of

the book, sat looking, blankly, into the open fire. For a brief space,

no one moved until the baronet withdrew his eyes and, with a sudden

start of recollection, felt, anxiously, for his watch. He scanned its

face eagerly, and scrambled to his feet.

The voice of the American instantly broke the silence in a high, nervous

accent.

“And yet Sherlock Holmes himself,” he cried, “could not decipher the

mystery which to-night baffles the police of London.”

At these unexpected words, which carried in them something of the tone

of a challenge, the gentlemen about the table started as suddenly

as though the American had fired a pistol in the air, and Sir Andrew

halted, abruptly, and stood observing him with grave surprise.

The gentleman with the black pearl was the first to recover.

“Yes, yes,” he said, eagerly, throwing himself across the table. “A

mystery that baffles the police of London. I have heard nothing of it.

Tell us at once, pray do--tell us at once.”

The American flushed uncomfortably, and picked, uneasily, at the

table-cloth.

“No one but the police has heard of it,” he murmured, “and they only

through me. It is a remarkable crime, to which, unfortunately, I am the

only person who can bear witness. Because I am the only witness, I

am, in spite of my immunity as a diplomat, detained in London by the

authorities of Scotland Yard. My name,” he said, inclining his head,

politely, “is Sears, Lieutenant Ripley Sears, of the United States Navy,

at present Naval Attache to the Court of Russia. Had I not been detained

to-day by the police, I would have started this morning for Petersburg.”

The gentleman with the black pearl interrupted with so pronounced an

exclamation of excitement and delight that the American stammered and

ceased speaking.

“Do you hear, Sir Andrew?” cried the member of Parliament, jubilantly.

“An American diplomat halted by our police because he is the only

witness of a most remarkable crime--THE most remarkable crime, I believe

you said, sir,” he added, bending eagerly toward the naval officer,

“which has occurred in London in many years.”

The American moved his head in assent, and glanced at the two other

members. They were looking, doubtfully, at him, and the face of each

showed that he was greatly perplexed.

Sir Andrew advanced to within the light of the candles and drew a chair

toward him.

“The crime must be exceptional, indeed,” he said, “to justify the police

in interfering with a representative of a friendly power. If I were not

forced to leave at once, I should take the liberty of asking you to tell

us the details.”

The gentleman with the pearl pushed the chair toward Sir Andrew, and

motioned him to be seated.

“You cannot leave us now,” he exclaimed. “Mr. Sears is just about to

tell us of this remarkable crime.”

He nodded, vigorously, at the naval officer and the American, after

first glancing, doubtfully, toward the servants at the far end of the

room, and leaned forward across the table. The others drew their chairs

nearer and bent toward him. The baronet glanced, irresolutely, at his

watch, and, with an exclamation of annoyance, snapped down the lid.

“They can wait,” he muttered. He seated himself quickly, and nodded at

Lieutenant Sears.

“If you will be so kind as to begin, sir,” he said, impatiently.

“Of course,” said the American, “you understand that I understand that

I am speaking to gentlemen. The confidences of this Club are inviolate.

Until the police give the facts to the public press, I must consider you

my confederates. You have heard nothing, you know no one connected with

this mystery. Even I must remain anonymous.”

The gentlemen seated around him nodded gravely.

“Of course,” the baronet assented, with eagerness, “of course.”

“We will refer to it,” said the gentleman with the black pearl, “as 'The

Story of the Naval Attache.'”

“I arrived in London two days ago,” said the American, “and I engaged a

room at the Bath Hotel. I know very few people in London, and even the

members of our embassy were strangers to me. But in Hong Kong I had

become great pals with an officer in your navy, who has since retired,

and who is now living in a small house in Rutland Gardens, opposite

the Knightsbridge Barracks. I telegraphed him that I was in London, and

yesterday morning I received a most hearty invitation to dine with him

the same evening at his house. He is a bachelor, so we dined alone and

talked over all our old days on the Asiatic Station and of the changes

which had come to us since we had last met there. As I was leaving the

next morning for my post at Petersburg, and had many letters to write,

I told him, about ten o'clock, that I must get back to the hotel, and he

sent out his servant to call a hansom.

“For the next quarter of an hour, as we sat talking, we could hear the

cab-whistle sounding, violently, from the doorstep, but apparently with

no result.

“'It cannot be that the cabmen are on strike,' my friend said, as he

rose and walked to the window.

