Guilty Bonds

William Le Queux

"Guilty Bonds"

Chapter One.

The Mystery of Bedford Place.

“Come, have another hand, Burgoyne.”

“I’ll have my revenge to-morrow, old fellow,” I replied.

“Why not to-night?”

“It’s past two, and I’ve a long walk home, remember.”

“Very well; as you wish.”

My friend, Robert Nugent, a journalist, was young man, tall and dark, twenty-seven at the outside, with a pleasant, smiling face. His wavy hair, worn rather long, and negligence of attire gave him a dash of the genial good-for-nothing.

It was in the card-room of that Bohemian—but, alas, now defunct—institution, the Junior Garrick Club, where we had been indulging in a friendly hand. Having finished our game, we ordered some refreshment, and seated ourselves upon the balcony on Adelphi Terrace, smoking our last cigarettes, and watching the ripple of the stream, the broken reflection of the stars, and many lights that lined the Thames. All was dark in the houses on the opposite shore; the summer wind whispered in the leafy boughs on the Embankment, and a faint cold grey in the east showed that night was on the edge of morn.

For some time we sat chatting, until Big Ben boomed forth three o’clock; then we rose, and wishing good-night to the men who were still playing, sought our hats and left the club.

We walked together as far as Danes’ Inn, where we parted, Nugent entering the Inn, while I continued my homeward walk alone. From the Strand to Torrington Square is a considerable distance; but I did not feel inclined for sleep, and sauntered along in the steely light, enjoying the silence and solitude of the deserted streets, absorbed in my own thoughts.

What need I say about myself? Some envied me, I knew, for I chanced to be the only son of a wealthy man who had died a few months before, leaving me a handsome fortune, together with a stately old mansion in Northamptonshire. In the choice of a profession I had not altogether pleased my father, the result being that the old gentleman was somewhat niggardly regarding my allowance, and in consequence of this I had lived a devil-may-care Bohemian life, earning a moderate living by my pen. But upon my father’s death a change came, and now, instead of a hand-to-mouth existence, I found myself with an income which far exceeded my wildest expectations. This sudden affluence might have turned the head of many a man, but it made very little difference to me. My friends, for the most part struggling artists and literary men, congratulated me upon my good fortune, probably believing that now I was rich I should cut them. They were mistaken; I continued to live pretty much as before, though I gave up literary work and devoted more time to pleasure.

Dreamily pondering over what I should do in the future, and heedless of where my footsteps led me, I had crossed Holborn and was passing along Bedford Place, Bloomsbury, before I was aroused from my reverie.

At that moment I was passing a rather large, handsome-looking house, of a character somewhat superior to its neighbours, inasmuch as its outward appearance had an air of wealth and prosperity. The other houses were in darkness, but the drawing-room of this particular one was brilliantly lit, the window being almost on a level with the pavement.

A faint agonised cry caused me to pause in my walk. For some moments I stood before the gilt-topped railings listening, but no other sound greeted my ears.

My idle, reflective mood suddenly fled. Recalled from it by the startling distinctness of the appeal—half-moan, half-scream, with its intonation of anguish—an overwhelming curiosity possessed me.

An ominous sound: what could it mean?

Impelled by an involuntary inquisitiveness I resolved to ascertain, if possible, the cause of this midnight cry of distress.

The gate leading to the front door was open. I crept inside and advanced cautiously.

Upon tiptoe I placed my face close to the glass of the window. At first my expectations seemed doomed, but to my intense joy I found a small aperture between the blind and window-sash through which a glimpse of the interior could be obtained.

My eager eyes fell upon a scene which caused me to start back with a scarcely repressed ejaculation of horror and surprise!

A tragedy had been enacted!

Stretched at full length upon the carpet was the form of a woman in a white flimsy evening dress, the breast of which bore a large crimson stain—the stain of blood!

Utterly unable to make up my mind how to act, I stood rooted to the spot. A violent gust of wind swept down the street, causing the lights in the lamps to flicker, and the branches of the stunted trees to groan beneath its power.

Just then the front door opened and closed noiselessly, and as I drew back into the shadow a man passed me so closely that I could touch him; and after glancing anxiously up and down the street, walked hurriedly away.

As he brushed past, the light from a neighbouring street-lamp disclosed the face of a young and rather handsome man, with dark eyes and carefully waxed moustache—a face it was impossible to mistake.

I hesitated a few seconds whether I should give the alarm and follow him. The echo of his retreating footsteps brought me to my senses, and I started off after the fugitive.

As soon as he heard my footsteps behind him, however, he quickened his pace. I had gained on him until he was within a hundred yards or so, when he suddenly turned half-fearfully around, and started running as fast as his legs could carry him.

I called upon him to stop, but he took no heed. We were soon in Russell Square, and, crossing it, turned the corner at the Alexandra Hospital and continued along Guilford Street into Gray’s Inn Road. I was a fairly good runner, yet though I exerted every muscle in my endeavours to catch the man, nevertheless he gradually increased the distance between us.

It was an exciting chase. If I could only meet a policeman no doubt we might run him to earth by our combined efforts; but after the lapse of five minutes, without meeting one of the guardians of the public peace, the mysterious man dived into some intricate turnings, with which he was evidently too well acquainted, and I was compelled to relinquish the pursuit.

He had escaped!

Chapter Two.

Sealed Lips.

With some difficulty I at last found my way back to the house, but all was quiet, and the passer-by would little dream of the terrible tragedy that had taken place within. I had no time for reflection, however, for I heard the well-known creaking footstep, and saw the flashing of a distant bull’s-eye, betokening the arrival of a policeman from the opposite direction.

Hastening to meet the constable, with excited gesture and confused accents, I told him of my horrible discovery. At first the man seemed inclined to disbelieve it, but seeing I was in earnest, accompanied me to the house, and peeped in at the window as directed.

He started when his gaze fell upon the prostrate woman.

“Do you know who lives ’ere?” he asked.

“No. Haven’t I told you I’m an utter stranger?” I replied.

As I spoke he ran up the short flight of stone steps and pulled the large brass knob beside the door.

Clear and distinct the deep-toned bell clanged out somewhere in the regions at the rear, but there was no response.

As suddenly as it had risen the wind sank; the streets were silent, the houses gloomy as rows of sepulchres tenanted only by the departed; and as the day broke, cold and grey, light fleecy clouds gathered over the waning moon.

Twice the constable tugged at the bell in his efforts to awaken the inmates of the house, but all was still, save for the bark of a distant dog. Although we both strained our ears, no sounds of life were apparent within.

“Shall I go round to the station for help? I can find it if you will direct me,” I said to the man.

“No; you stay ’ere. There’s no necessity,” replied he gruffly. “I’ll soon call my mates,” and applying his whistle to his lips, he blew a series of shrill calls, which were immediately answered by others.

Ten minutes later three policemen had arrived, and, finding there was no entrance from the rear, had burst open the door.

The houses adjoining were both empty, so no neighbours were awakened by the noise.

We entered undisturbed.

From the spacious hall several doors opened right and left; while immediately opposite was a broad staircase.

With but a hasty glance around we passed to a door which stood open, and from which a flood of light was issuing. There our eyes encountered a terrible sight.

Lying on her back upon the carpet, with her arms outstretched above her head, was a tall and undeniably beautiful woman of about thirty years of age. Her wealth of fair hair had become unfastened, and fell in disorder about her bare shoulders. Her lips were still apart, as if in her last moments she had uttered a cry, and her clear blue eyes, wide open, had in them a stony stare—that of death.

Attired in an elegant evening dress of soft white silk, her low bodice revealed the fatal wound in her breast from which the blood slowly oozed, forming a dark crimson pool upon the carpet. Upon her wrist was a splendid diamond bracelet of an uncommon pattern, for it was shaped to represent a double-headed snake, and under the gaslight the gems danced and gleamed with a thousand fires.

The appearance of the murdered woman was hideous enough in itself, but something else we saw startled us, and sent an increased thrill of horror through our nerves.

We were awe-struck by the sight of it, yet there was nothing extraordinarily revolting—merely a half sheet of notepaper upon which was a large red seal of a peculiar character, fastened to the breast of the dress.

“Good God! The Seal!”

It was the ejaculation of one of the constables as he knelt and unpinned the paper.

Breathlessly, we bent over the piece of paper and closely examined it, for we were all aware of the unparalleled and inexplicable mysteries with which not only London but the whole world was ringing.

It had an awful significance.

That its exact dimensions and strange hieroglyphics may be the more readily conceived, I reproduce it here:—

The horrible mystery connected with the fatal device flashed vividly across my mind in an instant, as, with a sickly, giddy feeling in my head, my heart beating violently, and my hands trembling as if palsied, I examined it. What did it mean? I wondered in a dazed fashion, for my thoughts seemed in a whirl of maddening velocity. There was no power in my mind to grasp the meaning of the hideous fact at first, and only a stupefied, dull sense of evil filled my soul.

My mental vision grew gradually clearer after a few moments; as if slowly awakening from a frightful dream, I drew myself together, trying to grasp the full interpretation of the mysterious symbol.

Within the past few months there had been no fewer than six murders in different countries, and in every case a piece of paper with a seal identical with the one we had just discovered had been found pinned upon the breast of the victim; yet in no instance had there been a clue to the murderer, though all the vigilance of the police, both at Scotland Yard and elsewhere, had been directed towards the elucidation of the mystery.

We stood aghast and pale, for the discovery had completely dumbfounded us.

There had been something so uncanny, almost supernatural, about the six other crimes, which so closely followed each other, that for the moment we were quite unnerved at this latest essay of the unrevealed assassin.

A momentary glance sufficed to convince the constables that a brutal murder had been committed, and after a few moments’ hesitation two of their number hurried out—one to fetch the divisional surgeon, the other to report to the inspector on duty at the station.

The two constables remaining gently lifted the corpse, and placing it upon a low lounge near, began to examine the apartment. It was a luxuriously-furnished drawing-room, and the gas, which burned in crimson glass, threw a soft harmonious light over the furniture and hangings, which were composed of pale blue satin; and upon the costly nick-nacks which plainly showed the owner was possessed of artistic tastes and refinement. A room, in fact, which bore the unmistakable traces of the daily presence of a woman of wealth and culture.

Glancing round, I could see that some of the articles were of great value. The pictures were for the most part rare, the quaint old Dresden and Sèvres upon the brackets, and the ivory carvings, were all curiosities of no ordinary character, while upon the mantelshelf stood a French clock, the tiny peal of silver bells of which chimed merrily, even as I looked.

Presently the officers concluded their examination of the room, and taking one of the candles from the piano, proceeded upstairs to search the house.

Accompanying them, I, an unwilling witness of this midnight tragedy, found the whole of the rooms furnished in elegant taste, no expense having been spared to make them the acme of comfort and luxury. Every nook and corner was searched, without success, so we returned again to the drawing-room.

To our surprise we found the body had moved slightly from the position in which we had placed it. The woman’s bloodless face seemed gradually to assume the faintest flush, her eyelids quivered, and in a strange, low whisper she uttered a word which to us was unintelligible.

Again she articulated it with evident difficulty; then a convulsive shudder shook her frame, her breast heaved, and her features again grew pale and rigid.

We stood watching her for a moment. One of the constables placed his hand upon her breast, but withdrew it, saying, “It’s all over with her, poor thing; I’m afraid the doctor won’t be able to do her any good.”

And we sat down to await the arrival of the inspector and surgeon, conversing only in low whispers.

A few minutes had elapsed, when they entered.

The doctor, as soon as he saw her, shook his head, saying, “Dead, poor woman! Ah! stabbed to the heart, I see.”

“Murder, evidently,” exclaimed the inspector, glancing round; then turning to the constables, he asked, “Have you searched the house?”

“Yes, sir,” they replied.

“Found anything?”

“This, we found in the hall,” replied one of the men, taking a small Indian dagger from a side-table, “and this paper was pinned upon her dress.”

The production of the seal caused both the inspector and doctor to start in surprise, and the former, after examining it, placed it carefully in his pocket-book.

Taking the knife in his hand, the inspector examined it minutely. It was stained with blood—evidently the weapon with which the murderer had dealt the fatal blow.

The doctor also looked at it, and wiping the blood from the victim’s breast, gazed upon the wound, saying, “Yes, that’s the knife, without a doubt; but who did it is the question.”

“Who’s this gentleman?” asked the officer, jerking his thumb towards me.

“Gentleman who informed us, sir.”

“Do you know who lives here?” he asked, sharply, turning to me.

“No, I do not. I am quite a stranger; in fact, I have never been in this street before in my life.”

“Hum!” he grunted, in a rather suspicious manner. “And how came you to know anything about the affair?”

“I chanced to be passing at the time, and my attention was attracted by a scream. I found a space between the blind and the window, and my curiosity being aroused, I looked in and saw the woman had been murdered.”

“Is that all you know?” he asked.

“That’s all.”

“Well, you won’t mind just stepping round to the station for a few minutes, will you? Then you can give us your version of the matter.”

“Oh, certainly I will, with pleasure,” I replied. The inspector having given some instructions to his men, the body of the murdered woman was covered with a table-cloth, and we went out leaving two constables in charge of the premises.

Dawn was spreading now; the stars had disappeared, and there were some saffron tints in the east, heralding the sun’s coming. At the corner of Montague Street the doctor wished us “good-morning,” and strode away in an opposite direction, scarcely well pleased at being aroused from his bed and called out to witness so unpleasant a sight.

Chapter Three.

What the World Said.

A quarter of an hour later I was in the inspector’s office at Tottenham Court Road Police-Station, relating to him all I knew of the horrible discovery.

“You saw a man come out, you say? Are you certain of this?” the inspector asked, after I had concluded my story.

“Quite; and, what’s more, I saw his face.”

“Would you know him again?” he inquired, eyeing me keenly.

“Certainly, I should.”

“Well, when you saw him, what did you do?”

“I followed him. We ran for nearly five minutes without meeting a constable, and I subsequently lost sight of him in Gray’s Inn Road.”

“For five minutes without meeting one of our men?” repeated the inspector, dubiously.

“Yes. I shouted, but nobody came to my assistance,” I replied, for I had not failed to notice the suspicion with which he regarded me.

The inspector’s brows contracted slightly as he took a slate from his desk, saying, “Give me his description as accurately as possible, please.”

I did so, and he wrote at my dictation. As soon as he had finished, he handed the slate to a sergeant, who at once went to the row of telegraph instruments and transmitted the description of the murderer to all the stations in the Metropolitan Police District.

“And this was upon the body when you saw it?” exclaimed the officer, smoothing out the crumpled piece of paper before placing it upon the desk in front of him.

I nodded an affirmative, and proceeded to describe the position of the paper as pinned upon the breast.

“Hum! well, I think that’s all,” said he, when I had finished. “You say you live in Torrington Square. Ah! I have the number. And you spent the evening at the Junior Garrick Club—was that so?”

“Yes.”

“At the inquest we shall want you as a witness; but you will get warning in due course. Good-morning.”

I left the station, and trudged homeward, full of thoughts of the horrible scene of which I had been an involuntary spectator.

Truly the night had been an eventful one.

The discovery had been made too late for the first editions of the morning papers, but those published on the following evening gave accounts of the tragedy, headed “Another Mysterious Murder: The Mystic Seal again,” in which the details of the crime were most graphically told, the facts exaggerated, and plenty of fiction infused; for that style known as the New Journalism seems to have been invented for the purpose of satisfying the craving for sensational reading.

During the day I was pestered with interviewers. Several enterprising reporters, who saw a chance of making an interesting column of “copy” out of me, sent up their cards, and to them I granted an audience. Following these came two detectives from the Criminal Investigation Department, who also wished for a description of my night’s adventure.

This I gave willingly, yet to my astonishment and annoyance I found, when I went down to the club in the evening, that the police had been making inquiries of the servants as to what time I left on the previous night, besides endeavouring to learn various other particulars.

I, Frank Burgoyne, was evidently suspected of the crime!

There had been six murders, all curious, unexplained mysteries, which had formed the chief topic of conversation and comment in the newspapers for the past few weeks. In each there appeared an utter absence of motive, which made the enigma doubly puzzling; and though the murderer had sought his victims from every rank of society, the same seal—evidently impressed by the same hand—had been found pinned upon the breast of the corpses.

Premeditated the crimes undoubtedly were, and accomplished by one to whom murder was an art, for in not a single instance was there the slightest clue to his identity, though some were committed in broad daylight. The modus operandi appeared to be similar in every case, and with the exception of one victim, who had been shot, the remaining five had all been stabbed to the heart by a stiletto, which the murderer usually carried away with him.

Various were the theories advanced as to the motives for these appalling deeds.

Some journals suggested that the murderer was a maniac, whose insatiable thirst for blood was controlled by the moon’s changes. This appeared plausible enough to some, but others asked how, if he were a lunatic, did he continue so effectually to conceal himself. These were told there was method in madness, and that in all probability the murderer was insane whilst committing the crimes, and immediately afterwards, on gaining his right senses, he remembered nothing of the fearful deeds.

Such hypotheses, and others of a far wilder character, were daily talk, not only throughout the Kingdom, but in all the Continental capitals, and in America. Although several heavy rewards had been offered for the apprehension of the defender, and a free pardon to any accomplice, all efforts to discover him were futile. The shrewdest detectives acknowledged themselves utterly baffled.

The most inexplicable part of the mystery was the fact that the crimes were not confined to one city, or even to one country, but had been committed at places at great distances from one another. This plainly showed that the murderer travelled with almost miraculous rapidity.

Very little sensation was created by the first discovery, although it was regarded as a mysterious affair. It occurred in New York, where a celebrated financier, George M. Sheward, was discovered one day in his private office, stabbed to the heart. Here the fatal seal first made its appearance. At the time the New York police thought little of the fact, and the finding of the symbol was not made public until subsequently, when other crimes had taken place, and the same emblem was found.

