Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE
RED SYMBOL
BY
JOHN IRONSIDE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
F. C. YOHN
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1910
_Copyright, 1909, 1910_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
Published, April, 1910
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
[Illustration: _I heard him mutter in French: "The symbol! Then it is
she!"_ FRONTISPIECE. See p. 16]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE MYSTERIOUS FOREIGNER 1
II. THE SAVAGE CLUB DINNER 9
III. THE BLOOD-STAINED PORTRAIT 17
IV. THE RIVER STEPS 26
V. THE MYSTERY THICKENS 33
VI. "MURDER MOST FOUL" 41
VII. A RED-HAIRED WOMAN 48
VIII. A TIMELY WARNING 55
IX. NOT AT BERLIN 62
X. DISQUIETING NEWS 68
XI. "LA MORT OU LA VIE!" 74
XII. THE WRECKED TRAIN 82
XIII. THE GRAND DUKE LORIS 89
XIV. A CRY FOR HELP 96
XV. AN UNPLEASANT EXPERIENCE 103
XVI. UNDER SURVEILLANCE 110
XVII. THE DROSHKY DRIVER 115
XVIII. THROUGH THE STORM 122
XIX. NIGHT IN THE FOREST 128
XX. THE TRIBUNAL 133
XXI. A FORLORN HOPE 139
XXII. THE PRISON HOUSE 145
XXIII. FREEMAN EXPLAINS 152
XXIV. BACK TO ENGLAND 158
XXV. SOUTHBOURNE'S SUSPICIONS 164
XXVI. WHAT JIM CAYLEY KNEW 172
XXVII. AT THE POLICE COURT 179
XXVIII. WITH MARY AT MORWEN 186
XXIX. LIGHT ON THE PAST 192
XXX. A BYGONE TRAGEDY 198
XXXI. MISHKA TURNS UP 204
XXXII. BACK TO RUSSIA ONCE MORE 211
XXXIII. THE ROAD TO ZOSTROV 217
XXXIV. THE OLD JEW 223
XXXV. A BAFFLING INTERVIEW 229
XXXVI. STILL ON THE ROAD 235
XXXVII. THE PRISONER OF ZOSTROV 241
XXXVIII. THE GAME BEGINS 247
XXXIX. THE FLIGHT FROM ZOSTROV 254
XL. A STRICKEN TOWN 260
XLI. LOVE OR COMRADESHIP? 268
XLII. THE DESERTED HUNTING LODGE 274
XLIII. THE WOMAN FROM SIBERIA 281
XLIV. AT VASSILITZI'S 287
XLV. THE CAMPAIGN AT WARSAW 294
XLVI. THE BEGINNING OF THE END 301
XLVII. THE TRAGEDY IN THE SQUARE 308
XLVIII. THE GRAND DUCHESS PASSES 315
XLIX. THE END OF AN ACT 322
L. ENGLAND ONCE MORE 329
LI. THE REAL ANNE 336
LII. THE WHOLE TRUTH 344
ILLUSTRATIONS
I heard him mutter in French: "The symbol! Then it is
she!" _Frontispiece_
The rooms were in great disorder, and had been
subjected to an exhaustive search _Page 51_
His stern face, seen in the light of the blazing
wreckage, was ghastly " 87
In that instant I had caught a glimpse of a white
face " 102
Then, in a flash, I knew him " 228
"My God, how they hate me!" I heard Loris say
softly " 259
"I knew thou wouldst come," she said " 268
Some one comes behind my chair " 354
THE RED SYMBOL
CHAPTER I
THE MYSTERIOUS FOREIGNER
"Hello! Yes--I'm Maurice Wynn. Who are you?"
"Harding. I've been ringing you up at intervals for hours. Carson's ill,
and you're to relieve him. Come round for instructions to-night. Lord
Southbourne will give them you himself. Eh? Yes, Whitehall Gardens.
Ten-thirty, then. Right you are."
I replaced the receiver, and started hustling into my dress clothes,
thinking rapidly the while.
For the first time in the course of ten years' experience as a special
correspondent, I was dismayed at the prospect of starting off at a
moment's notice--to St. Petersburg, in this instance.
To-day was Saturday, and if I were to go by the quickest route--the Nord
express--I should have three days' grace, but the delay at this end
would not compensate for the few hours saved on the journey. No,
doubtless Southbourne would expect me to get off to-morrow or Monday
morning at latest. He was--and is--the smartest newspaper man in
England.
Well, I still had four hours before I was due at Whitehall Gardens; and
I must make the most of them. At least I should have a few minutes alone
with Anne Pendennis, on our way to the dinner at the Hotel Cecil,--the
Savage Club "ladies" dinner, where she and my cousin Mary would be
guests of Jim Cayley, Mary's husband.
