"Bah!" retorted the Earl's visitor, contemptuously, shaking himself free
with a sudden twist, and standing before me in defiance. "I
understand," he cried, glancing towards the elder man before the door.
"You believe, gentlemen, that from me you can ascertain a key to certain
curious occurrences that have puzzled you. But I may as well undeceive
you at once. I can tell you absolutely nothing."
"But you shall tell us!" I cried, angrily. "I found you walking with
my wife in Kensington Gardens, and followed you. It was apparent from
her demeanour that she feared you."
He smiled sarcastically, and answered with a flippant air:
"Perhaps she did. If so, she certainly had cause."
"Why? What power do you hold over her, pray?" I demanded.
In his eyes was a mysterious glance. He was scarcely the brainless
young dandy that I had imagined.
"It is hardly likely that I shall divulge to you a secret. Remember
that your wife comes of one of the highest families in Europe, and the
slightest breath of scandal must reflect upon them."
"At what scandal do you hint?" I asked, in fierce, breathless
eagerness.
"At what is best kept quiet," he answered, gravely.
His enigmatical words maddened me. I felt that I could spring upon him
and strangle him, for I knew instinctively that he was my wife's enemy--
the man of whom she lived in deadly fear. If only I could silence him,
she might then relate to me those long-promised facts.
"Then if you decline to prove that there is a concealed scandal, utter
no more of your lying allegations," I blurted forth.
He bowed deeply with mock politeness, and smiled grimly.
"Come," exclaimed the Earl at last, in a conciliatory tone, advancing
towards him and laying his hand upon his shoulder. "Let us get at once
to the point. It is useless to quarrel. You decline to reveal to us
the nature of your curious friendship with the Grand Duchess--eh?"
"I do," he answered, firmly.
"Well," said the tactful old Minister. "First carefully review the
situation, and you will, I think, admit that I have been your friend.
And how have you shown your gratitude?"
"By concealing from you a truth both hideous and terrible," he replied,
with apparent unconcern.
"But you can, if you will, give us some clue to this remarkable chain of
circumstances. I appeal to you on behalf of Deedes, her husband," the
old man said.
"I am well aware of the reason you yourself desire to know the absolute
truth, Lord Warnham," he answered, after a brief pause, "but,
unfortunately, I am unable to tell you, because of certain promises
having been extracted from me."
"At least you can tell us from whom I may ascertain the true facts," I
cried.
He looked at me for an instant gravely, then answered in all
seriousness:
"The only person who knows the truth is Sonia Korolenko, the refugee."
"Sonia!" gasped the Earl. "That woman is not in England, surely?"
"I think not," Bingham replied. "But if you would ascertain the key to
the enigma, seek her, and she may explain everything. That is as far as
I can assist you. Remember, I myself have revealed nothing."
"She has returned to Russia," I observed. "Have you any knowledge where
she is?"
"No, there are reasons why her whereabouts should remain unknown," he
answered, hesitatingly. "She is in fear of the police."
"Do her friends know of her hiding-place?"
"No. A short time ago I desired to communicate with her, but was
unable. The last I heard of her was that she was living at Skerstymone,
a little town somewhere in Poland."
"If she can successfully elude the vigilance of the Russian police, I
can have but little hope of finding her," I said, doubtfully.
"Make the attempt, Deedes," the Earl suggested. "I will give you leave
of absence."
"I intend to do so," I replied; and remembering my wife, lonely amid all
her splendour, I added, "The elucidation of the mystery is, as it has
long since been, the main object of my life."
