III

Sir Andrew rose, with disapproval written in every lineament.

“I thought your story would bear upon the murder,” he said. “Had I

imagined it would have nothing whatsoever to do with it, I would not

have remained.” He pushed back his chair and bowed, stiffly. “I wish you

good night,” he said.

There was a chorus of remonstrance, and, under cover of this and the

Baronet's answering protests, a servant, for the second time, slipped

a piece of paper into the hand of the gentleman with the pearl stud. He

read the lines written upon it and tore it into tiny fragments.

The youngest member, who had remained an interested but silent listener

to the tale of the Queen's Messenger, raised his hand, commandingly.

“Sir Andrew,” he cried, “in justice to Lord Arthur Chetney, I must ask

you to be seated. He has been accused in our hearing of a most serious

crime, and I insist that you remain until you have heard me clear his

character.”

“You!” cried the Baronet.

“Yes,” answered the young man, briskly. “I would have spoken sooner,”

he explained, “but that I thought this gentleman”--he inclined his head

toward the Queen's Messenger--“was about to contribute some facts of

which I was ignorant. He, however, has told us nothing, and so I will

take up the tale at the point where Lieutenant Sears laid it down and

give you those details of which Lieutenant Sears is ignorant. It seems

strange to you that I should be able to add the sequel to this story.

But the coincidence is easily explained. I am the junior member of

the law firm of Chudleigh & Chudleigh. We have been solicitors for

the Chetneys for the last two hundred years. Nothing, no matter how

unimportant, which concerns Lord Edam and his two sons is unknown to

us, and naturally we are acquainted with every detail of the terrible

catastrophe of last night.”

The Baronet, bewildered but eager, sank back into his chair.

“Will you be long, sir?” he demanded.

“I shall endeavor to be brief,” said the young solicitor; “and,” he

added, in a tone which gave his words almost the weight of a threat, “I

promise to be interesting.”

“There is no need to promise that,” said Sir Andrew, “I find it much too

interesting as it is.” He glanced ruefully at the clock and turned his

eyes quickly from it.

“Tell the driver of that hansom,” he called to the servant, “that I take

him by the hour.”

“For the last three days,” began young Mr. Chudleigh, “as you have

probably read in the daily papers, the Marquis of Edam has been at the

point of death, and his physicians have never left his house. Every hour

he seemed to grow weaker; but although his bodily strength is apparently

leaving him forever, his mind has remained clear and active. Late

yesterday evening, word was received at our office that he wished my

father to come at once to Chetney House and to bring with him certain

papers. What these papers were is not essential; I mention them only

to explain how it was that last night I happened to be at Lord Edam's

bedside. I accompanied my father to Chetney House, but at the time we

reached there Lord Edam was sleeping, and his physicians refused to have

him awakened. My father urged that he should be allowed to receive Lord

Edam's instructions concerning the documents, but the physicians would

not disturb him, and we all gathered in the library to wait until he

should awake of his own accord. It was about one o'clock in the morning,

while we were still there, that Inspector Lyle and the officers from

Scotland Yard came to arrest Lord Arthur on the charge of murdering his

brother. You can imagine our dismay and distress. Like everyone else,

I had learned from the afternoon papers that Lord Chetney was not dead,

but that he had returned to England, and, on arriving at Chetney House,

I had been told that Lord Arthur had gone to the Bath Hotel to look

for his brother and to inform him that if he wished to see their father

alive he must come to him at once. Although it was now past one o'clock,

Arthur had not returned. None of us knew where Madame Zichy lived, so we

could not go to recover Lord Chetney's body. We spent a most miserable

night, hastening to the window whenever a cab came into the square, in

the hope that it was Arthur returning, and endeavoring to explain

away the facts that pointed to him as the murderer. I am a friend of

Arthur's, I was with him at Harrow and at Oxford, and I refused to

believe for an instant that he was capable of such a crime; but as a

lawyer I could not help but see that the circumstantial evidence was

strongly against him.

“Toward early morning, Lord Edam awoke, and in so much better a state

of health that he refused to make the changes in the papers which he had

intended, declaring that he was no nearer death than ourselves. Under

other circumstances, this happy change in him would have relieved us

greatly, but none of us could think of anything save the death of his

elder son and of the charge which hung over Arthur.

“As long as Inspector Lyle remained in the house, my father decided that

I, as one of the legal advisers of the family, should also remain there.

