THE RIVER STEPS
"This was found in Carson's pocket?" I asked, steadying my voice with an
effort.
He nodded.
I affected to examine the portrait closely, to gain a moment's time.
Should I tell him, right now, that I knew the original; tell him also of
my strange visitant? No; I decided to keep silence, at least until after
I had seen Anne, and cross-examined the old Russian again.
"Have you any clue to her identity?" I said, as I rose and replaced the
blood-stained card on his desk.
"No. I've no doubt the Russian Secret Police know well enough who she
is; but they don't give anything away,--even to me."
"They sent you that promptly enough," I suggested, indicating the
photograph with a fresh cigarette which I took up as I resumed my seat.
I had managed to regain my composure, and have no doubt that Southbourne
considered my late agitation was merely the outcome of my natural horror
and astonishment at the news of poor Carson's tragic fate. And now I
meant to ascertain all he knew or suspected about the affair, without
revealing my personal interest in it.
"Not they! It came from Von Eckhardt. It was he who found poor Carson;
and he took possession of that"--he jerked his head towards the
desk--"before the police came on the scene, and got it through."
I knew what that meant,--that the thing had not been posted in Russia,
but smuggled across the frontier.
I had met Von Eckhardt, who was on the staff of an important German
newspaper, and knew that he and Carson were old friends. They shared
rooms at St. Petersburg.
"Now why should Von Eckhardt run such a risk?" I asked.
"Can't say; wish I could."
"Where was he when poor Carson was done for?"
"At Wilna, he says; he'd been away for a week."
"Did he tell you about this Society, and its red symbol?"
"'Pon my soul, you've missed your vocation, Wynn. You ought to have been
a barrister!" drawled Southbourne. "No, I knew all that before. As a
matter of fact, I warned Carson against that very Society,--as I'm
warning you. Von Eckhardt merely told me the bare facts, including that
about the bit of geranium Carson was clutching. I drew my own inference.
Here, you may read his note."
He tossed me a half-sheet of thin note-paper, covered on one side with
Von Eckhardt's crabbed German script.
It was, as he had said, a mere statement of facts, and I mentally
determined to seize an early opportunity of interviewing Von Eckhardt
when I arrived at Petersburg.
"You needn't have troubled to question me," resumed Southbourne, in his
most nonchalant manner. "I meant to tell you the little I know,--for
your own protection. This Society is one of those revolutionary
organizations that abound in Russia, but more cleverly managed than
most of them, and therefore all the more dangerous. Its members are said
to be innumerable, and of every class; and there are branches in every
capital of Europe. A near neighbor of yours, by the way, is under
surveillance at this very moment, though I believe nothing definite has
been traced to him."
"Cassavetti!" I exclaimed with, I am sure, an excellent assumption of
surprise.
"You've guessed it first time; though his name's Vladimir Selinski. If
you see him between now and Monday, when you must start, I advise you
not to mention your destination to him, unless you've already done so.
He was at the Savage Club dinner to-night, wasn't he?"
One of Southbourne's foibles was to pose as a kind of "Sherlock Holmes,"
but I was not in the least impressed by this pretension to omniscience.
He was a member of the club, and ought to have been at the dinner
himself. If he had looked down the list of guests he must have seen
"Miss Anne Pendennis" among the names, and yet I believed he had not the
slightest suspicion that she was the original of that portrait!
"I saw him there," I said, "but I told him nothing of my movements;
though we are on fairly good terms. Do you think I'm quite a fool, Lord
Southbourne?"
He looked amused, and blew another ring before he answered,
enigmatically: "David said in his haste 'all men are liars.' If he'd
said at his leisure 'all men are fools,--when there's a woman in the
case'--he'd have been nearer the mark!"
"What do you mean?" I demanded, hotly enough.
"Well, I also dined at the Cecil to-night, though not with the
'Savages,' and I happened to hear that you and Cassavetti--we'll call
him that--were looking daggers at each other, and that the lady, who was
remarkably handsome, appeared to enjoy the situation! Who is she, Wynn?
Do I know her?"
I watched him closely, but his face betrayed nothing.
