SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA’S SECRET.
On the kerb in the Strand, opposite the entrance to the Gaiety Theatre, I
was, one wet winter’s night, selling newspapers.
Ill-clad and unwashed, I lounged about with the cab touts who were
waiting for the conclusion of the performance, and although for the past
hour I had shouted the contents of the papers under my arm, I had only
sold three copies. The dirty ragged rabble from the slums off Drury Lane
eyed me with askance as a new hand, little suspecting that I was acting
the part of detective.
I was engaged in watching one of my compatriots who had recently arrived
in England, and whom the Party regarded with suspicion. Ostensibly he was
the agent of a firm of merchants in Moscow, but from secret information
we had received from the Circle in that city, we shrewdly suspected that
his real mission was that of agent of Secret Police. Owing to his failure
to discover the authors of the plot at the Winter Palace, Guibaud had
been summarily dismissed from the service, and we believed that this
man who called himself Albert Jacolliot was his successor. The vigilant
observation which for the past fortnight I had kept upon him went to show
conclusively that he was in London on some secret errand.
Assuming all sorts of disguises, I had watched him continuously since the
first hour we had received warning that he was near us, and under the
pretence of selling newspapers, I was now awaiting his reappearance so
that I might follow him.
Whilst standing on the kerb, wet and uncomfortable, gazing wistfully into
the warm, brilliantly-lit vestibule, a tall, beautiful girl descended the
broad flight of stairs. She was in evening dress, with a pink opera-cloak
around her shoulders, and a black lace shawl over her head. Slight and
delicate, she had large brown lustrous eyes, wavy hair, a firm mouth, and
a nose that was just tip-tilted enough to give the face an expression of
piquancy.
Several touts rushed up to her, crying, “Keb or kerrige, lady?” But she
took no heed. Standing at the entrance for a moment she looked anxiously
up and down, and then espied me.
Drawing her cloak closer around her, she walked across to where I stood.
“Paper, lady?” I asked. “_Globe_, _Echo_, _Star_?”
“Give me anything you like, Anton Prèhznev,” she replied in Russian,
at the same time uttering a pass-word that is known to the Russian
Revolutionary Party throughout the world.
I stood for a moment amazed. Noticing my surprise, she exclaimed in a low
tone, “Give me a paper.”
I gave her one, and in return she handed me a penny and a piece of paper
folded small.
“An order from the Executive—conceal it,” she said, and turning quickly,
entered a hansom that was standing near and drove away.
Presently, when no one was watching, I walked up Catherine Street and
opened the note under a street lamp.
The contents were brief, but to the point.
“The bearer is Sophie Zagarovna. Call upon her at 11 a.m. to-morrow at
76, The Terrace, Richmond, and render all assistance possible.—PAUL
PÉTROFF.”
Sophie Zagarovna! I knew her by reputation and had been anxious to
meet her, for she was one of the most daring of the Zurich Nihilists.
The boldness and success of her plots had more than once caused them
to be a source of comment throughout the world. It was she who, alone
and unaided, entrapped General Yagodkin, Chief of the Moscow Police,
and shot him dead because of the wholesale arrests of innocent persons
which he made after the attempt to wreck the Winter Palace. For the past
three years she had lived in Zurich, where she had been the idol of the
students. Young, refined, and eminently beautiful, she was queen of that
centre of learning, and the Russians and Germans studying at the colleges
vied with one another to secure her smiles. She knew well the advantages
of beauty, and influenced her young admirers to join the Party,
afterwards prevailing upon them to go to Russia and perform various risky
missions.
In more than one instance a young man, madly in love with her and
enthusiastic in the cause of freedom, had journeyed to the land of his
birth determined to strike a blow against Tzardom in order to secure her
favour, yet, alas! the result has been fatal—either death, or the mines.