From inquiries, it appeared that the deceased arrived at Wall Street, as usual, at ten o’clock in the morning, retiring into his room, which was only separated from that of his clerk’s by a short passage, some ten feet in length. He remained in his room an hour, interviewing several clients and attending to his correspondence. His manager had occasion to consult him shortly after eleven, when on entering the room he was horrified at finding him dead in his chair. Upon the blotting-pad before him lay the paper whereon was the seal.

The persons who had called to see the murdered man were so numerous that neither of the clerks could tell who had been the last to visit their master, yet it was certain that the murderer, whoever he was, had passed through the public office to get to the principal’s room.

As the deceased gentleman had a world-wide reputation, the fact of his sudden death from some unknown assassin was speedily carried to the ends of the civilised globe, or, at all events, to the great centres where his financial influence was felt. He was a quiet, reserved man, but had many friends, for his well-known benevolence of disposition, combined with his immense wealth, had acquired for him a celebrity in more circles than one.

The New York police, aided by the powerful agency of the Press, which in America takes a peculiar pride in the business of the detection of crime, gave all its energies to the unravelling of the mystery; but their efforts, alas! were in vain. Before a fortnight had passed, news was received from Vienna that Herr Scherb, a wealthy professor, a man of great scientific attainments, had been stabbed in a restaurant at mid-day.

It appeared that a waiter, on approaching a table at which Herr Scherb was sitting, was terrified to observe that he was quite dead. The cause of his sudden demise was a glittering dagger, even then firmly fixed in the breast. On this being removed, it was discovered that a piece of paper bearing the seal had been fastened to the handle.

With trembling fingers and blanched faces the spectators unfolded it, and tried to decipher the hieroglyphics. It was not until the discovery of this seal had gained publicity that the New York police admitted finding one that was identical.

This was considered a very curious circumstance and was freely commented upon by various London and provincial newspapers, some giving a woodcut of what purported to be a representation of the mysterious characters upon the seal. Considerable excitement was caused thereby, and numbers of antiquarians and others at once set about trying to solve its meaning; but although editors were flooded with correspondence from those who professed to have found an elucidation, it remained as enigmatical as ever.

Just as the excitement was abating there came information of a third tragedy. This time a young French actress, Mlle. Voiturit, who was première danseuse at the Eden Theatre in Paris, was discovered late one evening in the Kalverstraat at Amsterdam, dying from the effects of a knife-wound in the breast.

There were dozens of persons passing and repassing in the street at the time of the occurrence, nevertheless, so swiftly and surely was the blow dealt and the seal attached, that before a crowd had assembled, the unfortunate young artiste had expired.

This created little less than a panic.

By the existence of the seals—each of which corresponded in every detail with the others—the fact was proved that the murders, if not committed by the same hand, were within the knowledge of the same person. This, of course, was a peculiar element in the case, and not a little speculation was indulged in as to what was the chief motive leading to the commission of crimes so outrageous.

The next dastardly affair caused a thrill of amazement and horror through the whole of Europe.

Mr Joseph Glossop, member of the House of Commons, and one of Society’s shining lights, had been found dead in bed at his house in Mount Street, Grosvenor Square, in most curious circumstances. True, the deceased had met with his death much in the same manner as the three previous victims, and he seal was present in exactly the same form, yet the window of the room was securely fastened, and the door locked.

This catastrophe caused the hearts of the three great capitals to throb with fear and indignation and the efforts of the police were redoubled. The same result—or lack of result—followed all their endeavours, however, and again nothing was discovered of the assassin who so ruthlessly took the lives of his unoffending fellow-men.

The police were utterly powerless, for the marvellous, almost superhuman, swiftness with which the fell deeds were accomplished, and the manner in which the murderer gained access to his victims, were two points which were entirely incomprehensible.

But while this situation was bad enough, it was nothing when compared with the complete paralysis which took possession of the entire population when, a few weeks later, the work of the same dreadful hand was observed, this time at Zurich, where Madame Daburon—a celebrated authoress, whose works, principally on political questions, and of a Socialistic tendency, had attracted a great deal of attention—was found lying in the bottom of a pleasure boat drifting upon the Lake.

The discovery was made by a party of tourists who were out sailing, and their dismay may be readily imagined when they found the unfortunate woman had been shot in the breast, and the seal placed upon her.

There were neither oars nor rudder to the boat, yet from the presence of blood it was plain that the shot was fired after the murdered woman had embarked, and it was more than probable that the assassin, before escaping, threw both oars and rudder overboard. How he landed was a mystery.

Hardly had the news of this latest crime reached London, when the sensation was increased by the report that another person had been discovered in the metropolis with the seal upon him.

In a few hours this statement was confirmed.

It transpired that on the afternoon following the discovery in Switzerland some children who were at play in Upper Street, Islington, noticed blood trickling from under the door of a pawnbroker’s shop occupied by Mr Isaac Solomons. The police were called; with difficulty the door was forced. Solomons was found face downwards in the passage, with a fearful gash in his throat, and on lifting the body, the seal was seen pinned upon him.

The seventh of this remarkable series was the Mystery of Bedford Place.

The Comet—most sensational of evening newspapers—upon the staff of which was my friend Bob Nugent, appeared with what it assured its readers was a portrait of the murdered woman, and in its comments upon the continuation of the mysterious crimes severely criticised our police system, asking what was the use of a Commissioner, of detectives, of a police force at all, if crimes could be committed with impunity in our very midst.

The murderer apparently treated the vigilance of the combined detective force of Europe with the utmost indifference, and such an attitude was alarming, for, as the latter acknowledged themselves defeated, there was no telling where this wholesale butchery would end!

That there was a motive for it all no one doubted, though it was a problem none could solve.

What was to be done? demanded the public; a question on which the newspapers were skilfully silent.

Questions were asked in the House, but the reply was that all that could be done had been done.

The population were to be coolly assassinated, while the apathetic authorities made no secret of their incompetency, and treated it with unconcern.

The excitement rose to fever heat.

Chapter Four.

“Startling revelations.”

The coroner held his inquiry at a neighbouring tavern two days after the murder, but the investigations, instead of throwing any light upon the mystery, only increased it.

After the jury had formally viewed the body, the coroner, addressing the inspector in charge of the case, said,—

“We will take evidence of identification first.”

“We have none, sir, up to the present,” replied the officer gravely.

The jury looked at one another in dismay.

“What!” exclaimed the coroner. “Have you not discovered who the lady is?”

“No, sir. The only evidence we can procure is that of an estate agent by whom the house was let to deceased.”

“Call him.”

The oath having been administered to the witness, a man named Stevenson, he proceeded to give his evidence, from which it appeared that he was an agent carrying on business in Gower Street. A few months previous he was entrusted with the house in Bedford Place to let furnished, the family having gone abroad. A month ago the deceased called upon him, and after viewing the premises, consented to take them, paying six months’ rent in advance, and giving her name as Mrs Inglewood. She was undoubtedly a lady of means, for she kept two servants and rode out daily in a brougham hired from a neighbouring livery stable.

The most unaccountable feature of the case, however, was that neither of these servants were in the house at the time of the murder, nor had they since returned. The police had been unable to discover any one else who knew the murdered woman, or could give any particulars regarding her.

The next witness was myself, and my depositions were rather more satisfactory. I related my experience on the fatal night, and how I had discovered the crime. Then I was submitted to a severe cross-examination by the jury regarding the appearance of the man who left the house immediately afterwards.

The other evidence adduced was purely formal: that of the divisional surgeon, who certified the cause of death was a knife-wound in the heart, and of the constable who came to my assistance. The latter produced the blood-smeared paper with its cabalistic seal, as to which much curiosity was evinced by the jury, it being handed round and minutely examined.

The inquest, after lasting several hours, was ultimately adjourned for a week, in order that the police might make further inquiries and bring the necessary evidence of identification.

To this end advertisements were inserted in the leading newspapers, giving a description of the latest victim, with the request that persons acquainted with her would communicate at once with any police-station in the metropolitan district.

This mystery in which the murdered woman was enveloped added to the excitement prevalent. Notwithstanding all the efforts of the Criminal Investigation Department, the coroner was informed, when he resumed his inquiry on the following week, that no further light could be thrown upon her identity. It seemed that the mysterious Mrs Inglewood was an utter stranger and entirely friendless, although the police were bound to admit there was something suspicious in the continued absence and strict silence of the servants. Had she any friends, one or other must have come forward, for the Press had carried the details of the tragedy to the most remote corners of the Kingdom.

No further statements being forthcoming, the jury, after a long deliberation, returned the same verdict as had been recorded upon the other mysterious deaths, that of “Wilful murder by some person or persons unknown.”

Thus ended the seventh murder, with all its journalistic embellishments; and the public, who looked for “startling revelations,” were disappointed.

“Who will be the next victim?” was the question all the capitals of the world were asking.

The detectives were by no means idle, and from occupants of neighbouring houses they found that Mrs Inglewood, during her residence, had received but few visitors, the most conspicuous being an elderly lady, accompanied apparently by her daughter. They came several times a week in a victoria, and remained an hour.

This was all the information they were able to glean, for it seemed that the unfortunate woman was an enigma herself, making the mystery even more abstruse.

On the evening the jury delivered their verdict, I went down to the Club.

In the spacious smoking-room, with its fine portraits of Garrick and his contemporaries (which, alas, have now fallen under the hammer), a few Bohemians were taking their ease in the well-padded lounge chairs, discussing the details of the inquiry as reported in the evening journals.

“It’s all very well to talk,” exclaimed Hugh Latimer, a young artist of renown, as he cast aside his newspaper, “there must be something radically wrong with our detective force if the man Burgoyne has seen cannot be traced.”

“But how’s it to be done? Perhaps he could not be recognised,” suggested one.

“Or he may be in America by this time,” said another.

“No. I disagree with you. It is proved that the guilty one is a well-dressed man, and the success of his sanguinary work has been such as to encourage him to commit further crimes; therefore, the logical deduction is that he will remain in England and continue them,” Latimer replied. “What do you think?” he added, turning to me.

“I don’t think anything about it, except that I heartily wish I’d never been mixed up with it at all,” I said.

“I should have liked it myself,” exclaimed Bob Nugent, with an eye to the manufacture of sensational “copy.” The remark created a laugh.

“Well; joking aside,” he continued, “very few of you fellows who are pressmen would have objected to being on the scene of the tragedy. Sensational writing is the living of most of us, and if Burgoyne were in the position he once occupied, he would have been eager enough for the chance.”

”‘Them’s just my sentiments,’” said Moreland, who was on the staff of a comic journal, and fancied himself the wit of the Club. “But, you see, Burgoyne is no longer one of us; he’s one of the ‘bloated aristocracy,’ as he used to call the wealthy at one time.”

“True,” I said, smiling. “I know from experience that such mysteries are an unqualified blessing to the impecunious journalist. The worst of it is that I’ve grown so confoundedly idle now, I really have nothing with which to occupy my time.”

“But you have plenty of work of a character that will benefit mankind, if you’ll only do it,” observed Nugent.

“What’s that?”

“Find the author of the crimes. You have seen him, and it only remains for you to turn amateur detective. By the exercise of a little patience you will be able to identify the wretch and bring his guilt home to him.”

“Impossible,” I remarked, though the suggestion was one which had not crossed my mind before, and I felt inclined to give it some consideration, as I had grown listless and lazy, and required something to occupy my mind.

To write for one’s bread and to write for mere pastime are very different matters. When I was compelled to follow journalism as a profession I put my very soul into my work; but now my keen enthusiasm had entirely disappeared, and I had neither patience nor inclination to write for pleasure.

“Man-hunting would be rattling good fun,” remarked Latimer, “especially when one is free, and possesses as much of the world’s good things as you, Burgoyne.”

“What nonsense you fellows talk?” I said. “How could I hope to succeed where Scotland Yard fails?”

“Exactly. But they haven’t seen the man they want; you have.”

“Oh, let’s change the subject. If ever I come across him he shall not go unpunished. Now, I’ve been at the inquest all day, and am bored to death with the whole thing. Come, Bob, let’s go out on the balcony; I want to talk to you,” I added, addressing Nugent.

Rising, we both passed out upon the veranda overlooking the Embankment.

Chapter Five.

Suspicions.

Like many others, I found my sudden acquisition of wealth had made me not a whit the more contented than when I was compelled to write for an existence. Still, I was a thorough-going Bohemian, and never happier than when amongst that free-and-easy artistic circle that made the Junior Garrick its headquarters.

For years Nugent had been my particular chum, and had frequently been the means of getting my articles accepted when I was more than usually hard-up; and now, in my affluence, I did not fail to remember the many services my old friend had rendered me.

As we sat together under the stars I was confiding to him how discontented I had felt of late.

“Well, my dear fellow, there’s only one remedy,” said Bob, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips.

“And what’s that?”

“Get married.”

“Marriage be hanged! I couldn’t settle down; besides, it is not my intention to forge the matrimonial gyves just yet. The fact is, Bob, I’m not well. I believe this horrible murder has given me a touch of the blues, and nothing but an entire change will rid me of it. I’m bored with everything, and with myself most of all. It may seem strange, but I have no object in life, except merely to exist. Once I envied fellows with money, but, by Jove, I don’t now.”

“Then what is your intention?”

“To go abroad; and I want you to accompany me.”

“I should be only too pleased, providing I could get away, but I have a great deal of work on hand which I must finish,” replied Nugent.

“Do come, and take the rest with you. Fresh surroundings will incite new inspirations, and you can combine business with pleasure. Can you be ready by next Saturday?”

“Well, yes, I think so; but where do you intend going?”

“Don’t know, and don’t care a straw, as long as I get a change. We’ll run over to Paris first, and afterwards decide where shall be our next halting-place.”

“And how long do you propose being away?”

“Six months—a year, if you like.”

“I must return in a couple of months at latest, for I’ve business to attend to.”

“Very well, return whenever you please. What do you say to starting by the night mail on Saturday?”

Bob replied in the affirmative, and we ratified the agreement over a bottle of Pommery.

Later that night when I left the Club to walk home, my thoughts involuntarily wandered to the mysterious tragedy which I had discovered.

It was past one o’clock, and few people were about as I turned from Adam Street into the Strand. I was alone, and strolling along at an easy pace, passed down Drury Lane.

Suddenly I became conscious that some one had been following me, though the footsteps of the person seemed almost noiseless.

Thinking it might be some pickpocket, I buttoned my coat across the chest, and grasping my stick firmly, waited until I approached a gas-lamp, then turning suddenly, confronted a respectably-dressed man in the garb of a mechanic.

He was only a few yards from me, and at first I felt ashamed of exhibiting such fear, but a momentary glance sufficed to show that this person was also connected with the adventure of the never-to-be forgotten evening.

He was an elderly man, who bore a striking resemblance to the detective who had called upon me.

I stood aghast, for this man’s appearance had been so sudden and unexpected that I was too much confused for the moment to collect my thoughts.

He was apparently following me and keeping observation upon my movements. That fact instantly aroused in me a feeling of great indignation. I should have spoken, and probably an angry scene would have followed, had not he, with a celerity of movement which baffled my efforts, almost instantly gone off in an opposite direction.

I made no attempt to follow him.

It was intensely annoying to be tracked in this manner. Was I, Frank Burgoyne, to be watched like a suspected criminal or a ticket-of-leave man, because I had—unfortunately, as it seemed—been the means of bringing to light yet another foul piece of handiwork of the unknown miscreant?

Why did they suspect me? What end had they in view in such a proceeding?

Suppose my friends and the world should notice the suspicion resting upon me? I grew hot at the very thought.

Perhaps, after all, he was only acting from curiosity, and not under the orders of his superiors. The suggestion was a little consoling, and endeavouring to re-assure myself by its aid, I walked briskly home.

Chapter Six.

Vera Seroff.

Two months had elapsed.

Rob Nugent and I had had a pleasant time up the Rhine and among the Swiss lakes, and both acknowledged ourselves greatly benefited by the change. We were in Genoa, having broken our journey between Lugano and Rome, intending to remain only a couple of days, but finding so much of interest in the old city of Paganini and Columbus, we had already remained there a fortnight; and neither of us felt any inclination to travel further south.

We had taken up our quarters at the Hôtel Isotta, in that handsome thoroughfare the Via Roma, of which the Genoese are so justly proud, and though debarred from sight-seeing in the daytime by reason of the blazing autumn sun, we thoroughly enjoyed those cool balmy evenings when jalousies are thrown open, and the light-hearted Ligurians stroll up and down the Via Carlo Felice and the Via Assaroti, or sit outside the cafés taking their ease in the bel fresco.

Nugent’s vacation was at an end, for he had received a letter which necessitated his almost immediate return to London. I had neither the desire nor intention of quitting Genoa just yet. The cause of this was not very far to seek, and of course Bob suspected the position of affairs from the first; yet when he signified his intention of departing, and I said I should remain another week or so, his surmise was confirmed, and he could not refrain from indulging in a little good-humoured chaff at my expense.

The fact was that at the hotel there was also staying an exceedingly pretty young lady, named Vera Seroff, under the guardianship of her uncle, and accompanied by her French maid. The first evening we met at table-d’hôte I was fascinated with her beauty, and my admiration had not diminished as we sat opposite one another on the eve of Nugent’s departure.

The hotel was not full, and the number dining that evening did not exceed twenty, though the long table, glittering with its choice glass and plate, would have accommodated a hundred.

My vis-à-vis was about twenty-three, with a face as to which there could be no adverse opinion. She was dark, with fine eyes, serious and penetrating, a delicate little nose, and a well-formed mouth, which showed, when she smiled, two rows of pearly teeth. She was brisk, vivacious, with a charming ingenuousness in her flawless face; a figure slim and graceful, and a voice silvery and sympathetic.