"I think your informant must have been a--journalist, Lord Southbourne,"
I said very quietly. "And we seem to have strayed pretty considerably
from the point. I came here to take your instructions, and if I'm to
start at nine on Monday I shall not see you again."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"All right; we'll get to business. Here's the new code; get it off by
heart between now and Monday, and destroy the copy. It's safer. Here's
your passport, duly _vised_, and a cheque. That's all, I think. I don't
need to teach you your work. But I don't want you to meet with such a
fate as Carson's; so I expect you to be warned by his example. And you
are not to make any attempt to unravel the mystery of his death. I tell
you that for your own safety! The matter has been taken up from the
Embassy, and everything possible will be done to hunt the assassin down.
Good-bye, and good luck!"
We shook hands and I went out into the night. It was now well past
midnight, and the streets were even quieter than usual at that hour, for
there had been a sharp storm while I was with Southbourne. I had heard
the crash of thunder at intervals, and the patter of heavy rain all the
time. Now the storm was over, the air was cool and fresh, the sky clear.
The wet street gleamed silver in the moonlight, and was all but
deserted. The traffic had thinned down to an occasional hansom or
private carriage, and there were few foot-passengers abroad. I did not
meet a soul along the whole of Whitehall except the policemen, their wet
mackintoshes glistening in the moonlight.
But, as I reached the corner of Parliament Square, I saw, just across
the road, a man and woman walking rapidly in the direction of
Westminster Bridge. I glanced at them casually, then looked again, more
intently. The man looked like a sailor; he wore a pea-jacket and a
peaked cap, while the woman was enveloped in a long dark cloak, and had
a black scarf over her head. I saw a gleam of jewelled shoe-buckles as
she picked her way daintily across the wet roadway to the further corner
by the Houses of Parliament.
My heart seemed to stand still as I watched her. At any other time or
place I would have sworn that I knew the tall, slender figure, the
imperial poise of the head, the peculiarly graceful gait, swift but not
hurried. I inwardly jeered at myself for my idiocy. My mind was so full
of Anne Pendennis that I must imagine every tall, graceful woman was
she! This lady was doubtless a resident in the southern suburbs,
detained by the storm, and now on her way to one of the all-night trams
that start from the far side of Westminster Bridge. There was quite a
suburban touch in a woman in evening dress being escorted by a man in a
pea-jacket. She might be an _artiste_, too poor to afford a cab home.
Nevertheless, while these thoughts ran through my mind, I was following
the couple. They walked so swiftly that I did not decrease the distance
between us. Half-way across the bridge I was intercepted by a beggar,
who whined for "the price of a doss" and kept pace with me, till I got
rid of him with the bestowal of a coin; but when I looked for the couple
I was stalking they had disappeared.
I quickened my pace to a run, and at the further end looked anxiously
ahead, but could see no trace of them. There were more people stirring
in the Westminster Bridge Road, even at this hour; street hawkers
starting home with their sodden barrows, the usual disreputable knot of
loungers gathered around a coffee-stall; but those whom I looked for had
vanished. Swiftly as they were walking they could scarcely have
traversed the distance between the bridge and the trams in so short a
time.
Had they gone down the steps to the river embankment? I paused and
listened, thought I heard a faint patter, as of a woman's high heels on
the stone steps, and ran down the flight.
The paved walk below St. Thomas' Hospital was deserted; I could see far
in the moonlight. But near at hand I heard the plash of oars. I looked
around and saw that to the right there was a second flight of steps,
almost under the shadow of the first arch of the bridge, and leading
right down to the river.
I vaulted the bar that guarded the top of the flight and ran down the
steps. Yes, there was the boat, with the sailor and another man pulling
at the oars, and the woman sitting in the stern. The scarf had slipped
back a little, and I saw the glint of her bright hair.
"Anne! Anne!" I cried desperately.
She heard and turned her face.
My God, it was Anne herself! For a second only I saw her face
distinctly, then she pulled the scarf over it with a quick gesture; the
boat shot under the dark shadow of the arches and disappeared.
I stood dumbfounded for some minutes, staring at the river, and trying
to convince myself that I was mad--that I had dreamt the whole incident.
When at last I turned to retrace my steps I saw something dark lying at
the top of the steps, stooped, and picked it up.
It was a spray of scarlet geranium!