“He pulled back the curtains and at once called to me.

“'You have never seen a London fog, have you?' he asked. 'Well, come

here. This is one of the best, or, rather, one of the worst, of them.' I

joined him at the window, but I could see nothing. Had I not known that

the house looked out upon the street I would have believed that I was

facing a dead wall. I raised the sash and stretched out my head, but

still I could see nothing. Even the light of the street-lamps, opposite,

and in the upper windows of the barracks, had been smothered in the

yellow mist. The lights of the room in which I stood penetrated the fog

only to the distance of a few inches from my eyes.

“Below me the servant was still sounding his whistle, but I could afford

to wait no longer, and told my friend that I would try and find the way

to my hotel on foot. He objected, but the letters I had to write were

for the Navy Department, and, besides, I had always heard that to be out

in a London fog was the most wonderful experience, and I was curious to

investigate one for myself.

“My friend went with me to his front door, and laid down a course for me

to follow. I was first to walk straight across the street to the brick

wall of the Knightsbridge Barracks. I was then to feel my way along the

wall until I came to a row of houses set back from the sidewalk. They

would bring me to a cross street. On the other side of this street was

a row of shops which I was to follow until they joined the iron railings

of Hyde Park. I was to keep to the railings until I reached the gates

at Hyde Park Corner, where I was to lay a diagonal course across

Piccadilly, and tack in toward the railings of Green Park. At the end

of these railings, going east, I would find the Walsingham, and my own

hotel.

“To a sailor the course did not seem difficult, so I bade my friend

good-night and walked forward until my feet touched the paving. I

continued upon it until I reached the curbing of the sidewalk. A few

steps further, and my hands struck the wall of the barracks. I turned

in the direction from which I had just come, and saw a square of faint

light cut in the yellow fog. I shouted, 'All right,' and the voice of

my friend answered, 'Good luck to you.' The light from his open door

disappeared with a bang, and I was left alone in a dripping, yellow

darkness. I have been in the Navy for ten years, but I have never known

such a fog as that of last night, not even among the icebergs of Behring

Sea. There one at least could see the light of the binnacle, but last

night I could not even distinguish the hand by which I guided myself

along the barrack-wall. At sea a fog is a natural phenomenon. It is as

familiar as the rainbow which follows a storm, it is as proper that

a fog should spread upon the waters as that steam shall rise from a

kettle. But a fog which springs from the paved streets, that rolls

between solid house-fronts, that forces cabs to move at half speed, that

drowns policemen and extinguishes the electric lights of the music-hall,

that to me is incomprehensible. It is as out of place as a tidal wave on

Broadway.

“As I felt my way along the wall, I encountered other men who were

coming from the opposite direction, and each time when we hailed each

other I stepped away from the wall to make room for them to pass. But

the third time I did this, when I reached out my hand, the wall had

disappeared, and the further I moved to find it the further I seemed

to be sinking into space. I had the unpleasant conviction that at any

moment I might step over a precipice. Since I had set out, I had heard

no traffic in the street, and now, although I listened some minutes, I

could only distinguish the occasional footfalls of pedestrians. Several

times I called aloud, and once a jocular gentleman answered me, but only

to ask me where I thought he was, and then even he was swallowed up in

the silence. Just above me I could make out a jet of gas which I guessed

came from a street-lamp, and I moved over to that, and, while I tried

to recover my bearings, kept my hand on the iron post. Except for this

nicker of gas, no larger than the tip of my finger, I could distinguish

nothing about me. For the rest, the mist hung between me and the world

like a damp and heavy blanket.

“I could hear voices, but I could not tell from whence they came, and

the scrape of a foot, moving cautiously, or a muffled cry as someone

stumbled, were the only sounds that reached me.