In contrast to her was her uncle, who sat by her side, a short, stout old gentleman, with sharp features, a prominent nose, and scanty white hair, who seldom entered into conversation with any one, and who always appeared ill-humoured, grumbling constantly at the heat.

She spoke English with a pleasant accent, and was conversing with Bob and myself, to the apparent annoyance of the old gentleman, who could not understand a word. She was relating her impressions of one of the galleries she had visited that day, and displayed such a wide knowledge of pictures as to astonish Nugent, himself the art-critic of the Evening Comet. We both had become friendly with her, for, besides meeting daily at the hotel, we had several times run across one another at those places of interest the tourist always visits. Her uncle, Monsieur Hertzen, rarely went out, and her maid usually accompanied her on such expeditions; however, when only taking a short walk, she was frequently alone.

On one of these latter occasions I met her in the Piazza Principale, and offered to escort her to the hotel, to which proposal she made no objection. The distance was not great, but it sufficed to break the conventional ice between us, and when we parted I was more than ever fascinated. Never before had I met a woman so beautiful, so charming, so near my ideal of perfection.

When the meal had ended, and we rose, I said to her, “This is my friend’s last evening in Genoa. He returns to England to-morrow.”

“And do you go also?” she asked, with an intonation—as I flattered myself—of disappointment.

“Well; no,” I replied; “I shall remain a few days longer.”

The shadow of anxiety which had rested momentarily upon her face, vanished at once, as she turned to Nugent, saying, “I am sorry you are leaving, and must wish you bon voyage. I hope, some day, we may meet again, for our dinner-table discussions have been exceedingly pleasant.”

“Thanks, Mademoiselle,” replied Bob, grasping the tiny white hand she held out to him. “My business calls me to London, otherwise I should not return just yet. However, I hope you will prevent my friend, here, from getting into any scrapes with the bloodthirsty Italians after I’m gone.”

She laughed merrily as she answered, “He’s quite old enough to take care of himself. I cannot undertake the responsibility. Good-bye,” and she tripped away up the stairs to her own apartments.

“Old fellow,” exclaimed Bob, after she was out of hearing, “if you feel inclined to pitch yourself into the matrimonial net, there’s your chance; and I wish you every success.”

“Well, there are more unlikely things than my enlistment in the ranks of Benedicts,” I replied, laughing, as we sought our hats and went out to spend our last evening together.

Early the following morning Nugent departed for Turin, en route for England, and I was left alone to amuse myself as best I could. Truth to tell, I was not sorry Bob had gone, for now I felt free to devote myself to the beautiful woman who held me under her spell. I lost no time in carrying out my object, for meeting her in the drawing-room before dinner, I obtained permission to escort her on her evening walk.

It was already dusk when the tediously long meal was brought to a conclusion, and we left the hotel, strolling along the Galleria Mazzini towards the public gardens of Aqua Sola, the most charming promenade in Genoa. It is situated upon a picturesque cliff overlooking the port and the Mediterranean beyond, while at the rear rise the tall vine-covered Appenines, with romantic-looking villas peeping out here and there from amongst the olives and maize. The shadow of its great old trees form a delightful retreat from the scorching noon-day sun; but at night, when the people refresh themselves after the heat and burden of the day, its gravelled walks are thronged by the élite. Fashionable Genoa enjoys herself with mad but harmless frolic, and under the deep shadows fire-flies flit and couples flirt.

Upon an old stone seat near a plashing fountain we sat listening to the sweet melancholy strains of the Sempre Vostro waltz, performed by the splendid band of the National Guard. On the right the many-coloured fairy lamps of the gardens attached to the Caffé d’Italia shone through the dark foliage; on the left the ripple of the sea surged softly far below. Away across the moonlit waters flashed the warning beacon of the port, and the air was heavy with the sensuous odour of orange blossom and roses.

For upwards of an hour we sat talking; she piquante, bright, and amusing; I lazily enjoying a cigar, and watching her beautiful face in rapt admiration. I told her of myself—how the interest in my sole object in life had been suddenly destroyed by affluence—and my present position, that of a world-weary tourist, with no definite purpose farther than killing time.

All my efforts to learn some events of her past life or her place of abode were unavailing. “I am plain Vera Seroff,” she replied, “and I, too, am a wanderer—what you call bird of passage. I have no country, alas! even if I have patriotism.”

“But you are Russian?” I said.

“Quite true—yes. I shall return to Russia—some day.” And she sighed, as if the mention of her native land stirred strangely sad memories.

“Where do you intend going when you leave here?” I asked.

“I have not the slightest idea. We have no fixed abode, and travel whither it suits my uncle—London, New York, Paris; it matters little where we go.”

“You have been in England; have you not?”

“Yes; and I hate it,” she replied, abruptly, at once turning the conversation into another channel. She appeared extremely reticent regarding her past, and by no amount of ingenuity could I obtain any further information.

When it grew chilly, we rose and walked along past the forts, and out upon the Spezzia road, where a refreshing breeze blew in from the sea.

In her soft white dress, with a bunch of crimson roses at her throat, I had never seen her looking so beautiful. I loved her madly, blindly, and longed to tell her so.

Yet how could I?

Such a proceeding would be absurd, for our acquaintance had been of so brief a duration that we scarcely knew anything of one another.

Chapter Seven.

A Secret Tie.

On our return we traversed the road skirting the fortress, and paused for a few moments, resting upon a disused gun-carriage. The moon had reappeared and cast its long line of pale light upon the rippling waters of the Mediterranean.

Suddenly, as we were seated side by side, her dark eyes met mine, and by some inexplicable intuition, some mysterious rapport between my soul and hers, I knew I was something more to her than a mere casual acquaintance. My reason answered me that I must be mad to think she loved me, but my heart told me different, and gradually all my misgivings vanished before the hope and confidence that the conviction of her love raised in my mind.

“I have just been wondering,” I said, “whether, when we part in a few days, we shall ever meet again, for, believe me, I shall cherish the fondest memory of this evening we have passed together. It is charming.”

“And I also,” she replied, “but as you say in English, the best of friends must part.”

It is useless to repeat the words I uttered. Suffice it to say that I could restrain my feelings no longer, and there, in the bright Italian moonlight, I declared my ecstatic passion, and asked her to be my wife.

Had I taken her unawares? Probably so; for, when I had finished, she rose with an effort, and withdrawing her hand gently, said, “No, Frank—for I may call you by that name—your request I am unable to grant, and the reason I cannot now explain. There is, alas! an insurmountable barrier between us, and had you known more of me you would not have asked me this.”

“But, Vera, you love me, you can’t deny it!” I passionately exclaimed.

Tears stood in her eyes, as she answered, “Yes, yes, I do—I love you dearly!”

“Then what is this obstacle to our happiness?”

“No! no!” she cried, covering her face with her hands. “Request no explanation, for, I—I cannot give it. It would be fatal.”

“But why?” I asked, for it was a cruel and bitter disappointment. All my hopes had been shattered in those brief moments.

“From the day we first met I have known we loved one another,” she said slowly, “yet it would have been better had we never become acquainted, since it causes pain to both.”

“But, surely, if you love me, Vera, this obstacle can be removed! Tell me what it is; if a secret, it will be safe with me,” I said earnestly.

She dashed the tears from her eyes, and with an effort stood erect before me, saying:

“No! it is impossible. Think no more of marriage, Frank; regard me only as a dear friend who loves you.”

“Then you will not tell me why we cannot marry?” I said, gravely, rising and taking her hand.

“It—it is a secret. I would rather die than divulge it; though, some day, perhaps, the circumstances will alter, and I shall be at liberty to tell you everything. For the present we love one another, but it must end there; marriage is entirely out of the question.”

I saw it was useless to press for any further explanation. Evidently she was prepared for any self-sacrifice, to protect her secret, because, when finding herself wavering, she had summoned all her strength, and with a mighty effort overcame her emotion, resolutely giving her answer.

As we rose and turned towards the city, a circumstance, slight in itself, occurred, which afterwards caused me not a little perturbation and surprise, and which considerably enhanced the mystery surrounding the fair Russian.

We were passing a buttress of the fort when my attention was arrested by what appeared to be a man standing bolt upright in the shadow.

I was too engrossed with thoughts of our tête-à-tête to allow the discovery of an eavesdropper—probably only a peasant—to cause me any alarm, but, seeing my eyes upon him, for I had halted to make sure, the figure suddenly drew from the shadow, and, with its face averted from the moonlight, walked rapidly away.

Vera, uttering an exclamation of surprise or alarm,—which it was I could not tell—seized my arm with a convulsive energy that caused me no small pleasure at the feeling of dependence it implied, and drew a deep breath.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

“No, no; not at all,” she quickly replied. “He might have heard us; but never mind.”

I endeavoured to learn the cause of her alarm thinking that so much agitation could not be created by such a trivial circumstance; but whether my knowledge of feminine nature was imperfect, or whether she knew who the listener was, and concealed his identity, I could not learn, her answers being of the most evasive kind.

It was plain that the fact of our being discovered together had caused her the greatest consternation, and I was considerably puzzled to assign to this a reason.

I did not broach the subject again, however, but walked straight to the hotel, where we bade each other buona notte.

We met daily, and I, most prosaic of bachelors, found myself thinking of her every moment.

Though in a dejected, perplexed mood, I felt utterly happy when at her side; for had she not given me words of hope for the future, and in these was a certain amount of consolation, however slight. Our clandestine meetings were so skilfully arranged as to keep the ever-grumbling Hertzen in entire ignorance, and Vera admitted such expeditions were her happiest hours.

One evening, a fortnight afterwards, we had driven to Pegli, a quaint old fishing village four miles from Genoa. It was a gorgeous sunset, the sea a glittering expanse of blue and gold stretching out toward the descending sky, with nothing to fleck its surface but the gleam of a white sail or two; and as we walked together, close to the lapping waves, I fancied she looked a trifle wan and anxious.

At first I took no heed of it, but presently her agitation became so apparent that I asked whether she were well.

“Yes, well enough in health,” she sighed, “but very unhappy.”

“Why, how is that?” I asked in concern.

“Ah! Frank,” she said, with her eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the ground, “I must not tell you all, so you cannot understand but I am one of those born to unhappiness.”

“Tell me something of this sorrow, that I may sympathise with you,” I said, looking into her eyes. “If it is in my power to help you I will do so willingly.”

“Ah! if you would?” she exclaimed wistfully, her face brightening at a suggestion which appeared to flash across her mind. “There is indeed one way by which you might render me a service, but it is impossible. I am afraid the commission is too great for you to undertake.”

“I am ready to serve you in any way, Vera. If a test of my devotion is required, I’m prepared for the ordeal,” I replied seriously.

She halted, and gazing into my face with eyes brimming with tears, said: “Believe me, I am in sore need of a friend. I will tell you something of my trouble, but do not ask for further explanations now, as I cannot give them. The man whom you know as my uncle holds me in his power. He is harsh, cruel, and—and—”

“He is your husband!” I interrupted in a low voice, for somehow I felt convinced that such was the case.

“No! no!” she cried hoarsely; “no, I swear that is not so. He is neither husband, nor even friend. Though my uncle, he is unworthy the name of relation. I am unfortunately in his thrall, and dare not disobey his will. To do so would mean—”

“What?—tell me.”

“Impossible. The longer I live the more I learn to hate his presence. Ah, if you could but know!”

There was an intensity of bitterness in that utterance, a flash in her clear dark eyes that spoke of a fierce passion. Could it be hatred?

“Vera; why not trust me?” I implored, taking her hand, and seeking to penetrate the indomitable reserve in which her words were shrouded.

“Once and for all, Frank, it cannot be.”

Her answer came short, sharp, decisive, firm, yet with ineffable sadness.

“Heaven knows! I would willingly share your burden, Vera.”

She paused, as if in doubt.

The silence grew painful, and I watched the mobile features which so plainly indexed the passing emotions of her mind. A blush, like that of shame, tinged her cheek and pallid brow as she lifted her face to mine, although her eyes were downcast.

“Frank,” she said, slowly, “will you help me?”

“With heart and soul, dearest.”

“Then you can do so.” And she drew a deep breath.

“How?”

She hesitated, wavering even then, as it seemed; and the colour left her cheeks as suddenly as it had appeared.

In a low voice, speaking rapidly and impetuously, she replied:—

“Briefly, you may learn this. My uncle is my guardian. He has, I believe, appropriated a large sum of money which is mine by right. Ah! I know what you would say. But I dare not prosecute or expose him, for the consequences would be almost beyond conception, and would affect myself more even than him. I am powerless!”

“But I can help you?”

“I’m afraid you will not consent to what I ask.”

“What is it? You know I cannot refuse a behest of yours.”

“A further annoyance, in fact a great danger, threatens me now. My dead mother’s jewels—on which I place great store, for they are the only souvenir remaining of she whom I dearly loved—are now coveted by him. In vain I have besought him to let me keep them, but he is inexorable. To place them with a friend in whom I have confidence is the only course remaining; that friend lives—”

“Yes, where?”

“At St. Petersburg.”

“St. Petersburg!” I exclaimed, in surprise. “Oh! but, of course, it is your home?”

“It is; or rather was. Had I the opportunity I would convey them there myself, braving the displeasure of my harsh relative and the punishment that would follow. Unhappily I am debarred. To trust the jewels to the post would be too great a risk, and it is only to—to such a—confidant as you that I can look for assistance.”

“And this is all?” I asked. “You merely want me to take them to St. Petersburg?”

“That is all.”

“The commission is a slight one, Vera; you know how willingly I would undertake, for your sake, a thousand such—”

“How can I ever thank you enough?” she interrupted, her face assuming a brighter expression. “I really thought it too much to ask of you.”

“Nothing could be too much, dearest. When shall I start?”

“As soon as possible. By delay all may be lost. It is imperative you should be in Russia three weeks from to-day.”

“Three weeks from to-day,” I echoed.

“Yes, within that time, or it will be useless—my friend will have departed.”

“Then I am ready to set out to-morrow. Have you any message? What must I do?”

“To-morrow morning I will give you the case. Go to the Hôtel Michaeli, on the Galernoi Oulitza, at St. Petersburg, and remain there until a tall, fair gentleman presents my card and asks for them. He will give his name as Paul Volkhovski.”

“Very well,” I said, “I shall leave to-morrow night.”

Then we retraced our steps, and entering the carriage, drove back to Genoa in the fading twilight.

Next morning we met alone in the drawing-room, and she placed in my hands a leather jewel-case about nine inches square and three deep, securely sealed, saying,—

“I trust to you for their safety. Do not let this out of your sight for an instant, and on no account allow the seals to be broken, for it will be easy enough to pass so small a box through the douane.”

I bade her rest assured the diamonds would be safe in my hands, and that I would carry out her instructions regarding the preservation of the seals.

“I trust you implicitly,” she repeated. “And now—as to funds?” producing her purse.

“No,” I said firmly, “I should not think of taking your money. This journey will be a pleasure, and you must allow me to defray its cost.”

“Thank you, a thousand times,” she replied, her lips quivering with emotion. “Our movements are very uncertain, but I have your London address, and will write and inform you of our wanderings from time to time.”

“After I have accomplished this mission, I shall return to you immediately, when I hope you will be convinced that my love is no mere passing fancy, but a—”

“Hark!” she interrupted, “my uncle’s cough. Go!—Farewell!”

I bent and kissed her, then snatching up the box, hurriedly left the room.

Chapter Eight.

Post-Haste across Europe.

One circumstance puzzled me greatly.

My baggage had already been placed in the carriage which was to take me to the station, and in descending the stairs to depart I passed the sitting-room occupied by Vera. The door was ajar, and I was suddenly prompted to enter to wish her a final adieu. Having opened the door half-way I heard voices, which caused me to halt. Vera was seated upon an ottoman, her elbows upon her knees in an attitude of dejection. Before her, with his hands thrust deep in his capacious pockets, stood a well-made athletic young fellow, who, though his back was burned towards me, had the air of a military officer. Apparently he had assumed a commanding demeanour, for he was bending over her, speaking rapidly in a language I did not understand, while she was appealing to him to desist.

I had already bade her adieu, and as neither noticed me I passed down the staircase and out into the street, the thick pile of the carpet preventing my footsteps being heard.

In my drive to the station I was greatly perplexed over this incident, wondering who the man could be. Evidently he was a Russian, and had just arrived or was on the point of departing on a journey, for he wore a long travelling ulster and soft felt hat. From Vera’s dispirited manner it appeared as if he were giving some directions which were hateful to her, and which she was vainly resisting.

I somehow felt certain, too, that he had pronounced my name; and at mention of it she shrank as if in fear. It seemed very much as if this man, as well as her uncle, exercised some power over her, and during my long night journey I tried to account for the stranger’s presence.

After all, it might be nothing, I thought at last; and perhaps the green-eyed monster had arisen within me and distorted, as it often does, what would otherwise have seemed a very commonplace occurrence.

On the third evening after leaving Genoa I arrived at Charing Cross, having travelled incessantly by the Mont Cenis route without breaking the journey at Paris. It was impossible for me to go to Russia without a passport, therefore I was compelled to return to London and obtain one. At first I was troubled by this, the time of my arrival being limited to three weeks; but afterwards, finding the journey from Italy to the Russian capital was much more circuitous than from London, I made the best of it, feeling certain I should be able to deliver the jewels within the time stipulated by the woman who had enchanted me.

On my arrival I drove at once to my rooms and sought the rest of which I was so sorely in need, afterwards setting about packing a few additional necessaries for my journey. For three days, however, I was obliged to remain in London before I could obtain my passport, and though impatient to set out, I passed the time as best I could.

The evening of the second day I met Nugent at the Club.