Vain, and fond of admiration, she had numbers worshipping at her shrine,
yet through all the breath of scandal had never touched her. Indeed, so
intensely bent was she upon her purpose, that her heart appeared steeled
against love, and she treated those who paid her court with queenly
reserve. Of her parentage or real name nothing was known except that she
took the oath in Petersburg and afterwards went to Switzerland, where she
speedily developed into one of the most fearless of Terrorists.
I returned to the theatre-entrance after reading the order from Pétroff.
I saw my man emerge, and followed him to the Westminster Palace Hotel,
where he was staying.
Punctually at the time appointed, I was ushered into a pretty
sitting-room at Richmond, the windows of which commanded a broad view of
the Terrace Gardens and the picturesque valley of the Thames. In a few
moments Sophie Zagarovna entered, and greeting me with a winning smile
and pleasant words, sat down and commenced to chat.
“I am here, in England, upon a secret mission from our Circle,” she said
in Russian, replying to my inquiries. “The Executive have recommended you
as one who can assist me. It is for our Cause, but its true object must
not be known just yet. You must understand that it is not because you are
distrusted, but because there are spies in the very walls. Will you help
me?”
“For the Cause—yes,” I replied.
“Then listen. For the future I shall be known as Sophie Kalatenka,
daughter of the late General Kalatenka, Governor of Smolensk, and you are
my brother Ivan. We shall both change our residence and live at a West
End boarding-house, where the other boarders will know us as brother and
sister.”
“Yes,” I said, puzzled.
“You wonder why?” she added, arching her brows and laughing. “Well, you
will see. No one knows you at the Embassy, do they?”
“No.”
“Then leave all to me, and we shall succeed.”
I remained and lunched with her, spending a very pleasant couple of hours
discussing the prospects of the revolutionary programme, and criticising
its weak points. Then I took leave of her, promising to meet her in
London on the morrow.
Two months later we were one night guests at a grand ball given at the
Russian Embassy, Chesham House.
I had assumed the character of the handsome girl’s brother, and we had
taken up our quarters at an expensive boarding-house at South Kensington.
By means unknown to me Sophie had procured invitations for us both, and
it was about ten o’clock when we alighted from our hired carriage, and
shortly afterwards entered the fine ball-room. The uniforms of the men
added brilliancy to the gay scene, but among the women there was not one
so beautiful as my “sister,” who, attired in a dress of pale heliotrope,
looked fresh and fair as a spring flower.
Soon we were parted, and for the first hour I only caught occasional
glimpses of her as she waltzed with various partners. Her flushed face
betokened pleasure, and she laughed merrily at me over her partner’s
shoulder.
Later in the evening, when I grew tired of dancing, I sought the quietude
of the conservatory, which led out from an adjoining room. Casting myself
upon a seat behind a great palm, where I was completely hidden from view,
I gave myself up to reflection, vaguely wondering what was the nature of
Sophie’s secret mission.
Once, when she had been left alone for a moment during an interval, I sat
beside her, and asked how she was enjoying herself.
“Very much,” she replied in a low whisper behind her fan. “If a tragedy
occurs to-night, you need not be surprised.”
This warning puzzled me.
Suddenly, words broke on my ear. I was not alone, as I had imagined. As I
listened I heard a man’s short, derisive laugh as he replied to an eager
question put by a woman.
I recognised the tones of the latter as those of Sophie.
“Then you are not afraid of these murderous Nihilists?” she was asking.
“Are they not dreadful people?”
“Bah!” he replied confidently. “We are fully able to cope with such scum.
Siberia is large enough to hold them all, and before long we shall stamp
out the spirit of revolt from among the scoundrels. I myself have sent
dozens of Nihilists to the mines, and for that reason my life has been
threatened.”
“And you are not afraid of their vengeance?” she inquired.
“Scarcely,” he replied, laughing. “The cowardly idiots dare not touch me.”
“But they are fearless,” she observed. “Their emissaries are everywhere.
They might kill you!”
“They are perfectly at liberty to do their worst,” he replied grimly.
