Notwithstanding official assurances that no alarm need be felt at the
political outlook, the popular excitement, fostered by a sensational
Press, abated but slowly. On the morning following the memorable scene
in the House of Commons, a great panic occurred on the Stock Exchange,
and it was fully a week ere confidence was restored. Meanwhile, at Lord
Warnham's dictation, I exchanged constant communications with our
ambassador in St Petersburg, and although every endeavour was used to
elucidate the mysterious reason why the Russian Government so suddenly
altered its tactics, it remained as inexplicable as the means whereby
they had obtained the original of our secret convention with Germany.
Both the London police and our secret agents in Russia abandoned none of
their activity, but all their efforts were to no purpose. The incident
was a perfect enigma.
Thus a month went by. Lord Warnham had slightly relaxed towards me as
if, after all, he believed that I had spoken the truth, although he
frequently, when vexed, would refer in uncomplimentary terms to what he
called my "carelessness that nearly cost England her honour." Indeed,
although I had been reinstalled in the position of great trust I had
previously held, mine was no enviable lot. The Foreign Minister was a
man of moods, strangely eccentric, sometimes preserving a rigid silence
for hours, and often working for long periods alone during the night,
attending to unimportant dispatches that might have been answered by a
lower-grade clerk. But it was his object always to know the exact work
done in each department, and to be able to do it himself. Thus he was
enabled to keep a more careful watch over everything that went on, and
was not, like the majority of Cabinet Ministers, a mere figure-head.
Times without number I have gone to Berkeley Square early in the morning
when some important matter of diplomacy has been in progress, and found
the grey, thin-faced peer still seated in his study, the blinds still
down, the electric light still on, showing how he had worked on
unconsciously throughout the whole night, and was quite unaware of dawn.
His servants had strict orders never to disturb him, even for meals,
hence, when he was busy, he frequently spent many hours in his chair,
regardless of day or night.
These periods of intense mental strain would, however, be followed by
exasperating irritability of such a character that I often feared to
utter a word lest he should break out into a fierce ebullition of anger.
At those times he would scatter broadcast the most severe censures on
all and sundry, sparing neither ambassador nor consul, so fierce was his
wrath. Knowing this, I would sometimes, after writing an abusive
dispatch at his dictation, put it aside and, instead of forwarding it,
accidentally overlook it. Then, next day, he would almost invariably
relent, and after deep thought, exclaim,--
"Read me the copy of that dispatch I sent yesterday to Vienna, Deedes."
"Oh," I would answer, as if suddenly recollecting, "I quite forgot to
forward it, we were so busy yesterday."
"Ah, too late now! too late!" he would grumble, feigning annoyance, yet
secretly pleased. "Destroy it, Deedes; destroy it."
Afterwards he would dictate a more temperate and less offensive letter,
which the messenger leaving London that night would carry in his valise.
One morning, towards the end of July, I received a strangely-worded
letter, written in a foreign hand, asking me to call at an address in
Pembroke Road, Kensington, and signed "Sonia." The missive, which had
been left at my flat by a commissionaire, stated that the matter upon
which the writer desired to see me was extremely urgent, and contained a
request that I would telegraph a reply. This I did, accepting the
appointment, for, on reflection, I had a very dim recollection of
having, at some time or other, written officially to someone named
"Sonia," and the letter aroused curiosity within me.
That night, at the time she named, I found myself before a large,
substantial-looking detached house, situated in the quiet, rather
unfrequented thoroughfare off Earl's Court Road, a house which, to my
excited imagination, bore external evidence of mystery within. Why such
thought should seize me I know not. Perhaps it was because the writer
of the letter was unknown, and the object of my visit at present
unexplained; nevertheless I entered the small garden that divided the
house from the roadway, and, ascending the steps, rang the bell. My
summons was immediately answered by a neat maid, to whom I gave my card,
and next moment I was ushered into a well-furnished drawing-room, dimly
lit by one tall, shaded lamp, the light of which was insufficient to
illuminate the whole room.
For a few moments I remained alone in wonder, when suddenly the door
opened, and there entered an extremely pretty girl, scarcely out of her
teens, dark-haired, with clear-cut features, bright eyes, and a
delicately-rounded chin. It struck me, however, even before she spoke,
that in her face was a strange expression of unutterable sadness, a look
that told of long suffering and intense agony of mind. Her mannerisms
were those of a foreigner, her _chic_ was that of the true Parisienne,
her dress of black silk crepon was plainly but well made, and the fact
that she spoke in broken French was, next second, conclusive.
"Ah! You have come, m'sieur. You are indeed very good," she exclaimed,
with a charming accent, her skirt rustling as she advanced to greet me.
"I am at your service, mademoiselle," I answered, bowing, at the same
time accepting the seat she offered.
"Well," she commenced, with a smile, slowly sinking into an armchair
near me, "when I wrote to you I feared you would not come. You have
been so good to me already that I fear to ask any further favour."
"I must ask your pardon, mademoiselle," I said, "but I really am unaware
that I have ever rendered you any service."
"What, do you not remember?" she cried. "You, who were so good to my
father and myself; you, to whom we both owed our lives."
"I certainly have some hazy recollection of your name," I answered,
puzzled, "but try how I will, I cannot recollect in what connection it
has come before me."