Anne had promised to let me escort her,--the Cayley's brougham was a
small one, in which three were emphatically a crowd,--and the drive from
Chelsea to the Strand, in a hansom, would provide me with the
opportunity I had been wanting for days past, of putting my fate to the
test, and asking her to be my wife.
I had thought to find that opportunity to-day, at the river picnic Mary
had arranged; but all my attempts to secure even a few minutes alone
with Anne had failed; though whether she evaded me by accident or design
I could not determine, any more than I could tell if she loved me.
Sometimes, when she was kind, my hopes rose high, to fall below zero
next minute.
"Steer clear of her, my boy," Jim Cayley had said to me weeks ago, when
Anne first came to stay with Mary. "She's as capricious as she's
imperious, and a coquette to her finger-tips. A girl with hair and eyes
like that couldn't be anything else."
I resented the words hotly at the time, and he retracted them, with a
promptitude and good humor that disarmed me. Jim was a man with whom it
was impossible to quarrel. Still, I guessed he had not changed his
opinion of his wife's guest, though he appeared on excellent terms with
her.
As for Mary, she was different. She loved Anne,--they had been fast
friends ever since they were school-girls together at Neuilly,--and if
she did not fully understand her, at least she believed that her
coquetry, her capriciousness, were merely superficial, like the hard,
glittering quartz that enshrines and protects the pure gold,--and has to
be shattered before the gold can be won.
Mary, I knew, wished me well, though she was far too wise a little woman
to attempt any interference.
Yes, I would end my suspense to-night, I decided, as I wrestled with a
refractory tie.
Ting ... ting ... tr-r-r-ing! Two short rings and a long one. Not the
telephone this time, but the electric bell at the outer door of my
bachelor flat.
Who on earth could that be? Well, he'd have to wait.
As I flung the tie aside and seized another, I heard a queer scratching
noise outside, stealthy but distinct. I paused and listened, then
crossed swiftly and silently to the open door of the bedroom. Some one
had inserted a key in the Yale lock of the outer door, and was vainly
endeavoring to turn it.
I flung the door open and confronted an extraordinary figure,--an old
man, a foreigner evidently, of a type more frequently encountered in the
East End than Westminster.
"Well, my friend, what are you up to?" I demanded.
The man recoiled, bending his body and spreading his claw-like hands in
a servile obeisance, quaint and not ungraceful; while he quavered out
what was seemingly an explanation or apology in some jargon that was
quite unintelligible to me, though I can speak most European languages.
I judged it to be some Russian patois.
I caught one word, a name that I knew, and interrupted his flow of
eloquence.
"You want Mr. Cassavetti?" I asked in Russian. "Well, his rooms are on
the next floor."
I pointed upwards as I spoke, and the miserable looking old creature
understood the gesture at least, for, renewing his apologetic
protestations, he began to shuffle along the landing, supporting himself
by the hand-rail.
I knew my neighbor Cassavetti fairly well. He was supposed to be a
press-man, correspondent to half a dozen Continental papers, and gave
himself out as a Greek, but I had a notion that Russian refugee was
nearer the mark, though hitherto I had never seen any suspicious
characters hanging around his place.
But if this picturesque stranger wasn't a Russian Jew, I never saw one.
He certainly was no burglar or sneak-thief, or he would have bolted when
I opened the door. The key with which he had attempted to gain ingress
to my flat was doubtless a pass-key to Cassavetti's rooms. He seemed a
queer person to be in possession of such a thing, but that was
Cassavetti's affair, and not mine.
"Here, you'd better have your key," I called, jerking it out of my lock.
It was an ordinary Yale key, with a bit of string tied to it, and a
fragment of dirty red stuff attached to that.
The stranger had paused, and was clinging to the rail, making a queer
gasping sound; and now, as I spoke, he suddenly collapsed in a heap, his
dishevelled gray head resting against the balustrade.
I guessed I'd scared him pretty badly, and as I looked down at him I
thought for a moment he was dead.
I went up the stairs, and rang Cassavetti's bell. There was no answer,
and I tried the key. It fitted right enough, but the rooms were empty.
What was to be done? Common humanity forbade me to leave the poor wretch
lying there; and to summon the housekeeper from the basement meant
traversing eight flights of stairs, for the block was an old-fashioned
one, and there was no elevator. Besides, I reckoned that Cassavetti
would prefer not to have the housekeeper interfere with his queer
visitor.
I ran back, got some whiskey and a bowl of water, and started to give
first aid to my patient.
