A CRY FOR HELP
A dusky flush rose to his face, and his blue eyes flashed ominously. I
noticed that a little vein swelled and pulsed in his temple, close by
the strip of flesh-colored plaster that covered the wound on his
forehead.
But, although he appeared almost equally angry and surprised, he held
himself well in hand.
"Truly you seem in possession of much information, Mr. Wynn," he said
slowly. "I must ask you to explain yourself. Do you know this lady?"
"Yes."
"How do you know she is in danger?"
"Chiefly from my own observation."
"You know her so well?" he asked incredulously. "Where have you met
her?"
"In London."
The angry gleam vanished from his eyes, and he stood frowning in
perplexed thought, resting one of his fine, muscular white hands on the
back of a tawdry gilt chair.
"Strange," he muttered beneath his mustache. "She said nothing. By what
name did you know her--other than those pseudonyms you have mentioned?"
"Miss Anne Pendennis."
"Ah!"
I thought his face cleared.
"And what is this danger that threatens her?"
"I think you may know that better than I do," I retorted, with a glance
at the flower--the red symbol--that made a vivid blot of color like a
splash of blood on the white table-cloth.
"That is true; although you appear to know so much. Therefore, why have
you spoken of her at all?"
Again I got that queer feeling in my throat.
"Because you love her!" I said bluntly. "And I love her, too. I want you
to know that; though I am no more to her than--than the man who waits on
her at dinner, or who opens a cab door for her and gets a smile and a
coin for his service!"
It was a childish outburst, perhaps, but it moved Loris Solovieff to a
queer response.
"I understand," he said softly in French.
He spoke English admirably, but in emotional moments he lapsed into the
language that is more familiar than their mother-tongue to all Russians
of his rank.
"It is so with us all. She loves Russia,--our poor Russia, agonizing in
the throes of a new birth; while we--we love her, the woman. She will
play with us, use us, fool us, even betray us, if by so doing she can
serve her country; and we--accept the situation--are content to serve
her, to die for her. Is that not so, Monsieur?"
"That is so," I said, marvelling at the way in which he had epitomized
my own ideas, which, it seemed, were his also. Yet Von Eckhardt had
asserted that she--Anne Pendennis--loved this man; and it was difficult
to think of any woman resisting him.
"Then we are comrades?" he cried, extending his hand, which I gripped
cordially. "Though we were half inclined to be jealous of each other,
eh? But that is useless! One might as well be jealous of the sea. And we
can both serve her, if she will permit so much. For the present she is
in a place of comparative safety. I shall not tell you where it is, but
at least it is many leagues from Russia; and she has promised to remain
there,--but who knows? If the whim seizes her, or if she imagines her
presence is needed here, she will return."
"Yes, I guess she will," I conceded. (How well he understood her.)
"She is utterly without fear, utterly reckless of danger," he continued.
"If she should be lured back to Russia, as her enemies on both sides
will endeavor to lure her, she will be in deadly peril, from which even
those who would give their lives for her may not be able to save her."
"At least you can tell me if her father has joined her?" I asked.
"Her father? No, I cannot tell you that; simply because I do not know.
But, as I have said, so long as she remains in the retreat that has been
found for her she will be safe. As for this--" he took up the blossom
and rubbed it to a morsel of pulp, between his thumb and finger, "you
will be wise to conceal your knowledge of it, Mr. Wynn; that is, if you
value your life. And now I must leave you. We shall meet again ere long,
I trust. I am summoned to Peterhof; and I may be there for some time. If
you wish to communicate with me--"
He broke off, and remained silent, in frowning thought, for a few
seconds.
"I will ask you this," he resumed. "If you should have any news
of--her--you will send me word, at once, and in secret? Not openly; I am
surrounded by spies, as we all are here! Mishka shall remain here, and
accompany you to Petersburg. He will show you where and how you can
leave a message that will reach me speedily and infallibly. For the
present good-bye--and a swift recovery!"
He saluted me, and clanked out of the room. I heard him speaking to
Mishka, who had remained on guard outside the door. A minute or two
later there was a bustle in the courtyard below, whence, for some time
past, had sounded the monotonous clank of a stationary motor car.
