William Le Queux (continued 4)
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As Mr Paget resumed his seat, my counsel, Mr Roland, rose. Turning to the witness with a suave countenance, he mildly asked:
“How do you fix the day of the prisoner’s return?”
“By the books of the club to which the accused belonged—the Junior Garrick.”
“You say you found the seals in the library. Could access be easily gained to that room?”
“No; prisoner’s wife had the key.”
“And she refused you the keys of the chest of drawers?”
“Yes, giving as her reason that it contained papers of a strictly private nature.”
“Did she express surprise when you found the seals?”
“When I showed them to her she fainted.”
“You said, just now, that the little padlock was ‘concealed.’ Are you sure it had not accidentally fallen behind the paper?”
“No; I should think not.”
“Did you suspect the prisoner previous to his arrest?”
“I did. After the inquest on Mrs Inglewood, observation was kept upon him for some time, but he eluded us by going abroad.”
“And now you endeavour to fix the crime upon him without any direct evidence. I have nothing more to ask you.”
My hopes sank as Mr Roland resumed his seat, with a poor affectation of indifference.
The next witness was a neatly-attired, gentlemanly-looking man, the jeweller’s manager, who proved the purchase of the bracelet by Mrs Inglewood, and identified the tiny padlock as a portion of it.
When he had retired, Mr Roland having asked him no questions, he was succeeded by Bob Nugent, who stepped into the witness-box averting my gaze. Was even Bob in the conspiracy!
“You were, I think, Mr Nugent,” said the prosecuting counsel, “a friend—a particular friend I may say—of the prisoner’s?”
“I was—formerly.”
“Now, tell me, do you remember the night of the 15th August?”
“I do. The prisoner and I left the Junior Garrick Club soon after midnight, to proceed home.”
“Was there anything in his manner which attracted your attention?”
“He seemed rather excited, having lost heavily at cards. I left him at Danes’ Inn.”
“Do you know on what day he returned from abroad?”
“It was in the beginning of March. He was then strangely reticent as to his actions in the meantime.”
“You will remember, as a journalist, possibly, on what night the murder in Angel Court occurred?”
“On the same night as the prisoner’s return.”
“Do you know anything of the photograph found upon the accused?”
“Yes; he produced it accidentally, while dining at the Junior Garrick Club, and appeared much confused and annoyed, endeavouring at once to conceal it.”
“Did you see it again?”
“The prisoner, in consequence of some remarks I made to him, showed it to me next day at his hotel. On that occasion he explained that it had been given to him by some man who is now dead.”
“Did that not strike you as improbable?”
“Well—yes, it did.”
“Did he enter into any further explanation?”
“Very little was said about the seal.”
The court was extremely hot. Surely I was becoming fainter and more faint! There was a singing and surging in my ears. Was I falling or standing upright? What were they speaking of? I had lost sight of the face of my friend. I could only see the lines of expectant upturned countenances.
I was really fainting; nevertheless I struggled against it. Something, too, within me told me that I ought to struggle against it, yet everything was swimming and whirling around me, and vague forms seemed rapidly passing and repassing before my vision.
Then I staggered backward into the chair placed for me, and gradually the sense of sickening misery departed.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Monsieur’s Opinion.
The spirit was strong within me not to yield to any growing unconsciousness; not to be subdued by any physical or moral influences.
I again became perfectly calm. I was seated in the chair. A seafaring man was in the witness-box. Nugent was not there. Demetrius, sitting below, was looking at me with an anxious and uneasy expression.
“I recognise the accused,” I heard the witness say in reply to a question from the prosecuting counsel. “A recent event has brought me here to give evidence.”
“Have you any doubt prisoner is the man you saw emerge from the doorway of Mrs Inglewood’s house on the night in question?”
“None.”
“Did he appear agitated?”
“Yes; he passed me and rushed down the street as fast as he could run.”
“Did you not make any attempt to stop him?”
“No; at that time I was unaware of the murder.”
“When did you again see him?”
“Not until a few days ago, when I recognised his portrait in a newspaper.”
A long cross-examination resulted in the witness firmly adhering to his story, and explaining that as he had been on a long voyage he knew nothing of the occurrence until many months afterwards.
Demetrius, with evident unwillingness, entered the box. His story was brief, yet damaging.
When he had concluded, Mr Roland, adjusting his eye-glasses, rose and asked:
“You are acquainted with prisoner’s wife, I believe?”
“Yes; she is my cousin.”
“Where did you go when you left England?”
“I decline to answer.”
“You have been the prisoner’s guest at Elveham, have you not?”
“Yes.”
“And what were these suspicious circumstances of which you spoke just now?”
“There were several. Late one night, about three weeks ago, I had occasion to enter the library. The door was ajar, and as I pushed it open I saw the accused in the act of impressing a seal, similar to the ones produced. I drew back unnoticed.”
It was untrue! He had seen me sealing the envelope containing a lease, and believed I was using the fatal emblem!
I waited breathlessly for the next question.
“Is it a fact that on the night previous to his departure from Elveham, some unpleasant incident occurred?”
“I know nothing of it. I have heard that the prisoner had some little difference with his wife.”
“Come, sir,” demanded my counsel sharply, “did you not overhear a conversation in the early morning?”
The witness appeared confused.
“Yes, I did,” he admitted. “I heard my cousin ask him to wait a stipulated period for an explanation.”
“Have you any idea what this explanation is?”
“None.”
“Then, after all, you are unable to throw any light whatever upon these mysterious crimes?” he asked, in a strange harsh voice.
“I’ve told you all I know,” replied Demetrius, a trifle paler than before.
Mr Roland flung down his brief upon the table, slowly resumed his seat, and pushed his wig from off his forehead with a perplexed gesture.
I could hardly realise my situation. What could it all possibly mean? What was the object of this seaman giving evidence when he could throw no light upon the matter, except that he actually saw me following the murderer from Bedford Place?
He had taken a seat in the well of the Court with his face turned towards me.
“Sergius Hertzen.”
As the words rang through the place I started. I had not seen Vera’s uncle since our marriage, as he went to Zurich immediately afterwards.
There was a shuffling near the door, and the old man entered. As he mounted the steps to the witness-box I noticed he had aged considerably.
“What are you, Mr Hartzen?” Mr Paget asked, referring to his brief at the same moment.
“Police agent.”
“And your nationality?”
“Russian.”
The old man a police agent! Dumbfounded, I looked blankly around me.
“You are father of the previous witness?”
“I am.”
“Now, what evidence can you give regarding the charge against the prisoner?”
There was a dead and painful silence.
“We first met at the Hotel Isotta, Genoa, about a month after the murder in Bedford Place. We frequently played écarté together, and on one occasion he paid me a debt with the three five-pound notes I now produce.”
“And what is there peculiar about them?”
“I have since ascertained that their numbers correspond with those now known to have been stolen from the house in Bedford Place.”
The thought flashed across my mind that once, when I had lost to him, I had discharged the debt with three notes. From whom I received them I could not tell.
“What else do you know about the affair?” was the insinuating question of the prosecuting counsel.
“Well; some three months after this I was present at the Central Tribunal at St. Petersburg, when prisoner was sentenced to the mines for complicity in the murder of a hotel-keeper. The sentence, however, was never carried out, for on the way to Siberia he escaped, returning to England.”
“It’s a lie! I was exiled without trial,” I shouted. Amid the loud cries of “Silence,” counsel turned to the judge, and with a cruel smile about his lips remarked, “You see, my lord, prisoner admits he was exiled.”