"Do you not remember the case of the refugee, Anton Korolenko, the man
who, after being hounded all over Europe, in Vienna, in Madrid, in
Paris, by the _agents provocateurs_ of the Secret Police, found an
asylum in London?" she inquired, surprised. "They said we need not fear
the _Okhrannoe Otdelenie_ here, in your free England, but no sooner had
we arrived than, owing to the treachery of one of our brotherhood, a
warrant for our extradition was issued by General Sekerzhinski, chief of
the Department in St Petersburg. News of this was telegraphed to us,
and I applied to your Minister for protection. You yourself saw me and
gave me your promise of assistance, a promise which you kept; the
warrant was returned to Russia unexecuted, and you thus saved us from
the fate we dreaded."
"Ah, yes," I answered quickly. "Of course, I remember now. It is fully
two years ago; but you have so altered that I scarcely knew you."
"I was a girl then," she smiled. "Now I feel quite a woman. Since I
saw you last I have sustained a bereavement. My poor father is, alas!
dead."
"Dead!" I echoed sympathetically.
"Yes," she sighed, with bitterness. "He died of a broken heart. On the
day we escaped from St Petersburg, my mother, who was perfectly
innocent, had unfortunately fallen into the drag-net of the police. She
was imprisoned for six months, then sent to Siberia, but died of cold
and fever on the road there. Her tragic end proved such a terrible blow
to my father that, even here in safety, he grew morose, his health,
already broken by long years of imprisonment, failed, and six months ago
he died, and I was left alone."
"Your life is indeed a sad one, mademoiselle," I said, for I
well-remembered the touching story she related when, a mere girl,
pale-faced and agitated, she came to implore the protection of the
British Government on behalf of her aged father. She had, with tears in
her dark, brilliant eyes, told me a narrative of systematic persecution
almost incredible; how her father, a wealthy merchant, having fallen
into disfavour with General Sekerzhinski, the chief of Secret Police in
St Petersburg, that official had formed a cunningly-devised plan to
entrap him into a political conspiracy. She admitted that at one time,
during the Terror that culminated in the murder of Alexander II, her
father had participated in the revolutionary movement, and had spent
eight years of solitary confinement in the Peter-Paul Fortress.
Although he had long ago renounced all revolutionary ideas, it was, of
course, easy enough for an all-powerful official like Sekerzhinski to
discover evidence against him. The _agents provocateurs_ were quickly
at work, with the result that orders were in a few days issued for the
arrest of Korolenko for the murder of a woman in a low quarter of the
city, and for the apprehension of his wife and their pretty daughter,
Sonia, as accomplices. The reason of this allegation was plain. If the
General had only alleged a political offence his victims could not be
extradited from a foreign country, while for an ordinary crime they
could. Korolenko's wife was arrested while shopping in the Nevski
Prospekt, but Sonia and her father, fortunately, obtained word from a
friend of theirs in the secret service, and fled, succeeding in escaping
from St Petersburg into Finland, and after weeks of starvation and
terrible hardships found themselves in Stockholm, whence they went to
Hamburg. Here they narrowly escaped arrest by the German police, but
succeeded in getting to Vienna, and thence to Venice, Marseilles,
Madrid, and afterwards to Paris, where they had heard a large colony of
Russian refugees resided. After two days, however, owing to a fact they
ascertained, they fled to London. Here they believed themselves safe
until one day they received another telegram from their friend in the
secret police, warning them that a request for their extradition was on
its way to London. It was then, in desperation, that Sonia came to
crave an interview with Lord Warnham, and I had seen her on his behalf.
Her story of wrong, hatred, and heartless persecution I have only here
briefly outlined, but during the half-hour she had sat in the
waiting-room at the Foreign Office relating it to me in detail she spoke
with such earnestness that I was convinced of the truth, and resolved to
assist her. Urging her to be assured that I would do all that lay in my
power, she had at last dried her tears, and grasping my hand as she went
out, had said,--
"I shall never forget your kindness to us, m'sieur. We are alone,
friendless, forsaken, hounded down by a man who has sworn to ruin my
father and his family. That you can protect us, I am confident. You
can save us from the mines--nay, you can save our lives, if you will. I
appeal to you, our only friend. Assist us, and you will ever receive
the thanks from one who is to-day on the verge of despair and suicide."
I promised, and she went away hopeful and confident. But to secure
their immunity from arrest was by no means an easy matter. Fortunately,
however, I was on excellent terms with the Secretary of the Russian
Embassy, and having obtained the sanction of Lord Warnham, who was
always chivalrous wherever women were concerned, treating them with a
charming old-world courtesy, I set about attaining my object, securing
it at last, but being compelled in turn to promise my friend assistance
in an important matter of diplomacy. The warrant was next day returned
to Russia unexecuted, and Sonia and her father were free.
From her I had received a brief note in response to my intimation of the
withdrawal of the warrant, apparently hastily written, but thanking me,
and declaring that they both owed their future happiness to my
exertions. For a few days I reflected upon the strange drama of real
life that had been enacted, then the circumstances passed out of my
mind.
Now, as she sat before me, older and yet more beautiful, gazing into my
eyes with that intense, wistful look that had attracted me when first we
had met, all her tragic story came back to me vividly, and I was not
surprised at her deep sorrow at the loss of her father she had loved so
dearly.
"So you desire my assistance," I exclaimed presently, after she had been
explaining how lonely she was in exile from her friends.
"Yes," she said slowly, with emphasis. "But first tell me one thing.
You are acquainted with a woman named Ella Laing. Do you know her
past?"