But there was little for either of us to do. Arthur did not return, and

nothing occurred until late this morning, when Lyle received word that

the Russian servant had been arrested. He at once drove to Scotland Yard

to question him. He came back to us in an hour, and informed me that

the servant had refused to tell anything of what had happened the night

before, or of himself, or of the Princess Zichy. He would not even give

them the address of her house.

“'He is in abject terror,' Lyle said. 'I assured him that he was not

suspected of the crime, but he would tell me nothing.'

“There were no other developments until two o'clock this afternoon, when

word was brought to us that Arthur had been found, and that he was lying

in the accident-ward of St. George's Hospital. Lyle and I drove there

together, and found him propped up in bed with his head bound in a

bandage. He had been brought to the hospital the night before by the

driver of a hansom that had run over him in the fog. The cab-horse had

kicked him on the head, and he had been carried in unconscious. There

was nothing on him to tell who he was, and it was not until he came to

his senses this afternoon that the hospital authorities had been able

to send word to his people. Lyle at once informed him that he was under

arrest, and with what he was charged, and though the Inspector warned

him to say nothing which might be used against him, I, as his solicitor,

instructed him to speak freely and to tell us all he knew of the

occurrences of last night. It was evident to anyone that the fact of

his brother's death was of much greater concern to him than that he was

accused of his murder.

“'That,' Arthur said, contemptuously, 'that is damned nonsense. It

is monstrous and cruel. We parted better friends than we have been in

years. I will tell you all that happened--not to clear myself, but to

help you to find out the truth.' His story is as follows: Yesterday

afternoon, owing to his constant attendance on his father, he did not

look at the evening papers, and it was not until after dinner, when the

butler brought him one and told him of its contents, that he learned

that his brother was alive and at the Bath Hotel. He drove there at

once, but was told that about eight o'clock his brother had gone out,

but without giving any clew to his destination. As Chetney had not at

once come to see his father, Arthur decided that he was still angry

with him, and his mind, turning naturally to the cause of their quarrel,

determined him to look for Chetney at the home of the Princess Zichy.

“Her house had been pointed out to him, and though he had never

visited it, he had passed it many times and knew its exact location. He

accordingly drove in that direction, as far as the fog would permit the

hansom to go, and walked the rest of the way, reaching the house about

nine o'clock. He rang, and was admitted by the Russian servant. The man

took his card into the drawing-room, and at once his brother ran out and

welcomed him. He was followed by the Princess Zichy, who also received

Arthur most cordially.

“'You brothers will have much to talk about,' she said. 'I am going to

the dining-room. When you have finished, let me know.'

“As soon as she had left them, Arthur told his brother that their father

was not expected to outlive the night, and that he must come to him at

once.

“'This is not the moment to remember your quarrel,' Arthur said to him;

'you have come back from the dead only in time to make your peace with

him before he dies.'

“Arthur says that at this Chetney was greatly moved.

“'You entirely misunderstand me, Arthur,' he returned. 'I did not know

the governor was ill, or I would have gone to him the instant I arrived.

My only reason for not doing so was because I thought he was still angry

with me. I shall return with you immediately, as soon as I have said

good-by to the Princess. It is a final good-by. After to-night I shall

never see her again.'

“'Do you mean that?' Arthur cried.

“'Yes,' Chetney answered. 'When I returned to London I had no intention

of seeking her again, and I am here only through a mistake.' He then

told Arthur that he had separated from the Princess even before he went

to Central Africa, and that, moreover, while at Cairo on his way south,

he had learned certain facts concerning her life there during the

previous season, which made it impossible for him to ever wish to see

her again. Their separation was final and complete.

“'She deceived me cruelly,' he said; 'I cannot tell you how cruelly.

During the two years when I was trying to obtain my father's consent to

our marriage she was in love with a Russian diplomat. During all that

time he was secretly visiting her here in London, and her trip to Cairo

was only an excuse to meet him there.'

“'Yet you are here with her to-night,' Arthur protested, 'only a few

hours after your return.'

“'That is easily explained,' Chetney answered. 'As I finished dinner

to-night at the hotel, I received a note from her from this address. In

it she said she had just learned of my arrival, and begged me to come to

her at once. She wrote that she was in great and present trouble, dying

of an incurable illness, and without friends or money. She begged me,

for the sake of old times, to come to her assistance. During the last

two years in the jungle all my former feeling for Zichy has utterly

passed away, but no one could have dismissed the appeal she made in that

letter. So I came here, and found her, as you have seen her, quite as

beautiful as she ever was, in very good health, and, from the look of

the house, in no need of money.