“But why talk of such a subject, when all here are so gay? You look
charming!”
“Thanks for the compliment,” she said. “But to hear about Nihilists
always interests me. I suppose you sometimes discover plots, do you not?”
“Yes, very often,” he answered. “Indeed, I am causing investigations to
be made now, at Moscow, and have obtained information which implicates
between thirty and forty persons. I shall be returning to Russia in about
a fortnight, and as the life of the Tzar must be protected, I shall
give orders for the arrest and transportation of the whole batch of
conspirators. But surely one so happy as yourself ought not to trouble
your head about such things,” he added, laughing.
Then I heard him utter words of love, and the sound of a kiss fell upon
my ear.
Presently, when he had declared his affection, and she had admitted in
faltering tones that she loved him, they rose and passed out into the
ball-room. I followed them unobserved.
The man upon whose arm she leaned, radiant and content, was Captain
Feodor Matvyèich, a tall fellow of thirty-five, with a well-shaped head,
and in whose fiery grey eyes there lurked a joyous twinkle, which told
of a right merry nature within. He was the very incarnation of robust,
mirthful manhood, and I knew that during the brief period he had been in
England he had been exceedingly popular among the attachés. I had no
idea, however, that he was the Chief of the Secret Police of Moscow, and
that he was in London endeavouring to elucidate some mystery connected
with the plot he had discovered.
When, shortly before the dawn, Sophie and I were driving home, I remarked
that the Captain was a pleasant fellow, in order to cause her to talk of
him.
But with a pre-occupied air she merely answered, “Yes, charming.” Then
she turned our conversation into a different channel.
A few days later Matvyèich called, and I was introduced by Sophie as her
brother. Soon he became a constant visitor, and we three frequently dined
and afterwards went to places of amusement together.
As time went on it was plain that Sophie’s love for him increased, while
on his part he adored her, sending her boxes of choice flowers daily, and
making her several costly presents of jewellery. I became more puzzled as
to the object of her mission by an event which occurred about three weeks
later. I had been out during the day, and returned about seven o’clock.
As I passed the door of our sitting-room I noticed that it was ajar, and
pushing it open, entered noiselessly.
Sophie, who did not notice my entrance, stood facing the fire, bending
and examining intently something she held in her hand.
Creeping up behind her, and peeping over her shoulder, I saw, to my
surprise, that she held in her hand a morocco case, containing a pretty
ornament, evidently intended for the adornment of the hair. It was in the
shape of a rapier, the tapering blade being of steel, while the hilt was
set with diamonds.
Intending to frighten her, I suddenly grasped her wrist, and snatched the
ornament from its bed of crimson satin.
“_Dieu!_” she cried, “I—I didn’t know you were here, Anton. You startled
me!”
“What a pretty pin,” I remarked. “Where did you get it from?”
“It is mine,” she replied.
At that moment I made pretence of lunging at her with it, when she shrank
back with expressions of fear and repugnance that amazed me.
“Is it sharp?” I inquired, feeling the point with my thumb.
“_Gran’ Dieu!_ what would you do? You will kill yourself!” she cried in
alarm.
“What do you mean?” I asked, as she wrested the pin from my fingers.
“I mean that a puncture with this would prove fatal,” she said in a low,
serious tone. “You understand?”
“Is it poisoned, then?”
She nodded her head, and, holding the pin nearer the shaded lamp, showed
that for about an inch from the point it was discoloured by some black
substance.
“Why do you carry about such a dangerous weapon?”
“Cannot you guess?” she asked hoarsely, at the same time unbuttoning the
breast of her dress, and drawing forth a letter, which she handed me.
Then she sank into a chair, and covering her face with her small white
hands, burst into tears.
The letter was in Russian. It acknowledged receipt of the facts regarding
Feodor Matvyèich, and stated that the death sentence had been passed upon
him. Appended was the warrant of the Moscow Circle, ordering her to kill
him.
In a moment the object of her secret mission was plain.
