MICHAEL DANEVITCH (continued 2)

The style she elected to live in was compatible with the possession of riches. She kept up a splendid establishment; her house was sumptuously furnished; she had numerous servants, many horses. Her winter sledges were renowned for their luxurious appointments; her summer carriages were almost unique. She was a woman of the most sybaritic tastes; and every taste was pandered to and pampered. Among her servants was a Creole; he was a man of medium height, though of powerful build, and with a sullen, morose expression. He was always called Roko, but of his origin and history nothing was known. He seemed to be very strongly attached to his mistress, and always attended her wherever she went; but no man endowed with the faculty of speech could have been more silent than he was. He rarely spoke, except when compelled to answer some question; and it was rumoured that, like a faithful hound, he slept at his mistress’s door, and kept watch and ward over her during the hours of night, while during the day he obeyed her slightest beck or call.

It was the beginning of the Russian New Year, and Madame Julie St. Joseph gave a ball. It was a very grand ball; everything was done on a lavish scale, and the pomp and magnificence was almost on a par with a State function. The people, however, who attended the widow’s festive gathering could not lay claim to any high social position—at any rate, not so far as the ladies were concerned. The ladies who were in the habit of frequenting the pretty Julie’s salons were of questionable reputations. Julie was not recognised as a person of social distinction, and in the female world some rather cruel things were said about her. The men, however, represented many grades of life: the Army, Navy, Law; the Diplomatic Service; Art, Literature, the Drama—intellectual Bohemia generally, though not a few of these men were at considerable pains to conceal the fact that they visited the charming widow, for, had it been generally known, their own women-folk might have protested in a way that would have been anything but pleasant, and they would have found themselves ostracised in those higher circles in which many of them moved. Probably Madame St. Joseph was indifferent to the opinions of her own sex, so long as she could exact homage from men; and there could be no two opinions about the power which she wielded over the sterner sex. It was, therefore, scarcely matter for wonder that the ladies of St. Petersburg should feel embittered against her. When a man is jealous, he takes a rough-and-ready means of showing his jealousy; if he has a rival, he generally ‘goes for him,’ and the best man wins. A woman’s jealousy, on the other hand, finds expression in a different way. In her bitterness she would sully the reputation of a spotless angel, and her mother-tongue has no words strong enough wherewith to express her hatred. No wonder that the old painters, in depicting jealousy, always took a female as a model. Of course Madame Julie St. Joseph’s beauty, and the power it enabled her to wield, made the women very jealous indeed; but if her female guests lacked quality, the deficiency was amply compensated for by the high standing of many of the men. She knew, and was proud of the fact, that there was hardly a man in Russia, no matter how exalted his position, that she could not have brought to her footstool had she desired to do so. Such a woman was necessarily bound to become notorious and have numberless enemies. But the widow was beautiful, she was rich, she gave grand receptions, she spent money liberally; therefore she had no difficulty in rallying around her a powerful body of adherents; and, while half St. Petersburg spoke ill of her, the other half lauded her.

Amongst the guests who attended the ball in question was a dark-skinned, somewhat peculiar-looking man, said to be a Polish Count, named Prebenski. He had a heavy moustache and beard, and wore spectacles. As he appeared to be an entire stranger to the company, the hostess took him for a time under her wing; but, as he could not or would not dance, and seemed to find irresistible attraction in the buffet, where there were unlimited supplies of vodka, as well as wines of all kinds, she left him to his own devices, and bestowed the favour of her smiles on more congenial guests. At length the Count, from the effects, apparently, of too great a consumption of strong drinks, sought a quiet nook in an anteroom, and ensconcing himself in a large chair, sank into a heavy sleep. Some time later, when the night was growing very old and the grayness of the winter dawn was beginning to assert itself, and the guests had dwindled down to a mere handful, Roko, the Creole, entered the room. Seeing the Count sleeping there, he paused for a moment as if surprised; then he shook the guest roughly, but getting no response, save a grunt, he went away, returning in a few minutes with another man. That man was Alexander Vlassovsky, who approached the Count, shook him, called him, and being no more successful in his efforts to arouse him than Roko had been, he told Roko to carry him upstairs to a bedroom. That was done, and the Count was tossed upon a bed and left there; but before half an hour had passed Vlassovsky came into the room carrying a small shaded lamp, for though it was fully daylight heavy curtains were drawn at the window.