“'I asked her what she meant by writing me that she was dying in a

garret, and she laughed, and said she had done so because she was

afraid, unless I thought she needed help, I would not try to see her.

That was where we were when you arrived. And now,' Chetney added, 'I

will say good-by to her, and you had better return home. No, you can

trust me, I shall follow you at once. She has no influence over me now,

but I believe, in spite of the way she has used me, that she is, after

her queer fashion, still fond of me, and when she learns that this

good-by is final there may be a scene, and it is not fair to her that

you should be here. So, go home at once, and tell the governor that I am

following you in ten minutes.'

“'That,' said Arthur, 'is the way we parted. I never left him on more

friendly terms. I was happy to see him alive again, I was happy to think

he had returned in time to make up his quarrel with my father, and I was

happy that at last he was shut of that woman. I was never better pleased

with him in my life.' He turned to Inspector Lyle, who was sitting at

the foot of the bed, taking notes of all he told us.

“'Why, in the name of common-sense,' he cried, 'should I have chosen

that moment, of all others, to send my brother back to the grave?' For

a moment the Inspector did not answer him. I do not know if any of you

gentlemen are acquainted with Inspector Lyle, but if you are not, I can

assure you that he is a very remarkable man. Our firm often applies

to him for aid, and he has never failed us; my father has the greatest

possible respect for him. Where he has the advantage over the ordinary

police-official is in the fact that he possesses imagination. He

imagines himself to be the criminal, imagines how he would act under the

same circumstances, and he imagines to such purpose that he generally

finds the man he wants. I have often told Lyle that if he had not been a

detective he would have made a great success as a poet or a playwright.

“When Arthur turned on him, Lyle hesitated for a moment, and then told

him exactly what was the case against him.

“'Ever since your brother was reported as having died in Africa,' he

said, 'your lordship has been collecting money on post-obits. Lord

Chetney's arrival, last night, turned them into waste-paper. You were

suddenly in debt for thousands of pounds--for much more than you could

ever possibly pay. No one knew that you and your brother had met at

Madame Zichy's. But you knew that your father was not expected to

outlive the night, and that if your brother were dead also, you would

be saved from complete ruin, and that you would become the Marquis of

Edam.'

“'Oh, that is how you have worked it out, is it?' Arthur cried. 'And for

me to become Lord Edam was it necessary that the woman should die, too?'

“'They will say,' Lyle answered, 'that she was a witness to the

murder--that she would have told.'

“'Then why did I not kill the servant as well?' Arthur said.

“'He was asleep, and saw nothing.'

“'And you believe that?' Arthur demanded.

“'It is not a question of what I believe,' Lyle said, gravely. 'It is a

question for your peers.'

“'The man is insolent!' Arthur cried. 'The thing is monstrous!

Horrible!'

“Before we could stop him, he sprang out of his cot and began pulling

on his clothes. When the nurses tried to hold him down, he fought with

them.

“'Do you think you can keep me here,' he shouted, 'when they are

plotting to hang me? I am going with you to that house!' he cried at

Lyle. 'When you find those bodies I shall be beside you. It is my right.

He is my brother. He has been murdered, and I can tell you who murdered

him. That woman murdered him.'

“'She first ruined his life, and now she has killed him. For the last

five years she has been plotting to make herself his wife, and last

night, when he told her he had discovered the truth about the Russian,

and that she would never see him again, she flew into a passion and

stabbed him, and then in terror of the gallows, killed herself. She

murdered him, I tell you, and I promise you that we will find the knife

she used near her--perhaps still in her hand. What will you say to

that?'

“Lyle turned his head away and stared down at the floor. 'I might say,'

he answered, 'that you placed it there.'

“Arthur gave a cry of anger and sprang at him, and then pitched forward

into his arms. The blood was running from the cut under the bandage, and

he had fainted. Lyle carried him back to the bed again, and we left him

with the police and the doctors, and drove at once to the address he had

given us. We found the house not three minutes' walk from St. George's

Hospital. It stands in Trevor Terrace, that little row of houses set

back from Knightsbridge, with one end in Hill Street.

“As we left the hospital, Lyle had said to me, 'You must not blame me

for treating him as I did. All is fair in this work, and if by angering

that boy I could have made him commit himself, I was right in trying to

do so; though, I assure you, no one would be better pleased than

myself if I could prove his theory to be correct. But we cannot tell.