“And you love him, Sophie?” I said in a low tone.
“Yes,” she sobbed. “I came here to discover how he intended to act on
his return to Moscow. I have betrayed him, and the Circle have passed
sentence. In spite of myself, I have grown to love him, and must save
him. But how can I? To warn him would be to place the whole Circle in
danger, besides bringing the vengeance of the Party upon myself.”
Jumping up, she paced the room excitedly, while I stood watching her
sorrowfully, unable to give advice or render assistance.
As I stood, meditative and silent, a servant entered with a card. She
glanced at it, drew a long breath, and exclaimed, “Captain Matvyèich!
Show him up!”
Closing the little morocco case with a snap, she put it quickly into the
pocket of her dress, and replaced the letter in her breast. Scarcely had
she rebuttoned her bodice, when Feodor entered, and she went forward to
meet him with a smile and an expression of glad welcome. He grasped her
hand—the hand that was ordered to deal the death-blow!
Then he greeted me, and we seated ourselves before the fire.
“Well,” he said, after we had been conversing for several minutes, “this
is my last visit here.”
“Are you going away?” asked Sophie, in dismay.
“Yes, dearest, I start for Moscow to-morrow. I have some important work
to perform, and have come to-night to wish you farewell.”
“So soon?” she said sorrowfully. “When will you return?”
“Perhaps never. I only came here to endeavour to discover a woman whose
Christian name was the same as your own.”
“What did you want with her?”
“To arrest her, and demand her extradition. It was she who killed my
predecessor—General Yagodkin.”
“Ah, I remember,” I said. “She escaped from Russia.”
“Yes, she’s a most dangerous Nihilist, and many recent plots have been
due to her inventative genius. If I find her she will go to the gallows.”
“Oh, don’t talk of such horrors, Feodor!” exclaimed Sophie, who had
turned somewhat pale, and involuntarily shuddered. “How cold it is! I
must go and get a shawl.”
And she rose and went out.
For nearly half an hour she was absent, while Matvyèich and I smoked,
drank our whiskys and sodas, and chatted. Then she returned, and together
we wished him farewell and _bon voyage_.
Several weeks passed. Sophie and I, by means of false passports, had
journeyed to Moscow. She had decided to run all risks in warning her
lover of his impending danger, and had persuaded me to accompany her, in
order to allay suspicion. We had taken up our quarters at the Hôtel de
Dresde, and frequented the boulevards and summer gardens daily, in order
to meet him alone, for we dare not call at the Bureau of Police.
By means only known to the members of our Party we were quickly
introduced into the circle of official society, in order that Sophie
might complete her mission. One evening we accepted an invitation to dine
at the house of a wealthy merchant who lived in the Bolshoi Dmietriefka,
having previously ascertained that Feodor Matvyèich was also to be a
guest.
His surprise and pleasure were unbounded when we met prior to going
in to dinner. Sophie looked bewitching and brilliant in a well-fitting
evening gown, with her hair dressed in Grecian fashion; but one thing
caused me alarm. She wore in her hair the poisoned ornament.
The dinner party was a large one, and Matvyèich sat between myself and
my “sister.” Over the meal we chatted merrily, she explaining how, owing
to financial business connected with her late father’s estate, she had
been compelled to travel to Russia. After we had joined the ladies in
the drawing-room I saw her in earnest conversation with him, and noticed
that they presently walked together into an adjoining room, which was
unoccupied. From her movements and agitated manner I surmised that
the time had come when she intended to warn him, therefore I followed
noiselessly, and overheard their conversation.
“Well, _ma chère_, what is this great secret of yours?” he asked, smiling
and balancing himself upon the edge of the table.
“Hush!” she whispered. “Some one may hear us. If they did, it would be
fatal.”
“What do you mean? Why all this mystery?”
“I mean that you are condemned to die!”
“To die?”
“Yes. You will die in the same manner as General Yagodkin. The Nihilists
have condemned you.”