“I decided that until someone took me in I had best remain where I

was, and it must have been for ten minutes that I waited by the lamp,

straining my ears and hailing distant footfalls. In a house near me some

people were dancing to the music of a Hungarian band. I even fancied I

could hear the windows shake to the rhythm of their feet, but I could

not make out from which part of the compass the sounds came. And

sometimes, as the music rose, it seemed close at my hand, and, again, to

be floating high in the air above my head. Although I was surrounded by

thousands of householders, I was as completely lost as though I had been

set down by night in the Sahara Desert. There seemed to be no reason

in waiting longer for an escort, so I again set out, and at once bumped

against a low, iron fence. At first I believed this to be an area

railing, but, on following it, I found that it stretched for a long

distance, and that it was pierced at regular intervals with gates. I was

standing, uncertainly, with my hand on one of these, when a square

of light suddenly opened in the night, and in it I saw, as you see a

picture thrown by a biograph in a darkened theatre, a young gentleman in

evening dress, and, back of him, the lights of a hall. I guessed, from

its elevation and distance from the sidewalk, that this light must come

from the door of a house set back from the street, and I determined

to approach it and ask the young man to tell me where I was. But, in

fumbling with the lock of the gate, I instinctively bent my head, and

when I raised it again the door had partly closed, leaving only a narrow

shaft of light. Whether the young man had re-entered the house, or had

left it I could not tell, but I hastened to open the gate, and as I

stepped forward I found myself upon an asphalt walk. At the same instant

there was the sound of quick steps upon the path, and someone rushed

past me. I called to him, but he made no reply, and I heard the gate

click and the footsteps hurrying away upon the sidewalk.

“Under other circumstances the young man's rudeness, and his

recklessness in dashing so hurriedly through the mist, would have struck

me as peculiar, but everything was so distorted by the fog that at the

moment I did not consider it. The door was still as he had left it,

partly open. I went up the path, and, after much fumbling, found the

knob of the door-bell and gave it a sharp pull. The bell answered me

from a great depth and distance, but no movement followed from inside

the house, and, although I pulled the bell again and again, I could hear

nothing save the dripping of the mist about me. I was anxious to be on

my way, but unless I knew where I was going there was little chance

of my making any speed, and I was determined that until I learned my

bearings I would not venture back into the fog. So I pushed the door

open and stepped into the house.

“I found myself in a long and narrow hall, upon which doors opened from

either side. At the end of the hall was a staircase with a balustrade

which ended in a sweeping curve. The balustrade was covered with heavy,

Persian rugs, and the walls of the hall were also hung with them. The

door on my left was closed, but the one nearer me on the right was open,

and, as I stepped opposite to it, I saw that it was a sort of reception

or waiting-room, and that it was empty. The door below it was also open,

and, with the idea that I would surely find someone there, I walked on

up the hall. I was in evening dress, and I felt I did not look like

a burglar, so I had no great fear that, should I encounter one of the

inmates of the house, he would shoot me on sight. The second door in the

hall opened into a dining-room. This was also empty. One person had

been dining at the table, but the cloth had not been cleared away, and

a flickering candle showed half-filled wineglasses and the ashes of

cigarettes. The greater part of the room was in complete darkness.

“By this time I had grown conscious of the fact that I was wandering

about in a strange house, and that, apparently, I was alone in it.

The silence of the place began to try my nerves, and in a sudden,

unexplainable panic I started for the open street. But as I turned,

I saw a man sitting on a bench, which the curve of the balustrade had

hidden from me. His eyes were shut, and he was sleeping soundly.

“The moment before I had been bewildered because I could see no one, but

at sight of this man I was much more bewildered.

“He was a very large man, a giant in height, with long, yellow hair,

which hung below his shoulders. He was dressed in a red silk shirt, that

was belted at the waist and hung outside black velvet trousers, which,

in turn, were stuffed into high, black boots. I recognized the costume

at once as that of a Russian servant, but what a Russian servant in his

native livery could be doing in a private house in Knightsbridge was

incomprehensible.

“I advanced and touched the man on the shoulder, and, after an effort,

he awoke, and, on seeing me, sprang to his feet and began bowing

rapidly, and making deprecatory gestures. I had picked up enough Russian

in Petersburg to make out that the man was apologizing for having fallen

asleep, and I also was able to explain to him that I desired to see his

master.

“He nodded vigorously, and said, 'Will the Excellency come this way? The

Princess is here.'

“I distinctly made out the word 'princess,' and I was a good deal

embarrassed. I had thought it would be easy enough to explain my

intrusion to a man, but how a woman would look at it was another matter,

and as I followed him down the hall I was somewhat puzzled.

“As we advanced, he noticed that the front door was standing open, and

with an exclamation of surprise, hastened toward it and closed it. Then

he rapped twice on the door of what was apparently the drawing-room.

There was no reply to his knock, and he tapped again, and then, timidly,

and cringing subserviently, opened the door and stepped inside. He

withdrew himself at once and stared stupidly at me, shaking his head.

