THE SPY.
Count von Beilstein was a polished cosmopolitan. He was in many ways a
very remarkable man.
In London society he was as popular as he had previously been in Paris
and in Berlin. Well-preserved and military-looking, he retained the
vigour, high spirits, and spruce step of youth, spent his money freely,
and led the almost idyllic life of a careless bachelor in the Albany.
Since his partnership with Sir Joseph Vayne, the well-known shipowner,
father of Geoffrey's _fiancee_, he had taken up a prominent position in
commercial circles, was a member of the London Chamber of Commerce, took
an active part in the various deliberations of that body, and in the
City was considered a man of considerable importance.
How we of the world, however shrewd, are deceived by outward
appearances!
Of the millions in London there were but two men who knew the truth; who
were aware of the actual position held by this German landed proprietor.
Indeed, the Count's friends little dreamed that under the outward cloak
of careless ease induced by wealth there was a mind endowed with a
cunning that was extraordinary, and an ingenuity that was marvellous.
Truth to tell, Karl von Beilstein, who posed as the owner of the great
Beilstein estates, extending along the beautiful valley of the
Moselle, between Alf and Cochem, was not an aristocrat at all, and
possessed no estate more tangible than the proverbial chateau in Spain.
[Illustration: "COUNT VON BEILSTEIN WAS A SPY!"]
Count von Beilstein was a _spy_!
His life had been a strangely varied one; few men perhaps had seen more
of the world. His biography was recorded in certain police registers.
Born in the Jews' quarter at Frankfort, he had, at an early age, turned
adventurer, and for some years was well known at Monte Carlo as a
successful gamester. But the Fickle Goddess at last forsook him, and
under another name he started a bogus loan office in Brussels. This,
however, did not last long, for the police one night made a raid on the
place, only to discover that Monsieur had flown. An extensive robbery of
diamonds in Amsterdam, a theft of bonds while in transit between Hanover
and Berlin, and the forgery of a large quantity of Russian rouble notes,
were events which followed in quick succession, and in each of them the
police detected the adroit hand of the man who now called himself the
Count von Beilstein. At last, by sheer ill-luck, he fell into the grip
of the law.
He was in St. Petersburg, where he had opened an office in the Bolshaia,
and started as a diamond dealer. After a few genuine transactions he
obtained possession of gems worth nearly L20,000, and decamped.
But the Russian police were quickly at his heels, and he was arrested in
Riga, being subsequently tried and condemned by the Assize Court at St.
Petersburg to twelve years' exile in Siberia. In chains, with a convoy
of convicts he crossed the Urals, and tramped for weeks on the
snow-covered Siberian Post Road.
His name still appears on the register at the forwarding prison of
Tomsk, with a note stating that he was sent on to the silver mines of
Nertchinsk, the most dreaded in Asiatic Russia.
Yet, strangely enough, within twelve months of his sentence he appeared
at Royat-les-Bains, in Auvergne, posing as a Count, and living
expensively at one of the best hotels.
There was a reason for all this. The Russian Government, when he was
sentenced, were well aware of his perfect training as a cosmopolitan
adventurer, of his acquaintance with persons of rank, and of his cool
unscrupulousness. Hence it was that one night while on the march along
the Great Post Road to that bourne whence few convicts return, it was
hinted to him by the captain of Cossacks, that he might obtain his
liberty, and a good income in addition, if he consented to become a
secret agent of the Tsar.
The authorities desired him to perform a special duty; would he consent?
He could exchange a life of heavy toil in the Nertchinsk mines for one
of comparative idleness and ease. The offer was tempting, and he
accepted.
That same night it was announced to his fellow-convicts that the Tsar
had pardoned him; his leg-fetters were thereupon struck off, and he
started upon his return to St. Petersburg to receive instructions as to
the delicate mission he was to perform.
It was then, for the first time, that he became the Count von Beilstein,
and his subsequent actions all betrayed the most remarkable daring,
forethought, and tact. With one object in view he exercised an amount of
patience that was almost incredible. One or two minor missions were
entrusted to him by his official taskmasters on the banks of the Neva,
and in each he acquitted himself satisfactorily. Apparently he was a
thoroughly patriotic subject of the Kaiser, with tastes strongly
anti-Muscovite, and after his partnership with Sir Joseph Vayne he
resided in London, and mixed a good deal with military men, because he
had, he said, held a commission in a Hussar regiment in the Fatherland,
and took the liveliest interest in all military matters.