“Tell me—how do you know?” he asked, breathlessly excited, and pale with
alarm.
“Hush!” she urged. “Speak lower. I—I know you love me, Feodor. I have not
forgotten your words when in London. You asked me to be your wife; but,
alas! I can never be more to you than what I am—a friend—although we love
one another so well.”
Her voice faltered as she spoke; the last words of the sentence were
almost lost in choking sobs.
“And why?” he asked, slipping his arm around her waist and drawing her
head down upon his gold-braided uniform coat.
She shuddered, gently disengaging herself from his embrace.
“Listen,” she said, in a hoarse, fierce whisper. “I have journeyed here,
to Moscow, on purpose to warn you of your danger. I leave to-night, and
you will never again see me. I am here at great risk, for my life would
be taken by the Terrorists if they knew I had given you warning; whereas,
if the Bureau of the Third Section knew of my presence on Russian soil,
they would undoubtedly arrest me.”
“Who, then, are you?” asked the Captain, in surprise.
“You know me, surely?” she answered, with a harsh, strained laugh.
At that moment I heard voices behind me, and, turning quickly, saw three
police officers in uniform at the door.
“There she is!” cried one. “I recognise her.”
“Yes; let us enter.”
Brushing past me, the men unceremoniously burst into the room.
“What means this intrusion?” demanded Matvyèich fiercely.
The men saluted, but before they could explain a grey-headed man in
ordinary dress pushed forward, and, walking up to my “sister,” exclaimed—
“Sophie Zagarovna! I arrest you for murder, by order of our Imperial
Master, the Tzar!”
“_Dieu!_” cried the Chief of Secret Police.
“Sophie Zagarovna! You—you must be mistaken.”
“Tseklinski!” gasped Sophie, deathly pale, shrinking from the man who had
addressed her. “It is you! By Heaven! then we meet, and—and you are the
victor! Once I spared your life as I have spared Feodor’s, and this is
how you repay me—by arrest! I love Feodor, but I know there is no hope of
happiness now I have fallen into your clutches.”
“You have deceived me,” cried Matvyèich, angry and bewildered at this
revelation. “I have loved and trusted a murderess!”
“I—I have risked my life to save you,” she said wildly. “Kiss me once—for
the last time,” she implored.
He flung her from him with an expression of disgust, coupled with an
oath.
“You—you cast me aside!” she cried, in dismay. “Then I care nothing for
my future.” Addressing Tseklinski, whom I recognised as the renowned
and expert Petersburg detective, she shrieked, “When you were my
lover I protected you; and through me you escaped the plot for your
assassination. Now you arrest me for murder, merely because I removed a
tyrant whose inhuman delight was to send innocent persons to Kara——”
“Enough, jade!” cried Tseklinski, his face flushed with rage. “We have
sought for you long enough, and if Captain Matvyèich is weak enough to be
tricked and fooled by you, I am not.”
Turning to the officers, he added—
“Arrest her, and take her to the Bureau at once.”
The men advanced to obey their chief’s command, but ere they could lay a
finger upon her she had staggered backward, and had fallen fainting upon
the floor.
They stooped to raise her, but a look of horror overspread their
countenances as one of them removed his hand from the back of her head
and found blood upon it.
Tseklinski bent, gazed into her face, placed his hand upon her heart, and
listened intently.
“Dead!” he exclaimed, in a tone of awe.
I rushed forward to ascertain the truth. In a moment it flashed upon me.
The pin she had worn in her hair had, by the force of the fall, been
driven into her scalp, and the deadly Obeah poison upon the point had
caused almost instant death.
It was a strange vagary of Fate. The harmless-looking weapon with which
she had originally intended to assassinate the newly-appointed Chief of
Police had caused her own death. Yet even that was preferable to the
punishment that awaited her had she lived.
For a brief moment only I glanced upon the blanched, handsome features,
then hurried from the house. Before midnight I had left Moscow, and was
on my way back to London.