He expressed the greatest surprise at meeting me, yet I did not inform him of the journey I had undertaken, but led him to believe that my life at Genoa had become unbearable after he had left, and that on the following day I contemplated returning to Paris for a few weeks.

We dined together and afterwards went to the Alhambra, but only once did he refer to Vera.

It was after the ballet, when we were taking cigarettes and coffee.

“By the way,” he said suddenly, a mischievous smile lighting up his genial face, “what progress did you make with la belle Seroff? You have not spoken of her.”

I did not care to be questioned upon this matter, so appeared to treat it as a joke.

“Ah?” I replied, “it was a mere flirtation. Why, really, Bob, old chap, I believe you regarded that little affair seriously,” I said, laughing.

He raised his eyebrows slightly, saying, “You guessed aright. I thought you were in love with her; but am glad to hear such is not the case.”

“Why?” I asked, in surprise, for had he not hinted more than once that she would make me a charming wife?

“No reason, no reason,” he replied evasively; “simply because I’ve altered the opinion I once held regarding her.”

I requested no further explanation, for the bell was ringing, denoting that the curtain had risen, and we returned to our stalls.

Could he have seen or heard anything to cause him to utter this vague warning? I asked myself. No, surely not; yet it was strange, to say the least.

Having obtained my passport properly viséd by the Russian Consul, on the evening following I entered a first-class compartment of the Queenborough express at Victoria, and, settling myself, commenced the initial stage of my long journey across Europe. As the train sped onward through the Kentish hop-gardens, I sat watching the September sun change from gold to purple, and eventually disappear behind the dark night-clouds. Safely stowed away in my valise was the jewel-case; but I had already devised a plan whereby it would escape the prying douaniers—the same by which I had brought it from Italy unopened, viz, to place it in the capacious pockets of my travelling coat, and hang that garment upon my arm during the examination of the baggage.

I was alone in the carriage, but by reading the newspapers with which I had provided myself, managed to wile away the two hours’ journey to the sea.

With relief I alighted at Queenborough Pier, and embarked upon the Flushing steamer, for here I knew the sensation of loneliness would quickly disappear. The whirr of the steam crane, hubbub and noise, mingled with disconsolate comments in English and staccato sounds in French, soon ceased, and very quickly the vessel had set her head towards the Dutch coast.

At seven we landed, and an hour later I had commenced a several days’ journey by rail across the continent, the terrible monotony of which is known only to those who have accomplished it. Cramped up in a coupé-lit for a day and night is sufficient to tire most persons, but a continuance of that sort of thing is the reverse of enjoyable.

Both at Flushing and Kaldenkirchen I contrived to smuggle the jewels through the douane, and with a honeymooning couple and a voluble old Frenchman as fellow-passengers, I travelled onward through Duisburg, Oberhausen, and Hanover, arriving at Berlin early on the third morning after leaving London.

Here I decided to break the journey for a day, having traversed half the distance, and after seeking repose at a hotel, strolled through the city to stretch my legs. That evening I passed wandering alone through the principal thoroughfares, and lounging in several beer gardens, returning to the hotel shortly before midnight, and resuming my eastward journey the following morning.

With scarcely any interesting scenery, it was a wearying monotony enough throughout the day, but when night drew on and the shrieking of the engine and whirl and rattle of wheels made sleep impossible, it was absolutely unendurable. My French novel no longer interested me. I was excessively fatigued, and as I lay my aching head upon the velvet cushion of the narrow berth, watching the flickering oil-lamp, my meditations reverted, as they constantly did, to the pleasant evenings Vera and I had spent beside the Mediterranean. Thoughts of her for whose sake I had undertaken this journey, of her strange position, and of the service it was in my power to render her, acted as an incentive, and caused the inconveniences and fatigue of travel to appear much less than they would otherwise have been.

In a fortnight I hoped to have fulfilled my promise and return to her, for this enforced separation I could tolerate no longer than was absolutely necessary. Already I was eagerly looking forward to the time when I should again be at her side, for was it not my duty to be near and to protect her whom I loved?

What might not happen during my absence? I dreaded to think.

Evidently she was in the hands of an unscrupulous villain, and my anxiety and hope was to marry her as soon as possible, and take her under my own protection.

Like other men, I had had my flirtations, but this was my Grand Passion. I loved Vera heart and soul, passionately and purely, and was determined to make her my wife without delay. As I lay there I could not help reflecting how little of real happiness I had known before we met; how selfish and unsatisfactory my life had hitherto been, when my motto was Chacun pour soi, et Dieu pour nous tous.

Now, all was changed. At last I had found the woman whom I believed was predestined to become my wife; she who had fascinated me, who held me for life or death.

Through the long night I thought only of her, puzzled over the secret of the old man’s influence; happy and content, nevertheless, in the knowledge that ere long I should return to her, never to part.

Chapter Nine.

In the Izak Platz.

Why need I refer further to the terribly wearisome journey across Prussia, Poland and Western Russia? Those of my readers who have accomplished it know well how dull, tedious and tiring it is, travelling hour after hour, day after day, through a flat, uninteresting country.

Suffice it to say, that on the fifth day after leaving London, the train came to a standstill in the spacious station of the Russian capital.

After some difficulty I discovered the whereabouts of the Hôtel Michaeli, and entering a likhac was driven to a small, and rather uninviting hotel under the shadow of the gilded dome of the Izak Church.

The proprietor, a tall, black-bearded Russian, greeted me warmly in French, exclaiming:

“M’sieur Burgoyne, n’est ce pas?”

“That is my name,” I replied.

“The apartments ordered for you are in readiness.”

“Who ordered them?” I asked.

“M’sieur must be aware that a gentleman secured his rooms a week ago?”

“No, I did not know that arrangements had been made for my reception,” I said.

“Will m’sieur have the kindness to sign the register before ascending?” he said, politely handing me a book and pen.

Those who have not travelled in the dominions of the Czar know nothing of the strict police regulations, the many formalities the foreigner has to undergo, and the questions he must answer before he is allowed to take up even a temporary residence in the Venice of the North.

I wrote replies to the printed questions in the book, and, signing my name, handed it back to him, and was shown to my rooms.

Though anxious to complete my mission and return, I confess I found much of interest. St. Petersburg externally is the finest city in the world, but internally the dirtiest and most enthralled, struggling as it does under a police régime so harsh that one can scarcely walk the streets without infringing some law, and attracting the attention of the spies, who everywhere abound.

I remained waiting several days for the appearance of the man to whom I was to deliver the diamonds, but he did not present himself, so I occupied myself inspecting the sights of the city. Through the churches of Kazan, St. Nicholas, and the Intercession I wandered, astounded at their magnificence; saw a comedy at the Bolshoi, admired the statues of Peter the Great and Souvaroff, and, perhaps the greatest novelty of all, visited that most magnificent of imperial residences, the Winter Palace.

Here occurred an incident of which at the time I thought nothing, though afterwards I had much cause to remember it.

Following one of the gorgeously attired servants through a labyrinth of picture galleries and apartments, we entered the Salle Blanche, the most luxurious chamber of this splendid palace, with its wonderful decorations of white and gold, from which it derives its name. In this chamber are held those court fêtes which eclipse all others in the world, for it is here the nobility assemble to pay homage to the Autocrat of all the Russias.

Standing in the centre of the apartment, I gazed in wonderment upon its marvellous gilding and glittering magnificence, while the servant described graphically, but parrot-like, how the receptions were conducted, the blazing of the priceless jewels worn by the Empress, and how the Emperor himself, the most quietly dressed amongst the gay assemblage, walked and talked with his guests.

The whiteness of the walls I was unable to understand, and being of a somewhat inquisitive nature, and desirous of ascertaining whether they were marble or wood-panel, I rapped upon it sharply with my knuckles.

In an instant a sentry, who had been standing motionless at the door, and several servants in the Imperial livery, were at my side.

“For what reason did you tap that wall?” demanded one of the men in French.

I was thoroughly taken by surprise, and stammered out an apology, urging that I was not aware of committing any offence.

“It is an offence, and a grave one,” exclaimed the servant, whom I afterwards found was a police spy. “Visitors must not touch the walls in that manner, and we have orders to eject those who break the law.”

“Oh, very well,” I replied, rather ruffled at the man’s impertinence, “I have no desire to do anything contrary to this strange law of yours; and, moreover, I’ll leave the Palace.”

With these words, I turned and retraced my steps to the entrance, being closely followed by the sentry and the guide.

It was a very small matter and soon passed out of my mind, though it afterwards proved more serious than one would have imagined.

Life in St. Petersburg was so different from any to be found in Western Europe, that during the few days I awaited the arrival of the man to whom I was to deliver the jewels, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

In the daytime, perhaps the place which has most attraction for the foreigner is the Nevskoi Prospekt. It is the principal thoroughfare, a fine broad street four versts long, with imposing houses and handsome shops, the favourite promenade of the haut ton. The bustle and throng is as great as in Regent Street or the Strand on a sunny day, for the endless line of well-appointed equipages, with servants in splendid liveries, and mostly drawn by four horses, roll noiselessly over the asphalte, while upon the pavement stroll princes and generals in uniform, aides-de-camp and staff officers, merchants, mujiks, Greeks, Circassians—indeed, that heterogeneous assortment of sects and races which combine to make up the population of a great city. Russian women, as a rule, are the reverse of prepossessing; but the ladies who shop in the Nevskoi, and afterwards promenade on the English Quay, are even more remarkable for their elegance and beauty than those one sees in the Row or on Parisian boulevards.

As it is not my intention, however, to dilate upon Russian manners and customs, except for the purpose of presenting this strange drama in which I played a leading part, I must refrain from commenting on the thousand and one show places, the coffin shops, in the windows of which the grim receptacles for the dead are ticketed, and many other things which strike the stranger as ludicrous and curious.

I saw them merely pour passer le temps, and they can be of but little interest in the present narrative.

Exactly three weeks had passed since I bade farewell to Vera. I had breakfasted, and was standing before the window looking out upon the Izak Platz, that broad square in the centre of which the column of Alexander stands out in bold relief. Not having made up my mind whither I should repair in search of pleasure, I was idly watching the busy, ever-changing crowd of pedestrians and vehicles, when I heard the door behind me open, and, turning, confronted a tall, fair-bearded man, who had entered unannounced. He was well-dressed, and as I turned and looked inquiringly at him, he bowed and removed his hat.

“Is it to M’sieur Frank Burgoyne I have the pleasure of speaking?” he asked politely, in very fair English.

“Quite correct,” I replied.

“Allow me to present to you the carte of Mademoiselle Vera Seroff, and to introduce myself. Paul Volkhovski is my name, and—er—need I tell you the object of my visit?” he inquired, showing an even set of white teeth as he smiled.

“It is unnecessary,” I replied, glancing at the card he took from his wallet and handed to me. “The jewels are quite safe in that box upon the ottoman. The seals, you will notice, are untouched.”

“Merci,” he replied, a grin of satisfaction lighting up his countenance as he repeated, “The jewels—ah!”

Crossing quickly to where the box lay, he took it up and examined it minutely.

“Ha! harosho!” he exclaimed confidently, replacing it with care.

There was something peculiar in his manner which I could not fail to notice.

To tell the truth, I was rather disappointed in Vera’s friend. I had imagined that any friends of hers must be men with whom I could readily associate, whereas there was nothing beyond mere bourgeois respectability in Monsieur Volkhovski.

Somehow a feeling of suspicion crept over me.

It was possible some one had personated the man whom I was awaiting! At that moment it occurred to me that the means at my disposal to recognise him were exceedingly slight.

This man might be an impostor.

“How do I know, m’sieur—if you will pardon my interrogation—that you are the person you represent yourself?” I said, regarding him keenly.

With an exclamation in Russian which I did not understand, he said, “It is not for you to doubt! Mademoiselle Seroff asked you to bring the diamonds to me. Your commission is ended.”

“I had conceived.” I replied rather warmly, “that Mademoiselle’s friends were mine. Apparently I am mistaken.”

“It matters not—a mere trifle.”

“At least you will give me a receipt to show that my promise has been carried out.”

“She said nothing of any receipt, and I will give none.”

Evidently he was alarmed.

“Then I shall not give up the jewels—”

“Not another word! You have safely delivered them, and your commission is ended. Go back to Mademoiselle as quickly as possible. She is expecting you, and will explain all. You have rendered her a great service, and she owes you a debt of gratitude.”

Walking to the door, with the sealed jewel-case carefully placed in the pocket of his fashionable dust-coat, he simply paused to add, with a severe air:

“You have been mistaken, m’sieur; you deceived yourself. I wish you adieu and a safe return.” Before I could utter another word he had left the room.

Chapter Ten.

The Spider’s Web.

I gave myself up to reflection.

Vera was an enigma, it was true, yet somehow I could not bring myself to realise that she had made pretence to love me merely for the purpose of prevailing upon me to undertake the conveyance of the jewels. Loving her as sincerely as I did, I was loth to credit anything base of her, feeling confident she reciprocated my affection.

It must be confessed that I was bitterly disappointed in Volkhovski. He had not welcomed me as I had expected, and his behaviour was so brusque as to leave me no pleasant impression of his character.

The day wore on.

The afternoon I spent smoking in the Café Chinois in the Nevskoi Prospekt, and in the evening strolled through the delightfully artistic Summer Gardens, debating whether I should remain a few days longer, or leave Russia at once.

Sitting alone at dinner about seven o’clock, I chanced to gaze across the Polschad. It was apparent something unusual had taken place, for people were standing in small groups talking and gesticulating together; and as I rose to regard them more closely, Trosciansky, the proprietor of the hotel, entered, with a pale, half-scared expression upon his face.

“What’s the matter outside?” I asked in French. “It seems as if something is wrong.”

“I have heard of nothing, m’sieur,” he replied, with an expression of astonishment which I detected was feigned, at the same time advancing to the window and looking out.

I made a mental note that mine host was not telling the truth, for his agitation was plainly observable; and, while a number of police were being marched across the square, he quickly withdrew his face from the window, as if half-fearful lest he should be observed. He left the room for a few moments, afterwards returning with a large bowl of crimson flowers, which he placed upon a small table close to the window, remarking:

“These will make your room brighter, m’sieur. I, myself, am very fond of flowers.”

“And I’m not,” I remarked, “I detest flowers in a room; take them away, please.”

He turned and looked at me with surprise, not unmixed with alarm.

“Eh? M’sieur really means I am to take away the beautiful blossoms?” he said, raising his eyebrows in astonishment.

“Yes, I won’t have them here on any account, they smell so faint.”

He hesitated for a few seconds, then replied: “Well, I regret it, for I procured these expressly for m’sieur’s benefit,” and carried the bowl out of the room, muttering as he did so, “Then it must be the artificial ones.”

He had been absent only a few minutes before he reappeared, bearing a large basket of crimson roses in wax, under a glass shade, and set them in the place whence he had removed the real ones.

“What have you brought those for?” I asked, as wax-flowers are one of my abominations.

“For you, m’sieur. Are they not superb?—so near the life. Wonderfully clever imitation, are they not?”

I nodded assent, but it struck me there must be some reason for the hotel-keeper placing these in my window. What was it?

I was about to order him to remove them also, but refrained from doing so, determined to observe this strange proceeding and endeavour to find out the cause.

After some cigarettes, I went out for an evening stroll, and as soon as I gained the street there were unmistakable signs that something extraordinary had happened, though, not speaking Russian, I was unable to ascertain. Intelligence of some description had spread like wildfire and was causing a terrible sensation, for from mouth to mouth ominous news was whispered with bated breath, conversations were being carried on in an undertone, heads were shaken mysteriously, and newspapers rapidly scanned, which all tended to confirm my suspicion that something had occurred.

Such a stir had not been created in the capital for many years, and that night the streets presented a scene of panic that impressed itself indelibly upon my memory.

When I returned to the hotel I chanced to be walking upon the opposite side of the street, and glancing up, before crossing, saw what caused me to start in surprise. Though the lamp in my sitting-room was alight, the blind was not drawn, the brilliant illumination within causing the wax roses to stand out in bold relief in the window—so bold, indeed, that they could be plainly seen from the most distant part of the great square.

That they were placed there for some purpose I was convinced—what did they mean?

I retired to rest as usual, but could not close my eyes for thinking of the strange episode. There seemed an air of mystery about the whole place that I did not like.

Several minor matters now occurred to me of which, at the time they happened, I thought nothing; yet as I lay thinking I confess I began to wish myself anywhere but in St. Petersburg. Throughout, there had been so much that was incomprehensible, and I had been so sorely puzzled, that I felt a fervent desire to give up, and seek no further elucidation of the riddle from Vera.

The bells of the Izak Church had broken the silence of the night, chiming the hour of three, as I lay dozing, when suddenly there came a sharp rapping at the door, and voices demanding admittance.

My first impression was that the hotel was on fire, but on throwing open the door, Trosciansky and two other men entered.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded.

“Hist! m’sieur,” he replied, laying his finger upon his lips, indicative of silence. Then he said in a low voice:

“Quick! Prepare yourself for a journey; the police are on their way here, and will arrest you! Make your escape, now you have time.”

“What?” I cried, rubbing my eyes to make certain I was not dreaming. “To arrest me! What for, pray?”

“M’sieur must be aware. Lose no time, you must get out of Russia at once, or all will be lost,” he said in a loud whisper, while the other men gave vent to some ejaculations in Russian.

“I have committed no crime,” I said, “and I certainly shall not fly from here like a thief. The police may come, and I will welcome them.”

“Fly! fly!” urged the man, with a look of alarm upon his face; “fly for Vera Seroff’s sake!”

“What has she to do with this?” I asked eagerly.

“You know, m’sieur; you know. It will place her in deadly peril if you are arrested. Fly, while there is still time.”

“But the police cannot touch me; I have no fear of them,” I remarked, just as a thought suddenly occurred to me.

