It was four o'clock on the following afternoon. The black, iron-studded
doors of the Bank of England were just closing. The beadle mopped his
brow. The traffic around the Royal Exchange was becoming more
congested, as it generally does at that hour, and perspiring clerks
hurrying along Threadneedle Street sought the shady side, for the sun
was still powerful. So hot indeed was the season that general
permission had been granted everywhere in the City to wear the jacket
suit and straw headgear reminiscent of Margate, in place of the
conventional silk hat and frock coat. Although in the West the houses
were mostly closed, and thousands were absent in the country and by the
sea, the great, turbulent, bustling crowd that constitutes business
London showed no sign of inactivity or decrease as, accompanied by my
wife and Sonia, I walked up Old Broad Street to that pile of offices
known as Winchester House, through the swing doors of which passed a
constant stream of hurrying clerks.
By the lift we ascended to the second floor, and then passed down a long
corridor to a door on which was inscribed the name "Mr Andrew Beck." We
entered a large office of business-like aspect, where some dozen clerks
were busy writing, and were informed that their principal, although
absent, would return in a few minutes, therefore we decided to wait, and
were ushered into a comfortable private room, one door of which opened
on to the corridor.
Scarcely had we been seated a few moments when the click of a latch-key
was heard in the door, and my friend Beck entered. He was well-dressed
as usual, with a green-tinted carnation in his button-hole, and a glossy
hat with brim of the latest curl stuck a trifle rakishly upon his head.
The instant he confronted us the light died out of his face.
He drew himself up with a quick look of suspicion, while from his lips
there escaped a muttered imprecation. Without further ado he turned on
his heel, as if preparing to make a hurried exit, but in a moment Sonia,
detecting his intention, sprang towards the door and prevented him.
"Well?" he asked, with a sorry endeavour to remain cool, "why are you
all here? This is an unexpected pleasure, I assure you."
It was Sonia who, standing before him with dark, flashing eyes, answered
in a tone of fierce hatred and contempt,--
"I have come, Andrew, to present my congratulations upon your
forthcoming marriage," she said, with her pronounced foreign accent.
"They could have been conveyed by a penny stamp," he retorted
impatiently.
"You taunt me, do you?" she cried in a towering passion. "You, the
cunning, cowardly spy whom I shielded because you professed love for me.
Had I spoken long ago you would have met with your deserts, either at
the hands of the Nihilists, or at those of justice. Although myself a
criminal I yearned for love, and foolishly believing that you cared for
me, preserved the secret of your guilt, allowing you to wreck the
happiness of Geoffrey Deedes, the man who twice proved my friend, and of
Elizaveta, the only honest woman who ever spoke kindly to me or
endeavoured to induce me to reform. Because you were chief of the
Tzar's spies and I was notorious, with plenty of money always at
command, you imagined that you held me irrevocably. Well, for a time,
you did. Your false protestations of affection caused me to refrain
from exposing your base, cunning, heartless infamy. It was you, with
your renegade underling Renouf, who contrived to get me introduced to
Elizaveta in order to further your own ends; but it was you also, when
fearing that I might make some ugly revelations, made unfounded
allegations against me to General Sekerzhinski, and informed him of my
whereabouts, so that I was compelled to fly from Pembroke Road and seek
shelter where I could."
His eyes were fixed upon her with a look of fierce hatred, and he
muttered some incoherent words between his teeth.
"Yes," she went on defiantly, "I know you are anxious to close my lips,
because of the startling disclosures it is within my power to make. The
Department in St Petersburg have in you a keen, cunning spy, but when it
becomes known throughout England that Andrew Beck, the popular Member
for West Rutlandshire, is in the pay of the Russian Government, do you
anticipate that you will still occupy your seat in the House of Commons,
or at the Committee you have so ingeniously obtained for the
investigation of the strength of England's defences?"
He started. His face was ashen pale; his cigar dropped from his
nerveless, trembling fingers.
"Geoffrey," she went on, "has already heard from Elizaveta how cleverly
you tricked her, and with what dastard knavishness you compelled her to
instigate the theft of the secret convention. She--"
"Then the world shall know that the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna
is in the Secret Service!" he cried fiercely. "She has betrayed her
country and her kinsman, the Emperor!"