He passed the light of the lamp over the sleeping man’s eyes, shook him, called him, but as the Count remained unconscious of these efforts, the intruder placed the lamp on a small table and, seating himself in a chair by the bedside, began to search the pockets of the guest. The search resulted in the production of a miscellaneous collection of articles, which were duly returned; but at last a pocket-book was drawn forth; it was opened, and found to contain a considerable number of bank-notes, representing in the aggregate a large sum of money. These notes Vlassovsky took the liberty of transferring to his own pocket, and replacing the lightened pocket-book, withdrew.

Some hours later Count Prebenski rang the bell in his room, and in response to the summons Roko appeared, bearing a lamp. The Count eyed him for some moments in apparent astonishment, and then asked:

‘Where am I?’

‘In the house of Madame Julie St. Joseph.’

‘What is the hour?’

‘It is three o’clock.’

‘In the morning?’

‘No. The afternoon.’ Roko drew the curtains, and revealed the bright, steel-coloured winter sky, tinged a little towards the horizon with a flush of red.

The Count seemed puzzled. He stared first at the sky, then at the Creole.

‘How is it I am here?’ he asked.

Roko revealed all his gleaming teeth as he grinned in reply.

‘How is it I am here?’ repeated the Count, peremptorily and hotly.

‘Your Excellency indulged too freely in liquor, and we had to put you to bed.’

‘Umph!’ mused the Count; ‘it was kind; now, tell me, did your mistress, Madame St. Joseph, know of my condition?’

‘She did.’

‘Was she angry?’

‘Well, Excellency, she certainly wasn’t pleased.’

‘Ah! I fear I have made a bea—— a fool of myself. Give me the wherewith to put myself in a presentable condition, and I will see madam. By the way, has she risen yet?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Good; as soon as I have performed my toilet, return here and conduct me to your mistress.’

Roko bowed and withdrew. In half an hour he came back again, and, followed by the Count, led the way to Madame St. Joseph’s boudoir, a very comfortable little retreat, daintily furnished, cosy and bright with knick-knacks, cushions, curtains, luxurious rugs, and warmed to the high temperature beloved of Russians by means of a polished metal radiating stove. Dressed in a most elegant fur-trimmed dressing-gown, madame was stretched upon a divan. Beside her was a Moorish table, on which stood coffee and cigarettes. She was smoking as the Count entered. Without rising, she extended her delicate white hand to him, and, smiling sweetly, said:

‘Pray be seated, Count. Roko, pour out some coffee. Will you take vodka or cognac with it, Count?’

The Count chose vodka, and his wants having been supplied, the lady bade Roko retire.

‘I owe you an apology, madame,’ began the Count. ‘I forgot myself last night. It was good of you to take care of me. I am deeply indebted to you for your hospitality.’

‘Oh, a mere trifle,’ smiled the lady. ‘My faithful slave found you asleep in a chair, and as his efforts failed to awaken you, he carried you upstairs by my orders.’

At this point in the conversation the door opened, and Vlassovsky appeared on the threshold; but seeing that madame had a visitor, he quickly withdrew.

‘I am sorry to say I am the victim of a strange weakness,’ answered the Count. ‘I am a temperate man, but should I be tempted to indulge beyond my ordinary allowance it throws me into a sort of coma, from which I only recover after many hours of death-like sleep.’

‘You are to be pitied, Count.’

‘Your pity is worth having,’ he answered. ‘Now, tell me, madame, what penalty am I to pay for having so far forgotten myself?’