Everything depends upon what we see for ourselves within the next few

minutes.'

“When we reached the house, Lyle broke open the fastenings of one of the

windows on the ground-floor, and, hidden by the trees in the garden, we

scrambled in. We found ourselves in the reception-room, which was the

first room on the right of the hall. The gas was still burning behind

the colored glass and red, silk shades, and when the daylight streamed

in after us it gave the hall a hideously dissipated look, like the foyer

of a theatre at a matinee, or the entrance to an all-day gambling-hall.

The house was oppressively silent, and, because we knew why it was

so silent, we spoke in whispers. When Lyle turned the handle of the

drawing-room door, I felt as though someone had put his hand upon my

throat. But I followed, close at his shoulder, and saw, in the subdued

light of many-tinted lamps, the body of Chetney at the foot of the

divan, just as Lieutenant Sears had described it. In the drawing-room we

found the body of the Princess Zichy, her arms thrown out, and the

blood from her heart frozen in a tiny line across her bare shoulder. But

neither of us, although we searched the floor on our hands and knees,

could find the weapon which had killed her.

“'For Arthur's sake,' I said, 'I would have given a thousand pounds if

we had found the knife in her hand, as he said we would.'

“'That we have not found it there,' Lyle answered, 'is to my mind the

strongest proof that he is telling the truth, that he left the house

before the murder took place. He is not a fool, and had he stabbed his

brother and this woman, he would have seen that by placing the knife

near her he could help to make it appear as if she had killed Chetney

and then committed suicide. Besides, Lord Arthur insisted that the

evidence in his behalf would be our finding the knife here. He would not

have urged that if he knew we would NOT find it, if he knew he himself

had carried it away. This is no suicide. A suicide does not rise and

hide the weapon with which he kills himself, and then lie down again.

No, this has been a double murder, and we must look outside of the house

for the murderer.'

“While he was speaking, Lyle and I had been searching every corner,

studying the details of each room. I was so afraid that, without telling

me, he would make some deductions prejudicial to Arthur, that I never

left his side. I was determined to see everything that he saw, and, if

possible, to prevent his interpreting it in the wrong way. He finally

finished his examination, and we sat down together in the drawing-room,

and he took out his note-book and read aloud all that Mr. Sears had told

him of the murder and what we had just learned from Arthur. We compared

the two accounts, word for word, and weighed statement with statement,

but I could not determine, from anything Lyle said, which of the two

versions he had decided to believe.

“'We are trying to build a house of blocks,' he exclaimed, 'with half of

the blocks missing. We have been considering two theories,' he went on:

'one that Lord Arthur is responsible for both murders, and the other

that the dead woman in there is responsible for one of them, and has

committed suicide; but, until the Russian servant is ready to talk, I

shall refuse to believe in the guilt of either.'

“'What can you prove by him?' I asked. 'He was drunk and asleep. He saw

nothing.'

“Lyle hesitated, and then, as though he had made up his mind to be quite

frank with me, spoke freely.

“'I do not know that he was either drunk or asleep,' he answered.

'Lieutenant Sears describes him as a stupid boor. I am not satisfied

that he is not a clever actor. What was his position in this house? What

was his real duty here? Suppose it was not to guard this woman, but to

watch her. Let us imagine that it was not the woman he served, but a

master, and see where that leads us. For this house has a master, a

mysterious, absentee landlord, who lives in St. Petersburg, the unknown

Russian who came between Chetney and Zichy, and because of whom Chetney

left her. He is the man who bought this house for Madame Zichy, who sent

these rugs and curtains from St. Petersburg to furnish it for her after

his own tastes, and, I believe, it was he also who placed the Russian

servant here, ostensibly to serve the Princess, but in reality to spy

upon her. At Scotland Yard we do not know who this gentleman is; the

Russian police confess to equal ignorance concerning him. When Lord

Chetney went to Africa, Madame Zichy lived in St. Petersburg; but there

her receptions and dinners were so crowded with members of the nobility

and of the army and diplomats, that, among so many visitors, the police

could not learn which was the one for whom she most greatly cared.'

“Lyle pointed at the modern French paintings and the heavy, silk rugs

which hung upon the walls.

“'The unknown is a man of taste and of some fortune,' he said, 'not the

sort of man to send a stupid peasant to guard the woman he loves. So I

am not content to believe, with Mr. Sears, that the servant is a boor.

