Several weeks passed uneventfully. In fulfilment of my promise to Sonia
I had obtained the required permit and taken it personally to Pembroke
Road on the same evening, but on arrival there discovered that the
pretty Russian had been unexpectedly summoned to the bedside of a sick
friend. She had, however, left a note with the English maid asking me
to enclose the document in an envelope and leave it.
"I regret it is impossible for me to be at home to receive you," she
wrote in French, "but I have every confidence that you will secure me
what I require. If you leave it for me I will, in return, write down
and send you the facts I promised to reveal. Time presses, therefore
kindly excuse my haste. I shall always remember your kindness and be
ready to render you any service in return."
This was disappointing. I had hoped to hear from her own lips her
promised revelations, but this being impossible, I enclosed the special
permit in an envelope, sealed it and left it, together with a brief note
warning her that she was being carefully watched by police agents, and
promising to call next day and bid her farewell.
When on the following morning I presented myself at her house, I was
informed by the maid that mademoiselle had left early to visit her sick
friend, and that she would not return till evening. Inquiry showed that
she had received my letter, and when at eight o'clock that night I again
called in the expectation of obtaining the fulfilment of her promise to
tell me of Ella, I found her still absent, and gathered from the servant
that she had taken a travelling-trunk with her. I concluded that she
had left secretly for Russia.
From day to day I waited in the expectation of a letter from her, but
although I remained in anxiety and doubt for more than a month, none
came, and I was at last compelled to admit that I had actually been
tricked, as Paul had predicted. He was right after all. Sonia, the
innocent-looking girl with the sad, dark eyes and dimpled chin, was a
woman internationally notorious, who, soft-voiced, had posed as my
friend in order to attain her own ends, and had then departed without
carrying out her part of the compact. As the weeks passed I gradually
began to realise the force of Paul Verblioudovitch's words when he had
tried to impress upon me the necessity of accepting her statements with
caution. Without doubt she was a heartless adventuress, therefore I
bitterly reproached myself for having allowed her libellous allegations
against Ella to arouse suspicion within me, and at length determined
upon regarding all her words as false, uttered merely for the purpose of
enlisting my assistance to procure here re-entry into her own country.
My anger that I should have allowed myself to fall into such a trap, and
make such a demand upon a friend's goodwill, knew no bounds. I went to
the Embassy, and to Paul admitted that my hopes had not been realised.
In reply, he laughed heartily, saying,--
"I warned you, my dear fellow, of the kind of woman with whom you were
dealing. Thank your stars that she has discarded you so easily, and be
careful of pretty refugees in future. No harm has apparently been done,
for inquiries I've made showed that she crossed the frontier at
Verjbolovo without detection."
"I must confess I doubted the truth of your words before you issued the
permit, but of course it is all plain now," I said.
"You don't believe her lies about Miss Laing, eh?" he inquired bluntly,
but a trifle earnestly, I thought.
"No, I don't," I smiled; and then our conversation had drifted into a
different channel. It was clear enough now, patent to everybody, that
the girl I had fancied so pure, so unworldly--the goddess that sat in
the clouds regarding all earth with clear, immaculate eyes--was simply
an adventuress, a wretched creature, on the lookout for victims.
The popular excitement consequent from the belief that war was to be
declared had died down, although in the Foreign Office the reason of the
sudden abandonment of Russia's intentions remained an inscrutable
mystery, while the panic on the Stock Exchange had enriched a few and
ruined many. Parliament had risen for the recess, and Beck had taken a
party in his yacht to the Norwegian fiords, Ella and Mrs Laing declining
his invitation to join them. This course had been adopted at my
suggestion. When Ella had spoken to me of their proposed cruise, I at
once demurred, for although I had also been asked, I found absence from
the Foreign Office impossible, owing to several delicate negotiations at
that moment proceeding, and therefore urged her to remain in London.
This she did at once, declining the invitation on behalf of both herself
and her mother. The latter, who was not a good sailor, secretly thanked
me for rescuing her from what she termed "three weeks of misery," and,
truth to tell, although no longer jealous of Beck's attention to Ella, I
was glad to have her remain in town.