In consultation we sat a long time. This caddish young man of whom I
had been so madly jealous had now grown quite calm and communicative,
apparently ready to render me all assistance; yet to my questions
regarding my wife he was as dumb as others had been. Now, more than
ever, the Earl seemed anxious to solve the strange problem. With that
object he obtained from the library a section of the large ordnance map
of the Russian Empire, and with it spread before us we discovered that
Skerstymone was a little place remotely situated on the bank of the
Niemen river, within a short distance of the German frontier. I had
long ago learned from Paul Verblioudovitch that my friend, the
well-known adventuress, had crossed the frontier at Wirballen, or
Verjbolovo, as it is called in Russian; but after that I knew nothing of
her movements. Bingham seemed anxious to lead me indirectly towards the
truth, and after assuring me with a firm hand-grasp that the secret that
existed between himself and my wife was of a purely platonic nature, and
that he had throughout acted on her behalf, I ate a hasty luncheon and
again left the Hall on the first stage of my long, tedious journey
across Europe. As I entered the carriage the old Earl and his guest
stood out upon the gravelled drive and heartily wished me "Bon voyage,"
and, waving them farewell, I was whirled away through the great park
that lay silent and breathless beneath the scorching sun.
At the bookstall at Horsham station I bought an early edition of the
_Globe_, and on opening it in the train my eyes fell upon the following
announcement in its "Court and Personal" column,--
"A marriage is arranged, and will shortly take place between Mr. Andrew
Beck, the Member for West Rutlandshire, who is well-known in connection
with African mines, and Miss Gertrude Millard, only daughter of Sir
Maynard Millard, Bart, of Spennythorpe Park, Montgomeryshire."
This was not exactly unexpected, for I had already heard vague rumours
that news of Beck's engagement would shortly be made public, therefore I
tore out the paragraph and placed it in my pocket-book, with the
reflection that my friend's marriage might be more happy than mine.
That evening about six o'clock I called at Chesham House, the Russian
Embassy, and obtained the signature of the Ambassador, Monsieur
Grodekoff, to my passport. I did not, however, see Verblioudovitch, he
being absent at Brighton, therefore I left the same evening for
Flushing, and after a long and wearisome ride across Germany duly
arrived at Verjbolovo, one of the principal gates of the great Russian
Empire. The formalities troubled me but little, for I had passed the
frontier on several occasions when stationed in St Petersburg. After
getting my passport stamped I strolled up and down the platform gazing
about over the flat, uninteresting country, contemplatively smoking a
cigarette, and watching the crowd of tired, worried travellers
experiencing the ways of Russian officialdom for the first time. Among
them was an elderly Russian lady who, travelling with her three
daughters, good-looking girls, ranging from eighteen to twenty-three,
had omitted to have her passport vised by a Russian Consul outside the
Empire. So stringent were the regulations that, although they were
subjects of the Tzar returning to their own country, the officer would
not allow them to proceed, and all four were detained while the passport
was sent back to the nearest Russian consul in Germany to be "treated."
At first it had occurred to me to travel on to St Petersburg, and there
endeavour to learn from a police official of my acquaintance whether
Sonia Korolenko had been heard of lately, but on reflection I saw that
every precaution would no doubt be taken by her in order that the police
should not be made aware of her presence in Russian territory. A
strange vagary of Fate it seemed that through my own action in obtaining
for her a false passport she had been enabled to escape, and that my own
endeavours had actually thwarted my own ends. As I paced the railway
platform, with the brilliant afterglow shedding a welcome light across
that dead level country so zealously-guarded by the green-coated
sentries in their black and white striped boxes, and Cossack pickets,
each with his "nagaika" stuck in his boot, I remembered with failing
heart how this woman, whose fame was notorious throughout Europe, had
told me that once past this portal of the Tzar's huge domain all traces
of her would be obliterated completely. This fact in itself convinced
me that she had never intended to travel direct to St Petersburg, and it
became impressed upon me that in order to trace her it would be
necessary to first visit the little out-of-the-world town of
Skerstymone, that was situated a long way to the north along the
frontier. With that object I allowed the St Petersburg express to
proceed, and after an hour's wait entered a local train, alighting at a
small town euphoniously termed Pilwiszki, where I spent the night in an
exceedingly uncomfortable inn.