I believe him, instead, to be a very clever ruffian. I believe him to

be the protector of his master's honor, or, let us say, of his master's

property, whether that property be silver plate or the woman his master

loves. Last night, after Lord Arthur had gone away, the servant was left

alone in this house with Lord Chetney and Madame Zichy. From where he

sat in the hall, he could hear Lord Chetney bidding her farewell; for,

if my idea of him is correct, he understands English quite as well as

you or I. Let us imagine that he heard her entreating Chetney not to

leave her, reminding him of his former wish to marry her, and let us

suppose that he hears Chetney denounce her, and tell her that at Cairo

he has learned of this Russian admirer--the servant's master. He hears

the woman declare that she has had no admirer but himself, that this

unknown Russian was, and is, nothing to her, that there is no man she

loves but him, and that she cannot live, knowing that he is alive,

without his love. Suppose Chetney believed her, suppose his former

infatuation for her returned, and that, in a moment of weakness, he

forgave her and took her in his arms. That is the moment the Russian

master has feared. It is to guard against it that he has placed his

watch-dog over the Princess, and how do we know but that, when the

moment came, the watch-dog served his master, as he saw his duty, and

killed them both? What do you think?' Lyle demanded. 'Would not that

explain both murders?'

“I was only too willing to hear any theory which pointed to anyone else

as the criminal than Arthur, but Lyle's explanation was too utterly

fantastic. I told him that he certainly showed imagination, but that he

could not hang a man for what he imagined he had done.

“'No,' Lyle answered, 'but I can frighten him by telling him what I

think he has done, and now when I again question the Russian servant

I will make it quite clear to him that I believe he is the murderer.

I think that will open his mouth. A man will at least talk to defend

himself. Come,' he said, 'we must return at once to Scotland Yard and

see him. There is nothing more to do here.'

“He arose, and I followed him into the hall, and in another minute we

would have been on our way to Scotland Yard. But just as he opened

the street-door a postman halted at the gate of the garden, and began

fumbling with the latch.

“Lyle stopped, with an exclamation of chagrin.

“'How stupid of me!' he exclaimed. He turned quickly and pointed to a

narrow slit cut in the brass plate of the front door. 'The house has a

private letter-box,' he said, 'and I had not thought to look in it! If

we had gone out as we came in, by the window, I would never have seen

it. The moment I entered the house I should have thought of securing

the letters which came this morning. I have been grossly careless.'

He stepped back into the hall and pulled at the lid of the letter-box,

which hung on the inside of the door, but it was tightly locked. At the

same moment the postman came up the steps holding a letter. Without

a word, Lyle took it from his hand and began to examine it. It was

addressed to the Princess Zichy, and on the back of the envelope was the

name of a West End dressmaker.

“'That is of no use to me,' Lyle said. He took out his card and showed

it to the postman. 'I am Inspector Lyle from Scotland Yard,' he said.

'The people in this house are under arrest. Everything it contains is

now in my keeping. Did you deliver any other letters here this morning?'

“The man looked frightened, but answered, promptly, that he was now upon

his third round. He had made one postal delivery at seven that morning

and another at eleven.

“'How many letters did you leave here?' Lyle asked.

“'About six altogether,' the man answered.

“'Did you put them through the door into the letter-box?'

“The postman said, 'Yes, I always slip them into the box, and ring and

go away. The servants collect them from the inside.'

“'Have you noticed if any of the letters you leave here bear a Russian

postage-stamp?' Lyle asked.

“'The man answered, 'Oh, yes, sir, a great many.'

“'From the same person, would you say?'

“'The writing seems to be the same,' the man answered. 'They come

regularly about once a week--one of those I delivered this morning had a

Russian postmark.'

“'That will do,' said Lyle, eagerly. 'Thank you, thank you very much.'

“He ran back into the hall, and, pulling out his penknife, began to pick

at the lock of the letter-box.

“'I have been supremely careless,' he said, in great excitement. 'Twice

before when people I wanted had flown from a house I have been able to

follow them by putting a guard over their mailbox. These letters, which

arrive regularly every week from Russia in the same handwriting, they

can come but from one person. At least, we shall now know the name of

the master of this house. Undoubtedly, it is one of his letters that the

man placed here this morning. We may make a most important discovery.'

“As he was talking he was picking at the lock with his knife, but he

was so impatient to reach the letters that he pressed too heavily on the

blade and it broke in his hand. I took a step backward and drove my

heel into the lock, and burst it open. The lid flew back, and we pressed

forward, and each ran his hand down into the letter-box. For a moment we

were both too startled to move. The box was empty.