Through the hot, stifling August days, when London was what is termed
"empty," Mrs Laing and her daughter still lived in Pont Street. During
the first three weeks following my visit to Sonia I called only twice,
but meantime Ella was, I know, suffering tortures of doubt and anxiety.
She had been trained in a school of self-repression, and it now stood
her in good stead. She could not, however, prevent her cheeks being
pale, neither could she help her eyes looking dilated and odd. Speech
was difficult and smiles impossible; otherwise she held her own, and
only I felt the difference, and knew that there lay a deep gulf of
suspicion between us.
On the two occasions on which I had called we had no confidential chat,
and the formal hours went by almost in silence. I had received positive
proof from Renouf that she had been a constant visitor to Sonia, and it
was impossible to talk with frivolity in that oppressive atmosphere of
doubt. Mrs Laing, I noticed, hung her gold _pince-nez_ high upon her
nose in wonder. Ella was thus consuming herself with anxiety, while I,
struggling along from day to day, saw my last hope growing thinner and
yet more shadowy, and looming through it--despair.
Then at last, five weeks after Sonia's flight, I called at Pont Street
and demanded of Ella the reason she had visited the house in Pembroke
Road. Her reply was quite unexpected. She told me quite calmly that
they had been schoolfellows at Neuilly, and that, finding Sonia had lost
both her parents, she went to Pembroke Road each day to bear the
bereaved girl company. She was in ignorance regarding Sonia's life
since she had left the French school, and expressed surprise that she
should have departed suddenly without telling her of her destination.
Her replies to my inquiries set my mind at rest upon several points. It
appeared quite plain that Ella herself had told Sonia of her engagement
to me and had described the tragic incident at Staines, therefore the
pretty refugee had been enabled to drop those ingenious hints at mystery
that had so sorely puzzled me, and had cleverly secured my interests on
her behalf.
When I realised how artfully I had been tricked, I ground my teeth, and
Ella, standing statuesque on the opposite side of the drawing-room in
strong relief against a background of dark, glossy palms and
broad-leaved tropical plants, noticed my anger. The light fell upon her
red-brown hair and upon her slightly upturned face, showing its delicate
modelling in its almost childish roundness. Her profile was quite as
charming as her full face, perhaps more so, as it had the advantage of
the curl and sweep of the eyelashes and of the fine line of the upper
lip.
She eyed me gravely, but spoke no word.
Yet in that instant I knew I had misjudged her, that through those long,
anxious weeks while I had entertained dark suspicions she had
nevertheless still loved me honestly and truly. I know not what words I
uttered, but a few moments later I found her sobbing in my fond embrace.
Her tears were tears of joy.
The silence was long. We had so much to think about that we forgot to
speak, but presently, when she dried her blue eyes with her flimsy lace
handkerchief and seated herself, I took the tiny hand lying idly in her
lap and laid my cheek down on the tender, rosy palm.
"How I wish that this night could last for ever," I said, with a sigh of
supreme contentment. "In my memory it will live always."
"Always?" she echoed, looking tenderly into my face; then for the first
time she put her arms around me and held me tightly pressed against her
heart.
"Yes, always," I said. "Until I die."
"Ah! Don't speak of death," she whispered. "If you died, I--I should
die also, Geoffrey. I could not live without you. How I have endured
these dark, weary weeks I scarcely know."
Together we remained a long time, while I reproached myself for
entertaining suspicion that her friendliness with Dudley or with Beck
was anything but platonic, declaring that my love had ever been
unwavering, that my recent actions had been due to a mad and unjust
jealousy for which I craved her forgiveness.
With her eyes still wet she told me how fondly she had always loved me,
and urged me to think no more of the strange events that had led to
Dudley's tragic end.
"It is my duty to ascertain the truth and clear up the mystery," she
said. "I have promised you a solution of the enigma, and you shall have
it some day."
"For the present, dearest, I am content to wait," I answered, and in the
same breath repeated the question I had asked her months ago--whether
she would be my wife.
"Alas! I fear you do not trust me sufficiently, Geoffrey," she answered
in a low, intense tone, tears still welling in her blue eyes.
"I do," I cried. "I know that all the time I have been a jealously
brutal fool you have loved me as truly as ever."
"I told you long ago that I loved you," she answered earnestly.