Mr Roland made an impatient motion to me to preserve silence; so seeing my protests were useless, I sank again into my chair, and tried to conquer my fate by bearing it.
Mr Crane the junior counsel defending me, cross-examined him at some length, but resumed his seat without being able to shake his testimony.
The waiter who had attended to me at the Charing Cross Hotel, and two of my own servants were called, but their evidence was immaterial and uninteresting.
I felt a strange morbid yielding to a superstitious feeling that I could not shake off, and sat as one in a dream, until the Court rose and I was sent back to my cell.
Chapter Thirty.
The Eleventh Hour.
Next morning my trial was resumed.
There was the same array of counsel; the same crowd of curious onlookers lounging on the benches like carrion crows around a carcase; the same strange, half-visionary procession of judges, lawyers and witnesses, who passed and repassed before me, sometimes ludicrous, but generally gloomy and depressing.
The jury looked pale and weary. They had been locked up during the night, and now several of them were yawning. None gave indication that they felt the responsibility of the sentence they had to pronounce.
I sat in the dock heedless of everything; I had grown callous. I had one thought only: Why had not Vera made her promised explanation?
A few minor witnesses were called, and the case for the prosecution closed.
At last Mr Roland rose to make his speech in my defence. The circumstantial evidence already produced was, I knew, sufficient to cause the jury to find me guilty, and I listened in rapt attention to the clear, concise arguments of the famous advocate.
But how unsatisfactory was his speech—how weak was his defence! With a sinking heart I saw more than one of the jury smile incredulously when my innocence was asserted.
“I admit, gentlemen,” said Mr Roland, in the course of his address, “that this case is enshrouded in mystery; but while asserting that the prisoner is innocent, I tell you plainly there is a secret. The key to this enigma is known to one person alone, and that person, for reasons with which I am myself unacquainted, is not in a position to divulge it. That this secret bears directly upon the crime is obvious, nevertheless it is a most unfortunate circumstance that the mystery cannot be wholly elucidated by a satisfactory explanation. However, I have several witnesses whom I purpose calling before you; and having heard them, I shall ask you to discharge the prisoner, feeling assured you will be convinced that he is entirely innocent.”
“But, Mr Roland, this is a most extraordinary case,” interposed the judge. “You speak of a person who knows the secret and refuses to give evidence. If this is so, this person is party to the crime. To whom do you refer?”
Counsel held a brief consultation with his junior, then rose again.
The Court was all expectancy.
“I refer, m’lord, to no less a person than the prisoner’s wife!”
The reply caused a sensation. Vera knew the secret! I was not wrong.
“Ah, that is unfortunate,” exclaimed the judge, disappointedly. “It is impossible to call her in a case of this description.”
At that moment the usher handed Mr Roland a note. He read it hastily, and, raising his hand, said:
“The lady has just arrived in court, and is about to produce important evidence, m’lord.”
The silence was unbroken, save for the frou-frou of Vera’s dress as she advanced towards my counsel, and bent over him, whispering.
Mr Roland was seated close to the dock, and I strained my ears to catch their hurried conversation.
In face of the horrible charge brought against me, the persistency with which it was pursued, and the evidence produced in support of it, I had been so overwhelmed by a sense of fatality that I had almost decided to let things take their course. I knew I was innocent, nevertheless I felt the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of proving it. Now, however, encouraged by this proof of sympathy on the part of Vera, I took heart.
“What will these witnesses prove?” asked Mr Roland, hurriedly.
Vera, whose face was rendered more delicate and touching by the tortures she seemed undergoing, glanced quickly towards me, and replied:
“They will prove my husband’s innocence!”
Counsel uttered an ejaculation of surprise. “Are you certain of this?” he asked.
“Yes. If it were possible that I might be called as a witness I could tell the Court things that would probably astonish it; but I leave everything to the two persons I have brought,” she replied in a tremulous voice.
The jury grew impatient. The excitement was intense.
In a few moments a young and rather showily-attired woman stepped into the box. As she turned towards me I was puzzled to know where I had seen the face before. The features seemed quite familiar, yet I could not recollect.
“You are Jane Maygrove?” asked my counsel.
“Yes.”
“Tell us what you know of the murder of Mrs Inglewood. Relate it in your own way.”
She hesitated for a moment and commenced:
“Before I married I was maid to Mrs Inglewood. Mistress was a very quiet lady, and lived with a cook and myself in Bedford Place. I was in her service about three months, and although she told me she was married—and she wore a wedding-ring—her husband never visited her. Several foreign ladies came to see her on different occasions, but only one gentleman. He also had the appearance of a foreigner but spoke English without an accent. One evening, in the latter part of July, mistress dined alone with this gentleman, and I overheard a conversation which took place in the drawing-room afterwards. I—”
“Was this gentleman to whom you refer the prisoner?” asked Mr Roland.
“No he was not. On that night I heard the visitor advising mistress to withdraw her money from a company which he said was on the brink of collapsing, and place it in his hands to invest. At first she demurred, and appeared to discredit the rumour that the company was not safe; but, after a long argument, he exacted a promise that she would withdraw the money and hand it over to him in cash on the fifteenth of August, when it was arranged that he should re-invest it for her.”
“And what happened on the latter date?”
“Mistress was at home during the day. A clerk called in the afternoon and handed a small leather bag to her, for which she signed a receipt, after counting the money. When she had finished, I saw her place the bag under the sofa, at the same time leaving a small roll of bank-notes upon the mantelshelf. Previously I had mentioned the matter to my young man, and it was he who prompted me to act in the manner I did. Well, about seven o’clock the gentleman arrived, and shortly afterwards mistress and he went out—to the Café Royal, I believe—to dine, as Mary, our cook, had been dismissed that morning for dishonesty.
“My young man urged me to get possession of the money while they were out, saying that we could then marry, go abroad, and set up in business with it. But my heart failed me, and I could not bring myself to commit the robbery. About ten o’clock a telegram came, and half an hour later mistress and the gentleman returned. When mistress read the telegram she appeared nervous and agitated. They both entered the dining-room, and at first conversed in low tones, but soon appeared to be in altercation. I heard the gentleman say, ‘I shall not leave this house until you let me have the money. I tell you I will not allow you to ruin yourself.’ To which mistress replied that she had changed her mind, and should place the money in the bank instead. At this the foreigner grew furious. Mistress urged him to go, but he would not. Then all was quiet again. She gave me orders to lay supper in the sitting-room upstairs, which I obeyed, she telling me that her husband was coming home after a long journey. I wondered what the master would say to the other gentleman, but discreetly held my tongue. It wasn’t my place to say a word. About eleven o’clock the gentleman departed very reluctantly, and soon after midnight mistress’s husband arrived.
“I opened the door to him. He was a tall, handsome man, who wore a felt hat and long travelling ulster. He greeted mistress very cordially, kissing her with much affection, and then they went upstairs together to supper.