“'She is not there,' he said. He stood for a moment, gazing blankly

through the open door, and then hastened toward the dining-room. The

solitary candle which still burned there seemed to assure him that the

room also was empty. He came back and bowed me toward the drawing-room.

'She is above,' he said; 'I will inform the Princess of the Excellency's

presence.'

“Before I could stop him, he had turned and was running up the

staircase, leaving me alone at the open door of the drawing-room. I

decided that the adventure had gone quite far enough, and if I had been

able to explain to the Russian that I had lost my way in the fog, and

only wanted to get back into the street again, I would have left the

house on the instant.

“Of course, when I first rang the bell of the house I had no other

expectation than that it would be answered by a parlor-maid who would

direct me on my way. I certainly could not then foresee that I would

disturb a Russian princess in her boudoir, or that I might be thrown out

by her athletic bodyguard. Still, I thought I ought not now to leave

the house without making some apology, and, if the worst should come,

I could show my card. They could hardly believe that a member of an

Embassy had any designs upon the hat-rack.

“The room in which I stood was dimly lighted, but I could see that, like

the hall, it was hung with heavy, Persian rugs. The corners were filled

with palms, and there was the unmistakable odor in the air of Russian

cigarettes, and strange, dry scents that carried me back to the bazaars

of Vladivostock. Near the front windows was a grand piano, and at the

other end of the room a heavily carved screen of some black wood,

picked out with ivory. The screen was overhung with a canopy of silken

draperies, and formed a sort of alcove. In front of the alcove was

spread the white skin of a polar bear, and set on that was one of those

low, Turkish coffee-tables. It held a lighted spirit-lamp and two gold

coffee-cups. I had heard no movement from above stairs, and it must have

been fully three minutes that I stood waiting, noting these details of

the room and wondering at the delay, and at the strange silence.

“And then, suddenly, as my eye grew more used to the half-light, I saw,

projecting from behind the screen, as though it were stretched along the

back of a divan, the hand of a man and the lower part of his arm. I

was as startled as though I had come across a footprint on a deserted

island. Evidently, the man had been sitting there since I had come

into the room, even since I had entered the house, and he had heard the

servant knocking upon the door. Why he had not declared himself I could

not understand, but I supposed that, possibly, he was a guest, with

no reason to interest himself in the Princess's other visitors, or,

perhaps, for some reason, he did not wish to be observed. I could see

nothing of him except his hand, but I had an unpleasant feeling that he

had been peering at me through the carving in the screen, and that

he still was doing so. I moved my feet noisily on the floor and said,

tentatively, 'I beg your pardon.'

“There was no reply, and the hand did not stir. Apparently, the man

was bent upon ignoring me, but, as all I wished was to apologize for my

intrusion and to leave the house, I walked up to the alcove and peered

around it. Inside the screen was a divan piled with cushions, and on the

end of it nearer me the man was sitting. He was a young Englishman with

light-yellow hair and a deeply bronzed face. He was seated with his arms

stretched out along the back of the divan, and with his head resting

against a cushion. His attitude was one of complete ease. But his mouth

had fallen open, and his eyes were set with an expression of utter

horror. At the first glance, I saw that he was quite dead.

“For a flash of time I was too startled to act, but in the same flash I

was convinced that the man had met his death from no accident, that he

had not died through any ordinary failure of the laws of nature. The

expression on his face was much too terrible to be misinterpreted. It

spoke as eloquently as words. It told me that before the end had come he

had watched his death approach and threaten him.

“I was so sure he had been murdered that I instinctively looked on the

floor for the weapon, and, at the same moment, out of concern for my

own safety, quickly behind me; but the silence of the house continued

unbroken.

