COUNT VON BEILSTEIN AT HOME.
Karl von Beilstein sat in his own comfortable saddlebag-chair, in his
chambers in the Albany, lazily twisting a cigarette.
On a table at his elbow was spread sheet 319 of the Ordnance Survey Map
of England, which embraced that part of Sussex where the enemy were
encamped. With red and blue pencils he had been making mystic marks upon
it, and had at last laid it aside with a smile of satisfaction.
"She thought she had me in her power," he muttered ominously to himself.
"The wolf! If she knew everything, she could make me crave again at her
feet for mercy. Happily she is in ignorance; therefore that trip to a
more salubrious climate that I anticipated is for the present postponed.
I have silenced her, and am still master of the situation--still the
agent of the Tsar!" Uttering a low laugh, he gave his cigarette a final
twist, and then regarded it critically.
The door opened to admit his valet, Grevel.
"A message from the Embassy. The man is waiting," he said.
His master opened the note which was handed to him, read it with
contracted brows, and said--
"Tell him that the matter shall be arranged as quickly as possible."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing. I am leaving London, and shall not be back for a week--perhaps
longer."
With a slight yawn he rose and passed into his dressing-room, while his
servant went to deliver his message to the man in waiting. The note had
produced a marked effect upon the spy. It was an order from his
taskmasters in St. Petersburg. He knew it must be obeyed. Every moment
was of vital consequence in carrying out the very delicate mission
intrusted to him, a mission which it would require all his tact and
cunning to execute.
In a quarter of an hour he emerged into his sitting-room again, so
completely disguised that even his most intimate acquaintances would
have failed to recognise him. Attired in rusty black, with clean shaven
face and walking with a scholarly stoop, he had transformed himself from
the foppish man-about-town to a needy country parson, whose cheap boots
were down at heel, and in the lappel of whose coat was displayed a piece
of worn and faded blue.
"Listen, Pierre," he said to his man, who entered at his summons. "While
I am away keep your eyes and ears open. If there is a shadow of
suspicion in any quarter, burn all my papers, send me warning through
the Embassy, and clear out yourself without delay. Should matters assume
a really dangerous aspect, you must get down to the Russian lines, where
they will pass you through, and put you on board one of our ships."
"Has the Ministry at Petersburg promised us protection at last?"
"Yes; we have nothing to fear. When the game is up among these lambs, we
shall calmly go over to the other side and witness the fun."
"In what direction are you now going?"
"I don't know," replied the spy, as he unlocked a drawer in a small
cabinet in a niche by the fireplace and took from it a long Circassian
knife. Drawing the bright blade from its leathern sheath, he felt its
keen double edge with his fingers.
It was like a razor.
"A desperate errand--eh?" queried the valet, with a grin, noticing how
carefully the Count placed the murderous weapon in his inner pocket.
"Yes," he answered. "Desperate. A word sometimes means death."
And the simple rural vicar strode out and down the stairs, leaving the
crafty Pierre in wonderment.
"Bah!" the latter exclaimed in disgust, when the receding footsteps had
died away. "So you vainly imagine, my dear Karl, that you have your heel
upon my neck, do you? It is good for me that you don't give me credit
for being a little more wideawake, otherwise you would see that you are
raking the chestnuts from the fire for me. _Bien!_ I am silent, docile,
obedient; I merely wait for you to burn your fingers, then the whole of
the money will be mine to enjoy, while you will be in the only land
where the Tsar does not require secret agents. Vain, avaricious fool!
_You'll be in your grave!_"
Von Beilstein meanwhile sped along down the Haymarket and Pall Mall to
Whitehall. The clock on the stone tower of the Horse Guards showed it
was one o'clock, and, with apparently aimless purpose, he lounged about
on the broad pavement outside Old Scotland Yard, immediately opposite
the dark facade of the Admiralty. His hawk's eye carefully scrutinised
every single person of the busy throng entering or leaving the building.
There was great activity at the naval headquarters, and the courtyard
was crowded with persons hurrying in and out. Presently, after a short
but vigilant watch, he turned quickly so as to be unobserved, and moved
slowly away.