“All the evening I had been hesitating whether or not I should decamp with the money, and while they were sitting at table I was still thinking over the matter. The clock struck two, and roused me. Suddenly I made up my mind to take it, so creeping back to the drawing-room I opened the bag, abstracted the contents, and replaced it again. Just as I was about to leave the room with the money in my hands I heard a footstep on the stairs. I knew it was mistress! I slipped behind the screen, hoping to escape observation. Scarcely had she crossed the threshold when I heard another person following stealthily. It was the foreign gentleman. ‘Have you decided?’ he asked, in a low whisper. ‘Yes,’ she replied, starting at his sudden reappearance; ‘once for all, I tell you I will rid myself of you.’ He appeared mad with anger. He pushed the door to, and placed his back against it. Then he laughed a low, harsh laugh, replying, ‘That’s not so easy, my pretty one: remember our secret bond.’ She turned upon him furiously, crying, ‘Leave this house at once! Do you wish to compromise me besides endeavouring to rob me of my money? Ah! you think I do not know you. We have been friends because it suited my purpose; but if you dare touch that money I will tell what I know! I will give the police the information they seek regarding the Villeneuve affair!’ This speech had a strange effect upon him. ‘Dieu!—she knows,’ he ejaculated, involuntarily. Glaring at her with an expression of murderous hatred, he watched her every movement. ‘Will you hand me over the money?’ he demanded, sternly. ‘No; you shall never have it. Leave this house; and if you remain in England another week I’ll carry my threat into effect. If you fancy you can practise the confidence trick on me you are mistaken—so, go!’
”‘I shall not!’ he replied, fiercely. ‘I will have that money,’ and he bent down in the act of drawing the bag from beneath the sofa. ‘Touch it at your peril!’ she cried, hoarsely. ‘I see you now in your true light; you would rob a woman of her means of existence. God knows you have brought me enough misery already!’ Again he tried to obtain possession of the bag, but once more she frustrated his design. Then they struggled for the mastery. His face was ashen pale, and his fingers gripped her bare arms, leaving great red marks; but she was not to be easily vanquished, and fought like a tigress. ‘To-morrow,’ she said, in a terrible half-whisper, ‘the world shall know who stole the Villeneuve diamonds, and I will rid myself of you forever. I will expose your accursed villainy!’ He grasped her by the wrist and dragged her towards him. ‘You—you say this—to me,’ he hissed, in a frenzy of passion. ‘You have spoken your last words—you—you shall die.’ I saw a knife uplifted in his hand, and he plunged it in my mistress’s breast with a dull, sickening sound. She sank upon the floor, uttering a shrill cry. For a few seconds he bent over her and seemed to be rearranging her dress, then he snatched up the bag, took the roll of notes from the mantelshelf, and thrusting them into his pocket, stole noiselessly out by the back-door. I stood for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. At last I summoned courage to approach my poor mistress, who lay motionless; but just as I was stepping from my hiding-place I heard some one descending the stairs. It was master! He rushed into the room, but stopped suddenly, in horror, as he caught sight of his wife. Bending over her, he was about to lift her, when his eyes caught sight of something, which I suppose was the seal afterwards found. With a loud cry of despair, and uttering words in a foreign language, he kissed her calm white face. ‘I must fly,’ he said, aloud, ‘or I shall be suspected,’ and without another word he also hurried out of the house.
“When he had gone, I placed the money I had stolen in a small hand-bag, and crept out by the front door. A few days later my young man and myself sailed for Australia, and that is all I know of the murder.”
There was a long pause when the voluble witness had concluded her breathless recital.
Chapter Thirty One.
By whose Hand?
“This is a most remarkable statement,” observed the judge, regarding the woman keenly. “You swear positively that the prisoner was not the murderer?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then surely you would be able to recognise the man whom you assert stabbed your mistress? Have you seen him since?”
“Never.”
“Don’t tell me his name, but answer me; do you know it?”
“No; my mistress always called him Victor, and told me, whenever he came, to announce him as Monsieur. He, too, always addressed her by her Christian name.”
“Why did you not give information to the police at the time?” asked his lordship.
“Because I should have been prosecuted for robbery,” she replied, confusedly.
“I have only one question, m’lord,” exclaimed counsel for the prosecution, rising. Turning to the witness, he asked: “When was the first occasion upon which you saw the prisoner?”
“Half-an-hour ago.”
“And you positively swear you never saw him before to-day?”
“I do.”
“Witness,” said the judge, “you will give the police a detailed description of the man you saw commit the murder. That will do.”
Mr Roland and Vera were in earnest conversation. He appeared to be dubious about some point upon which she was trying to convince him.
The spectators were eager for the next development of the curious case. They had followed the verbal duel with the same interest as that inspired by a thrilling drama performed by first-class artistes. Several times already applause had almost broken out, and was only suppressed by the dread of the Court being cleared.
“The next witness, m’lord, will be Boris Seroff,” Mr Roland said, glancing hesitatingly at his brief, while Vera retired to a seat where I could not observe her.
“Seroff!” I repeated to myself, “who can he be? Surely he must be a relation of Vera’s; and yet I’ve never heard of him!”
The name was shouted down the corridor outside the Court; then there was a movement among the eager crowd which stood about the door, and a man advanced towards the witness-box.
Instantly I recognised him. It was the murderer!
What fresh intrigue was this?
I leapt from my chair, and leaning over the dock, cried:
“My lord, that man who is going to give evidence, is—”
“Enough?” interposed the judge. “If you cannot be silent, you will be removed to the cells during the remainder of your trial.”
The warder at my side grasped me roughly by the arm, and forcing me into my chair, whispered, “Don’t be a fool! Such excitement can do you no good.”
I saw how utterly helpless I was, yet I was determined to denounce this man by some means. The midnight scene in the Dene came back to me in all its hideous reality. Vera’s lips defiled by those of a murderer!
The thought goaded me to desperation. Springing to my feet again I was on the point of proclaiming his guilt, when the first question was put by my counsel.
“Now, Mr Seroff, what are you?”
With bated breath I awaited his answer.
“I am brother-in-law of accused. His wife is my sister.”
His sister! Then at least I had no cause for jealousy, and had judged Vera wrongly.
“Tell us, please, what you know of the circumstances attending the murder of Mrs Inglewood.”
The witness twirled his moustache nervously, and glanced at me; then, as he saw my eyes fixed upon him, he scowled and turned away.
Yes. I felt convinced it was he. I could see guilt written upon his face.
“The story is a rather long one, and there are some matters which I cannot explain; however, I will tell you what occurred on the night in question. The murdered woman, who, for certain reasons, assumed the name of Mrs Inglewood, was my wife. She was called Rina Beranger before I married her, a schoolfellow of my sister’s, at Warsaw. After our marriage it was imperative she should live in England, and for that reason she left me. I resumed my position, that of an officer of Cossacks, and for a year we were parted. At last I obtained leave and travelled from St. Petersburg to London. I landed at Hull on the afternoon of the fifteenth of August, and at once telegraphed to my wife announcing that I should arrive about midnight.”
“Did you sign that telegram?” asked Mr Roland.
“With my initial only.”
“Is that the message?” counsel asked, handing up the telegram which had been put in as evidence against me.
“Yes; it is.”
“I would point out, your lordship,” observed Mr Roland, “that the letter B. stands for Boris, as well as Burgoyne, the prisoner.”
Continuing, the witness said: “I arrived home soon after twelve at night, and was admitted by the woman I see sitting in the well of the Court. Supper was laid in an upstairs room, and my wife, who I thought appeared unusually nervous, called for it to be served at once. I do not remember how long we sat together talking; it might have been a couple of hours for aught I know. My wife was telling me certain things, which it is unnecessary to repeat here, they being purely business matters, when suddenly she recollected that she had a letter to give me. It was downstairs in the drawing-room, she said, and begging me to remain where I was she left the room, closing the door.”
“Was this only a ruse on her part?” asked the judge.
“I’m afraid so. She—she did not return,” he continued, with a sign of emotion. “After she had been absent five or six minutes I heard a shrill scream, and then a sound like the smashing of glass. At first I believed that the servant had fallen with a tray, and fully expected my wife to return and relate the occurrence; but as she did not come I opened the door and listened. All was silent. The terrible quiet unmanned me. I called to her, but there was no response, then, suspecting that some accident had happened, I dashed downstairs and entered the room—”
“And what did you find?” counsel inquired.