‘Penalty, Count!’

‘Yes. I am wealthy. Money is no object to me. I have notes. I am almost alone in the world.’

‘Indeed!’ exclaimed the lady, with animation, and regarding her guest with new-born interest; ‘you are fortunate. I presume you are staying here temporarily?’

‘Yes. I am travelling for my pleasure. When our mutual friend Trepoff was good enough to ask you to extend your courtesy to me, and sent me an invitation to your ball, I accepted it with pleasure, and was glad to leave the loneliness of my hotel; but it grieves me sorely to think that I so forgot myself.’

‘Pray, Count, do not let the matter give you any concern,’ said the charming widow, as she sat up and again extended her soft hand to him to kiss. ‘Are you likely to remain in St. Petersburg long?’

‘My stay will be regulated by the amount of pleasure I experience here. But a hotel is not the most comfortable place in the winter, and I confess I feel dull and lonely.’

The lady fixed her keen eyes upon him as she remarked:

‘Indeed, I can well understand that, Count. Now, if I might venture to ask you to make my poor abode your residence during your stay in the city, it would afford me great pleasure to play the hostess. Will you accept of my hospitality?’

‘Really, Madame St. Joseph, I, I——’

‘Pray, no thanks or excuses, Count; the pleasure is mine, and I will endeavour at least to prevent your suffering from ennui.’

The Count rose, and warmly pressing her hand, said he was overwhelmed by her goodness, and no less enchanted with her beauty. He accepted her invitation in the spirit, in which it was given, and without losing any time would hasten to his hotel, pay his bill, and remove his things at once to madame’s house. An hour later he drove up in a drosky with his luggage, and was conducted to the handsomest of the guest-chambers. That night he dined tête-à-tête with madame, and in the course of the dinner he told her that the previous night he managed to lose, or had been relieved of, in some way, a large sum of money. When she uttered exclamations of regret, and expressed her sympathy with him, he laughed carelessly, made light of his loss, and said that, large though the sum was, it gave him no real concern, and he would regard it as a fine he had paid for his rudeness.

The widow sighed and told him he was a fortunate man in being able to bear such a loss without feeling it.

A fortnight passed, and the Count found himself in comfortable quarters. As if desirous of monopolizing his company, the widow invited nobody to the house, and those who paid the ordinary courtesy calls she speedily dismissed; while gentlemen who had been in the habit of dropping in of an evening to play cards and sup with pretty Julie were told by Roko that she was suffering so much from the fatigues of the ball that she could see no one. One caller, Peter Trepoff, who came specially to inquire about the Count, was told that though he had been there he had departed, without saying where he was going to. All that fortnight she remained very secluded. She would not accompany the Count when he invited her to go out, and she so strongly persuaded him not to go that he yielded and remained indoors. Every fascination, every talent she possessed, she put forth and exerted to amuse and entertain him, until he was as pliable as clay in her hands. One night he had retired to rest, and had been in his room about an hour, when he heard the handle of his door move. The door was not locked; indeed, there was no key wherewith to lock it, and he had not concerned himself about it in any way. Very gently, and almost without a sound, the latch was raised and the door pushed open. Presently Roko entered on his hands and knees. He paused and listened. Certain nasal sounds seemed to indicate that the Count was sleeping very soundly. Roko carried a tiny little lantern, and he flashed a ray across the sleeper’s face. Having satisfied himself that the Count was asleep, he drew from his pocket a phial containing a colourless liquid, and, approaching a night-table, on which stood a jug of barley-tea, which the Count had in his room every night, as he said it had been his custom for years always to drink barley-tea in the night-time, the Creole poured the contents of the phial into the jug, and having done that, he withdrew as stealthily as he had entered. Soon afterwards the Count rose, procured a light, and took from his portmanteau a large flask, into which he emptied the barley-tea. Then he addressed himself to sleep again, and slept the sleep of the just.