“I do not know how long we stood, staring stupidly at each other, but

it was Lyle who was the first to recover. He seized me by the arm and

pointed excitedly into the empty box.

“'Do you appreciate what that means?' he cried. 'It means that someone

has been here ahead of us. Someone has entered this house not three

hours before we came, since eleven o'clock this morning.'

“'It was the Russian servant!' I exclaimed.

“'The Russian servant has been under arrest at Scotland Yard,' Lyle

cried. 'He could not have taken the letters. Lord Arthur has been in his

cot at the hospital. That is his alibi. There is someone else, someone

we do not suspect, and that someone is the murderer. He came back here

either to obtain those letters because he knew they would convict him,

or to remove something he had left here at the time of the murder,

something incriminating--the weapon, perhaps, or some personal article;

a cigarette-case, a handkerchief with his name upon it, or a pair of

gloves. Whatever it was, it must have been damning evidence against him

to have made him take so desperate a chance.'

“'How do we know,' I whispered, 'that he is not hidden here now?'

“'No, I'll swear he is not,' Lyle answered. 'I may have bungled in some

things, but I have searched this house thoroughly. Nevertheless,' he

added, 'we must go over it again, from the cellar to the roof. We have

the real clew now, and we must forget the others and work only it.' As

he spoke he began again to search the drawing-room, turning over even

the books on the tables and the music on the piano.

“'Whoever the man is,' he said, over his shoulder, 'we know that he has

a key to the front door and a key to the letter-box. That shows us he is

either an inmate of the house or that he comes here when he wishes. The

Russian says that he was the only servant in the house. Certainly, we

have found no evidence to show that any other servant slept here. There

could be but one other person who would possess a key to the house

and the letter-box--and he lives in St. Petersburg. At the time of

the murder he was two thousand miles away.' Lyle interrupted himself,

suddenly, with a sharp cry, and turned upon me, with his eyes flashing.

'But was he?' he cried. 'Was he? How do we know that last night he was

not in London, in this very house when Zichy and Chetney met?'

“He stood, staring at me without seeing me, muttering, and arguing with

himself.

“'Don't speak to me,' he cried, as I ventured to interrupt him. 'I can

see it now. It is all plain. It was not the servant, but his master, the

Russian himself, and it was he who came back for the letters! He came

back for them because he knew they would convict him. We must find

them. We must have those letters. If we find the one with the Russian

postmark, we shall have found the murderer.' He spoke like a madman, and

as he spoke he ran around the room, with one hand held out in front of

him as you have seen a mind-reader at a theatre seeking for something

hidden in the stalls. He pulled the old letters from the writing-desk,

and ran them over as swiftly as a gambler deals out cards; he dropped on

his knees before the fireplace and dragged out the dead coals with

his bare fingers, and then, with a low, worried cry, like a hound on

a scent, he ran back to the waste-paper basket and, lifting the papers

from it, shook them out upon the floor. Instantly, he gave a shout of

triumph, and, separating a number of torn pieces from the others, held

them up before me.

“'Look!' he cried. 'Do you see? Here are five letters, torn across in

two places. The Russian did not stop to read them, for, as you see, he

has left them still sealed. I have been wrong. He did not return for the

letters. He could not have known their value. He must have returned

for some other reason, and, as he was leaving, saw the letter-box, and,

taking out the letters, held them together--so--and tore them twice

across, and then, as the fire had gone out, tossed them into this

basket. Look!' he cried, 'here in the upper corner of this piece is a

Russian stamp. This is his own letter--unopened!'

“We examined the Russian stamp and found it had been cancelled in St.

Petersburg four days ago. The back of the envelope bore the postmark of

the branch-station in upper Sloane Street, and was dated this morning.

The envelope was of official, blue paper, and we had no difficulty in

finding the other two parts of it. We drew the torn pieces of the letter

from them and joined them together, side by side. There were but two

lines of writing, and this was the message: 'I leave Petersburg on the

night-train, and I shall see you at Trevor Terrace, after dinner, Monday

evening.'

“'That was last night!' Lyle cried. 'He arrived twelve hours ahead of

his letter--but it came in time--it came in time to hang him!'”

The Baronet struck the table with his hand.

“The name!” he demanded. “How was it signed? What was the man's name?”