The witness appeared overcome with agitation, which he strove to repress. But was it only feigned?
“There—I saw my wife—lying on the floor—murdered!”
“How did you act immediately after discovering the crime?”
“I—I fled from the house,” he stammered.
“Did you not first ascertain whether the unfortunate woman was really dead? Did you not call the servant?”
“No. Overcome by sudden fear I left the place, lest I should be suspected of committing the murder.” This statement had a great effect upon the spectators, and it was some moments before quiet was sufficiently restored for the interrogatory to proceed. “Did you give information to the police?”
“No. I left for Paris at ten the same morning.”
“Can you say positively that it was not the prisoner who committed the murder?”
“Yes; I am certain it was not,” he replied, drawing a long breath.
I was still convinced he was the murderer. He might, I thought, be endeavouring to shield himself by giving evidence against some imaginary person. “Have you any idea who committed the deed?”
“I have—I believe—”
“Stop! Whatever information you can give in a serious charge like this must be given to the police,” exclaimed the judge, interrupting.
“Shall I give the police the name of the person I suspect?” asked the Russian.
“Yes; at the conclusion of your examination.” Counsel for the prosecution rose and took a deliberate view of the witness, saying: “Tell me, Mr Seroff, what prompted you to act in the extraordinary manner you did on discovering the crime?”
“I had no desire to be suspected.”
“Would it not have been more natural to have given information at once, instead of hiding yourself?”
“Possibly it would.”
“Then what caused you to keep the matter a secret, and not come forward until now?” demanded the lawyer, with a shrewd look.
“I had my reasons.”
“It is those reasons I desire to know.”
“I refuse to state them.”
“Then your evidence is very incomplete, and I do not think the jury will accept it.”
“Not if I place the police on the track of the assassin?”
“You forget that by your refusal to state the whole of the facts, and keeping the matter secret as you have, that you are an accessory, in a certain degree, to your wife’s murder.”
“I’m fully aware of it; nevertheless I refuse to give you the reason why I believed I should be suspected of the crime.”
“Very well,” said counsel, in a tone of annoyance, resuming his seat. “I hope the jury will accept your evidence with the utmost caution.”
“Have you any more witnesses, Mr Roland?” the judge asked.
“No, m’lord. This concludes the case for the defence.”
Boris Seroff descended from the witness-box, and left the Court in company with an inspector of police and a detective.
A few seconds later they returned, held a hurried conversation with the clerk of the Court, who in turn whispered something to the judge, which appeared greatly to surprise him. Then the two officers went out again.
Had my newly-discovered brother-in-law divulged the name of the murderer?
Those were moments of terrible excitement.
Chapter Thirty Two.
Rays of Hope.
My trial was concluding.
With logical clearness Mr Roland addressed the jury for my defence, saying that in the face of the evidence which had been produced, and which all tended to show that the murder was committed by another person, he felt assured they would not find me guilty. He commented at some length upon the lack of corroborative evidence on the part of the prosecution, criticising the weak points in that masterly manner which had brought him so much renown.
“I again admit, gentlemen,” he continued, “mine is not a wholly satisfactory defence, for the prisoner appears to have acted somewhat suspiciously, and he refuses to explain certain matters connected with the occurrence; yet this trial is satisfactory, inasmuch as it has caused the real culprit to be denounced, and although I am as ignorant as yourselves as to the identity of the murderer, I understand the police are already engaged in tracking him.
“As I told you in my opening speech, there are certain facts connected with this case which are bound to be kept secret, even though a man’s life or liberty are at stake, and when I tell you that I—like yourselves—am unaware of the bearing which these family affairs have upon the crime we are investigating, you will fully appreciate the difficulty in which I am placed. Had it not been for the production of the two witnesses by the prisoner’s wife at the eleventh hour, I should have been compelled to give way against the weight of circumstantial evidence brought by the prosecution. However, I feel assured that no right-minded man can assume that the prisoner at the bar had any hand in the assassination of the defenceless woman in Bedford Place, after the statement of the maid who actually saw the crime committed, and who positively swears that the accused was not present. I would therefore ask you to at once return a verdict of ‘Not Guilty,’ and thus bring about the prisoner’s discharge.”
Then the judge summed up.
He reviewed the case with much deliberation and care, saying that, in dealing with a crime committed without any witnesses being present, inference must take the place of direct evidence; but in the case before them they had discovered that a witness was present, and that witness positively swore that I was not the murderer. Therefore, despite the obvious gaps in the argument for the defence, it was an open question whether or not I should be discharged.
The spectators looked on with breathless anxiety, understanding that the woman’s evidence had served as a lever to demolish the whole theory of the prosecution.
But no. The jury were not unanimous. They asked leave to retire. Once only I saw Vera during the quarter of an hour they were absent. I could see she was terribly agitated as she leant over to consult Mr Roland. “You need have no fear,” I heard him say. “He will be acquitted.”
All eyes were turned upon me during those awful moments.
Suddenly there was a movement, and the jury Slowly filed into Court.
A deathlike stillness ensued as the clerk rose and asked the foreman,—
“Have you agreed upon your verdict?”
“We have.”
“Do you find the prisoner, Frank Burgoyne, guilty of having murdered Ethel Inglewood, or not guilty?”
“Not guilty!”
An outburst of applause greeted this announcement; then the judge ordered my discharge, and I walked from the dock a free man.
Vera met me, and flinging her arms about my neck, kissed me. My face was wet with her tears of joy. Not a single word was exchanged between us.
We left the Court together, and entering a cab, drove to the Grand Hotel, where she was staying.
Chapter Thirty Three.
Vera’s Secret.
A few hours had elapsed since my acquittal, and after a brush up and a hasty meal I had entered Vera’s sitting-room.
It was already dark. The tiny electric lamps flooded with amber light the small apartment rendered cosy by the drawn curtains. On a lounge chair she sat, wrapped in a pale grey cashmere gown, with a bunch of crimson roses in her breast. At sight of me she rose. Not a muscle of her countenance stirred, I and could divine her embarrassment by the sharp glance she momentarily darted at me.
I scented in this proceeding some annoying mystery.
A constrained silence reigned for some moments.
“Frank,” exclaimed she, in a very calm tone, advancing slowly and taking my hand, “at last we are alone.”
“Yes, Vera,” I replied, calling to my aid all my coolness to feign a serenity which I was far from possessing. “Now, perhaps, you will let me know this secret of yours which has so long estranged us, and brought us all this sorrow.”
She stood motionless, with compressed lips, and shivering slightly, said,—
“Forgive me! Frank, forgive me! I will tell you everything. You shall know the truth; believe me.”
“Why did you not tell me the truth long ago; then this degrading trial would have been avoided,” I said, bitterly.
“Because I could not, until this afternoon.”
“Not when my life was at stake?”
She shook her head seriously, replying, “No, it was impossible.”
Was I still being duped? Those were the only words that beat a constant and painful tattoo in my brain.
“Tell me,” I said, laying my hand upon her shoulder, “tell me the reason why you have kept this secret of yours till now?”
“Hark!” she said, listening intently.
I could hear nothing beyond the roar of the traffic in Trafalgar Square.
She crossed quickly to the window, and flinging aside the curtains, opened it.
“Come here,” she commanded.
I obeyed her.
“See! below. There is a man selling newspapers. Listen to what he says?”