Where was my passport, that paper without which no one in Russia is safe, not even Russians themselves? I took up my coat and felt in the inner pocket where I constantly kept it.

It was gone!

My valise, the pockets of other coats, every hole and corner I investigated, but found it not. It was evidently lost or stolen!

Then a thought crossed my mind.

“Take our advice, m’sieur; dress and escape,” said Trosciansky, persuasively.

“No, I will not,” I cried angrily. “I see this is a plot to extort money—or something. My passport has been stolen, and I shall myself inform the police to-morrow, and also of my suspicions regarding this house.”

“Diable!” he ejaculated, in the utmost alarm, as at that moment there was a sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps below!

“Hark! They are here! It is too late.”

I opened my lips to reply, but no sound came from them. I have a faint recollection of a sponge being dashed into my face by one of the hotel-keeper’s companions, then came a strange, even delightful sensation of giddiness, a confused murmur of voices, of music, of pleasant sounds,—and all was blank.

I had been drugged.

Chapter Eleven.

The Cell below the River.

A terrible, excruciating headache of maddening intensity, a violent throbbing, as if molten lead were being injected into my skull; a horrible pain through my eyes and temples like the pricking of red-hot needles.

I tried to think, but could remember nothing distinctly; I was only conscious of frightful agony. To all else I was oblivious. Where I was, or what were my surroundings, I knew not.

My mind was wandering, my reason giving way, for suddenly I felt a sensation as if the burning in my head had been succeeded by an icy coldness which seemed to freeze my senses; and then, as suddenly, I felt as if I were being borne along in mid-air, floating higher and higher into space, then down, down, into depths too terrible to contemplate. In a moment I should be dashed to pieces. I felt I was falling and utterly unable to save myself.

The sensation was awful.

One moment I fancied I was in London, amid old associations and boon companions, the next I seemed in some out-of-the-way place, lonely and forgotten. Presently I saw the grave, beautiful face of Vera, and then it gave place to that of a middle-aged man, whose sinister features puckered into a hideous mocking smile.

I tried to collect my thoughts, to shape them, to think; but it was no use.

The pains returned more acutely than before. I essayed to cry out, but my dry, parched tongue clave to the roof of my mouth. I felt weak and ill, and my agony was so intense I was convinced if it continued I should go mad or die.

Perhaps it grew too much for me, for as the throbbing in my temples increased, I experienced a sickening sensation of giddiness, and again became insensible.

I must have fainted.

Slowly I struggled back to consciousness, only to find myself stretched at full length upon a heap of mouldy straw, with a black, impenetrable darkness around me. The place was cold and damp, and as soon as I was able I rose and commenced to feel the dimensions of my strange apartment.

It was not large, I found, but its four bare stone walls, through which water oozed in places, the large iron ring fixed into the masonry, and the strong iron-bound door, quickly apprised me of my position.

I was in prison.

Awe-struck at finding myself under arrest, I sank upon the narrow stone shelf which served as chair, and tried to recollect the events of the past few hours. I knew nothing, save that I had been drugged, and by some means conveyed there. What was my crime? Why had I been arrested? I wondered.

Through the roof of the cell came a tiny glimmer of light, not half sufficient to enable me to discern anything, though it was evident from this, as well as from the sodden dampness of the walls, that my place of confinement was underground.

The horrors of that Dantean dungeon were indescribable. Before I had lodged at the expense of the Russian Government a few days, the fearful suspense and agony of mind had already added years to my age.

As I sat, desponding and forlorn, I experienced for the first time, regret that I had ever known Vera Seroff. All my good resolutions not to prejudge her went to the winds, and I found myself regretting from the bottom of my heart that I, who had passed unscathed through many a mad infatuation, had permitted myself to become so enamoured and fascinated by her irresistible charms.

Fool that I was to be so blind to her false assumption of injured innocence, to believe that she ever entertained any affection for me, or to imagine that by undertaking a journey across the continent I could render her a service.

And that crotchety old bore, Hertzen. Surely I must have been wilfully undiscerning not to have detected a closer tie between them. No doubt she was his wife, or, yet more probable—no relation whatever.

I ground my teeth and paced the slimy stone floor in anger as I thought how ingeniously I had been tricked; how from the beginning I had been an unresisting dupe in the hands of a heartless, designing woman. She must indeed be sadly wanting in womanly love and tenderness to be a party to this vile plot, whatever its object might be. Doubtless she knew of my arrest, and from her place of safety laughed with satisfaction as she reflected upon her own cleverness.

These and a thousand other thoughts surged through my brain as I walked to and fro in hopeless dejection. Alone, heart-broken at realising my idol shattered, that she whom I believed immaculate and loved so dearly was base and false, I felt utterly indifferent to what my fate might be, only desiring not to be kept in that horrible suspense, but to know the worst.

If it were death, what would it matter? Though young, I had seen the world, tasted of its pleasures, and grown blasé. The sun of my existence was the hope of making Vera my wife, yet now it was blotted out I cared no longer to live, for my life in future would be one of blank despair.

After a few hours I heard a rattling in the lock, a jingle of keys, and the door opened, revealing the brawny form of a man bearing a lantern. It was my jailer.

He held in his hand a basin containing soup and some black bread, which he placed upon the floor without deigning to bestow a word upon me.

As he turned to leave I rose and, clutching his arm, addressed him in French.

Turning the light full upon my face, he took a couple of paces backward, fearing perhaps that I was about to attack him.

“Why am I here?” I asked. “Tell me, what is the crime I am accused of?”

He regarded me for a moment in surprise, answering:

“How should I know?”

“But surely you are aware who brought me here?”

“The gorodovoi, I suppose,” he grunted savagely.

“And what is this detestable place called?” I asked.

“The Fortress; the prison from which no man has ever been known to escape.”

“Are its bolts and bars so strong?”

“Yes, and there is no way out for convicts unless they swim the Neva,” the man replied, grinning with satisfaction.

“Are you not aware of my crime?” I asked, persuasively.

“No, I know nothing about it. My business is not with the crime but with the criminal,” he growled.

“I am an Englishman—a foreigner—and cannot be supposed to know your laws. Is this what you term justice in Russia—to imprison a man without trial?”

“You have had your trial and been condemned. In the sentence passed upon you by the Court you were told the crime for which you must suffer.”

“Condemned!” I cried. “Condemned for what? Why, I have had no trial. I have never been before the Court!”

He turned from me, and as he did so, muttered:

“Ah! just what I thought—mad. These cells below the river always affect their brains.”

In another moment the key turned heavily in the lock, the bolts shot into their sockets, and I was again alone.

Was I mad, as the turnkey believed? I was almost convinced I must be, the events of the past few hours seemed so unreal—like the impression of some horrible dream.

I had been sentenced, the jailer said. Sentenced for what? I had wronged no man on earth that I was aware of, neither had I done an evil action willingly. What was my offence, and what was my sentence?

For days I lived with this one thought, crushed by its terrible weight, frozen by its ghastly presence. Not days, but years ago it seemed, since I was a man like any other, with an intellect young and fresh, losing itself in a pleasant world of fantasy, with buoyant hopes for the future; an existence full of life and light, gaiety, and unalloyed happiness, with naught to trouble me save the realisation of my fond dream of marrying Vera and dwelling with her in perfect felicity. Joyous and free had been my thoughts, therefore I was free also.

Alas! those aerial castles, those blissful illusions, had been cruelly dispelled, for I was free no longer.

I was a criminal.

Chapter Twelve.

A Subterranean Drama.

With my wrists in bonds of iron, and my soul fettered by one idea—horrible, implacable—the days passed: I kept no count of them.

Whilst the glimmer of daylight shone through the chink above I spent the time sitting engrossed in my own sad thoughts, or pacing the narrow cell for exercise. When it had faded I cast myself, restless and nervous, upon the heap of evil-smelling straw that served as bed, waiting patiently for the reappearance of the streak of grey light.

Those hours of awful silence and suspense I shall never forget.

Do what I might a terrible thought, a deep-rooted conviction, was ever with me, like a spectre haunting me face to face, frustrating every endeavour to close my eyes—it was that by Vera’s instrumentality I had been arrested and incarcerated in that foul dungeon.

The jailer, when he brought my daily ration of food, seldom spoke; but on one occasion I asked him:

“What is my sentence?”

“You know better than I,” he growled. “Indeed, I do not. Tell me; is it death?”

“No; the death sentence has been abolished by order of the Czar. Criminals are tortured to death instead of being killed instantaneously by hanging.”

“And is this the commencement of my torture?” I asked, glancing round the glistening walls, that looked black and unwholesome in the flickering lamplight.

“You may call it so, if you like,” he replied.

“Many prisoners would no doubt prefer the death sentence being passed upon them—but that the law now forbids.”

“Shall I never leave this horrible place?” I asked.

“Shall I never again see the blessed light of day?”

“Yes,” he muttered, ominously, “you will leave here—some day—never to return.”

I said no more. I knew he meant that when I left the prison I should be dead.

Torture till death! This, then, was my sentence! The words were continually passing through my brain, attacking me whilst waking, and intruding themselves upon my spasmodic attempts to sleep; appearing in my dreams in all their hideousness.

Even when I awakened to realise the terrible reality that surrounded me, those four bare walls, coarse clothes, straw pallet, and the monotonous tramp of the sentry in the corridor outside my door, the words rang a continuous, demoniacal chorus in my ears. Torture till death!

In my solitary confinement I naturally began to seek some means by which to occupy attention and divert my mind from the unjust and horrible sentence.

One matter interested me in a dreamy, indifferent way. It was the inscriptions that had been traced upon the damp walls of my gloomy cell, presumably by former occupants.

Having been in darkness so long, I had developed an acute sensitiveness in the tips of my fingers, almost in the same manner as the blind; and for recreation I took to groping about, feeling the indentations upon the stone, and trying to sketch their appearance mentally.

Hours—nay, days—I spent in this grim but interesting occupation, studying carefully the initials, dates, and other inscriptions, and after I had formed a correct picture in my imagination, I would sit down, wondering by whose hand those letters had been graven; what was the prisoner’s crime; and how long he had lived in that terrible tomb.

The persons who had been confined there before me must have been legion, for the walls seemed literally covered with words and symbols, some well defined, others only scratched roughly and almost obliterated by the thick slime which covered them. So interested was I in their study that, after a short time, I had gained a pretty accurate knowledge of the appearance and position of most of them. Some had written their names in full, with the date; one had drawn a gallows, and many had inscribed lines of words like poetry, but as they were in Russian I was unable to read them.

I confess, though I gave up the greater portion of every day to the investigation of the self-executed epitaphs of those who had gone before, I made but little progress in their meaning.

Still, they served to occupy my time, and for that alone I was thankful.

I had gone methodically to work in my strange researches, commencing at the door, and taking them one by one from the floor upwards, as far as I could reach. The advancement I made was not great; in fact, I was purposely slow, and took a considerable time over the examination of each one, because I wanted my task to last as long as possible.

Of those upon the sides of the cell I had formed a fairly distinct mental picture, and one day while engaged upon the wall opposite the door groping along as usual, my hand passed over a circular indentation cut deeply in the stone, which I judged to be about six inches in circumference. It was on a level with my head, and by the first touch I distinguished it was entirely different from the others, both in form, size, and general character.

Interested in this discovery, I proceeded to make a minute investigation with the tips of the fingers of both hands.

There were two circles, the one inside the other, about an inch apart, and I felt some writing in the intervening space. Round the circle I ran my fingers; the inscription was not profuse, only nine ill-formed letters.

“The name of some prisoner, perhaps,” I said to myself, as I carefully passed my finger over each letter, and tried to picture it upon my mind.

The first was of so strange a form that I could make nothing out of it, so passed on to the next. This seemed like a small thin line, crooked half-way down; the next was straight, like a figure one, and the next very similar, and so on, until I came to the one I had examined first.

Disappointed because I could not decipher a single character of what seemed hieroglyphics, I passed my hand over the whole in an endeavour to gain a general impression of it, when I found the centre of the circle was occupied by some large solid device.

I felt again. It bore some resemblance to the letter T inverted, and then momentarily, there flashed across my mind the thought that I had somewhere seen an emblem of similar appearance.

Eagerly I ran my hands over it, carefully fingering the centre, and trying to form a clearer idea of what it was like, when I suddenly recollected where I had met its exact counterpart.

“Yes, there is no mistake,” I said in an awed whisper, once more fingering it in breathless excitement.

“The characters must be the same; the centre is the same; it differs in no particular. It is the Seal!”

I stood almost terrified at the unearthly sound of my own words.

Here, in this foul prison, amid all these gruesome surroundings, I had made a strange discovery!

I had deciphered an exact reproduction of the curious seal found upon the body of the woman who had been so mysteriously murdered on that eventful night in Bedford Place—the fatal emblem over which the police of Europe and America had been so puzzled.

The disclosure brought vividly to my mind recollections of the murder which, by rare chance, I detected, and I asked myself whether Fate had decreed that a sketch of the seal should be graven upon the wall of my dungeon.

I am neither a visionary, nor am I superstitious, yet it is probable that my gloomy thoughts, combined with my solitary imprisonment, the lack of exercise, and the horrors of my cell, had produced a slight attack of fever; for while I was musing it seemed as if the mystic symbols assumed divers grotesque shapes, the outlines of which glowed like fire, and that by my side were hideous grinning demons, who assumed a threatening attitude towards me.

My breathing became difficult, my head swam, and I sank backward upon the stone seat.

I may have been insensible, or perhaps only sleeping soundly, when there came a jingling of keys, and a harsh grating of bolts. This aroused me.

“Get up,” commanded the jailer; “follow me.”

I rose, my hands trembling and my teeth chattering so that I could hardly re-arrange my clothes.

What fresh torture was in store for me? I dreaded to think.

At the first step I attempted to take I staggered and almost fell, but recovering myself, followed the turnkey.

After examining my fetters to make certain of their security, he led me through a long dark passage, up a flight of steps, down another, and through some intricate places, little more than tunnels. Unlocking a door, he bade me enter.

I did so, and found myself in a square cell, damp, and pitch dark, like my own. We had been joined by another jailer in our walk through the corridor, and both men entered with me.

As the lantern-light fell upon the straw I saw the cell was occupied; a man was lying there, fully dressed, and apparently asleep.

“Prisoner,” said the jailer, “take the clothes from off that man, dress yourself in them, and afterwards put your own on him.”

“But he will wake,” I said.

“Do as I bid,” growled the man; “and look sharp; or it will be the worse for you.”

For a moment I did not move. I felt dazed.

“Now; do you hear?” cried he angrily, shaking me roughly by the arm.

I stooped over the prostrate man in order to unbutton the collar of his coarse coat, but in doing so my hand touched his chin. I withdrew it as if I had been stung, for it sent a thrill of horror through me. It was cold as ice.

I was to undress a dead man!

“Why do you hesitate?” the jailer asked gruffly. “Know you not that you must obey?”

“This man is dead!” I said, in alarm.

“And the best thing that could happen to him,” was the stern reply. “Now, how long am I to wait for you?”

His companion grinned at my abhorrence of the task, and uttered some words in Russian, which the other answered.

It was plain I had to obey my heartless janitor, so, kneeling beside the corpse, I managed, by dint of some exertion, to divest it of its grey kaftan, strong knee boots, and sheepskin bonnet. In these I attired myself, afterwards dressing the corpse in my own clothes.

My new garments were such as I had never seen before, and upon my breast was a brass plate bearing a number.

“Now, take these,” commanded the turnkey, throwing his light upon some things in a corner.

I turned and picked them up.

There was a rug, a mess tin, and a wooden spoon.

“What am I to do with these?” I asked.

“You will want them upon your journey.”

“My journey! Where, then, am I going?”

“To the mines.”

“To Siberia?” I gasped.

“Yes,” he answered, adding, “Come, follow me.”

I left the side of the dead prisoner and accompanied him back to my own cell.

I would have preferred death ten thousand times, for I knew, too well, that for the Russian convict is reserved that punishment which is tantamount to death by slow torture—a living tomb in the quicksilver mines beyond Tomsk. When sent under the earth he never again sees the sunlight or breathes the fresh air, until a year or so afterwards when he is brought to the surface to die.

Racked by the frightful pain which quicksilver produces, gaunt as skeletons, and with hair and eyebrows dropping off, convicts are kept at labour under the lash by taskmasters who have orders not to spare them, working eighteen hours at a stretch, and sleeping the remaining six in holes in the rock—mere kennels, into which they must crawl.

A sentence of Siberian hard labour always means death, for the Government are well aware it is an absolute impossibility to live longer than five years in such horrible torture in the depths of the earth.

To this terrible existence was I consigned. Was it surprising, therefore, that I hoped—nay, longed—for death instead?

Chapter Thirteen.

Graven on the Wall.

I walked back to my cell as one in a dream.

Engrossed with my own reflections, I neither saw nor heard anything until I found myself seated alone in the dark, damp chamber, with the maddening thought of Vera’s treachery and triumph torturing and goading me to despair.

I covered my face with my hands, and strove to forget the present and to review the past.

As I pondered, the recollection of my childhood’s days came back to me. I saw the grey-haired stately lady, my mother, whom I loved, whose counsel I had ofttimes wisely taken, but who now, alas! was no more. I saw myself a laughing schoolboy, and later, a rollicking student, one of a crowd in the Latin Quarter; then a young man hard at work with my pen in a tall old house in one of the Inns of Court, burning the midnight oil and striving day and night towards the coveted Temple of Fame.

Later, a man of ample means, and afterwards—a convict.

Next morning, after the warder had paid his matutinal visit and I had appeased my hunger, I naturally turned to the inscriptions as my sole means of occupation; for besides being anxious for anything wherewith to occupy my mind, however trivial, I was also curious to ascertain whether the mysterious device upon the wall really bore a resemblance to the seal, or whether it was only in my distorted imagination that the similarity existed.