Little did those officers dream that the information he gained about
improvements in England's defences was forwarded in regular and
carefully-written reports to the Russian War Office, or that the Tsar's
messenger who carried weekly despatches between the Russian Ambassador
in London and his Government frequently took with him a packet
containing plans and tracings which bore marginal notes in the angular
handwriting of the popular Count von Beilstein!
Early in the morning of this memorable day when the startling news of
the Declaration of War had reached England, a telegram had been handed
to the Tsar's secret agent while he was still in bed.
He read it through; then stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling.
The message, in code, from Berlin, stated that a draft of a most
important treaty between Germany and England had been despatched from
the German Foreign Office, and would arrive in London that day. The
message concluded with the words, "It is imperative that we should have
a copy of this document, or at least a summary of its contents,
immediately."
Although sent from Berlin, the Count was well aware that it was an order
from the Foreign Minister in St. Petersburg, the message being
transmitted to Berlin first, and then retransmitted to London, in order
to avoid any suspicion that might arise in the case of messages
exchanged direct with the Russian capital. Having read the telegram
through several times, he whistled to himself, rose quickly, dressed,
and breakfasted. While having his meal, he gave some instructions to
Grevel, his valet, and sent him out upon an errand, at the same time
expressing his intention of waiting in until his return.
"Remember," the Count said, as his man was going out, "be careful to
arouse no suspicion. Simply make your inquiries in the proper quarter,
and come back immediately."
At half-past twelve o'clock, as Geoffrey Engleheart was busy writing
alone in his room at the Foreign Office, he was interrupted by the
opening of the door.
"Hulloa, dear boy! I've found my way up here by myself. Busy, as usual,
I see!" cried a cheery voice as the door slowly opened, and Geoffrey
looking up saw it was his friend the Count, well groomed and fashionably
attired in glossy silk hat, perfect-fitting frock coat, and varnished
boots. He called very frequently upon Engleheart, and had long ago
placed himself on excellent terms with the messengers and doorkeepers,
who looked upon him as a most generous visitor.
"Oh, how are you?" Engleheart exclaimed, rising and shaking his hand.
"You must really forgive me, Count, but I quite forgot my appointment
with you to-day."
"Oh, don't let me disturb you, pray. I'll have a glance at the paper
till you've finished," and casting himself into a chair near the window
he took up the _Times_ and was soon absorbed in it.
A quarter of an hour went by in silence, while Engleheart wrote on,
calmly unconscious that there was a small rent in the newspaper the
Count was reading, and that through it he could plainly see each word of
the treaty as it was transcribed from the secret code and written down
in plain English.
"Will you excuse me for ten minutes?" Geoffrey exclaimed presently. "The
Cabinet Council is sitting, and I have to run over to see Lord Stanbury
for a moment. After I return I must make another copy of this paper, and
then I shall be free."
The Count, casting the newspaper wearily aside, glanced at his watch.
"It's half-past one," he said. "You'll be another half-hour, if not
more. After all, I really think, old fellow, I'll go on down to
Hurlingham. I arranged to meet the Vaynes at two o'clock."
"All right. I'll run down in a cab as soon as I can get away," answered
Engleheart.
"Good. Come on as soon as you can. Violet will be expecting you, you
know."
"Of course I shall," replied his unsuspicious friend, and they shook
hands, after which the Count put on his hat and sauntered jauntily out.
In Parliament Street he jumped into his phaeton, but instead of driving
to Hurlingham gave his man orders to proceed with all speed to the
General Post Office, St. Martin's-le-Grand. Within half an hour from the
time he had shaken the hand of his unsuspecting friend, a message in
code--to all intents and purposes a commercial despatch--was on its way
to "Herr Brandt, 116 Friedrich Strasse, Berlin."
That message contained an exact transcript of the secret treaty!
[Illustration: THE RUSSIAN SPY'S TELEGRAM.]
Almost immediately after the Count had left, Geoffrey made a discovery.
From the floor he picked up a small gold pencil-case which he knew
belonged to von Beilstein.
Engleheart was sorely puzzled to know why the Count should require a
pencil if not to write, and it momentarily flashed across his mind that
he might have copied portions of the treaty. But the next minute he
dismissed the suspicion as ungrounded and preposterous, and placing the
pencil in his pocket went in search of Lord Stanbury.
It was only the statement he read in the _People_ later, alleging
treachery at the Foreign Office, that recalled the incident to his mind.
Then the horrible truth dawned upon him. He saw how probable it was that
he had been tricked.
He knew that the mine was already laid; that the only thing that had
prevented an explosion that would shake the whole world had been the
absence of definite knowledge as to the exact terms of the alliance
between England, Germany, Italy, and Austria.