I leant out of the window, and as I did so a hoarse cry broke upon my ear. It caused me to start, for the words the man shouted were, “Extra special! Attempt to murder the Czar! Exciting Scenes! Extra special!”
“What has that to do with it?” I asked, puzzled, as she closed the window and drew the curtains again.
“Everything,” she replied, sighing. “Sit down, and I will tell you the story.”
I flung myself into an easy-chair, and she came and stood beside me. Her hand smoothed my forehead with a tender caress, yet somehow I could not trust her; the ironic and brutal strokes of Fate had paralysed me, and I felt myself wholly stupefied.
“Sometimes, Frank, an unforeseen incident, a chance, an exterior influence, may bring on a disastrous crisis. It has unfortunately been so in my case,” she said, in a deep, earnest voice.
“Begin at the beginning. Let me know what is this strange mystery which has shadowed your life,” I urged, taking her hand in mine.
“Hush! we must not be overheard,” she replied, glancing apprehensively at the door. “I—I fully recognise how painful all these complications must have been to you, dear, but I assure you it is not my fault that I have not divulged. I had taken an oath—”
“An oath!”
“Yes. I know it was purely from love that you married me, enveloped in mystery as I was; and, then, when you saw me in the Dene, and—and—thought me untrue—ah—you surely should have known me better than that. You know how I love you; and yet you suspected me!” she cried passionately.
“Don’t let’s talk of that,” I said, impatiently.
“When I have told you,” she continued, her eyes filling with tears, “you will no longer believe me false, even though I—your wife—have stained my hands with crime!”
“What!” I cried, in amazement, “you?”
“Ah, no,” she answered, “and yet mine is a horrible crime. Listen! Years ago, when I was a little child, my father, Count Nicholas, held a responsible position at the Court of the Czar at Petersburg. His closest friend was Sergius Orselska—the man you know as Hertzen—his half-brother. His son, Demetrius, and I were playmates.”
“But what of Boris. The man who gave evidence to-day?”
“He is my brother. When the Russo-Turkish war broke out, my father, who was an officer, was placed in command of a troop, Boris having in the meantime joined the Cossacks. The Count served with distinction throughout the campaign; but, alas! after the fall of Plevna, he received news that my brother had been killed in an engagement with some insurgents in Georgia.
“Overcome with sorrow, my father retired from the army, and took me to live in a gloomy old house in the Njazlov at Warsaw. While we were leading a somewhat secluded existence the revolutionary movement sprang up in Poland; the people commenced their struggle for freedom, and the propaganda took root with alarming rapidity. My father, a loyal subject of the Czar, believed that his warmest friend, Serge Orselska, held views similar to his own, but, as I afterwards discovered, he was mistaken. This half-brother was a scheming scoundrel, who having allied himself with the Terrorists, determined upon making it a lucrative business by becoming a police spy, so that he could give secret information regarding the conspirators. In this he had more than one object in view. My father had occasion to travel to Petersburg on business connected with his estate, and remained there several weeks. On the day following his return to Warsaw the grand coup was made, and the Czar was assassinated by a bomb thrown at his sleigh. The world was convulsed. My father, honest loyalist that he was, regarded this action of the Nihilists most unfavourably.
“Yet as soon as Alexander the Third had succeeded the dead Emperor my poor father was arrested, conveyed to Petersburg, and charged with being implicated in the assassination! Though the accusation was utterly unfounded, the perjured evidence was much against him. He was found guilty, and condemned to Siberian hard labour for life. I was in Court and heard sentence pronounced. Ah! Grand Dieu! Shall I ever forget that day?
“He was despatched with a convoy of prisoners to Asia, but on the way endeavoured to escape, and was shot dead. It was the new Czar who was responsible for my beloved father’s death; he was his murderer! and I swore it should be avenged, even if my own life were sacrificed in the attempt. Then I went to live under the guardianship of Serge Orselska, who, hearing my vow, admitted that he was a Nihilist, and persuaded me to take the oath to the Executive. I did so, and, confident of success, swore that I would make three attempts to remove the Autocrat of the Russias, adding, as a stipulation, that if none were successful the oath should be removed. Thus I developed into an enthusiastic and patriotic Terrorist. Bent upon avenging my father’s wrongs, I was prepared to go to any length, and to follow the examples of Jessy Helfman and Sophia Perovskaia in order to accomplish my object.”
“Fancy, you—a Nihilist!” I said, incredulously in abject astonishment.
“Yes, and I was not idle either. The schemes of our Circle having matured sufficiently to allow me to make the first attempt, I did so. We were living in Petersburg at the time, and although everything appeared to favour me, the plot failed at the last moment. The police, however grew suspicious, and we were compelled to fly from Russia. My uncle—who had assumed the name of Hertzen—and I, travelled first to Paris, and for a couple of years led a wandering life, visiting nearly all the European capitals. I devoted to the Cause a large portion of the fortune left me by my father, and was looked upon by the members of the Circle as one who would probably be successful in effecting our purpose. If I did, I told myself it would be but a life for a life. I believed that a terrible victory would be obtained by the Party, and saw everything in a rose-coloured light.”
Notwithstanding the overwhelming passion which filled her heart, and revealed itself painfully in spite of her, in her face, and her voice, she tried to speak slowly and calmly. There was an expression of indescribable suffering, too, around her mouth and in her eyes, which told me that this chapter of her life she would have hidden forever, if she could.
“Then it was during these wanderings that we met?” I said.
“Exactly. Fate brought us together in Genoa just as we were arranging the second attempt. I was in sore need of a friend, and—why should I hesitate to admit it—when first we met, I loved you. But, cruel Fate! mine has been a love which has almost brought death to you,” she faltered.
“How?”
“My uncle—always a scheming villain—laid his plans deeply in this, as in other things. I was the instigator of the attempt to be made, and was at my wits’ ends to know how to get the instrument conveyed to Petersburg. The police were keeping a sharp look-out, and for any of our Circle to have entered Russia would have been highly dangerous. Notwithstanding this, I was determined to succeed. Meanwhile our affection was not unnoticed by Orselska, who spoke to me upon the subject. Remember, he was my guardian, and, not being of age, I was bound to obey him in a certain measure. When I admitted that I loved you and that you had asked me to be your wife, he flew into a passion, and said he would never give his consent. For several days he was harsh and unkind, when suddenly his manner changed and he again referred to the matter. He said he would give his consent with one stipulation: that I should, as a test of your love, get you to take the instrument to Petersburg, the—”
“The instrument! What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean, that the box you took to the Russian capital did not contain jewels at all; it was dynamite clock!”
“An infernal machine!”
“Yes. It was that which wrecked the Winter Palace on the day you were arrested. But listen, and you will learn the depth of Orselska’s villainy. Already by his treachery my poor father had been degraded and killed, and the fortune left to me was in his hands. He was determined to keep it, and there were but two ways of doing this: either I, too, must be killed, or marry his son Demetrius. Now you see why he schemed that you should be sent upon that dangerous errand. You were sent, Frank dear, so that on your arrival he, as a police spy, could give information which would secure your arrest and exile?”
“Impossible!” I cried. “Yet the explosion accounts for the excitement on the night of my arrest.”
“It is true, every word,” my wife asserted.
“I was arrested, nevertheless.”
“Yes, and it was with difficulty that we planned your escape. Partisans of Czaricide, those assisting in the struggle of freedom, however, are to be found in every class of society in my downtrodden country. The military and prison officials are no exception. My brother Boris, who was not—after all—dead, had allied himself with the Nihilists from the same motives as myself, and chanced to be the officer in command of the escort ordered to take your convoy to Siberia. Two of the prison warders were members of my Circle. Your trial was avoided by the judicious exercise of stratagem. When you changed clothes with the dead convict you ceased to exist in the eyes of the law, and your subsequent escape, due mainly to the exertions of Boris, was rendered easy.”
