A DEATH DRAUGHT.
On several occasions the spy had, with artful ingenuity, endeavoured to
discover the object of Commander Yerbery's sojourn, but upon that point
he preserved a silence that was impenetrable. In their wanderings about
the town they saw on every side the havoc caused by the bombardment
which had taken place three days previously. Whole rows of houses facing
the sea had been carried away by the enemy's shells, and the once
handsome church spire was now a mere heap of smouldering debris. The
barracks, which had been one of the objects of attack, had suffered most
severely. Melinite had been projected into them, exploding with
devastating effect, and demolishing the buildings, which fell like packs
of cards. Afterwards, the enemy had sailed away, apparently thinking the
strategical position of the place worthless.
And all this had been brought about by this despicable villain--the man
who had now wrapped himself in the cloak of sanctity, and who, beaming
with well-feigned good fellowship, walked arm-in-arm with the man upon
whom he was keeping the most vigilant observation! By night sleep
scarcely came to his eyes, but in his little room, with its clean
old-fashioned dimity blinds and hangings, he lay awake,--scheming,
planning, plotting, preparing for the master-stroke.
One morning, after they had been there three days, he stood alone in
his bedroom with the door closed. From his inner pocket he drew forth
the keen Circassian blade that reposed there, and gazed thoughtfully
upon it.
"No," he muttered, suddenly rousing himself, as if a thought had
suddenly occurred to him. "He is strong. He might shout, and then I
should be caught like a rat in a trap."
Replacing the knife in his pocket, he took from his vest a tiny phial he
always carried; then, after noiselessly locking the door, he took from
the same pocket a small cube of lump sugar. Standing by the window he
uncorked the little bottle, and with steady hand allowed one single drop
of the colourless liquid to escape and fall upon the sugar, which
quickly absorbed it, leaving a small darkened stain. This sugar he
placed in a locked drawer to dry, and, putting away the phial, descended
to join his companion.
That night they were sitting together in the private parlour behind the
bar, smoking and chatting. It was an old-fashioned, smoke-begrimed room,
with low oak ceiling and high wainscot,--a room in which many a seafarer
had found rest and comfort after the toils and perils of the deep, a
room in which many a stirring tale of the sea has been related, and in
which one of our best-known nautical writers has gathered materials for
his stirring ocean romances.
Although next the bar, there is no entrance on that side, neither is
there any glass, therefore the apartment is entirely secluded from the
public portion of the inn. At midnight the hearty Boniface and his wife
and servant had retired, and the place was silent, but the officer and
his fellow-guest still sat with their pipes. The parson, as became one
who exhibited the blue pledge of temperance in his coat, sipped his
coffee, while the other had whisky, lemon, and a small jug of hot water
beside him. The spy had been using the sugar, and the basin was close to
his hand.
His companion presently made a movement to reach it, when the
pleasant-spoken vicar took up the tongs quickly, saying--
"Allow me to assist you. One lump?"
"Yes, thanks," replied the other, holding his glass for the small cube
to be thrown in. Then he added the lemon, whisky, and hot water.
Beilstein, betraying no excitement, continued the conversation, calmly
refilled his pipe, and watched his companion sip the deadly potion.
Karl von Beilstein had reduced poisoning to a fine art.
Not a muscle of his face contracted, though his keen eyes never left the
other's countenance.
They talked on, the Commander apparently unaffected by the draught; his
friend smilingly complacent and confident.
Suddenly, without warning, the officer's face grew ashen pale and
serious. A violent tremor shook his stalwart frame.
"I--I feel very strange," he cried, with difficulty. "A most curious
sensation has come over me--a sensation as if--as if--ah! heavens! Help,
help!--I--I can't breathe!"
The mild-mannered parson jumped to his feet, and stood before his
friend, watching the hideous contortions of his face.
"Assistance!" his victim gasped, sinking inertly back in the high-backed
Windsor arm-chair. "Fetch me a doctor--quick."
But the man addressed took no heed of the appeal. He stood calmly by,
contemplating with satisfaction his villainous work.
"Can't you see--I'm ill?" the dying man cried in a feeble, piteous
voice. "My throat and head are burning. Give me water--_water_!"
Still the spy remained motionless.
"You--you refuse to assist me--you scoundrel! Ah!" he cried hoarsely, in
dismay. "Ah! I see it all now! _God! You've poisoned me!_"
With a frantic effort he half-raised himself in his chair, but fell back
in a heap; his arms hanging helplessly at his side. His breath came and
went in short hard gasps; the death-rattle was already in his throat,
and with one long deep-drawn sigh the last breath left the body, and the
light gradually died out of the agonised face.
Quick as thought the Count unbuttoned the dead man's coat, and
searching his pockets took out a large white official envelope bearing
in the corner the blue stamp of the Admiralty. It was addressed to "Sir
Michael Culme-Seymour, Admiral commanding the Channel Squadron," and was
marked "Private."
"Good!" ejaculated the spy, as he tore open the envelope. "I was not
mistaken, after all! He was waiting until the flagship came into the
Downs to deliver it."
The envelope contained a letter accompanied by a chart of the South
Coast, upon which were certain marks at intervals in red with minute
directions, as well as a copy of the code of secret signals in which
some slight alterations had lately been made.
"What fortune!" cried the Count gleefully, after reading the note.
"Their plans and the secret of their signals, too, are now ours! The
Embassy were correct in their surmise. With these the French and Russian
ships will be able to act swiftly, and sweep the British from the sea.
Now for London as quickly as possible, for the information will be
absolutely invaluable."
Without a final glance at the corpse, huddled up in its chair, he put on
his hat, and stealing noiselessly from the house, set out in the
moonlight to walk swiftly by way of Great Mongeham and Waldershare to
Shepherd's Well station, whence he could get by train to London.
The immense importance of these secret documents he had not overrated.
Their possession would enable the Russian ships to decipher many of the
hitherto mysterious British signals.
The spy had accomplished his mission!