“I have seen a great number of dead men; I was on the Asiatic Station

during the Japanese-Chinese war. I was in Port Arthur after the

massacre. So a dead man, for the single reason that he is dead, does not

repel me, and, though I knew that there was no hope that this man was

alive, still, for decency's sake, I felt his pulse, and, while I kept

my ears alert for any sound from the floors above me, I pulled open his

shirt and placed my hand upon his heart. My fingers instantly touched

upon the opening of a wound, and as I withdrew them I found them wet

with blood. He was in evening dress, and in the wide bosom of his shirt

I found a narrow slit, so narrow that in the dim light it was scarcely

discernible. The wound was no wider than the smallest blade of a

pocket-knife, but when I stripped the shirt away from the chest and left

it bare, I found that the weapon, narrow as it was, had been long enough

to reach his heart. There is no need to tell you how I felt as I stood

by the body of this boy, for he was hardly older than a boy, or of the

thoughts that came into my head. I was bitterly sorry for this stranger,

bitterly indignant at his murderer, and, at the same time, selfishly

concerned for my own safety and for the notoriety which I saw was sure

to follow. My instinct was to leave the body where it lay, and to hide

myself in the fog, but I also felt that since a succession of accidents

had made me the only witness to a crime, my duty was to make myself a

good witness and to assist to establish the facts of this murder.

“That it might, possibly, be a suicide, and not a murder, did not

disturb me for a moment. The fact that the weapon had disappeared, and

the expression on the boy's face were enough to convince, at least me,

that he had had no hand in his own death. I judged it, therefore, of

the first importance to discover who was in the house, or, if they had

escaped from it, who had been in the house before I entered it. I had

seen one man leave it; but all I could tell of him was that he was a

young man, that he was in evening dress, and that he had fled in such

haste that he had not stopped to close the door behind him.

“The Russian servant I had found apparently asleep, and, unless he acted

a part with supreme skill, he was a stupid and ignorant boor, and as

innocent of the murder as myself. There was still the Russian princess

whom he had expected to find, or had pretended to expect to find, in the

same room with the murdered man. I judged that she must now be either

upstairs with the servant, or that she had, without his knowledge,

already fled from the house. When I recalled his apparently genuine

surprise at not finding her in the drawing-room, this latter supposition

seemed the more probable. Nevertheless, I decided that it was my duty to

make a search, and after a second hurried look for the weapon among the

cushions of the divan, and upon the floor, I cautiously crossed the hall

and entered the dining-room.

“The single candle was still flickering in the draught, and showed only

the white cloth. The rest of the room was draped in shadows. I picked up

the candle, and, lifting it high above my head, moved around the corner

of the table. Either my nerves were on such a stretch that no shock

could strain them further, or my mind was inoculated to horrors, for

I did not cry out at what I saw nor retreat from it. Immediately at my

feet was the body of a beautiful woman, lying at full length upon the

floor, her arms flung out on either side of her, and her white face and

shoulders gleaming, dully, in the unsteady light of the candle. Around

her throat was a great chain of diamonds, and the light played upon

these and made them flash and blaze in tiny flames. But the woman who

wore them was dead, and I was so certain as to how she had died that,

without an instant's hesitation, I dropped on my knees beside her and

placed my hands above her heart. My fingers again touched the thin slit

of a wound. I had no doubt in my mind but that this was the Russian

princess, and when I lowered the candle to her face I was assured that

this was so. Her features showed the finest lines of both the Slav and

the Jewess; the eyes were black, the hair blue-black and wonderfully

heavy, and her skin, even in death, was rich in color. She was a

surpassingly beautiful woman.

“I rose and tried to light another candle with the one I held, but

I found that my hand was so unsteady that I could not keep the wicks

together. It was my intention to again search for this strange dagger

which had been used to kill both the English boy and the beautiful

princess, but before I could light the second candle I heard footsteps

descending the stairs, and the Russian servant appeared in the doorway.

“My face was in darkness, or I am sure that, at the sight of it, he

would have taken alarm, for at that moment I was not sure but that this

man himself was the murderer. His own face was plainly visible to me in

the light from the hall, and I could see that it wore an expression of

dull bewilderment. I stepped quickly toward him and took a firm hold

upon his wrist.

“'She is not there,' he said. 'The Princess has gone. They have all

gone.'

“'Who have gone?' I demanded. 'Who else has been here?'

“'The two Englishmen,' he said.

“'What two Englishmen?' I demanded. 'What are their names?'

“The man now saw by my manner that some question of great moment hung

upon his answer, and he began to protest that he did not know the names

of the visitors and that until that evening he had never seen them.

“I guessed that it was my tone which frightened him, so I took my hand

off his wrist and spoke less eagerly.

“'How long have they been here?' I asked, 'and when did they go?'

“He pointed behind him toward the drawing-room.