“Why did you remain silent so long after my return to England?”
She gazed upon me with loving eyes, and ran her fingers tenderly through my hair as she replied,—“Because I strove to forget you. I was ashamed at the deceit I had been compelled to practise, and felt that you could never forgive me sufficiently to again have confidence in me.”
“But I have done so, Vera.”
“Yes, that is why I am so happy—or—or rather, I shall be happy,” she replied, endeavouring to smile.
“Finish your story, and we shall no longer be alienated.”
“My confession is unpleasant, nay, horrible, but I must continue it,” she sighed. “After your escape from Russia my uncle, from some inexplicable cause, turned against me, and I had but one friend, Demetrius. As the playmate of my youth who had been absent many years, he renewed his acquaintanceship with a kindness and tenderness that caused me to suspect his intentions. My surmise proved correct. He asked me to marry him; and I, having in a manner pledged myself to you, refused.”
“And what did he do?”
“It made but little difference. We were none the less friends; for even though the father is a vile schemer, the son is not.”
“You refused him because you loved me so well?”
“Yes, dear, I did,” she replied.
Then she bent, and our lips met.
Chapter Thirty Four.
A Strange Disclosure.
The door opened, and Boris Seroff stood before us.
Little introduction was necessary. We grasped each other’s hands.
“My brother! The man of whom you were jealous,” laughed Vera, as she nervously twisted the ribbons of her wrap around her hand.
“Well,” said Boris, heartily, “I’m pleased we are relatives, and that we have at last met. The mystery you have so long tried to solve can now be cleared up.”
“I have just been relating my history,” said Vera, naïvely.
“Then I will explain something of mine, although it is a story not enticing to tell,” Boris exclaimed, a shadow of pain crossing his face.
“Let me know all!” I urged, impatiently. “What I have already heard has almost bewildered me; I can scarcely realise its truth.”
He twirled his moustache and appeared to be lost in thought for a few moments. Then he said: “First, let me make a confession. Like my sister, I am—or rather was—a member of a Nihilist Circle. I joined from the same motive of revenge that prompted Vera, and perhaps she has explained how you unwittingly assisted us in our attempt; how, by the treachery of Hertzen, you were arrested; and how by our exertions you escaped.”
“Yes,” I replied.
“But you do not know all. You remember finding the seal in your cell?”
“Ah—the seal?” I cried, excitedly, for the mention of it brought back terrible memories. “What was its meaning?” I demanded.
“By the merest accident you directed my attention to the hieroglyphics on the wall, and the discovery threw a light upon a phase of the mystery that had hitherto been unintelligible. That cell, I found, was the same in which my father was confined before his exile, and it was he who cut that emblem in the stone, with his initials linked with those of the villain who plotted his destruction.”
“And that villain was—”
“The man you know as Hertzen. Having obtained control of my sister’s fortune, he schemed to entangle her so that he might be instrumental in securing her exile to the mines, and eventually appropriate the money for his own use. He was unaware, however, that my wound in Georgia had not proved fatal. By concealing my identity I contrived to assist Vera and yourself.”
“But the seal! Tell me; what is its meaning?” I asked, in breathless suspense.
“It is the death symbol. The Nihilist law demands that those who accidentally discover our secret, and refuse to take the oath, must die by the hand of the person from whose lips they learn it. To ensure absolute secrecy, so essential in a country like Russia teeming with police spies, the Executive devised a seal to be affixed to the body of the murdered person, thus showing members of our Cause the reason of the crime and deterring them from betraying us.”
“So the seal, about which there has been so much controversy, is a Nihilist emblem,” I said, bewildered.
“Purely. For the most part the persons upon whose bodies the seal has been discovered are those whom it was found necessary to remove for the preservation of our secret. In some cases where we have been betrayed by members of our Circle, lots have been cast among us, the deed has been committed, and the lips of the traitor silenced forever. The crimes have been regarded as the work of a maniac. You will understand that it was to our interest to make them appear so,” he replied, calmly.
“What is the meaning of those strange symbols around the seal which have been the cause of so much comment?” I asked, eagerly, for this extraordinary revelation was even more mystifying than the secrets.
Taking from his breast-pocket a paper upon which was an impression of the seal, similar to that found on the victims, he said,—
“See, the centre, which has proved so puzzling to many, is a representation of the hammer of Thor, the god of thunder. It is symbolical of strength, work, and duty. By the Scandinavians Thor was supposed to be the guardian genius, and representations of his hammer were believed to be charms against every terror. In that sense the organisation has used it. The legend, of which antiquarians have failed to discover the key, is an obsolete Norse rune, the words being, ‘Bith Sithi Gast,’ the equivalent in English to ‘Halt! accursed enemy!’ It is indeed the Seal of Death.”
“Does no one outside the Nihilist Circle know its significance?” I asked, in wonder.
“Not a soul. Remember Vera and I are now no longer members of the organisation. Our oaths are removed, therefore I am able to tell you this.”
“Happily our conspiracy against the Autocrat has been unsuccessful,” broke in Vera, smiling.
“We are not Russians now, but content to be loyal subjects of your Queen.”
“I’m pleased that is so,” I replied, with a sigh of relief; “but there is still one circumstance unexplained.”
“To which do you allude?” Boris asked, plunging his hands into his pockets and leaning against the table opposite me.
I was loth to approach a subject which must be exceedingly painful to him.
“I mean the murder—the tragedy in Bedford Place—”
“Ah!” he cried, sorrowfully, passing his hand quickly across his forehead, “the remembrance of that terrible night—the white face of my poor dead wife constantly haunts me. But the scoundrel who killed her shall suffer his well-merited punishment,” he added, as he paced the room angrily, muttering some imprecations in Russian.
“Boris dear, calm yourself,” said Vera, persuasively, clutching him by the arm. “Tell Frank everything; he has a right to know.”
“Yes, he has,” replied her brother, turning suddenly towards me. “From the first I knew by whose hand she died, but was unable to act. You will understand, when I say that the villain was a member of our Circle, and that it was believed my wife was removed because she had accidentally discovered that an attempt was to be made at the Winter Palace. Such, however, was the report to the Executive, and the murder was looked upon as a commendable precaution.”
“Did not the Circle know it was your wife?”
“No, I had kept my marriage a secret. The murderer was ignorant of our relationship, otherwise he would not have dared to commit the crime and report it to the Executive.”
“Then you are absolutely certain as to his identity?” I said, breathlessly.
“Yes. At first I could not discover the motive, but since the confession of the servant it is plain he wished to obtain possession of the money, and placed the fatal emblem upon her in order to deceive us and secure our aid in concealing his guilt.”
“You have given the police his name!” exclaimed Vera, anxiously, “quick! tell us who he is.”
“What!” I ejaculated, in surprise, “are you, too, in ignorance of the real culprit?”
“Quite; Boris has refused to disclose his identity,” she said, quietly, in a tone of annoyance.
“No,” replied the Russian, bitterly. “There will be time enough when the police have hunted him down. Hitherto I have been powerless. I dare not denounce him lest he should divulge my connection with the plots, the inevitable result of which would have been my exile to the mines. Now, however, I fear nothing. He has destroyed the only one I loved, and shall suffer the penalty!” he added, fiercely.
“But why not tell us?” I argued. “Surely we may know upon whom rests the guilt?”