The young Solicitor rose to his feet and, leaning forward, stretched out

his arm. “There was no name,” he cried. “The letter was signed with

only two initials. But engraved at the top of the sheet was the man's

address. That address was 'THE AMERICAN EMBASSY, ST. PETERSBURG, BUREAU

OF THE NAVAL ATTACHE,' and the initials,” he shouted, his voice rising

into an exultant and bitter cry, “were those of the gentleman who sits

opposite who told us that he was the first to find the murdered bodies,

the Naval Attache to Russia, Lieutenant Sears!”

A strained and awful hush followed the Solicitor's words, which seemed

to vibrate like a twanging bowstring that had just hurled its bolt. Sir

Andrew, pale and staring, drew away, with an exclamation of repulsion.

His eyes were fastened upon the Naval Attache with fascinated horror.

But the American emitted a sigh of great content, and sank, comfortably,

into the arms of his chair. He clapped his hands, softly, together.

“Capital!” he murmured. “I give you my word I never guessed what you

were driving at. You fooled ME, I'll be hanged if you didn't--you

certainly fooled me.”

The man with the pearl stud leaned forward, with a nervous gesture.

“Hush! be careful!” he whispered. But at that instant, for the third

time, a servant, hastening through the room, handed him a piece of paper

which he scanned eagerly. The message on the paper read, “The light over

the Commons is out. The House has risen.”

The man with the black pearl gave a mighty shout, and tossed the paper

from him upon the table.

“Hurrah!” he cried. “The House is up! We've won!” He caught up his

glass, and slapped the Naval Attache, violently, upon the shoulder. He

nodded joyously at him, at the Solicitor, and at the Queen's Messenger.

“Gentlemen, to you!” he cried; “my thanks and my congratulations!”

He drank deep from the glass, and breathed forth a long sigh of

satisfaction and relief.

“But I say,” protested the Queen's Messenger, shaking his finger,

violently, at the Solicitor, “that story won't do. You didn't play

fair--and--and you talked so fast I couldn't make out what it was all

about. I'll bet you that evidence wouldn't hold in a court of law--you

couldn't hang a cat on such evidence. Your story is condemned tommy-rot.

Now, my story might have happened, my story bore the mark--”

In the joy of creation, the story-tellers had forgotten their audience,

until a sudden exclamation from Sir Andrew caused them to turn,

guiltily, toward him. His face was knit with lines of anger, doubt, and

amazement.

“What does this mean?” he cried. “Is this a jest, or are you mad? If you

know this man is a murderer, why is he at large? Is this a game you have

been playing? Explain yourselves at once. What does it mean?”

The American, with first a glance at the others, rose and bowed,

courteously.

“I am not a murderer, Sir Andrew, believe me,” he said; “you need not

be alarmed. As a matter of fact, at this moment I am much more afraid of

you than you could possibly be of me. I beg you, please to be indulgent.

I assure you, we meant no disrespect. We have been matching stories,

that is all, pretending that we are people we are not, endeavoring to

entertain you with better detective-tales than, for instance, the last

one you read, 'The Great Rand Robbery.'”

The Baronet brushed his hand, nervously, across his forehead.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he exclaimed, “that none of this has happened?

That Lord Chetney is not dead, that his Solicitor did not find a letter

of yours, written from your post in Petersburg, and that just now, when

he charged you with murder, he was in jest?”

“I am really very sorry,” said the American, “but you see, sir, he could

not have found a letter written by me in St. Petersburg because I have

never been in Petersburg. Until this week, I have never been outside

of my own country. I am not a naval officer. I am a writer of short

stories. And to-night, when this gentleman told me that you were fond of

detective-stories, I thought it would be amusing to tell you one of my

own--one I had just mapped out this afternoon.”

“But Lord Chetney IS a real person,” interrupted the Baronet, “and he

did go to Africa two years ago, and he was supposed to have died there,

and his brother, Lord Arthur, has been the heir. And yesterday Chetney

did return. I read it in the papers.”

“So did I,” assented the American, soothingly; “and it struck me as

being a very good plot for a story. I mean his unexpected return from

the dead, and the probable disappointment of the younger brother. So I

decided that the younger brother had better murder the older one. The

Princess Zichy I invented out of a clear sky. The fog I did not have to

invent. Since last night I know all that there is to know about a London

fog. I was lost in one for three hours.”

The Baronet turned, grimly, upon the Queen's Messenger.