The cause of this sudden manoeuvre was the appearance of a well-dressed,
dark-bearded man of about forty, having the appearance of a naval
officer in mufti, who emerged hastily from the building with a handbag
in his hand, and crossed the courtyard to the kerb, where he stood
looking up and down the thoroughfare.
"My man!" exclaimed von Beilstein, under his breath. "He wants a cab. I
wonder where he's going?"
Five minutes later the naval officer was in a hansom, driving towards
Westminster Bridge, while, at a little distance behind, the Tsar's agent
was following in another conveyance. Once on the trail, the Count never
left his quarry. Crossing the bridge, they drove on rapidly through the
crowded, turbulent streets of South London to the Elephant and Castle,
and thence down the Old Kent Road to the New Cross Station of the
South-Eastern Railway.
As a protest against the action of the Government, and in order to
prevent the enemy from establishing direct communication with London in
case of British reverses, the lines from the metropolis to the south had
been wrecked by the Anarchists. On the Chatham and Dover Railway, Penge
tunnel had been blown up, on the Brighton line two bridges near Croydon
had been similarly treated, and on the South-Eastern four bridges in
Rotherhithe and Bermondsey had been broken up and rendered impassable by
dynamite, while at Haysden, outside Tunbridge, the rails had also been
torn up for a considerable distance. Therefore traffic to the south from
London termini had been suspended, and the few persons travelling were
compelled to take train at the stations in the remoter southern suburbs.
As the unsuspecting officer stepped into the booking-office, his
attention was not attracted by the quiet and seedy clergyman who lounged
near enough to overhear him purchase a first-class ticket for Deal. When
he had descended to the platform the spy obtained a third-class ticket
to the same destination, and leisurely followed him. Travelling by the
same train, they were compelled to alight at Haysden and walk over the
wrecked permanent way into Tunbridge, from which place they journeyed to
Deal, arriving there about six o'clock. Throughout, it was apparent to
the crafty watcher that the man he was following was doing his utmost to
escape observation, and this surmise was strengthened by his actions on
arriving at the quaint old town, now half ruined; for, instead of going
to a first-class hotel, he walked on until he came to Middle Street,--a
narrow little thoroughfare, redolent of fish, running parallel with the
sea,--and took up quarters at the Mariners' Rest Inn. It was a low,
old-fashioned little place, with sanded floors, a smoke-blackened
taproom, a rickety time-mellowed bar, with a comfortable little parlour
beyond.
In this latter room, used in common by the guests, on the following day
the visitor from London first met the shabby parson from Canterbury. The
man from the Admiralty seemed in no mood for conversation; nevertheless,
after a preliminary chat upon the prospect of the invasion, they
exchanged cards, and the vicar gradually became confidential. With a
pious air he related how he had been to Canterbury to conduct a revival
mission which had turned out marvellously successful, crowds having to
be turned away at every service, and how he was now enjoying a week's
vacation before returning to his poor but extensive parish in
Hertfordshire.
"I came to this inn, because I am bound to practise a most rigid
economy," he added. "I am charmed with it. One sees so much character
here in these rough toilers of the sea."
"Yes," replied his friend, whose card bore the words "Commander Yerbery,
R.N." "Being a sailor myself, I prefer this homely little inn, with its
fisher folk as customers, to a more pretentious and less comfortable
establishment."
"Are you remaining here long?" asked his clerical friend.
"I--I really don't know," answered the officer hesitatingly. "Possibly a
day or so."
The spy did not pursue the subject further, but conducted himself with
an amiability which caused his fellow-traveller to regard him as "a real
good fellow for a parson." Together they smoked the long clays of the
hostelry, they sat in the taproom of an evening and conversed with the
fishermen who congregated there, and frequently strolled along by the
shore to Walmer, or through the fields to Cottingham Court Farm, or
Sholden. Constantly, however, Commander Yerbery kept his eyes seaward.
Was he apprehensive lest Russian ironclads should return, and again
bombard the little town; or was he expecting some mysterious signal from
some ship in the Downs?