I saw at once what was wrong,--sheer starvation, nothing less. I tore
open the ragged shirt, and stared aghast at the sight that met my eyes.
The emaciated chest was seamed and knotted with curious scars. I had
seen similar scars before, and knew there was but one weapon in the
world--the knout--capable of making them. The man was a Russian then,
and had been grievously handled; some time back as I judged, for the
scars were old.
I dashed water on his face and breast, and poured some of the whiskey
down his throat. He gasped, gurgled, opened his eyes and stared at me.
He looked like a touzled old vulture that has been badly scared.
"Buck up, daddy," I said cheerfully, forgetting he wouldn't understand
me. I helped him to his feet, and felt in my trouser pocket for a coin.
It was food he wanted, but I had none to give him, except some crackers,
and I had wasted enough time over him already. If I didn't get a hustle
on, I should be late for my appointment with Anne.
He clutched at the half-crown, and bent his trembling old body again,
invoking, as I opined, a string of blessings on my unworthy head.
Something slipped from among his garments and fell with a tinkle at my
feet. I stooped to pick it up and saw it was an oval piece of tin, in
shape and size like an old-fashioned miniature, containing a portrait.
He had evidently been wearing it round his neck, amulet fashion, for a
thin red cord dangled from it, that I had probably snapped in my haste.
He reached for it with a quick cry, but I held on to it, for I
recognized the face instantly.
It was a photograph of Anne Pendennis--badly printed, as if by an
amateur--but an excellent likeness.
Underneath were scrawled in red ink the initials "A. P." and two or
three words that I could not decipher, together with a curious
hieroglyphic, that looked like a tiny five-petalled flower, drawn and
filled in with the red ink.
How on earth did this forlorn old alien have Anne's portrait in his
possession?
He was cute enough to read my expression, for he clutched my arm, and,
pointing to the portrait, began speaking earnestly, not in the patois,
but in low Russian.
My Russian is poor enough, but his was execrable. Still, I gathered that
he knew "the gracious lady," and had come a long way in search of her.
There was something I could not grasp, some allusion to danger that
threatened Anne, for each time he used the word he pointed at the
portrait with agonized emphasis.
His excitement was so pitiable, and seemed so genuine, that I determined
to get right to the root of the mystery if possible.
I seized his arm, marched him into my flat, and sat him in a chair,
emptying the tin of crackers before him, and bidding him eat. He
started crunching the crackers with avidity, eyeing me furtively all the
time as I stood at the telephone.
I must let Anne know at once that I was detained.
I could not get on to the Cayley's number, of course. Things always
happen that way! Well, I would have to explain my conduct later.
But I failed to elicit much by the cross-examination to which I
subjected my man. For one thing, neither of us understood half that the
other said.
I told him I knew his "gracious lady;" and he grovelled on the floor,
clawing at my shoes with his skinny hands.
I asked him who he was and where he came from, but could make nothing of
his replies. He seemed in mortal fear of some "Selinski"--or a name that
sounded like that; and I did discover one point, that by Selinski he
meant Cassavetti. When he found he had given that much away, he was so
scared that I thought he was going to collapse again, as he did on the
staircase.
And yet he had been entrusted with a pass-key to Cassavetti's rooms!
Only two items seemed perfectly clear. That his "gracious lady" was in
danger,--I put that question to him time after time, and his answer
never varied,--and that he had come to warn her, to save her if
possible.
I could not ascertain the nature of the danger. When I asked him he
simply shook his head, and appeared more scared than ever; but I
gathered that he would be able to tell "the gracious lady," and that she
would understand, if he could only have speech with her. But when I
pressed him on this idea of danger he did a curious thing. He picked up
Cassavetti's key, flattened the bit of red stuff on the palm of his
hand, and held it towards me, pointing at it as if to indicate that here
was the clue that he dare not give in words.
I looked at the thing with interest. A tawdry artificial flower, with
five petals, and in a flash I understood that the hieroglyphic on the
portrait represented the same thing,--a red geranium. But what did they
mean, anyhow, and what connection was there between them? I could not
imagine.
Finally I made him understand--or I thought I did--that he must come to
me next day, in the morning; and meanwhile I would try and arrange that
he should meet his "gracious lady."
He grovelled again, and shuffled off, turning at every few steps to make
a genuflection.
I half expected him to go up the stairs to Cassavetti's rooms, but he
did not. He went down. I followed two minutes later, but saw nothing of
him, either on the staircase or the street. He had vanished as suddenly
and mysteriously as he had appeared.
I whistled for a hansom, and, as the cab turned up Whitehall, Big Ben
chimed a quarter to eight.