“Let the matter remain at present,” he said, petulantly. “When the time arrives I shall be prepared to prove that which will send him to the gallows. Not only did he take my wife’s life, but he also committed a second murder in order to hide the first—”
“Another?” I cried.
“Yes. Since my poor wife’s maid, Jane Maygrove, returned from Australia and made her confession, I have discovered something even more strange. It seems that Jane had a sister Nell, very similar in feature, and previous to her departure abroad she told this sister all that had happened at Bedford Place on the fatal night. Needless to say, Nell traced the murderer and made excellent use of her information, inasmuch as she levied blackmail upon him to a considerable extent, he, of course, believing her to be the witness of his crime. She had married a man named Grey, and the pair lived upon the money she succeeded in extorting from the murderer. For some time this went on, until one night she was discovered in a court off Drury Lane, stabbed in the neck, and with the seal upon her—”
“Why, that was the woman who was murdered on the night following my return from Russia!” I remarked, in amazement.
“That is so. Here is her photograph,” and he handed me a faded carte-de-visite, which he took from his pocket.
It was similar to that which had been given me by the man who had died in the garret.
“Jane Maygrove,” he continued, “is none other than the wife of your club-friend, Rivers.”
“Ted Rivers’s wife?” I repeated, incredulously. He replied in the affirmative, adding, “Does not that account for his consternation when you produced a photograph of her twin sister? He believed it to be that of his own wife.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked, my interest in the solution of this extraordinary problem increasing more than ever.
“On the day you left Elveham, after discovering Vera and myself in the Dene, you came to London, and outside the Junior Garrick you were met by an old man named Grey, the husband of Nell Maygrove, were you not?”
“That’s true,” I admitted. “But how came you aware of this?”
“Simply because I followed you,” he replied, laughing. “I had an object in doing so; it was in your own interest, as you will know later.”
“How could your espionage affect me?” I asked, with a sudden feeling of resentment at having been “shadowed.”
“You shall know very soon. On the day to which I refer, you went to Grey’s room. He told you, before he died, how he discovered his murdered wife, and how he had taken the seal from her breast. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Your conversation was overheard by the sister of the dead woman, who, until then, was unaware that the significant sign had been found upon her, she being abroad at the time the accounts were published in the newspapers. When she heard Grey’s declaration she at once knew that the man who had killed her sister was the murderer of my wife. Prompted by revenge, she determined to track the villain, and bring him to justice, even at the risk of being prosecuted for theft herself. It was in consequence of this that she materially assisted us by giving evidence in your favour to-day.”
“To her, to Vera, and to yourself, I owe my present liberty,” I exclaimed deeply moved. “I am indeed grateful to you all for your efforts.”
“You have little to thank me for, dear,” said Vera tenderly. “Fate seemed against me in everything I did.”
“I understand how you must have suffered, dearest, and how circumstances precluded you from telling me the truth. You did your best, and in future I shall trust you implicitly,” I said, while her arm stole gently around my neck, and she looked lovingly into my eyes.
Wringing Boris’s hand heartily, I expressed my gratitude to him, adding, “There is one thing needful to completely solve the enigma—the name of the man who committed the crimes.”
“When I gave the police the information I promised I would not divulge until they made the arrest; otherwise I would tell you,” he replied, with a tantalising smile.
“Do tell us! We must know the whole truth now,” urged Vera earnestly.
“His name—but—hark!—what’s that?” he ejaculated, with bated breath.
We listened. It was the sound of hurrying footsteps in the corridor.
“I must see Mrs Burgoyne at once. Do you hear? Quick! Tell me; which is her room?” a voice shouted excitedly.
“It’s here! first on the left, sir,” was the reply.
A second later the door was flung open without warning.
Chapter Thirty Five.
The Vantage-Ground of Truth.
Demetrius burst abruptly into the room.
His wild appearance startled us. His face was pale and haggard; his eyes bloodshot, his collar torn, and his coat rent at the shoulder.
He stopped suddenly, stepping back a few paces when he saw Vera was not alone.
“Why, good Heavens! What’s the matter?” I exclaimed, in utter astonishment; for he and I had been the closest friends.
“Matter! Diable! You should know!” he cried, his foreign accent being more pronounced in his excitement.
“No. What is it?” asked Vera, who had risen and was standing close to him. “Are you mad?”
“Yes, imbecile—if you like,” he shouted hoarsely. Pointing to Boris, he added, his face distorted by a look of intense hatred, “That traitor is the cause! He has set the police upon me. They have followed me and are hunting me down. But they shall not arrest me—Sacré—at least not yet!”
“Come; enough of this!” commanded Boris, sternly, advancing and clutching him by the shoulder.
“Hands off, you devil!” he cried fiercely, shaking himself free. “Listen, first, to what I have to say!”
“Now, it’s useless to struggle,” Boris declared firmly. “I shall detain you here and send for the police.”
“No you won’t. Curse you! They are following me now. They saw me enter the hotel. Hark! they’re on the stairs. But I have something—something to say.”
There was a sly, crafty look in his distended eyes.
“Well; what is it?” I asked, at the same time glancing at Vera, and noting that her delicate face was firm-set and pale.
“You—you robbed me of her, and, by Heaven, some satisfaction is due to me. I demand it—do you understand?” he screamed with an imprecation, addressing me.
“It is I who protected my sister, and assisted her to evade the clutches of a heartless villain—the man who murdered my wife!” interposed Boris, infuriated, emphasising his words with a foreign oath.
“Is it this man?” I demanded, bewildered.
“Yes,” he answered, angrily. “This is the scoundrel who murdered two defenceless women.” Turning towards him, he added quickly, “Ah! Demetrius Orselska, the revenge I have so long sought is now near at hand.”
“It is—it is,” hissed the other. “But, ma foi! if you think I will be trapped, you are mistaken!” he laughed harshly. “No—you, Frank Burgoyne—you English cur!—you took Vera from me. Though she is your wife, you shall no longer enjoy her beauty. Dieu! you shan’t?”
I saw him plunge his hand nervously into his pocket, but had not the slightest idea of his intention.
As I turned to look at Vera she covered her blanched face with her hands, screaming,—“Look, Frank—he has a pistol!”
His movements were of lightning-like rapidity. Before I could wrest the weapon from his murderous grasp he had levelled it at her.
There was a flash—a loud report—and a puff of smoke curled between us.
For a second I feared to glance at her, but when I lifted my eyes, it was with joy I saw that the bullet had sped harmlessly past, shattering a great mirror at the opposite end of the room.
Shrieking wildly and hysterically, she staggered fainting to a chair, while Boris and I struggled with the murderer to obtain possession of the weapon.
“Stand back!” he shouted, his dark flashing eyes starting from their sockets, and his even row of white teeth prominently displayed. “Touch me, and I’ll blow your brains out! Sacré! I warn you!”
The mad excitement seemed to have filled him with fiendish strength, and by an agile movement he again freed himself.
With a muttered oath he advanced several steps towards the spot where Vera was sitting, now rendered utterly unconscious by the sudden shock.
I saw his intention. I detected the terrible expression of revenge that passed over his features; and sprang towards him.
Another second, and I should have been too late.
The muzzle of the revolver was again pointed at her; his finger was upon the trigger, nevertheless as he pulled it I knocked his arm upwards.
The weapon discharged, but the bullet imbedded itself in the ceiling.
I had saved Vera’s life!
At this moment there were loud shouts in the corridor, and a few seconds later a police inspector, accompanied by two detectives and several waiters, dashed into the room.