Without difficulty I succeeded in placing my hands upon the indentation, and after minute investigation satisfied myself I had not been mistaken. Though somewhat roughly executed, the symbols were exactly the same as those upon the fatal seal.

While carefully following the lines with my finger tips, I felt, suddenly, what appeared to be some letters, two above the circle and two below, about an inch from the outer ring. At first it did not cross my mind that they could have any connection with it, for I concluded they were but the initials of two prisoners who had occupied the cell.

However, when I had completed my investigation of the inexplicable emblem which had so long occupied my thoughts, I commenced trying to decipher the letters above.

At first I could make nothing out of them, but by passing my hand carelessly along I ascertained that they were in the Russian character.

Evidently they were initials.

Fortunately, while at college I had gained a knowledge of the Russian alphabet, and though it was rather imperfect, I was prompted to make an attempt to discover the equivalent of the two letters in English.

The task occupied me a very long time, and after considerable patience and perseverance I found I had translated the initials, although they told me nothing.

The two letters cut in the stone above were “N.S.”

I stood motionless for a few minutes, almost unable to give credence to the solution of the puzzle; then went carefully over the two signs again.

No; I was not mistaken.

“N.S.,” I repeated to myself aloud, almost breathless with amazement, my heart beating quickly, and sounding distinctly in the tomb-like silence of my dungeon. “The initials of some unfortunate man who perhaps, like myself, was confined here for some crime he did not commit.”

Whose was the hand that traced the deadly sign, and the initials? This was the question I vainly asked myself.

“Perhaps the letters below will throw some light upon this ghastly secret,” I said aloud, as I commenced to feel the two characters underneath the design. They were well-shaped and deeply cut, so I had not so much difficulty as with those above.

“I may be about to solve the enigma of the seal,” I reflected, as, in intense excitement, I took one letter after the other and thought of its corresponding letter in English.

I soon deciphered them, and found the initials were “S.O.”

The discovery caused me much disappointment, for beyond the assumption that a certain person whose initials were N.S. had been imprisoned in the cell, together, perhaps, with a comrade whose initials were S.O., who had possibly sketched the obscure hieroglyphics, I was no nearer the solution of the device than before.

It might have been inscribed a dozen, perhaps a hundred, years ago—before the seal had become synonymous of death—for aught I knew.

So intent was I in endeavouring to feel other names or devices near this particular one that I failed to notice the opening of my cell door, and when I became aware of the lantern-light behind me I turned and saw a Cossack officer standing upon the threshold.

He stepped forward and was about to enter, but suddenly, as if on second thought, he drew back and pulled up the broad collar of his riding-coat about his neck, so as to partially hide his face before entering.

Advancing, and turning the lamplight full upon my face, he gazed into it fixedly for several seconds, his own countenance being concealed by the shadow. Then, without speaking, he went across the cell and commenced examining the wall, apparently to ascertain in what pursuit I was engaged when he entered.

He cast his eyes along the wall, when he suddenly gave vent to a low exclamation of profound surprise, not unmingled with horror, and holding his lantern on a level with the inscription, scrutinised it minutely for some minutes, at the same time muttering to himself.

From his movements, and the agitation which he strove to suppress, it was evident he, too, had made a startling discovery; and I stood wondering what there was about it that interested him so much.

He looked at me several times, and though his face was always in the shade I could see that in his eyes was a peculiar expression. Twice he returned and examined the inscription, as if to rivet it upon his memory and to satisfy himself he was not mistaken; then he turned, and, addressing me in French, said:

“Prisoner, prepare yourself. We start to-morrow.”

“To Siberia?” I asked.

“Yes; make the best of your last night’s rest,” he replied in a strange hoarse voice, and went out, leaving me again to my gloomy reflections.

For hours I sat, asking myself what this could mean. The initials, in conjunction with the seal, served to increase the mystery, and the agitation of the officer when his gaze fell upon it clearly showed the grim symbol was repulsive to him, although the cruel light in his eyes caused me to conjecture that it revealed to him some awful truth that had hitherto been hidden.

But why need I exercise my mind upon trying to solve this inscrutable problem, I thought, when on the morrow I should start upon my terrible journey to the grave?

Ay, what was the use?

Chapter Fourteen.

En Route for the Mines.

At last the day—or rather night—arrived, when the gates of the Citadel opened, allowing myself with thirty other prisoners to pass out upon the first stage of the weary two months’ tramp to that bourne whence few convicts ever return.

We were a sorry, smileless band of criminals of all classes, each dressed alike and bearing a number, our hands fastened behind our backs, and chained together in single file.

Slowly we passed through the great iron gates, and turning, crossed the Troitskoi Bridge, our escort of mounted Cossacks cracking their long whips, and with lanterns tied to their lance-points examining the road continually, in search of any letters which might be dropped. It was a weird, dismal procession, as we trudged on through the streets made sloppy by the melting snow, and the clanking of chains, the cracking of whips, the shouts of the soldiers, and the rumbling of the springless carts in the rear for those who might fall ill by the way, awoke the echoes of the silent thoroughfares.

A few belated pleasure-seekers, some in fancy dress, who were evidently returning from a ball, stopped to watch us pass, but no one was allowed to come near us, for the Cossacks warned them off.

In this way we passed across the slumbering city and out upon the broad, bleak highway on our journey eastward to the Ourals. It commenced to rain in torrents, and soon all of us were wet and uncomfortable, but through the long night we marched onward in dogged silence. Conversation was forbidden, and those who had spoken had felt the thong of the escort’s whip about his shoulders.

The convict to whom I was chained I recognised as the guide who had conducted me over the Winter Palace. What was his crime I knew not, but he plodded on, with a settled look of terror on his face, and the sighs that frequently escaped him plainly showed what were his feelings at being exiled from his native land.

His was not the face of a criminal, but rather that of one who had been unjustly condemned, as I had been.

Our wet clothes clung to us as we walked, our feet splashed through great pools at every step, and the icy wind that blew across the wide level highway chilled our very bones, greatly adding to our discomfort.

We must have walked six hours, for as the day dawned, cloudy and grey, we saw in the distance the wooden houses of Jjora, and half an hour later were drawn up in a line in the open space before the little church.

Here our fetters were removed; but in the meantime the news had spread through the village that a convict convoy was on the march, and the inhabitants, taking compassion upon us, crowded round with steaming tureens of tschi, piles of new bread, and jugs of vodki. They were not allowed to approach us, however, and were compelled to set their offerings at the roadside and retire.

The pity felt for Siberian exiles is universal, and even the Cossacks seemed to have some sympathy for us poor wretches, as they allowed us to partake freely of what the kind-hearted peasants offered.

I was almost exhausted by the long tramp, and ate ravenously. As soon as we had appeased our hunger, we were marched inside the church to attend a parting mass and hear a brief sermon.

As we knelt, the priest went through the ritual, afterwards giving us an address, urging submission and penitence, as well as extolling the Czar’s clemency most likely; but as I was unable to understand a word, I was spared this canting hypocrisy, and was glad when the grim farce was over and we had left the sacred building.

Soon we were upon our way again, and through out the day trudged wearily onward. With a thick pine forest on each side of the road, the journey resembled a sea voyage, one spot so much like another that we always seemed to remain in the same place.

We had no chains to trouble us now; but though permission had been given to talk, all desire for conversation had gone out of us, so jaded and weary were we. Without a halt, we pushed on until long after daylight had faded, and when at last a rest was made we prepared to bivouac in the forest.

A large fire was lit, some biscuits and salt beef served out, and then, with nothing further to protect us from the frost than our greatcoats and rugs, we flung ourselves upon the ground and sought repose.

I was exhausted and soon fell asleep. I must have continued so for several hours, when suddenly I felt a hand upon my cheek, and in the fitful light thrown by the dying embers of the fire, saw a Cossack bending over me.

All was quiet, save for the shadowy forms of the sentries, who paced quietly to and fro among the surrounding trees.

As I awoke, the man at my side placed his finger significantly upon my lips, whispering in broken English, “Don’t utter a word, but listen; Frank Burgoyne, remember what I am about to tell you. Be brave, and you may escape.”

“Escape!” I ejaculated, rubbing my eyes, half-believing that I must be dreaming. “How can I?”

“The matter is simple if you follow my directions; but it will require nerve and firm determination. If you falter you are lost.”

“Tell me, how can it be done?” I whispered, eagerly.

He bent so closely that, although his face was unrecognisable in the darkness, I could feel his breath. Placing his mouth to my ear he said: “To-morrow afternoon we shall pass through a small village called Podberesa. A mile after leaving it, we shall come to cross-roads, and there you will see a two-horse sleigh awaiting you, the driver of which will have a red ribbon upon his whip. Be on the watch, and when close to it make a dash between the guards, jump in, and you will be driven to the coast, where you can get away to England. In the sleigh you will find the dress of a courier, and a passport which will ensure your safety.”

“But the escort; they will fire!” I exclaimed in amazement.

“There are no ‘buts.’ Time does not permit of reflection. Do as I bid, and you will not be harmed,” he said.

“You are my friend, then?”

“No, scarcely that. My duty is to take you to the mines.”

“Then why do you tell me how to escape?”

“There is reason in most things that we do.”

“And what is your reason for this?” I asked. “Perhaps you can explain why I have been kept in that horrible prison without trial, and why I, an Englishman, should be sent to Siberia for no offence whatever?”

“Yes, yes,” he replied, “I am aware of all this. But hush! The guards are changing. Remember all I have said; make your dash for liberty with a stout heart, and when you return to London all will be explained. Adieu, and bon voyage.”

The man crawled noiselessly away, but as he lifted himself upon his hands the fire threw out a flicker of light which fell upon his features. It was only momentarily and then died away, yet in that brief second I detected a close—even striking—resemblance to some one I had seen before.

He slipped away without a sound, just as the sentry passed; nevertheless for a long time I lay awake trying to recollect where I had seen the soldier’s face before.

At last I felt positive the voice was the same as that of the officer who had visited me in the cell, yet what motive he could have in planning my escape, I could not guess. Then again I felt sure the face resembled some one I had known intimately, or had cause to remember. Suddenly it dawned upon me.

The face was similar to that of the man I had seen leaving the house in Bedford Place!

The next day passed much as the preceding one, though with considerable excitement and anxiety I prepared myself for my bold attempt to regain freedom. It was late in the afternoon that we passed through the village, and it was fast growing dusk when the object for which I was straining my eyes came into view—a sleigh, the driver of which had the reins and whip gathered up in the act of starting.

The critical moment arrived.

Just as we were passing, I slipped out of the ranks, and made a sudden dash, falling headlong into the vehicle. The fall saved me.

I heard the word of command. A dozen shots rang out. But in a few seconds we were flying at a furious rate along the smooth highway in an opposite direction. It was an exciting moment, but I did not lose my nerve.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said the driver, in English; “the guards dare not leave the prisoners, and we shall beat them easily. Dress as quickly as you can, for by this time to-morrow we must be at Viborg.”

I found the clothes, and exchanged my convict’s dress for them. In the pockets were a passport and a purse well filled with roubles. When dressed, I settled myself to think. With relays of horse at every post-station, we travelled all that night. Next evening we drove into Viborg.

I questioned the driver, but he would not tell me by whom he had been engaged.

“You have been wronged, and reparation must be made,” was all he replied.

By no ingenious questioning could I elicit any particulars as to who was instrumental in scheming my escape, for to all my inquiries he was dumb, although he appeared fully cognisant of my adventures since I had been in Russia.

On arrival at Viborg I lost no time in searching for a ship, and, to my relief, found one leaving for Hull in a few hours. I exhibited my passport as an official courier, obtained a berth, and before the next day dawned had the satisfaction of watching the lights of the Russian port disappear at the stern.

Chapter Fifteen.

An Ominous Incident.

On the evening of the day after my return to London, I was passing down the Strand, intending to seek Bob Nugent at the Junior Garrick.

The utmost excitement was prevalent.

Something startling had been published in the evening papers. Dozens of newsboys were rushing about amongst the throng of foot-passengers crying “Spe-shall! ’nother ’orrible murder!” Every one was purchasing copies, reading them in doorways and under street-lamps, and my curiosity being aroused at the unusual commotion, I did likewise.

Opening the paper, my eye caught the bold headlines, “The Mystic Seal again. Another Mysterious Murder.”

The account was too long to be read in the street, so turning into the nearest restaurant, and flinging myself into a chair, I read it from beginning to end; for I, of all men, was interested in these almost superhuman crimes.

Briefly told, they were the details of a curious but atrocious crime, committed with great daring. Shortly before one o’clock that morning, a constable on his beat, while passing through Angel Court, Drury Lane, noticed the form of a woman lying in the shadow of a doorway. He at first thought it was one of the wanderers so numerous in that neighbourhood, and was about to rouse her, when he was horrified to discover that she was dead, and that blood was flowing from a deep wound in her throat.

The body was in a pool of blood, and it appeared as if the fatal gash had been inflicted with a razor. The officer at once gave the alarm, and within a few minutes several other constables were on the spot, as well as the divisional surgeon. Nothing could be ascertained in the neighbourhood regarding the murdered woman, who was aged about twenty-five. But on the body being removed to the mortuary, there was discovered pinned to the breast, and soaked through with blood, a small piece of paper which had evidently borne the repulsive seal. Although the latter had been torn off, a portion of the wax still remained.

The narrow passage in which the murdered woman had been found was little frequented, it being extremely secluded, and, except at the outer portion, the houses were not inhabited.

How the deed could have been committed without any sounds having been heard by those who lived near was regarded as a mystery by all who knew the neighbourhood, and, of course, there were the usual wild rumours afloat as to the probable identity of the murdered woman.

In a leading article, the journal said:

“It seems pretty certain that this last atrocity must be ranked with the others. Committed with the same startling rapidity, with the same disheartening absence of traceable clues, this latest crime was probably perpetrated by the same scoundrel or maniac as the one who horrified and puzzled the world last year. The murderer goes about his work with much deliberation, and effects his escape with great skill, and even takes time and trouble in pinning the cabalistic sign of the seal to the breast of his victim. The meaning of that sign it is impossible to tell. We have steadily asserted, before and after the occurrence of these murders, that the police force of London is not adequate in numbers to the duties imposed upon it. It is the business of the police, if it cannot prevent crime, at least to detect it.”

It was the eighth murder, and still the authorities were as far off bringing the guilty one to justice as they were when the first victim was discovered.

After eagerly reading the report I placed the newspaper aside and sat in silent meditation. There was something so curious, almost supernatural, in these crimes, that I could not reflect without a shudder upon the horrors of that night a few months before when I was instrumental in bringing the previous work of the mysterious, assassin to light. Every detail of that terrible crime surged through my brain as plainly as if it were but yesterday, and the face of the man who left the house, and whom I followed I could see as vividly as if he were still before me, for his features were graven too deeply upon my memory to be ever effaced.

I sat utterly dumbfounded. The problem was growing even more complicated, for it struck me as something more than a strange coincidence that the Bedford Place murder should have been committed immediately before I left London, and that the murderer should have thought fit not to add another victim to his ghastly list until immediately upon my return.

Somehow I could not help feeling convinced there must be some occult reason in this.

On the former occasion I had carefully studied the theories put forward, especially that urged by an eminent medical man, that the murderer was a homicidal maniac. This, I felt assured, was totally wrong. The man the doctor had in his mind was a type well-known to those who have made a special study of murder-madness. But such a man does not work with the skill displayed by this assassin—he does not arrange his entrance, his “picture,” his exit, so carefully. Misdirected enthusiasm may prompt to murder, but it does not run side by side with cunning deliberation and desire for effect.

No! I maintained in my own mind that when, if ever, the author of the murders was arrested, he would be found to be a man who was perfectly sane, and who had gloated over the extraordinary skill with which he had thrown the London detective force off the scent.

I did not seek Nugent that night, but returned to my rooms, and sat far into the early hours, soliloquising upon the mystery.

At last, wearied out, I rose, and, taking down a pipe, filled it. There was a mirror over the mantelshelf, and as I was in the act of lighting my pipe, I caught sight of a countenance in the glass, and paused to reflect. The vesta burned down till it scorched my fingers; but, fascinated by what I saw, I stood motionless, staring into the glass.

It was not upon the reflection of myself that I gazed, but on the face of the man I had seen coming from the house in Bedford Place!

I am aware there are some events in our lives, of which each circumstance and surrounding detail is indelibly impressed upon the mind, and, on reflection, it was easy to account for this strange and startling fantasy. So petrified had my mind been during the past few hours, that, in my imagination, the image of my own facial expression closely resembled his. Still, there was yet another more urgent aspect, which caused me to consider seriously. Such a freak of the mental faculties I had never before experienced; nevertheless, I knew the symptom to be precursory of madness.

Was I doomed to insanity?

Sinking back into a chair and smoking my pipe, I calmly reviewed the situation. My inner conscience seemed to tell me—though, to this day, I have never been able to account for it—that the key to the mystery was in my hands. By mere chance—or was it Fate?—I had discovered one of the murderer’s victims, and had seen the miscreant himself leave the house—a man whom I should be able to identify anywhere. No one else had seen him, I argued with myself, so it was a duty towards my fellow-men to bring him to the punishment he so well merited. That is what conscience urged me as I sat smoking through the long night, and before the dawn I had made up my mind again to try my hand at elucidating the fearful mystery, and spare no effort towards its accomplishment.

With that object, I obtained permission of the police next morning, and viewed the body which was in the mortuary awaiting identification. It lay in the chilly chamber, stretched upon the dark slate slab, the face covered with a white cloth. This the constable removed, revealing the features of a dark, rather handsome, young woman, evidently of the poorer class, and a denizen of that quarter of the city.