"Yes, I believe it now, darling," I said. "That is why I ask you to
become my wife. Tell me once more that you will." In a whisper, as her
handsome head pillowed itself upon, my arm, she repeated her promise,
then burst into a torrent of tears, while I, in joyful ecstasy, still
held her in my arms.
It was an idyllic evening, this first one of love and trust; a brief
dream such as one has in the moment before waking. Bowing before my
idol, I had humbly acknowledged myself wrong, and my well-beloved had
frankly forgiven and forgotten. There was a long silence, deep and
impressive, broken only by the confused sound from the street that came
in through the open window. Then, when she stirred again and raised her
head, I told her of my position at the Foreign Office, and the
probability of my appointment to a diplomatic post abroad.
She listened, her clear, trusting eyes fixed upon me. She, too, was
ambitious.
"It's a great responsibility for any woman," she said at last, "to think
she is to be part of a career. I will help you, my darling," then she
buried her face again in my coat-collar, protesting fervently, "I will
never, never allow myself to hinder you; but will do my utmost to help
you to success, only you must have patience with me." Suddenly she
raised her head again, continuing, "I know there is one strange episode
in my past that is a mystery to you, nay, to all. My misfortune is that
I am unable yet to reveal the truth, because I fear the consequences of
such disclosure. Some day you shall know everything, but until then
think only of me as the woman who loves you with all her soul."
She spoke with a terrible earnestness, her slim fingers clutching my arm
convulsively, and as I gave my promise to regard her always as a pure
and upright woman, and forget the mystery surrounding her, I sealed our
compact with a long, passionate kiss.
Mrs Laing, stiff and stately in black satin, entered the room a few
moments later, and Ella, having whispered and obtained my consent,
forthwith made a full and complete statement to her mother of the
position of affairs. The old lady listened attentively in silence,
inclining her head now and then with a gesture indicative of
approbation, but when her daughter had concluded her face brightened.
"I am indeed glad to think that dear Ella is to marry you after all,
Geoffrey," she said. "Once, not so very long ago, I feared that you two
would never again be reconciled, for Ella moped day after day, crying,
and quite spoiling her complexion. But the old saying about the course
of true love contains much truth, and now that your little differences
are readjusted, there can be no cause for any further regret. That Ella
loves you dearly, I, as her mother, have had better opportunity for
knowing than anyone else and were it not for the fact that I am
convinced you both will be happy, I should never give my consent to your
marriage. But I am absolutely sure that this marriage is one that
Ella's father would have approved, therefore you have my entire consent
and heartiest congratulations."
"Thank you, Mrs Laing," I answered. "I, too, am convinced that we love
each other sufficiently well, and I can only promise to be a sympathetic
and devoted husband."
Ella, who, standing beside her mother's chair, had entwined her arms
affectionately around her neck, slowly released her, and walked across
the room to turn the lamp higher. Then, deeming it but just that they
both should know the reason of my recent coolness and suspicion, I told
them in confidence of the mysterious theft of the secret convention, the
strange and tragic events that followed, the discovery of the seal on
the body of Dudley Ogle, and my absurd belief that Ella had, in some
way, been implicated in the ingenious efforts of the spy.
"Do you actually suspect poor Dudley of having been in the pay of the
Russian Government?" Mrs Laing asked, open-mouthed, in dismay.
"I do," I was constrained to reply. "There is no shadow of doubt that
he was a spy. He tricked you as he did myself. I was his best friend,
yet he nearly ruined all my prospects in the Service."
While we had been speaking the door had opened, and as I glanced from
Ella across to Mrs Laing, I saw a grey-haired man-servant in the act of
handing her a letter.
As he turned from her to leave he glanced at me suddenly. Our eyes met
in mutual recognition, and I think I must have started perceptibly, for
his brows suddenly contracted as if commanding me to silence; then he
made his exit, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
"You haven't seen my new man Helmholtz before, Geoffrey," Mrs Laing
exclaimed when he had gone. "He seems a perfect treasure, although he
is a German. But, after all, German servants are more useful, and quite
as trustworthy as English. I should certainly advise Ella to have one."
"Yes," I answered mechanically.
The man was none other than Ivan Renouf, the great Russian detective.