“'One sat there with the Princess,' he said; 'the other came after I

had placed the coffee in the drawing-room. The two Englishmen talked

together, and the Princess returned here to the table. She sat there in

that chair, and I brought her cognac and cigarettes. Then I sat outside

upon the bench. It was a feast-day, and I had been drinking. Pardon,

Excellency, but I fell asleep. When I woke, your Excellency was standing

by me, but the Princess and the two Englishmen had gone. That is all I

know.'

“I believed that the man was telling me the truth. His fright had

passed, and he was now apparently puzzled, but not alarmed.

“'You must remember the names of the Englishmen,' I urged. 'Try to

think. When you announced them to the Princess what name did you give?'

“At this question he exclaimed, with pleasure, and, beckoning to me,

ran hurriedly down the hall and into the drawing-room. In the corner

furthest from the screen was the piano, and on it was a silver tray. He

picked this up and, smiling with pride at his own intelligence, pointed

at two cards that lay upon it. I took them up and read the names

engraved upon them.”

The American paused abruptly, and glanced at the faces about him. “I

read the names,” he repeated. He spoke with great reluctance.

“Continue!” cried the baronet, sharply.

“I read the names,” said the American with evident distaste, “and the

family name of each was the same. They were the names of two brothers.

One is well known to you. It is that of the African explorer of whom

this gentleman was just speaking. I mean the Earl of Chetney. The other

was the name of his brother. Lord Arthur Chetney.”

The men at the table fell back as though a trapdoor had fallen open at

their feet.

“Lord Chetney?” they exclaimed, in chorus. They glanced at each

other and back to the American, with every expression of concern and

disbelief.

“It is impossible!” cried the Baronet. “Why, my dear sir, young Chetney

only arrived from Africa yesterday. It was so stated in the evening

papers.”

The jaw of the American set in a resolute square, and he pressed his

lips together.

“You are perfectly right, sir,” he said, “Lord Chetney did arrive in

London yesterday morning, and yesterday night I found his dead body.”

The youngest member present was the first to recover. He seemed much

less concerned over the identity of the murdered man than at the

interruption of the narrative.

“Oh, please let him go on!” he cried. “What happened then? You say you

found two visiting-cards. How do you know which card was that of the

murdered man?”

The American, before he answered, waited until the chorus of

exclamations had ceased. Then he continued as though he had not been

interrupted.

“The instant I read the names upon the cards,” he said, “I ran to the

screen and, kneeling beside the dead man, began a search through his

pockets. My hand at once fell upon a card-case, and I found on all

the cards it contained the title of the Earl of Chetney. His watch and

cigarette-case also bore his name. These evidences, and the fact of his

bronzed skin, and that his cheek-bones were worn with fever, convinced

me that the dead man was the African explorer, and the boy who had fled

past me in the night was Arthur, his younger brother.

“I was so intent upon my search that I had forgotten the servant, and

I was still on my knees when I heard a cry behind me. I turned, and saw

the man gazing down at the body in abject horror.

“Before I could rise, he gave another cry of terror, and, flinging

himself into the hall, raced toward the door to the street. I leaped

after him, shouting to him to halt, but before I could reach the hall he

had torn open the door, and I saw him spring out into the yellow fog. I

cleared the steps in a jump and ran down the garden-walk but just as

the gate clicked in front of me. I had it open on the instant, and,

following the sound of the man's footsteps, I raced after him across the

open street. He, also, could hear me, and he instantly stopped running,

and there was absolute silence. He was so near that I almost fancied I

could hear him panting, and I held my own breath to listen. But I could

distinguish nothing but the dripping of the mist about us, and from far

off the music of the Hungarian band, which I had heard when I first lost

myself.

“All I could see was the square of light from the door I had left open

behind me, and a lamp in the hall beyond it flickering in the draught.

But even as I watched it, the flame of the lamp was blown violently to

and fro, and the door, caught in the same current of air, closed slowly.

I knew if it shut I could not again enter the house, and I rushed madly

toward it. I believe I even shouted out, as though it were something

human which I could compel to obey me, and then I caught my foot against

the curb and smashed into the sidewalk. When I rose to my feet I was

dizzy and half stunned, and though I thought then that I was moving

toward the door, I know now that I probably turned directly from it;

for, as I groped about in the night, calling frantically for the police,

my fingers touched nothing but the dripping fog, and the iron railings

for which I sought seemed to have melted away. For many minutes I beat

the mist with my arms like one at blind man's buff, turning sharply in

circles, cursing aloud at my stupidity and crying continually for help.