At the usual morning meal he did not put in an appearance; but he sent a request to madame, asking her to be good enough to come and see him. The request was speedily complied with. When she appeared she looked as charming and as radiant as ever. He was profuse in his apologies for having troubled her to come to his room, but pleaded as an excuse a feeling of extreme illness. She displayed great anxiety and concern, and wanted to send for a doctor; but he told her it was nothing. He thought something had disagreed with him; that was all. It would pass off. A doctor was not needed. She declared, however, that if he felt no better in an hour’s time she would insist on his seeing a doctor. An hour slipped by, and he was still in the same condition, so a messenger was despatched for a doctor, who speedily put in an appearance.

To the doctor’s inquiries, the patient said he believed he had eaten or drunk something which had upset him. The doctor was of the same opinion, and prescribed accordingly. In the course of the afternoon the Count said he felt somewhat better, and though the hostess tried to dissuade him from doing so, he announced his intention of going out to get a breath of fresh air. He wanted her to accompany him. That she stoutly refused to do; and when she saw he was determined to go she withdrew her opposition, and expressed a hope that he would speedily return. He assured her that he would do so. He said he was going to have a drive in a sledge on the Neva for two or three hours. Having put on his Shuba, his fur gloves, fur-lined boots, and fur cap, he took his departure.

After an absence of about three hours, he returned, and declared that he felt much better. He spent about an hour with the lady in her boudoir, then retired. She was very anxious that Roko should sit up with him, but he resolutely set his face against that, saying that there was not the least necessity for it. He was an exceedingly sound sleeper, and he was sure he would sleep as soundly as usual. About midnight his door was opened silently, as on the previous night, and once again Roko crept stealthily to the bed-table, and emptied the contents of a phial into the barley-tea. Soon after he had withdrawn the Count jumped up, poured the tea into another flask, which he produced from his portmanteau, and then lay down in the bed again until a neighbouring church clock solemnly and slowly tolled out two o’clock. Almost immediately the Count rose, and dressed himself. That done, he took from his portmanteau a revolver, and having examined it to ascertain if it was properly loaded, he lighted a lantern provided with a shutter, to shut off the light when required. Going to the door, he opened it gently, and listened. All was silent. There wasn’t a sound, save that made by the wind, which whistled mournfully through the corridor. Having satisfied himself that nothing human was stirring, the Count proceeded cautiously along the corridor, descended a short flight of stairs to another corridor, along which he passed, and gained the main door that gave access to the street. He opened this door, though not without some difficulty, as there were bolts and chains to be undone, and he worked cautiously for fear of making a noise.

At last all obstacles were removed, and the heavy door swung on its hinges, letting in a blast of icy air, and revealing the brilliant stars that burned like jewels in the cloudless black sky. In a few minutes eight men filed into the house noiselessly, and the door was closed, but chains and bolts were left undone. The men exchanged a few sentences in whispers. Then, following the Count, they proceeded to the sleeping apartment of Madame Julie St. Joseph. In an anteroom, through which it was necessary to pass to reach her room, Roko, enveloped in furs, lay on a couch, locked in sleep. A shaded lamp stood on a bracket against the wall.

Four men remained in this room; the other four and the Count entered the lady’s chamber. Here, again, a shaded lamp burned on a bracket, and close to it an ikon—or sacred picture—hung. The pretty widow was also sleeping. By this time the Count had undergone a strange transformation. His beard and moustache had disappeared, revealing the smooth-shaved, mobile face of Michael Danevitch, the detective. He shook the lady. With a start she awoke. The four policemen had concealed themselves; Danevitch alone was visible. It was some moments before madame realized the situation; then, seeing a strange man by her bedside, she uttered a cry, and called for Roko. He sprang up, and instantly found himself in the grip of two stalwart men, while the revolver under his pillow, which he tried to get, was seized.

‘Madame Julie St. Joseph,’ said Danevitch, ‘get up and dress yourself.’