I went to the window, walking rather unsteadily, for I felt sick and
dizzy after this strange and somewhat exciting interview. Two
magnificent cars were in waiting, surrounded by a little crowd of
officers in uniform and soldiers on guard. After a brief interval the
Grand Duke came out of the hotel and entered the first car, followed by
the stout rubicund officer I had seen in attendance on him at Wirballen.
A merry little man he seemed, and as he settled himself in his seat he
said something which drew a laugh from the Duke. Looking down at his
handsome debonnaire face, it was difficult to believe that he was
anything more than a light-hearted young aristocrat, with never a care
in the world. And yet I guessed then--I know now--that he was merely
bluffing an antagonist in a game that he was playing for grim
stakes,--nothing less than life and liberty!
Three days later I arrived, at last, in Petersburg, to find letters from
England awaiting me,--one from my cousin Mary, to whom I had already
written, merely telling her that I missed Anne at Berlin, and asking if
she had news of her. There could be no harm in that. Anne had played her
part so well that, though Jim had evidently suspected her,--I wondered
now how he came to do so, though I'd have to wait a while before I could
hope to ask him,--Mary, I was certain, had not the least idea that her
stay with them was an episode in a kind of game of hide and seek. To her
the visit was but the fulfilment of the promise made when they were
school-girls together. And I guessed that Anne would keep up the
deception, which was forced upon her in a way, and that she would write
to Mary. She would lie to her, directly or indirectly; that was almost
inevitable. But she would write, just because she loved Mary, and
therefore would not willingly cause her anxiety. I was sure of that in
my own mind; and I hungered for news of her; even second-hand news. But
she had not written!
"I am so anxious about Anne," my cousin's letter ran. "We've had no
word from her since that post-card from Calais, and I can't think why!
She has no clothes with her, to speak of, for she only took her
dressing-bag; and I don't like to send her things on till I hear from
her; besides, I hoped she would come back to us soon! Did you see her at
Berlin?"
I put the letter aside; I could not answer it at present. Mary would
receive mine from Dunaburg, and would forward me any news that might
have reached her in the interval.
And meanwhile I had little to distract my mind. Things were very quiet,
stagnant in fact, in Petersburg during those hot days of early summer;
even the fashionable cafes in the Nevski Prospekt were practically
deserted, doubtless because the heat, that had set in earlier than
usual, had driven away such of their gay frequenters as were not
detained in the city on duty.
I slept ill during those hot nights, and was usually abroad early. One
lovely June morning my matutinal stroll led me,--aimlessly I thought,
though who knows what subtle influences may direct our most seemingly
purposeless actions, and thereby shape our destiny--along the
Ismailskaia Prospekt,--which, nearly a year back, had been the scene of
the assassination of De Plehve, the man who for two years had controlled
Petersburg with an iron hand.
There were comparatively few people abroad, and they were work-people on
their way to business, and vendors setting out their wares on the stalls
that line the wide street on either side.
Suddenly a droshky dashed past, at a pace that appeared even swifter
than the breakneck rate at which the Russian droshky driver loves to
urge his horses along. It was evidently a private one, drawn by three
horses abreast, and I glanced at it idly, as it clattered along with the
noise of a fire-engine. Just as it was passing me one of the horses
slipped on the cobblestones, and came down with a crash.
There was the usual moment of confusion, as the driver objurgated
vociferously, after the manner of his class, and a man jumped out of the
vehicle and ran to the horse's head.
I stood still to watch the little incident; there was no need for my
assistance, for the clever little beast had already regained his
footing.
Then a startling thing occurred.
A woman's voice rang out in an agonized cry, in which fear and joy were
strangely blended.
"Maurice! Maurice Wynn! Help! Save me!"
On the instant the man sprang back into the droshky, and it was off
again on its mad career; but in that instant I had caught a glimpse of a
white face, the gleam of bright hair; and knew that it was Anne--Anne
herself--who had been so near me, and was now being whirled away.
Something white fluttered on the cobblestones at my feet. I stooped and
picked it up. Only a handkerchief, a tiny square of embroidered cambric,
crumpled and soiled,--her handkerchief, with her initials "A. P." in the
corner!
[Illustration: _In that instant I had caught a glimpse of a white face._
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