Next day I learnt with satisfaction that this town was situated on the
main post-road between Maryampol and Rossieny, and that about thirty
miles due north along this road was Skerstymone. The innkeeper, at an
exorbitant figure, provided me with a rickety old cart and a pair of
shaggy horses, driven by an uncouth-looking lad, wearing an old peaked
cap so large that his brow and eyes were hidden. An hour before noon I
set out upon my expedition. Our way lay across the boundless Nawa
steppe, a plain which stretched away as far as the eye could reach
without a single tree to break its monotony, until at a wretched little
village called Katyle we forded a shallow stream, the Penta, and
presently passed through the town of Szaki. Soon afterwards the road
became full of deep ruts that jolted us terribly, and for many miles we
travelled through a pine forest until at last we found ourselves at the
ferry before Skerstymone.
In the mystic light of evening the place, standing on the opposite bank
of the Niemen, presented a novel and rather picturesque aspect, with its
wooden houses, their green and brown roofs of painted sheet-iron, but
when landing from the ferry I was soon undeceived. It was one of those
towns best seen from a distance. The dirt and squalor were horrible.
For a fortnight I remained at the wretched little inn making inquiries
in all quarters, but could hear nothing of the pretty dark-eyed girl who
had earned such unenviable notoriety, and who in Vienna spent such an
enormous sum in a single year that her extravagance had become
proverbial, even in that most reckless of cities. That she had been
here was certain from what Bingham had told us, and somehow I had an
instinctive feeling that here the dainty-handed refugee had assumed a
fresh identity, it being dangerous for her to proceed further into
Russia, so well-known was she. Therefore, with fixed determination, I
still prosecuted my inquiries everywhere, until I found the police
regarding me with considerable mistrust, for the officers of public
order are everywhere ubiquitous in the giant empire of the Tzar.
The hot July sun shone on the dusty streets; through the open windows of
the white-washed barrack-like Government office the scratching of pens
could be heard; the "factors," agents who offer their services to
strangers, lolled in the shade, keeping a watchful eye upon any stranger
who might happen to pass by, and looking out eagerly for a "geschaft,"
or stroke of business. The townspeople eyed me distrustfully as I
wandered aimlessly about the streets, where tumble-down hovels
alternated with endless expanses of grey moss-grown wood fences and
plots of waste ground heaped with rubbish and offal. The place was full
of horrible smells, filth, rags, and dirty children, who enjoyed
themselves by rolling in the soft white dust. At either end of the
noisy, evil-smelling place, a post-road led out along the bank of the
sluggish yellow stream, and at the entrance to the town on the German
side was a "schlagbaum," a pole painted with the national colours that
served as toll-bar, in charge of a sleepy invalided soldier in a dingy
old uniform with a tarnished eagle on his cap, who looked the very
incarnation of undisturbed slumber.
Life in Kovno was by no means diverting. Truly Skerstymone was a
wretched, half-starved, miserable little place of terribly depressing
aspect, notwithstanding the brilliant sunshine and blue sky.
The long, gloomy days dragged by, but no tidings could I glean of Sonia
Korolenko. It was evident that if she had ever been there she had
passed under some other name, and that her identity had been lost before
arrival there.
One warm morning, while seated outside a "kabak" moodily watching the
old women in the market selling their twisted rolls of bread called
"kalach," an ill-dressed man approached me, and, touching his shabby cap
respectfully, pronounced my name with strong Russian accent, at the same
time slowly sinking upon the wooden bench beside me. He was tall and
square-built, with coarse but expressive features. His long grey hair
was matted and unkempt; his low brow, protruding jaws, and the constant
twitching of his facial muscles reminded me of a monkey, but the stern
eyes shining from beneath a pair of bushy, overhanging brows, spoke of
indomitable energy, cleverness, and cunning. They never changed; and
while the rest of his face was a perfect kaleidoscope whenever he spoke,
the expression of his eyes remained ever the same.
His confidence surprised me, and I immediately asked him how he had
ascertained my patronymic, to which he replied, not without
hesitation,--
"I am fully aware of your high nobility's object in visiting
Skerstymone. You are seeking Sonia Korolenko."
"Yes," I replied, in the best Russian I could remember. "Do you know
her whereabouts? If you take me to her you shall have a handsome
reward."