‘What does this mean?’ she asked, with a look of alarm on her pretty face, as she thrust her hand under the pillow, where she likewise had a revolver concealed. But in an instant Danevitch had seized her wrist in his powerful grasp, and one of his colleagues removed the weapon.

‘It means,’ he answered, ‘that your career of infamy has come to an end. You are under arrest.’

A look of terror and horror swept across her face as she asked in a choked sort of voice:

‘On what grounds am I arrested?’

‘That you will learn later on. Sufficient for you to know that you are a prisoner. Come, rise and dress yourself.’

She recognised the hopelessness of resistance, and, of course, she understood that her faithful watch-hound Roko had been rendered powerless. She was trapped; that she knew. But it did not dawn upon her then that the Count and Danevitch were one and the same. Consequently she was puzzled to understand how her downfall had been brought about.

With a despairing sigh she rose and put on her clothes. Half an hour later she was being conveyed to the gaol with Roko, accompanied by Danevitch and three of his colleagues. The other five had been left in charge of the house. When madame had somewhat recovered her presence of mind, she assumed a bravado which she was far from feeling, and asked Danevitch airily if he knew how her guest the Count was.

‘Oh yes,’ answered Danevitch. ‘He is perfectly well, as you may judge for yourself; for I it was who played the part of the Count so effectively.’

With an absolute scream madame bit her lip with passion, until the blood flowed, and dug her nails into the palms of her hands.

‘What a fool, a dolt, an idiot I’ve been! But tell me, how was it Peter Trepoff asked me to invite you to the ball?’

‘Peter Trepoff is my agent, madame.’

With a suppressed cry of maddening rage, the wretched woman covered her face with her hands and groaned, as she realized how thoroughly she had been outwitted.

That same night, or, rather, some hours before the widow and Roko were swept into the net which had been so cleverly prepared for them, Alexander Vlassovsky was arrested in Moscow. Danevitch learned that fact by telegraph when he went out in the afternoon. He had first begun to suspect Vlassovsky after that interview when he was making inquiries about the death of Captain Baranoff. The result was that he intercepted letters from Madame Julie St. Joseph, who had returned to St. Petersburg. She had a small house in Moscow, which she occasionally visited in order to secure victims. In Moscow, where he was well known, the wily Vlassovsky did not go near her, but he helped her as far as he could in her fiendish work. He had been very cleverly trapped by the notes which he relieved the supposed Count of. Those notes were not genuine, and when he attempted to pass them he was arrested, for Danevitch had notified the Moscow police.

Subsequent revelations brought to light that the wretched woman had been in the habit of luring men to their doom by means of her fatal beauty. She bled them of their money, her plan being to cajole them into giving her a lien on any property they might possess. This was most artfully worked by the aid of Vlassovsky, and when the victim had been securely caught, he was poisoned. The poisons were concocted by Madame St. Joseph herself, and when she could not do it herself, Roko administered the fatal dose or doses. She had picked up this man in Spanish America, where she had been for some time, and, weaving her spell about him, had made him absolutely her slave.

Vlassovsky, who, up to the time that he made her acquaintance, had been an honest, industrious man, fell under the magic of her influence, as most men did, and became her all-too-willing tool. His nature once corrupted, all scruples were thrown to the winds, and he hastened to try and enrich himself. It seemed that the miserable woman really loved him, and though he was fatally fascinated with her, he was afraid of her; and, as he confessed, his aim was to accumulate money as quickly as possible, and then flee from her and the country for ever. But unfortunately for himself, during that memorable interview following Captain Baranoff’s death, he had aroused the suspicions of Danevitch, whose marvellous perceptive faculties had enabled him to detect something or another in Vlassovsky’s manner, or answers to the questions put to him, which made him suspicious. For Danevitch to become suspicious meant that he would never rest until he had proved his suspicions justified or unfounded.