At last a voice answered me from the fog, and I found myself held in the

circle of a policeman's lantern.

“That is the end of my adventure. What I have to tell you now is what I

learned from the police.

“At the station-house to which the man guided me I related what you have

just heard. I told them that the house they must at once find was one

set back from the street within a radius of two hundred yards from the

Knightsbridge Barracks, that within fifty yards of it someone was giving

a dance to the music of a Hungarian band, and that the railings before

it were as high as a man's waist and filed to a point. With that to work

upon, twenty men were at once ordered out into the fog to search for

the house, and Inspector Lyle himself was despatched to the home of Lord

Edam, Chetney's father, with a warrant for Lord Arthur's arrest. I was

thanked and dismissed on my own recognizance.

“This morning, Inspector Lyle called on me, and from him I learned the

police theory of the scene I have just described.

“Apparently, I had wandered very far in the fog, for up to noon to-day

the house had not been found, nor had they been able to arrest Lord

Arthur. He did not return to his father's house last night, and there is

no trace of him; but from what the police knew of the past lives of the

people I found in that lost house, they have evolved a theory, and their

theory is that the murders were committed by Lord Arthur.

“The infatuation of his elder brother, Lord Chetney, for a Russian

princess, so Inspector Lyle tells me, is well known to everyone. About

two years ago the Princess Zichy, as she calls herself, and he were

constantly together, and Chetney informed his friends that they were

about to be married. The woman was notorious in two continents, and when

Lord Edam heard of his son's infatuation he appealed to the police for

her record.

“It is through his having applied to them that they know so much

concerning her and her relations with the Chetneys. From the police Lord

Edam learned that Madame Zichy had once been a spy in the employ of the

Russian Third Section, but that lately she had been repudiated by her

own government and was living by her wits, by blackmail, and by her

beauty. Lord Edam laid this record before his son, but Chetney either

knew it already or the woman persuaded him not to believe in it, and the

father and son parted in great anger. Two days later the marquis altered

his will, leaving all of his money to the younger brother, Arthur.

“The title and some of the landed property he could not keep from

Chetney, but he swore if his son saw the woman again that the will

should stand as it was, and he would be left without a penny.

“This was about eighteen months ago, when, apparently, Chetney tired

of the Princess, and suddenly went off to shoot and explore in Central

Africa. No word came from him, except that twice he was reported as

having died of fever in the jungle, and finally two traders reached

the coast who said they had seen his body. This was accepted by all

as conclusive, and young Arthur was recognized as the heir to the Edam

millions. On the strength of this supposition he at once began to borrow

enormous sums from the money-lenders. This is of great importance, as

the police believe it was these debts which drove him to the murder of

his brother. Yesterday, as you know, Lord Chetney suddenly returned from

the grave, and it was the fact that for two years he had been considered

as dead which lent such importance to his return and which gave rise

to those columns of detail concerning him which appeared in all the

afternoon papers. But, obviously, during his absence he had not tired of

the Princess Zichy, for we know that a few hours after he reached London

he sought her out. His brother, who had also learned of his reappearance

through the papers, probably suspected which would be the house he would

first visit, and followed him there, arriving, so the Russian servant

tells us, while the two were at coffee in the drawing-room. The

Princess, then, we also learn from the servant, withdrew to the

dining-room, leaving the brothers together. What happened one can only

guess.

“Lord Arthur knew now that when it was discovered he was no longer the

heir, the moneylenders would come down upon him. The police believe

that he at once sought out his brother to beg for money to cover the

post-obits, but that, considering the sum he needed was several hundreds

of thousands of pounds, Chetney refused to give it him. No one knew

that Arthur had gone to seek out his brother. They were alone. It is

possible, then, that in a passion of disappointment, and crazed with

the disgrace which he saw before him, young Arthur made himself the heir

beyond further question. The death of his brother would have availed

nothing if the woman remained alive. It is then possible that he crossed

the hall, and, with the same weapon which made him Lord Edam's heir,

destroyed the solitary witness to the murder. The only other person

who could have seen it was sleeping in a drunken stupor, to which fact

undoubtedly he owed his life. And yet,” concluded the Naval Attache,

leaning forward and marking each word with his finger, “Lord Arthur

blundered fatally. In his haste he left the door of the house open, so

giving access to the first passer-by, and he forgot that when he entered

it he had handed his card to the servant. That piece of paper may yet

send him to the gallows. In the meantime, he has disappeared completely,

and somewhere, in one of the millions of streets of this great capital,

in a locked and empty house, lies the body of his brother, and of the

woman his brother loved, undiscovered, unburied; and with their murder

unavenged.”

