Soon after noon next day I called at the Russian Embassy at Chesham
House, and was ushered into the private room of my friend, Paul
Verblioudovitch, the secretary to the urbane old gentleman who acted as
the Tzar's representative at the Court of St James. It was a large but
rather gloomy room, well stocked with books, containing a writing-table
and several easy-chairs, into one of which I sank after the hall-porter,
a gigantic, liveried Russian, had conducted me thither, and announced
the immediate arrival of my official friend.
While waiting, I reflected that my errand was scarcely one that would
commend itself to the favour of Lord Warnham. Official relations
between the Russian Embassy and the British Foreign Office, never very
cordial, were, owing to our knowledge of the suppressed declaration of
war, now seriously strained. Nevertheless, Paul and I were very
intimate friends. I had first met him in St Petersburg, where for six
months I had occupied an unimportant post in the British Embassy. Being
compelled to pay frequent visits to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, I
was always seen by Verblioudovitch, an official who spoke excellent
English. Then I left and returned to London under Lord Warnham, and for
nearly two years entirely lost sight of him, until I was one day
delighted to find he had been promoted as Secretary of Embassy in
London. Since that time our friendship had been renewed, and we had
spent many a pleasant evening together.
"Ah, my dear fellow!" he cried, almost without any trace of accent, as
he suddenly opened the door and interrupted my reflections. "You're an
early visitor," he laughed, shaking hands cordially. "Well, what is it?
A message from your indefatigable chief?"
"No, not exactly," I smiled, sinking again into my comfortable chair as
he walked to the opposite side of his writing-table, afterwards seating
himself at it. He was a well-preserved man of about forty-five, tall,
erect, of military bearing, with closely-cropped, dark hair, a
well-trimmed moustache, and a face that was an index to his happy,
contented disposition. The Tzar's officials are supposed to be a set of
the most stern, hard-hearted ruffians on earth, but there was certainly
nothing of the heartless persecutor about him. Indeed, he was quite the
reverse--a devil-may-care, easy-going fellow, who enjoyed a joke hugely,
and when outside the sombre walls of the Embassy was full of genuine
good humour and buoyant spirits. He may have been able to disguise his
careless demeanour beneath the stern, strictly business-like manner of
officialdom, but I, for one, had never seen him assume the loftiness of
his position as secretary of the chief among the Embassies in London.
"Our people at home have recently been playing an amusing little game at
your expense, haven't they?" he laughed, passing over to me his silver
cigarette case and selecting one himself when I gave it back to him.
"I believe they have," I answered.
"I would have given anything to have seen the look on your old chief's
face when first he heard that we were going to declare war," he laughed.
"How did he take it? You had a rough half-hour, I expect."
"Of course," I smiled. "Things looked so serious."
"Yes, so they did," he admitted, his face growing grave. "I quite
expected that we should have to pack up our baggage and go back to St
Petersburg. The fact is it's a puzzle to us why the Imperial
declaration wasn't actually published. A hitch somewhere, I suppose."
"Fortunately for us--eh?" I observed, lighting up calmly. He imported
his own cigarettes, and they were always excellent.
"Yes," he answered, adding after a moment's reflection, "but why have
you come to me now that we are officially at daggers drawn?"
"Only officially are we bad friends," I said. "Personally we shall be
on good terms always, I hope, Paul. It was because I know I can count
upon your assistance that I've come to ask you a favour."
"Ask away, old chap," he said, deftly twisting his cigarette in his
fingers, afterwards placing it between his lips.
"I have a friend who wants to go to Russia, and desires a passport."
"Well, he can get one at the Consul-General's office," my friend
answered, without removing his cigarette. "I'll give you a note, if you
like."
"No," I said. "First, it is not a man who is going, but a woman; and,
secondly, I want a passport vised by the Embassy in a name other than
the real name of its bearer."
"Oh," he exclaimed suspiciously, glancing straight at me. "Something
shady, oh? Who's the woman?"
"Well, she's hardly a woman yet," I answered. "A pretty girl who has
lost her father and desires to return to her friends in St Petersburg."
"What's her name?"
"You know her," I said slowly. "I came to you on her behalf some time
ago when a warrant was out for the arrest of her and her father. I--"
"Of course, I quite remember," he answered quickly, interrupting me.
"Anton Korolenko escaped with his daughter, that ingenious little nymph,
Sonia, who came and pitched you a long, almost idyllic yarn, and you
came here to intercede. I did as you requested and secured their
freedom by endorsing the report of the agent of police told off to watch
them by a statement that both father and daughter were dead. I then
kept my promise by returning the warrant, but I tell you I narrowly
escaped getting into a devil of a scrape about it."
"But you can manage to give me a false passport for her, can't you?" I
urged.
"Where's her father? If he goes back their whole game will be given
away."
"Her father is dead," I answered.
"Dead! Well, the grave is, I think, about the best place for such an
enterprising old scoundrel, and as for his daughter, hang it, old chap,
ten years in Nerchinsk wouldn't hurt her. What story has she been
telling you this time, eh?" he asked.
"She is lonely without her father, and in order to secure her property,
which is about to be seized by her uncle, she is bound to be in St
Petersburg within fourteen days."
"Fourteen days," repeated my friend, reflectively. "Let's see, to-day's
the twelfth," and he made some rapid calculations upon his blotting-pad.
"Well, what else?" he inquired, looking up at me keenly.
"Nothing, except that she dare not return under her own name."
"I should scarcely think she'd better," he laughed, "unless she wants to
spend the remainder of her days in that rather uncomfortable hotel
called Schlusselburg, where the beds are not aired, and there are no
toilet-glasses. But, tell me," he added gravely, a moment later, "why
do you interest yourself in her welfare? She's entertaining and rather
pretty, I've been told, but surely you, who are engaged to that charming
girl to whom you introduced me at the Gaiety one evening a few weeks
ago, really ought not to associate yourself with Anton Korolenko's
daughter? She's a criminal."
"I have an object," I said briefly.
"Every man says that when a girl has taken his fancy. I know the world,
old fellow."
"But it so happens that I've not been captivated by her charms," I
retorted.
"Well, my dear Geoffrey," he said, in a tone of unusual gravity, "take
my advice and keep away from her. Ever since you induced me to secure
her her liberty, I have honestly regretted it, knowing as I do the
terrible crimes alleged against the gang of which she and her villainous
old father were prominent members."
"What kind of crimes were they?"
"Everything, from picking pockets to murder," he answered. "They stuck
at nothing, so long as they secured the huge stakes for which they
played. Has she been again weaving for your benefit any more of her
tragic romances? She'd make a fortune as a novelist."