As I gazed upon the body I wondered who she was. What was she? What was her history? Could even such a plebeian woman be missed by her friends, and no inquiries made after her? It seemed almost incredible, yet it was so; for when the coroner held his inquiry a few days later, she had not been identified, so the verdict of “Murder” was given, photographs were taken of the dead unknown—one of which I have before me as I write—and she was conveyed to her last resting-place in Nunhead Cemetery.

It was no isolated case. Every year numbers of bodies of men and women are found by the London police and buried unclaimed, at the expense of the parish; until one is at a loss to know where are the relatives of the unfortunate ones that they make no sign, and take no trouble to make known their loss.

It is one of Babylon’s unfathomable mysteries.

For days—nay, weeks—afterwards, I continually devoured the information contained in the newspapers regarding the eighth murder, but the victim remained unidentified; and although I frequented the busiest haunts of men in the City and its immediate suburbs at all hours of the day and night, in the hope of meeting the murderer, my efforts were so dispiritingly futile that more than once I was sorely tempted to give up in despair.

Chapter Sixteen.

Facing the Inevitable.

Though I had been in London nearly two months I had heard nothing of Vera, and her explanation of my imprisonment, as promised by the Cossack, had not been made.

I had some misgivings, it is true, for I could not help feeling that, having used me to execute her strange commission, she would trouble me no further; and as the days went by, and I received neither letter nor visit, my conviction was strengthened that such was the case.

A wet, cheerless night, one of those soaking rains with which dwellers in the metropolis are too well acquainted. Business London had brought a day’s work to a close, the ’buses were filled to overflowing, the shops were putting up their shutters, and the strings of dripping humanity waiting at pit doors of theatres were anathematising the management of places of amusement for not opening earlier, as a hansom deposited Nugent and myself before the Gaiety Theatre, where a new burlesque was that night to be produced.

A contrast to the rain and mud outside was the interior of the theatre. Warm, bright, and comfortable, were stalls and boxes, filled with “fair women and brave men,” the bright dresses and glittering jewels of the former contrasting well with the dull red shade with which the place was decorated and adding a brilliancy and luxury to the whole. The production of the piece had long been talked of, and the event had the effect of bringing together a number of professional first-nighters and leading lights of the literary and musical world, not forgetting the fair sprinkling of Bohemians who are always the welcome guests of the management on such occasions.

Soon after we had found our stalls the conductor’s bâton waved, the overture was played, and the curtain rose.

The first act had concluded when I stood up to nod to several people present whom I knew, and in casting my eyes around the boxes I was attracted to one in which sat a young and handsomely dressed lady, alone. As I looked, our eyes met.

It was Vera!

Apparently she had been watching me, for with a pleasant smile of recognition, she beckoned me with her fan.

At that moment Bob noticed her, and nodding towards her, whispered, “By Jove! old fellow, who’d have thought of meeting the fair Russian? The world isn’t so large, after all. Shall you go up and speak?”

I glanced upwards in hesitation. She was leaning from the box, the diamonds in her hair flashing under the gaslight, and she beckoned anxiously. This decided me, and I went in search of her, with a feeling—half of the old love, and half of a newly-born distrust.

I was not long in finding her box, and as I entered, her maid, who was her only companion, went out.

Retiring into the shadow, so as not to be observed by the people below, she stretched forth her hand and, with a glad smile, exclaimed, “At last, Frank—quel plaisir!”

I drew back, and was ungallant enough not to take the proffered hand, for had I not been duped by her and nearly lost my liberty and life?

“Ah!” she said in a hoarse whisper, “it is as I expected, Frank—we are no longer friends.”

“Why should we be?”

“I know I am unworthy a thought, having acted as basely as I did; but it was not my fault. It could not be avoided,” she said, casting her eyes to the floor.

“And that is the way you reciprocate my affection! You send me upon an errand so dangerous that it nearly costs me my life!” I remarked, bitterly.

“No, no! Do not judge me harshly,” she pleaded, laying her hand upon my coat-sleeve, and looking into my face imploringly. “Wait until I can explain before you condemn me. I know you think me a scheming, cold-hearted adventuress; perhaps I was when I met you; but now—it is different.”

“Vera,” I said, endeavouring to be firm, “it pains me, but I must put an end to this interview. I was foolish to seek you thus, but it was only to confront you for the last time that I obeyed. I have loved you fondly, madly, but you have—there—I could never trust you again; so, for the future, we must be as strangers.”

“You are cruel, Frank,” she said, the tears welling in her eyes. “It is merciless of you not to hear my version of the matter, although I own appearances are much against me. The vilest criminal is allowed to make a defence; surely you will not debar me from it!”

She looked beseechingly at me, her face blanched and betraying the struggle going on within.

“But you cannot tell me here,” I said, somewhat softened by her repentance.

“No; my uncle will be out to-morrow evening, come to me then,” she replied, producing a visiting card, upon which she scribbled an address. “We are living at Richmond. If you cannot come, may I meet you?”

Taking the card, I said, “Very well, you shall explain matters if you wish. I will call to-morrow.”

“Do,” she implored; “I am sure I shall be able to satisfy you that I am not so very much to blame.”

We then shook hands and parted, for the orchestra having finished playing, the curtain had risen, and the theatre was too quiet to allow further conversation.

I returned to my seat, but on glancing up five minutes afterwards, saw that Vera was not in her box, and concluded that the burlesque had no longer any attraction for her.

Nugent’s inquiries after her health and well-being I answered satisfactorily, though I, myself, could not sit out the play, and returned home long before it was over.

I need not dwell upon the fearful suspense and mental torture in which that night was spent. Suffice it to say it was a period that seemed interminable, for my heart was racked by an intensity of emotion which can scarcely be conceived. The sight of Vera, in all her bewitching loveliness of old when we passed those happy days at Genoa, had awakened, with a thousand-fold energy, my love. Deceived as I imagined myself to have been, the one absorbing passion of my existence had still lived, in spite of all attempts to smother and subdue it by reason’s aid. One word from Vera, one look from those eyes into my own, had again laid me a captive at her feet, although I despised—hated—myself for what seemed mere weakness.

I knew it was a farce to seek an explanation, for, whatever it might be, I was ready to accept it. My heart could not be hardened against Vera. And then, should she in verity explain the mystery which hung around us both, that would mean the dawn of better days and brighter hopes.

Chapter Seventeen.

The Terrace, Richmond.

With a beating heart and a firm determination to be strong, I was ushered on the following afternoon into the drawing-room of one of that terrace of large houses that stand on the summit of Richmond Hill, overlooking what was at that time the grounds of Buccleuch House, but which have lately been thrown open as public gardens.

It was a pleasant room, the windows of which commanded a fine view of the picturesque valley, where, deep down, the river, like a silvery streak, winds in and out the mass of foliage. Undoubtedly it is the prettiest scene within many miles of London, and that day Father Thames was looking his best in the glories of a setting sun, whose rays now gilded the sail of a tiny craft dropping down with the tide, and anon lighted up some snorting tug or shrieking pleasure-launch.

Scarcely had I time to glance round when the door opened and Vera entered.

She looked even more lovely than I had ever before seen her, dressed in a tea-gown of cream lace over vieux rose satin, with a loose front and train, showing the pale rose satin lining, her waist being encircled by a curious girdle. It suited her admirably, and as she walked across the room with a smile of glad welcome upon her lips and her hand outstretched, I confess my heart was softened towards her.

There was an indefinable air—it might be of anxiety about her, however, as if she were afraid that what she had to say would not be convincing to me; and it was plainly to be seen that she, too, had spent a night of sleeplessness.

“Well, Frank, we have met again—you did not forget your promise,” she said, in those soft tones I loved to hear, speaking slowly, perhaps timidly.

We seated ourselves in silence. I dared not yet trust myself to speak.

“Last night I said I would give you the reason of my apparent fourberie.”

She paused, and toyed with her rings. She was waiting for me to answer.

“Yes,” I said; “I am listening.”

She looked up hastily; my voice was not encouraging.

“It was imperative Frank, that you should be sent to Petersburg—and—it was for your own sake—”

“For my sake!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, Frank,” she replied; “and it was only for that and for your future happiness and our—” she paused, while a vivid blush mantled her handsome features.

“Our what?” I demanded, almost rudely.

“I must not say, dearest; but this you might know—that no harm was intended for you in any proceeding in which I had a hand.”

“That is no answer, Vera,” I said, somewhat sternly. “You say this was for ‘our’ something, and for my future happiness! What does it all mean, and why this mystery? I’m tired of it. If you cannot explain, why ask me to call upon you?”

“Because, Frank—because I feel sure you would forgive me everything, could you know all.”

“Is there a reason, then, that you will make no explanation?”

“Yes, a most important one. If I could, I would tell you—but I cannot,” she said.

“Yet you were aware of my arrest, my imprisonment without trial, and transportation?”

“True. I knew of your arrest an hour after it had taken place.”

“And it was you who planned my escape?”

“It was. Had I not been successful, you would now be working in the Kara silver mines, enduring that living death which is a worse punishment than the gallows,” she replied, shuddering.

“For your timely assistance in that matter I must thank you,” I said. “Yet it is only fair that I should know the nature of my unknown offence, and the reason of my arrest I presume you are aware of it?”

“No, do not thank me, Frank. It was in my power to help you, and I did so. It was but my duty.”

“But why was I imprisoned?” I asked.

“That I cannot tell you.”

“Surely I have a right to demand an explanation, and if you do not tell me I shall place the matter before the English Consul, who will, perhaps, be able to fathom it,” I observed.

“No, no!” she replied, starting up. “No, Frank, don’t do that, for my sake. It would implicate me and I should be in deadly peril. Let the subject rest, and request no further explanation, promise me that?” she urged earnestly.

“I cannot. There is a mystery about the whole affair which I confess I don’t like. I came here to-day expecting to hear it explained, but I find you indisposed to tell me anything,” I replied angrily.

“Not indisposed, Frank—unable.”

“Unable! Why, you admit you are fully cognisant of the facts!”

“I do, but unfortunately circumstances will not permit me to disclose the secret.”

“There is a secret, then?” I ejaculated.

“Yes, one that must be kept at all hazards, alas! Therefore promise not to cause inquiries to be made, or it will be myself who will be the sufferer. Do promise me this?” she implored.

“If what you say is true,” I replied, “you may rely upon my silence, though I think, in the interests of our friendship, you should tell me what you know.”

“I wish I could. I know I am not hors de blâme, for I deceived you when I said I was under my uncle’s thrall. It is true he holds power over me, but not in the way I suggested.”

“How, then?”

“Ah, it is part of the secret. Some day, perhaps, you may know—not now. I had a set purpose in asking you to go to Russia to perform that commission you so kindly undertook, yet it was in desperation that I asked you—the man who was to have been my husband.”

“And I shall bitterly remember the experience until my dying day,” I remarked.

“Yes! it is only natural that you should feel disgusted at what you conceive is my treachery. It is but another result of the fatal step—I mean of the cursed circumstances in which I am placed. I cannot hope for your forgiveness, for I dare not explain. On every side,” she exclaimed disconsolately, with a vehement gesture of the hands, “I am watched and surrounded, hemmed in with difficulties, absolutely prevented from—”

“From telling me the object for which you sent me to Russia, when you knew it was a dangerous errand, likely to cost me my life? How can you expect that I should love you as I did with this terrible enigma unsolved?”

She remained silent.

For a moment I thought she was on the point of telling me all, when, with a look of piteous appeal, she threw herself at my knees and raised my hands to her lips.

“Frank,” she murmured, so low that it was only by bending forward that I could catch the words, “why do you ask? Is it because you love me, or—or—is it from mere curiosity you inquire?”

“Because I love you, Vera.”

“Then,” raising her beautiful face to my own, with a smile of hope, “then—trust me, Frank, and, in the future, when things have altered, you shall know all!”

“This is trifling,” I said stiffly, raising her to her feet. “You ask me to trust you because I love you; if you care for me, why not trust me, and confide this trouble to one who would do so much for you?”

“Cannot you wait, Frank, for—for even a short time? Can you never think that it was by pure force of circumstances that I was compelled to practise deceit towards you? I have known of your return since the day of the murder—that is—I mean since the first hour you set foot in England, but I had not the courage to face you because I knew I deserved forgiveness so little.”

“If this is all you have to say,” I responded, rising, and taking up my stick and hat, as if going, “we may as well part. Force of circumstances may be compelling you to deceive me now.”

My heart told me that Vera was wronged. As the cynical words fell from my lips she gave me a glance confirming that opinion. Standing erect, her features aglow with indignation, her whole frame quivering with excitement, she confronted me like a lioness.

“Go!” she exclaimed, with an energy which made me start violently. “Go, for we have both been deceived. I have been deceived, but now my awakening has come. Alas! this is my reward for the dangers braved, the difficulties surmounted, and the crimes committed for your sake!”

“Stay, Vera, for Heaven’s sake! What crimes?”

“Oh, forgive me! What have I said? I think I’m mad. Nay, question me no further, but leave me. Could you but know my heart, Frank, you would have pity—you would know that my love is too great, too all-absorbing, to allow me for an instant to endanger your life unnecessarily. But it is absolutely certain I cannot tell you now, and therefore—”

I was conquered. As she paused again, in the midst of her anguish, and her eyes sought mine with an irresistible glance in which love and tenderness, mingled with entreaty, struggled with hope, I knew that all further resistance to the spell on my part was useless, for Vera spoke the truth—and she was all the world to me.

So I took her in my arms, and forgave her.

“And you will always trust me now, Frank?” she asked presently with happy and tender elation.

“Vera,” I said, gravely, “I am showing my faith in you, am I not, by asking you to be my wife? I can trust you?”

“Trust me!” she cried. “Mon Dieu! I have loved only one man; it is you.”

I bent down to kiss the pale upturned face and her lips met mine in a hot passionate caress, enough to make any man’s head reel.

“I will endeavour to blot out from my memory this strange deceit you have practised upon me,” I exclaimed in a low voice.

“I am thankful to you, for I’m so undeserving,” she cried, kissing me fondly again and again.

“But you must own your vindication has not been very satisfactory,” I said, smiling.

“Yes, I am aware of that,” she replied, seriously.

“Mais, restes tranquille. I cannot tell you all—at least not yet.”

“Then for the present I have heard enough to convince me once more of your affection, Vera, and to each other we will be as before. You are still, darling, my betrothed.”

She did not reply, but flinging her slim white arms around my neck, shed tears of joy. The terrible anxiety as to the result of her pleading, upon which depended her happiness and peace of mind, had proved too great for her, and her pent-up feelings found vent in hysterical emotion.

She clung tightly to me as I tried to soothe her, and presently, when she became more calm, she dashed away her tears.

Before I returned to town that night she had consented to become my wife in a few months. Some might censure me as being rash and headstrong, but the truth was I had become intoxicated with her marvellous beauty, fascinated by her charming manner, just as I had been when we met by the Mediterranean.

There was something undeniably strange and mysterious in her religiously-guarded secret, but I felt assured hers was a strong, passionate, unwavering affection, and consequently, when I bade her good-night, I was in the best of spirits, and hopeful of the future.

Chapter Eighteen.

Under the Stars.

Six months later.

Vera was now my wife. After spending a blissful honeymoon among the Cumberland Lakes we had taken up our abode at Elveham Dene, the home of my childhood, which I had inherited from my father. She was delighted with the old place, and, indeed, I myself have always been fond of it, and may be forgiven if I descant upon its old-world beauties.

It sounds egotistical, even snobbish, nowadays, to talk of ancient lineage, but ours was not a mushroom family, for the Burgoynes have been the possessors of the estate for the greater portion of three centuries.

Six miles from the nearest railway station, Stamford, and one from the village of Blatherwyke, Elveham stands high up, commanding magnificent views across that most fertile of the midland counties—Northamptonshire. Built when the First James was King, with its wings of brick and stone dressings, the centre entirely of stone shrouded by the ivy of years and decorated with Renaissance ornaments, its great charm lies in the air of unprofaned antiquity which surrounds it. There are no modern additions; and the broad balustraded terraces, the quaint old flower gardens with their sundials, and the venerable oaks and yew-trees, all call up visions of sturdy white-plumed cavaliers whose talk is of the unhappy fight at Cheriton and the downfall of “Loyalty.”

Through the long years the interior has been little changed, and contains some fine old tapestry, ancient furniture, and a gallery wherein hang the time-sombred portraits of my ancestors.

It is a quaint old place throughout, and it was my delight when I brought Vera there to point out and explain the curiosities, odd nooks and corners, and relate to her its many traditions.

The Dene itself is noteworthy, too: a long steep glade carpeted with turf, closed in by a wooded amphitheatre, which opens close to the house. The lower part forms a flower garden; the whole scene, with its occasional cypresses and sunny patches of greensward, is Poussinesque, and strictly classical, belonging not to English fairies, but to the wood spirit of the old world.

Beyond, a walk leads through a beech wood, the undergrowth of which consists of huge rhododendrons. Blatherwyke may be reached by this path, being a shorter distance than by the high-road.

Such was the home which, owing to a quarrel with my father, I had left seven years before to battle with the world and earn my living by dint of sheer hard work; the home to which I returned, my bride upon my arm, wealthy, happy, with a bright future of bliss unalloyed before me. Our welcome, too, was a very hearty one, possibly because from a child I had been popular with the servants and tenants, and since coming into possession of the place I had not stinted them.

It was scarcely surprising that my wife should have been charmed with the natural and artistic beauties of this dear home, for they were such as should content any one of good sense, even though their tastes were fastidious.

Mine were not. I was a happy, contented man, blessed with a beautiful and affectionate wife, and feeling glad, having at last secured the prize for which I risked so much.