“Demetrius Orselska, we have a warrant for your arrest for murder!” announced the officer, sharply, and turning to his men, added, “arrest him?”
Like some hunted animal who is brought to bay, the scoundrel glanced quickly around for means of escape, but finding none, turned and faced them.
A moment’s reflection had decided him.
“You—you shall not take me,” he hissed. “I—I confess I am guilty of the crimes—but—Diable! I will take my own life, and—and you can take my body if it’s any use—you can can do what you like with that, you bloodhounds!”
Before the detectives could obey the orders of the inspector, he had placed the revolver to his forehead.
The plated barrel flashed in the light only for an instant—then there was a loud explosion.
The officers recoiled, startled by its suddenness; for it all took place so rapidly that for the moment they apparently did not comprehend his intention.
As the pistol fell from the unhappy man’s grasp he uttered a loud moan, staggered, and then wheeled slowly round, as if on a pivot. His bloodshot eyes caught sight of Boris, and frightful convulsions of every feature proclaimed his terror. He did not utter another cry but fell forward to the floor where he quivered for a few moments in death agony.
It was an awful tableau; the last act of a terrible game that had for its stakes riches, or the grave.
Boris, with livid face, was resting his right hand against the wall, while he pressed his left to his breast as if to stay the beating of his heart. He watched the dying struggles of his wife’s murderer, seeming fascinated by the frightful spectacle.
There was an awful silence.
Amid this terrible scene Vera regained consciousness. Struggling to her feet she walked with uneven steps towards us. All at once her face assumed a look of inexpressible horror, as she gazed down upon the body of the murderer, and gradually realised the truth.
“It is he! And he tried to kill me! It all seems like some horrible dream,” she gasped, clutching my arm and uttering a low cry of horror.
“Come; Vera,” I whispered, softly, “the mystery is solved. The guilty one has received the wages of his sin.”
She did not reply, but, with a deep-drawn sigh, as if a great weight had been lifted from her mind, she leaned heavily upon my arm and left the chamber of death.
Boris followed.
His thirst for vengeance had been satisfied.
Chapter Thirty Six.
Conclusion.
A sultry autumn day had passed; the freshening twilight had faded, and the moon and evening star were in the sky as Vera and I sat together on the terrace at Elveham. Already the lights of the village began to twinkle in the distance; the tops of the trees in the Dene were gleaming in the moonlight like a silver sea, a night bird warbled sweetly, and the little brook babbled on with lulling music.
My heart drank in the tranquillity of the scene, as in the listlessness of after dinner I smoked the sleep-inviting cigar.
A month had elapsed since the tragic dénouement of the strange drama, but Vera’s nerves had been so unstrung that I had scarcely referred to the terrible occurrence since.
We had just dined with Boris and Bob Nugent, who had arrived as our guests that day. During the meal Vera had spoken of the scene at the hotel—not without some hesitation, however—and now we were alone she again alluded to it.
“Do you remember, Frank, it was on a similar night to this, that you saw, over there in the Dene, what your jealous eyes distorted into a meeting of lovers?”
“Yes, dearest; I do remember it. Boris being the man I saw leave the house in Bedford Place, I believed him to be the murderer,” I replied.
“Boris; the murderer!” cried my wife in surprise. “Ah! I understand, dear, what agony of mind such a discovery must have caused you. It was all my fault—everything,” she added, with regret.
“The mystification was not intentional, Vera,” I said, tenderly, encircling her slim waist with my arm. “But do not let us speak of it again.”
“Frank,” she exclaimed suddenly, as she placed her hand upon my shoulder tenderly, looking into my eyes, “Boris has yet something to tell you. Ah! here they come; you must hear it now.”
My two guests had emerged from the dining-room and were strolling leisurely towards us in full enjoyment of their goddess Nicotine.
My wife called them, and they came and seated themselves beside us.
“Now, Boris,” she said, “we have all met, and you can explain to Frank that complication you did not acquaint him with on the night of his acquittal.”
“What more can there be?” I asked, in unfeigned astonishment.
“Simply this: The villain meant to kill you?” Boris replied calmly.
“To kill me?”
“Yes. You remember discovering portions of a seal upon your writing-table?”
“Perfectly. It was on the morning I left for London.”
“Exactly. Had you remained here, you would have been murdered, and the seal, which was in readiness, affixed upon you. When you left, he followed, his purpose being to kill you when a fitting opportunity presented itself. Luckily events so conspired as to frustrate his evil design.”
“Is this really true?” I exclaimed, in amazement.
“Yes. You will now understand why I shadowed you so closely. It was in order that no harm should befall you.”
“But my arrest—” I said, utterly bewildered at this fresh feature the mystery presented—a plot against my own life.
“The villain suddenly altered his tactics, presumably because he would be running too great a risk by killing you. He therefore returned here, placed the seals and other articles among your possessions, and afterwards gave information to the police which led to your committal.”
“What could have been the motive of all this?”
I asked, my astonishment increasing at such revelations. “We were friends; I had done him no wrong.”
“The motive was a sufficiently strong one; that of obtaining your fortune.”
“How?”
“Cannot you see the depths of the plot? He was aware you had made a will leaving everything to Vera, therefore, if you died, she would possess the estate. In that case he hoped to marry her, and failing this, his father could give information which would secure her conviction and exile as one implicated in the attempts against the Czar. In either case he would obtain the money. You were the only obstacle, and when once removed, all would have been easy.”
“By fortuitous circumstances he did not succeed,” Vera said, kissing me fondly.
“No. He was a clever rogue, I can assure you. But he was unaware that I was in England watching his movements,” remarked Boris.
“What of his father?” I asked.
“He also has obtained what he richly deserves. Having been detected in assisting in the manufacture of bombs in Zurich, immediately on his return after giving evidence against you, he was convicted and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment.”
“Serve the old scoundrel right!” declared Bob, in a tone of satisfaction. “It seems to me, Frank, old fellow, you owe your life to our newly-discovered friend.”
“Yes, that is true,” I admitted. “It is a debt I can never repay.”
“Don’t talk of it,” said Boris, tossing away his cigar-end. “My only desire has been to secure the happiness of my sister and yourself.”
“There is nothing to fear in that respect,” I said, laughing. “The dark clouds and terrible ordeals that overshadowed the first few months after our marriage have now passed, and brighter days, full of hope and enjoyment, have dawned. Our future lives will be devoid of sorrow, and there shall be no element of mistrust again to part us.”
“Frank, old chap,” cried Bob, enthusiastically, “I congratulate you on the recommencement of your honeymoon with all my heart. You and Mrs Burgoyne certainly deserve every happiness after the severe trials you have both undergone.”
Thanking him warmly, our hands gripped with the same hearty clasp as in days gone by.
While I had been speaking my wife had taken a little spray of stephanotis from her breast and with loving hands pinned it in the lapel of my coat.
As I kissed her passionately, she assured me, with a rippling laugh: “There shall be nothing wanting on my part to ensure perfect felicity, for I think, dearest, you can now place implicit trust in the woman who once was Vera Seroff, Nihilist.”
The End.
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Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
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Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter 8
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Chapter 9
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Chapter 10
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Chapter 11
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Chapter 12
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Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
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Chapter 16
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Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
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Chapter 19
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Chapter 20
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Chapter 21
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Chapter 22
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Chapter 23
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Chapter 24
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Chapter 25
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Chapter 26
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Chapter 27
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Chapter 28
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Chapter 29
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Chapter 30
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Chapter 31
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Chapter 32
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Chapter 33
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Chapter 34
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Chapter 35
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Chapter 36
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