William Le Queux (continued 2)

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?”

“Yes,” she answered, gloomily.

“And thought that I was safe for a few hours, and would not keep an eye upon your movements?”

“What has that to do with it?”

“Simply this. A couple of hours after you shammed illness and left me, I went out into the Dene, and there I saw—”

“There you saw me!” she cried wildly, swaying forward, and clutching at the back of a chair for support. “Dieu! it is true, Frank; yes, true, I—I confess—I deceived you.”

“Then you admit it!” I ejaculated, hardly believing my own ears.

“Yes; yes, I do,” she moaned in tones of anguish. “But forgive me, and say no more about the occurrence. It was unfortunate, and no harm has been done.”

I tried with difficulty to restrain my passionate indignation. Such a cool request maddened me.

“Unfortunate?” I cried. “No; for me it is the reverse, for it has opened my eyes to your faithlessness. Forgive you this! The thing’s absurd!”

“I unfaithful!” she repeated, looking vacantly about her, and clasping her hands. “I never thought it could be misconstrued into that! I unfaithful! Am I not your wife?” and with heaving breast and tearful eyes she bent her head as if to avert my gaze.

“Yes; you are my wife, but she who brings dishonour upon her husband is unworthy that name,” I said, in a tone of disgust.

“I have not brought you dishonour,” she declared, drawing herself up with dignity.

“You have, I tell you! Late last night you met a strange man in the Dene, and that man is your lover!” I retorted, decisively.

“That I am to blame, Frank, I admit,” she said, dashing the tears from her eyes, “but he is not my lover. I swear you are mistaken. Nothing was further from my thoughts.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that! I know enough of the world to distinguish the meaning of such clandestine meetings,” I replied, sickened at the manner she was endeavouring to clear herself.

“There is no love between us,” she exclaimed; “but,”—and she paused.

“Then why meet him in such a secret manner?” I demanded, adding with a sneer, “perhaps you will tell me next that it was not you I saw, but a twin sister.”

She still hesitated, with her eyes cast down as if in thought.

“You can give no answer,” I continued with warmth, “because you are guilty.”

“Guilty only of meeting him,” she said, drawing a deep breath: “but I assure you there is no love between us—nay, I swear it—only a secret tie.”

“I don’t wish you to perjure yourself,” I remarked coldly. “You ‘assure me’! What utter nonsense.”

“I tell you the truth.”

“You have told me so many falsehoods that a little truth is certainly refreshing!” I replied with sarcasm.

“I cannot force you to believe me,” she continued in a low voice, still steadying herself by the chair.

“Do you think me such a confounded idiot, then, as to believe you could have business with a strange man at that hour of the night?”

“Business, nevertheless, was the object of our meeting.”

“Bah! your excuses are positively intolerable. What was the nature of this business?”

“You must not know,” she replied, hesitatingly.

Her brows contracted, and her tiny hands clenched tightly upon the chair-back, as if summoning all her courage to be firm.

“Ah! the old story. More mystery. Look here! I’ve had enough of it!” I shouted in anger. “In fact, I’ve had too much of it already, and I demand an explanation, or you and I must part!”

A shudder ran through her slim frame as I spoke, and she lost her support and almost fell. With a sudden movement she pushed back the mass of dark curls from her forehead, her bright eyes gleamed with an earnest fire as they met mine, and she said, hysterically, “You are cruel—you do not know how I suffer, for your surmise is not correct in the smallest degree. You, my husband, I love, and no one else. And you accuse me. Mon Dieu!”

My self-control was very nearly exhausted. If she had been a man I might have struck her! As it was, I was powerless, and as I looked at her my eyes must have gleamed with fury.

“Last night proved the great extent of your love for me,” I exclaimed fiercely.

All that latent fire which exists in every woman’s nature, ready to burst into flame when her self-respect is wounded, was aglow in Vera as I uttered that retort.

“I cannot see that it did. I have done absolutely nothing of which I am ashamed,” was her answer.

She spoke with a cool, reckless candour that shocked me. My thoughts were soured by disappointment.

“What!” I cried, “have you no compunction?”

“I am sorry it was my ill-luck to be seen by you, and thus cause you unnecessary pain.”

“Oh, spare me your expressions of sorrow, pray,” I said, in a hard tone. “They are out of place.”

“I had thought to keep his presence a secret,” she continued in that dead-calm voice, which was like some one speaking in a dream.

“If he were not your lover, why should you do that? Your own words prove your guilt?”

“Because I had reasons,” she replied. “Reasons!” I repeated, my thoughts at once reverting to the piece of seal I had discovered. “Strange reasons they must be, surely. What is his name?”

“It is nobody you know. You have never heard of him.”

It was upon the tip of my tongue to denounce him as the perpetrator of the crime in Bedford Place, but with difficulty I restrained myself, and, impelled by the strangeness of her manner, demanded:

“Who is he? Answer me!”

“I am very sorry, Frank, but I cannot,” she replied, her face deathly pale, and her limbs trembling with agitation.

“Then you refuse to answer?” I cried, stung to the quick by her dogged persistency.