As she had scarcely any friends in this country we had been married quietly at Richmond. Monsieur Hertzen performed the formality of giving away his niece, and at the church door we left him, as we understood he had to leave England upon pressing business. On our return from the Lakes I proposed that we should spend the autumn at Elveham and invite some people for the shooting. For the winter season it was my intention to take a house in London and introduce Vera in society. At these plans she expressed her utmost satisfaction, though she said she should be happy to live aways at Elveham.

In peaceful contentment, without thought, devoid of care, the days passed pleasantly after our arrival home.

As mistress, she soon set about arranging and reorganising the household, and I could not fail to notice that her quiet, kindly demeanour at once endeared her to the servants, all of whom spoke highly of her.

I had married her knowing absolutely nothing about her past, and this was a fact which she apparently had not forgotten, for on the night of our arrival, when we had dined, and were seated tête-à-tête in her boudoir, she rose, and coming behind my chair, said,—

“Frank, dear, I had no idea my future home was to be so beautiful a place; it is absolutely perfect. Few women begin their married life in happier circumstances than these.”

“Was it a pleasant surprise?” I asked, laughing. “Yes, very,” she answered. “But I cannot forget, dear, that you know nothing whatever about me. I might be a base adventuress for aught you know. How is it you trust me so?”

“Because—why, because I love you,” I replied. She passed her hand lightly through my hair, as she said, “In return I will always be true to you, Frank. The day will come, sooner or later, when I can tell you the story of my life, and much that will astonish you, perhaps.”

“And you promise there shall be no clouds to mar our happiness?—clouds caused by jealousy or distrust, I mean.”

“No, never. You love me truly, I know. No man who did not would have married me with appearances so much against me as they were. I am world-weary, tired of the wandering life I have led, and glad to be with you here—always. I swear I will ever be good and faithful to you,” and a light of great contentment shone in her eyes.

It was enough. I desired no more, for my cup of happiness was filled, and with all my heart I worshipped my wife as an angel of goodness and purity. Ah! if we men could but remember that there is no beauty beneath the skin, that a soft tongue is not an outward sign of genuine affection in that crisis in our lives when we take a woman for our wife, how many brief fools’ paradises should we avoid, how many hours, nay years of trouble and unhappiness, how much shame, how many broken hearts!

Alas! my bliss was but short-lived, for very soon the glamour fell from my eyes, and I made discoveries of a nature so horrible that I would gladly have given all I possessed as a ransom for my freedom.

Love is blind, ’tis true, but jealousy has a thousand eyes which hideously distort that which is seen, at the same time eating into our hearts like a corrosive acid, with results almost as dire. Yet what greater calamity could befall a man than to discover his wife’s perfidy, and to know that while she smiles and caresses him she is conspiring with others to bring about his death?

Fate decreed that such position, ere long, should be mine.

One morning, after we had been at Elveham several weeks, the post-bag contained a letter addressed to Vera, which I handed to her. There was nothing extraordinary in this, as she received many letters from friends, some of which bore the Russian stamp. But the postmark of this particular one was remarkable, inasmuch as it was from Oundle, a town but a few miles distant, where I knew none of her acquaintances resided.

Hastily glancing at its superscription, she turned pale and became visibly agitated; then glancing at me, as if to assure herself I had not noticed her anxiety, she broke the envelope and read the contents, afterwards thrusting it hurriedly into her pocket, evidently trying to hide it from my sight.

I am constrained to confess that in my then mood I attached but little importance to the matter, and not until subsequent events had occurred did I remember it, though I remarked inwardly that during the remainder of the day she seemed nervously anxious, and about her face there was a strange, careworn expression, such as I had only once before seen—on the night of our interview at Richmond.

In the evening, having some correspondence to attend to, I retired to the library, a fine old room, filled from floor to ceiling with books, and containing many choice editions, for bibliophilism had been my father’s hobby, and he had rendered this portion of the house extremely pleasant and comfortable. A lover of books himself, I, as a literary man, inherited his tastes, and now on my return home frequently spent several hours here daily, reading, and transacting that business which necessarily falls upon the owner of an estate.

It was pleasant enough in the daytime, with its windows opening upon the terrace, commanding an extensive view of the Dene, but at night, when the thick crimson curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, and the fire blazed cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned grate, casting its inconstant light upon the stands of shining armour of departed Burgoynes, then it was one of the most snug and cosy rooms in the house.

We had dined, and I had been alone a couple of hours busily answering several important letters, when Vera entered.

She did not speak, fearing perhaps to interrupt me, but with a loving glance drew a lounge chair towards the fire, and sank into it. I was startled to notice how deathly pale she was, and asked whether she felt ill.

“I have a very painful headache, dear,” she replied in a tremulous voice. “I think I will go to my room and rest. If I am undisturbed I shall, perhaps, be better.”

“Very well,” I replied; “I will ring for Elise,” for my wife’s maid had been retained, and was devoted to her mistress.

“No, no, do not trouble her; I will go myself. Don’t disturb me, dear, and I shall be well to-morrow,” she replied, as I rose to touch the bell.

“As you wish, dearest,” I said, kissing her; “I hope sleep will refresh you.”

She rose and departed, but before she closed the door, added: “I shall not come down again to-night. You will not feel dull?”

“No, dear,” I replied. “Here’s a heap of writing before me, and while you are getting rid of your headache I can get through it. Good-night.”

She wished me bon soir in a low, strained voice, and closed the door.

Till nearly eleven o’clock I continued writing, but feeling cramped, lit a cigarette, and opening one of the French windows, stepped out into the night.

It was dark. There was no sound beyond my own footsteps, but as I left the house the thought of the strange murders in London by some chance recurred to me. Was it a presage of coming evil; of an approaching crisis of my fate? Somehow I felt that it was, and with my thoughts fixed upon the awful subject I wandered away over the gravelled paths, scarcely heeding the direction in which I was walking. Gradually, however, I became more composed; the surrounding peace, the soft air, and the thought of my wife’s strong affection, had their soothing effect upon me.

Recalled to myself by the weird hoot of an owl, I looked round, and saw I had penetrated into the beech wood, and that I trod noiselessly upon the mossy ground.

Pausing for a moment to take out a fresh cigarette, the sound of voices, close to where I stood, fell indistinctly upon my ears. It did not, and would not, have struck me as curious, had I not suddenly observed two figures, a man and a woman, who were standing together. I had no desire, nor inclination, to witness the love-making of a couple of rustics, yet what could I do? To move was to be discovered, so I remained motionless, hidden behind the trunk of a huge tree.

After a few moments they resumed their conversation earnestly, and my curiosity was aroused. I listened, but was unable to distinguish a single word. Suddenly, however, the truth became evident. I knew they were speaking in Russian!

I recognised the woman’s voice as that of Vera!

Scarce daring to breathe, I stood rooted to the spot, but just as I had made the startling discovery the moon appeared from behind a bank of cloud, shining down through the leafy branches, and revealing my wife leaning upon the arm of her companion.

He was bending over her, with his face hidden from me. My first impulse was to rush forward and surprise them; but reflecting a moment, I stood eagerly watching. He was uttering tenderly-spoken words, and her head was resting upon his shoulder, when suddenly he turned and glanced in my direction.

The moonlight fell full upon his face, and in a moment I recognised it as one I had seen before!

It was a countenance every feature of which was impressed only too deeply upon my memory—that of the man I had seen leaving the house in Bedford Place!—the man I had vowed to deliver up to justice whenever he should cross my path!

There was a rustling among the bracken, and the branches of the trees gently swaying, cast weird shadows around which a heated imagination could easily have transformed into the shapes and forms of supernatural creatures.

Again peeping from my place of concealment, I saw my wife and her companion were moving onward; indeed I was compelled to draw back quickly, for she passed so close that I could touch her.

Conversing in the same earnest tones they strolled slowly along to the edge of the wood; but I did not follow them: I had heard and seen enough.

Stunned and bewildered, no tears welled from my eyes, but, nevertheless, I began to bitterly repent the implicit trust I had placed in Vera, and firmly resolved not to rest until I could bring to justice the inhuman monster who, not content with his horrible deeds, had ruined that happiness that I foolishly believed would last always.

The shock was so great it prostrated me. The impulse to follow them never suggested itself—fool that I was!

Chapter Nineteen.

False!

Utterly broken down at this manifestation of Vera’s deception and faithlessness, I wandered away through the grounds in an opposite direction.

Those only who have experienced a suddenly overwhelming grief at discovering the perfidy of the person on whom their affection is set know the intense regret, the anger, and the jealous hatred of the one by whose instrumentality their idol has been shattered. If ever the spirit of murder enters a man’s soul it is then.

I thought only of revenge.

Did I not know enough of this man who had blighted my wife’s happiness to prove him a murderer and to send him to the gallows? Should I not be even fulfilling my duty in doing so, as well as avenging my own wrongs at the same time?

Yes. I resolved, after much commune with myself, to do this on the morrow. First I would compel Vera to disclose his name, then seek him out, and hand him over to the police.

With these and other maddening thoughts coursing through my brain I had cast myself upon the trunk of a fallen tree, and must have sat there for some time as, when I became conscious of things about me, the grey dawn had appeared through the fast-falling foliage.

Rising, I slowly retraced my steps to the house, pacing the terrace several times in deep soliloquy. The stars had disappeared, the chill breeze stirred the boughs softly, and the air was impregnated with the perfume of decaying leaves. How well I remember leaning upon the stone balustrade, gazing away down the misty Dene, and reflecting that ere the morrow’s sun had set Vera and I would be parted forever; for after such a discovery I could trust her no longer, neither could we be anything more to each other than strangers.

Need I say how heartily I cursed myself for having been prevailed upon to visit her at Richmond, to listen to her lame excuses, to be softened by her endearing words? No. For the thousandth time I told myself I had been fascinated by her beauty in the way the bird is fascinated by the snake; her toils were about me, and until the present moment I had always been too weak to tear them asunder, to lift the veil from my own eyes, and see her in her true character—that of an adventuress.

But that time had now arrived, and though I confess I was beside myself with grief to find the woman I had loved so fondly, guilty of such scheming and such treachery, I was, nevertheless, pleased to be in possession of the truth. Now I was aware of the worst, and should know how to act.

Presently I turned and passed through the French window into my study. It was useless retiring, for I could not sleep with such thoughts gnawing at my heart, so I flung myself into my writing-chair and thought.

I sat motionless until the warm sun shone through the open window and the birds outside had broken forth into song, when it occurred to me that as I had resolved to leave the place in a few hours it would be well to place my papers in order. This I commenced to do.

There lay scattered upon the table a deed relating to some property, and several letters of a private nature, upon which I had been engaged before taking my stroll on the previous night. With the object of placing them under lock and key I was thoughtfully collecting them when there fell from amongst the heap of papers a piece of red sealing-wax, about the size of a sixpence.

Rarely having occasion to use wax myself I took up the fragment, and found it had the appearance of being the rough corner of a seal that had chipped off the paper to which it had been affixed.

“Some one must have been here in my absence,” I exclaimed aloud, glancing at the taper which also lay upon the table, at the same time noticing a small spot of wax that had apparently been dropped upon the leather. Then I remembered that if any one had been in the study during the night they had, without doubt, made themselves acquainted with the contents of the paper, and with the rough copy of my will which I had carelessly left about.

I glanced at the scrap of wax again and found upon the margin, close to where it was broken, there was an impression of something.

This might give me a clue to the identity of the member of my household who required sealing-wax in the middle of the night.

Going to the window, the stronger light revealed a strange character, something of the shape of the letter B, but having a long excrescence in front.

In a moment I recognised it as one of the hieroglyphics of the mystic seal!

Nervousness is not one of my afflictions, yet I looked round that room involuntarily viewing the curtains with suspicion, as if half afraid I should witness something supernatural appear from behind them.

It was obvious that some one with the seal in his or her possession had come to my study in my absence during the dark hours of the night for the purpose of obtaining an impression in wax, and that the piece which had served as a clue had accidentally chipped off, alighting amongst the papers.

That some one in the house held the seal there could not be the slightest doubt, and my thoughts at once flew to the man whom Vera had clandestinely met—he whom I knew to be the murderer of Mrs Inglewood.

Who had he marked out as his next victim?

If he entertained affection for Vera, and she reciprocated it, what was more natural than that they should wish to rid themselves of me? I shuddered at the thought. My wife could surely never be an accessory to a murder—yet such things were not unknown, I told myself.

Yes; my surmise must be correct. My wife’s lover was only waiting for a favourable opportunity to strike the fatal blow.

He was not aware, however, that I had espied his presence, had recognised him; nor that by mere chance I had learned that an attempt was to be made upon my life.

“I can thwart their vile plot, even now!” I said bitterly, holding the piece of wax in my hand, and gazing upon it. “I will see Vera and first give her an opportunity to justify herself. If it is unsatisfactory I shall then give information to the police, and have the murderer arrested,” and I even smiled at the thought that, after all, I held the trump card.

Just at that moment the door opened, a head was poked in, and a voice exclaimed: “Halloa, old fellow, why you look as if you hadn’t been to bed! I heard somebody chattering, and thought there must be visitors, yet it’s rather early. Talking to yourself, it seems.”

“What’s the time?” I exclaimed rather brusquely, at the same moment taking out my watch.

“Half-past five,” he replied. “Coming out with me for a walk? A stretch at this hour of the morning will do you good.”

“No, thanks; I’m not an athlete,” I replied. “Very well. But, by Jove, what’s the matter with you this morning? If you’d had a bad night at baccarat and were stone broke you couldn’t look worse.”

“Matter with me? Nothing!” I replied, endeavouring to smile, “except that I’ve been very busy writing.”

“Take my tip and go to bed, old fellow. A couple of hours there will freshen you up wonderfully. But, good-bye, if you won’t come for a stroll.”

“Good-bye: see you at breakfast,” I replied abruptly, as the head withdrew and the door closed.

The intruder was Demetrius Hertzen, Vera’s cousin, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow about my own age, who had an abundance of spirits, which made him a most agreeable companion.

In response to my invitation he had arrived from Brussels a fortnight previously, and had signified his ability to remain my guest for another month. I had only met him once before, at our marriage, but when he had been with us a few days, I found he had many tastes in common with myself,—that he knew London quite as well as Paris or Brussels, and that although used to rather fast society perhaps, he was nevertheless a thoroughly good fellow.

Vera and he had been children together, and laughingly admitted they were sweethearts before they had gained their teens, but that when Demetrius arrived at the mature age of fifteen he transferred his affections. Cautiously I had approached my guest with a view to learn something of his cousin’s past, but he seemed remarkably shrewd, and carefully warded off every indirect question I put to him on the subject.

Possibly it was at Vera’s request that he would not tell me what he knew, yet upon this matter only was he silent, as he conversed freely of his own doings and acquaintances, and of his life since leaving the paternal roof, for though a Russian, he spoke English almost perfectly, and only in certain words could the accent be detected.

Somehow, though our acquaintance had been but brief, I had become greatly attached to him, such a mirthful cosmopolitan was he, brimming over with humour and good-fellowship and as light-hearted as his father was dark and sullen. He seemed to be untroubled by any thought or care, the sole object of his existence being to get the greatest amount of enjoyment out of life, and cause amusement to his companions.

Perplexed and uneasy, I longed for some one in whom to confide, and after he had gone, as I stood there brooding, I almost regretted I had not told him of my suspicions, and enlisted his sympathy and aid in tracking the murderer.

I knew, were I to tell him of my discovery of Vera’s faithlessness, he would readily render any assistance, and even give me advice that I might follow with advantage. I had no one else near to whom I could speak, and after considerable deliberation I at last determined to take him into my confidence, provided I obtained an opportunity of speaking with him alone after breakfast.

To my pocket-book I transferred the mysterious piece of sealing-wax, and then sadly and thoughtfully resumed the task of putting my papers in order.

It took some time, and when finished I set about making preparations for my journey.

First I drew a cheque in favour of myself for a good round sum, then I sat down and wrote a long letter to Vera, which I intended she should read after I had gone.

Full of sorrow and regret, it was a letter in which I told her of my dejection and my inconsolable grief, yet expressing a bitter hope that her life might be happier in the future than mine would be, and explaining the arrangements I proposed whereby she would have a fair income, and Elveham to reside in as long as she wished.

More than once in the course of writing I was so overcome I could scarce proceed, and throwing down my pen was tempted to tear the letter up. But it was a duty; the last communication between myself and she who had been dearest to me. I felt constrained to write on to the end, and append my signature.

After carefully reading it through, I placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to her, “to be opened after my departure.”

The hours had crept on unnoticed; the servant had long ago come in for the purpose of dusting the place, but, seeing me, had retired. Just as I had written the superscription on the envelope the door again opened, and I found myself face to face with Vera.

Chapter Twenty.

A Mystery Still.

I rose with a resolute determination that it should be our last interview.

“Why, Frank,” she exclaimed, with well-feigned surprise, as she advanced, “you haven’t been to bed, and—why, what’s the matter, dear?” she added, noticing the expression of anger upon my countenance.

“You ought to know well enough,” I replied sternly.

“How should I know?” she asked. “Why, the gas is still burning! Surely you’ve not been writing all night!”

“It seems your headache has left you,” I exclaimed curtly, without answering her question.

“Yes, I feel better this morning.”

“In fact, the pain disappeared as soon as you left me last night, eh?”

“What!—what do you mean, Frank?” she asked anxiously, in a strange voice, a sudden pallor overspreading her statuesque face.

“You plead ignorance; it is exactly what I expected. My meaning, I should have thought was pretty clear. You are not usually so dull.”

“I do not understand you.”

Her eyes wavered, she trembled with excitement, and I could see she was bent upon concealing the truth. This increased my anger.

“It is a lie!” I said sharply. “You are trying to deceive me, but I know the truth at last.”

“Deceiving you! Why, what have I done that you should accuse me in this manner? Surely you are not yourself this morning?”

“You left me here writing last night, did you not?”