In the discussion which followed the conclusion of the story of the

Naval Attache, the gentleman with the pearl took no part. Instead, he

arose, and, beckoning a servant to a far corner of the room, whispered

earnestly to him until a sudden movement on the part of Sir Andrew

caused him to return hurriedly to the table.

“There are several points in Mr. Sears's story I want explained,” he

cried. “Be seated, Sir Andrew,” he begged. “Let us have the opinion of

an expert. I do not care what the police think, I want to know what you

think.”

But Sir Andrew rose reluctantly from his chair.

“I should like nothing better than to discuss this,” he said. “But it

is most important that I proceed to the House. I should have been there

some time ago.” He turned toward the servant and directed him to call a

hansom.

The gentleman with the pearl stud looked appealingly at the Naval

Attache. “There are surely many details that you have not told us,” he

urged. “Some you have forgotten.”

The Baronet interrupted quickly.

“I trust not,” he said, “for I could not possibly stop to hear them.”

“The story is finished,” declared the Naval Attache; “until Lord Arthur

is arrested or the bodies are found there is nothing more to tell of

either Chetney or the Princess Zichy.”

“Of Lord Chetney, perhaps not,” interrupted the sporting-looking

gentleman with the black tie, “but there'll always be something to tell

of the Princess Zichy. I know enough stories about her to fill a book.

She was a most remarkable woman.” The speaker dropped the end of his

cigar into his coffee-cup and, taking his case from his pocket, selected

a fresh one. As he did so he laughed and held up the case that the

others might see it. It was an ordinary cigar-case of well-worn

pig-skin, with a silver clasp.

“The only time I ever met her,” he said, “she tried to rob me of this.”

The Baronet regarded him closely.

“She tried to rob you?” he repeated.

“Tried to rob me of this,” continued the gentleman in the black tie,

“and of the Czarina's diamonds.” His tone was one of mingled admiration

and injury.

“The Czarina's diamonds!” exclaimed the Baronet. He glanced quickly and

suspiciously at the speaker, and then at the others about the table.

But their faces gave evidence of no other emotion than that of ordinary

interest.

“Yes, the Czarina's diamonds,” repeated the man with the black tie.

“It was a necklace of diamonds. I was told to take them to the Russian

Ambassador in Paris, who was to deliver them at Moscow. I am a Queen's

Messenger,” he added.

“Oh, I see,” exclaimed Sir Andrew, in a tone of relief. “And you say

that this same Princess Zichy, one of the victims of this double murder,

endeavored to rob you of--of--that cigar-case.”

“And the Czarina's diamonds,” answered the Queen's Messenger,

imperturbably. “It's not much of a story, but it gives you an idea

of the woman's character. The robbery took place between Paris and

Marseilles.”

The Baronet interrupted him with an abrupt movement. “No, no,” he cried,

shaking his head in protest. “Do not tempt me. I really cannot listen. I

must be at the House in ten minutes.”

“I am sorry,” said the Queen's Messenger. He turned to those seated

about him. “I wonder if the other gentlemen--” he inquired, tentatively.

There was a chorus of polite murmurs, and the Queen's Messenger, bowing

his head in acknowledgment, took a preparatory sip from his glass. At

the same moment the servant to whom the man with the black pearl had

spoken, slipped a piece of paper into his hand. He glanced at it,

frowned, and threw it under the table.

The servant bowed to the Baronet.

“Your hansom is waiting, Sir Andrew,” he said.

“The necklace was worth twenty thousand pounds,” began the Queen's

Messenger, “It was a present from the Queen of England to celebrate--”

The Baronet gave an exclamation of angry annoyance.

“Upon my word, this is most provoking,” he interrupted. “I really ought

not to stay. But I certainly mean to hear this.” He turned irritably to

the servant. “Tell the hansom to wait,” he commanded, and, with an air

of a boy who is playing truant, slipped guiltily into his chair.

The gentleman with the black pearl smiled blandly, and rapped upon the

table.

“Order, gentlemen,” he said. “Order for the story of the Queen's

Messenger and the Czarina's diamonds.”