“But this gentleman,” he protested, “he is not a writer of short

stories; he is a member of the Foreign Office. I have often seen him

in Whitehall, and, according to him, the Princess Zichy is not an

invention. He says she is very well known, that she tried to rob him.”

The servant of the Foreign Office looked, unhappily, at the Cabinet

Minister, and puffed, nervously, on his cigar.

“It's true, Sir Andrew, that I am a Queen's Messenger,” he said,

appealingly, “and a Russian woman once did try to rob a Queen's

Messenger in a railway carriage--only it did not happen to me, but to

a pal of mine. The only Russian princess I ever knew called herself

Zabrisky. You may have seen her. She used to do a dive from the roof of

the Aquarium.”

Sir Andrew, with a snort of indignation, fronted the young Solicitor.

“And I suppose yours was a cock-and-bull story, too,” he said. “Of

course, it must have been, since Lord Chetney is not dead. But don't

tell me,” he protested, “that you are not Chudleigh's son either.”

“I'm sorry,” said the youngest member, smiling, in some embarrassment,

“but my name is not Chudleigh. I assure you, though, that I know the

family very well, and that I am on very good terms with them.”

“You should be!” exclaimed the Baronet; “and, judging from the liberties

you take with the Chetneys, you had better be on very good terms with

them, too.”

The young man leaned back and glanced toward the servants at the far end

of the room.

“It has been so long since I have been in the Club,” he said, “that I

doubt if even the waiters remember me. Perhaps Joseph may,” he added.

“Joseph!” he called, and at the word a servant stepped briskly forward.

The young man pointed to the stuffed head of a great lion which was

suspended above the fireplace.

“Joseph,” he said, “I want you to tell these gentlemen who shot that

lion. Who presented it to the Grill?”

Joseph, unused to acting as master of ceremonies to members of the Club,

shifted, nervously, from one foot to the other.

“Why, you--you did,” he stammered.

“Of course I did!” exclaimed the young man. “I mean, what is the name of

the man who shot it? Tell the gentlemen who I am. They wouldn't believe

me.”

“Who you are, my lord?” said Joseph. “You are Lord Edam's son, the Earl

of Chetney.”

“You must admit,” said Lord Chetney, when the noise had died away, “that

I couldn't remain dead while my little brother was accused of murder.

I had to do something. Family pride demanded it. Now, Arthur, as the

younger brother, can't afford to be squeamish, but, personally, I should

hate to have a brother of mine hanged for murder.”

“You certainly showed no scruples against hanging me,” said the

American, “but, in the face of your evidence, I admit my guilt, and I

sentence myself to pay the full penalty of the law as we are made to pay

it in my own country. The order of this court is,” he announced, “that

Joseph shall bring me a wine-card, and that I sign it for five bottles

of the Club's best champagne.”

“Oh, no!” protested the man with the pearl stud, “it is not for YOU to

sign it. In my opinion, it is Sir Andrew who should pay the costs. It

is time you knew,” he said, turning to that gentleman, “that,

unconsciously, you have been the victim of what I may call a patriotic

conspiracy. These stories have had a more serious purpose than merely to

amuse. They have been told with the worthy object of detaining you

from the House of Commons. I must explain to you that, all through

this evening, I have had a servant waiting in Trafalgar Square with

instructions to bring me word as soon as the light over the House of

Commons had ceased to burn. The light is now out, and the object for

which we plotted is attained.”

The Baronet glanced, keenly, at the man with the black pearl, and then,

quickly, at his watch. The smile disappeared from his lips, and his face

was set in stern and forbidding lines.

“And may I know,” he asked, icily, “what was the object of your plot?”

“A most worthy one,” the other retorted. “Our object was to keep you

from advocating the expenditure of many millions of the people's money

upon more battle-ships. In a word, we have been working together to

prevent you from passing the Navy Increase Bill.”

Sir Andrew's face bloomed with brilliant color. His body shook with

suppressed emotion.

“My dear sir!” he cried, “you should spend more time at the House and

less at your Club. The Navy Bill was brought up on its third reading

at eight o'clock this evening. I spoke for three hours in its favor. My

only reason for wishing to return again to the House to-night was to sup

on the terrace with my old friend, Admiral Simons; for my work at the

House was completed five hours ago, when the Navy Increase Bill was

passed by an overwhelming majority.”

The Baronet rose and bowed. “I have to thank you, sir,” he said, “for a

most interesting evening.”

The American shoved the wine-card which Joseph had given him toward the

gentleman with the black pearl.

“You sign it,” he said.