He smiled mysteriously, and glanced so wistfully at my vodka that I at
once ordered for him a second glass of the spirit so beloved of the
Muscovite palate.
"Is your high nobility well acquainted with Sonia!"
I replied in the affirmative, offering him a cigarette from my case. At
last I had found one who had met the dark-eyed girl of whom I was in
search.
"You know her," I said. "Where is she?"
"In hiding."
"Far from here?"
"Well, not very," he answered. "I could take you to her this very
night--if you made it worth my while."
"Why not in daylight?" I inquired.
"Because the frontier-guards are here in swarms."
Then, in reply to my questions, he admitted that he was one of those who
obtained his living by smuggling contraband goods and persons without
passports across the frontier into and out of Germany. Along the whole
of the Russo-German frontier there are bands of peasantry who live by
smuggling emigrants, Jews, malefactors, and others who have no permit to
leave the country, across into Germany by certain by-paths that remain
unguarded, notwithstanding the constant vigilance of the military.
"And what is Sonia doing at present?" I inquired, after he had frankly
related to me his position in a low tone so that we might not be
overheard by any eavesdropper or police spy.
"She has always been a leader," he answered, laughing gaily. "She is so
still."
"A leader of smugglers!" I exclaimed, surprised that the pretty girl
who had been admired in every capital in Europe should adopt such a
hazardous, reckless life.
"Well, yes, if you choose to call it so," he said, rather resentfully, I
thought. "We merely assist our countrymen to escape the police, and
they pay toll for our aid," he added. "She heard you were inquiring for
her, here in Skerstymone, and has sent me as messenger to take you to
her. She fears to come herself."
I looked steadily at the man, and saw for the first time that, although
a moujik, he was nevertheless a sturdy adventurer, whose brow was deeply
furrowed by hardship.
"And you wish me to pay toll like the others?" I exclaimed with a
smile.
"If we act as guide we are surely entitled to something. There are many
risks," he answered, puffing at his cigarette, afterwards examining it
with the air of a connoisseur.
"How much?"
"The high nobility is rich," he replied. "He was once at the English
Embassy in St Petersburg. Let us say two hundred roubles."
"Two hundred, to be paid only in Sonia's presence," I acquiesced
eagerly. Truth to tell, I would have paid five hundred, or even a
thousand for safe conduct to her.
"It's a bargain," he answered, draining his glass. "Meet me to-night at
ten o'clock at this place. I hope you are a good walker, for we must
travel by the secret paths. The post-road would mean arrest for me; it
might also go rather hard with you to be found in my company."
"I can walk well," I answered. "To-night at ten."
Then I ordered more vodka, and after drinking success to our midnight
journey, he rose and left me, bending a good deal as he shuffled along
the street in his old frieze overcoat many sizes too large for him.
In any other circumstances I should have looked upon this
devil-may-care, shock-headed adventurer with gravest suspicion, for his
face was of distinctly criminal physiognomy, and his speech was that of
one utterly unscrupulous. Yet when I remembered the allegations that
Sonia, the woman who lured the young Prince Alexis Gazarin to his death,
was an associate of the most desperate thieves in Europe, the fact that
she had sent him as messenger seemed by no means remarkable. From what
he had told me it was apparent that this girl, whose beauty had brought
her renown and held her victims fascinated, had returned to her own
country and become leader of a desperate band of nomads who drove a
thriving trade by guiding fugitives from justice out of the Tzar's
dominions, and importing from Germany dutiable articles of every
description.
Sonia's offences against the law did not, however, trouble me much. I
only desired to ascertain from her the truth regarding my wife, the
Grand Duchess, and in order to meet her was prepared for any risk.
Thus I placed myself in the hands of this villainous-looking rascal
whose name I did not know, and who had come to me entirely without
credentials. My natural caution warned me that from every point of view
my midnight expedition was fraught with considerable danger, yet
thoughts of my sad-eyed wife whom I so dearly loved aroused within me a
determination to ascertain some key to the enigma, and I was therefore
resolved to accompany the unkempt stranger in face of any peril.