It need scarcely be said that with her arrest in St. Petersburg Madame St. Joseph’s career came to an end. From the moment that Danevitch entered her house her doom was sealed. Believing him to be the person he represented himself to be, she begged of him to help her financially; and, seeming to yield to her entreaties, he drew up a document which purported to make over to her at his death certain estates in Poland. Of course, these estates had no existence. Having secured him, as she thought, her next step was to poison him by small doses of black hellebore, so that he might gradually sicken and die. Her devilish cunning was evidenced in every step she took. She would not appear in public with him, nor did she allow any of the visitors to her house to see him. Consequently it would not be generally known that she had associated with him. As his illness developed by means of repeated doses, she would have had him removed to a hotel, and she knew pretty well that, as in Colonel Ignatof’s case, he would shrink from letting it be known that he had been intimate with her. Her cunning, however, overreached itself; she was defeated with her own weapons; Danevitch had been too much for her. The poisoned barley-tea he submitted to analysis, and the evidence against her was overwhelming. But when she found that there was no hope, she was determined to defeat justice, and one morning she was found dead in her cell: she had poisoned herself with prussic acid. The acid was conveyed to her by a warder, who was heavily bribed by one of her friends to do it. It cost him his liberty, however, for he was sent to Northern Siberia for the term of his natural life.

Roko died very soon afterwards from typhoid fever contracted in the prison, but he was faithful to the last, for never a word could be wrung from his lips calculated to incriminate the strange woman who had thrown such a spell around him. Vlassovsky was deported to Northern Siberia in company with the treacherous warder. He very soon succumbed, however, to the awful hardships he was called upon to endure and the rigours of the Arctic climate.

The number of Madame St. Joseph’s victims was never determined. That they were numerous there was not the slightest doubt; and had it not been for the cleverness of Danevitch she would probably have continued to pursue her infamous career for years longer, and ultimately have passed away in the odour of sanctity. Her downfall, it need scarcely be said, caused great satisfaction in St. Petersburg and Moscow, where she had destroyed so many of her victims.

THE STRANGE STORY OF AN ATTACHÉ.

It can readily be understood that Danevitch led not only an active life, but a varied one; and the cases he was called upon to deal with revealed many remarkable phases of human nature. He never attempted to pose as a moralist, but he frequently deplored the fact that wickedness and evil should so largely predominate over goodness. He was also apt to wax indignant against the vogue to decry anything in the nature of sensation. He was in the habit of saying that life from the cradle to the grave is full of sensations, and that the inventions of the fictionist are poor, flat, and stale, when compared with the realities of existence. But this is undoubtedly the experience of everyone who knows the world and his kind. It is only the cheap critic, the bigot, or the fool, who has the boldness to deny the existence of sensation in real life, and to sneer at what he is pleased to term melodramatic improbabilities. There is no such thing as a melodramatic improbability. The only charge that can legitimately be levelled at the so-called sensational writer is his tendency to grotesque treatment of subjects which should simply be faithful reproductions from life. The curious story of young Count Dashkoff, the Russian attaché, with whom this narrative is concerned, illustrates in a very forcible way the views advanced in the foregoing lines. Indeed, as Danevitch himself says, if anyone had invented the story and put it into print, he would have raised the ire of the army of critics—the self-constituted high-priests of purity, who, being unable to improve or even equal that which they condemn, are all the more violent in their condemnation.

Count Dashkoff was a young man, a member of a very old Russian family, who had in their day wielded great power, and before the abolition of serfdom took place, had held sway over more serfs than any other family in the whole of the empire. The Count had distinguished himself in many ways. His career, up to the time of the extraordinary events about to be recorded, had been marked by brilliancy and shade. As a student and a scholar he had attracted the attention of many notable men, more particularly by his well-known and remarkable work, entitled ‘The Theory of Creation,’ which is conspicuous for its erudition, its deep research, and its wide grasp and clever treatment of a tremendous subject. The book is, and will ever remain, a standard, and consequently an enduring monument to the Count’s ability and industry. On the other hand, he had made himself notorious by certain excesses, and a recklessness of conduct which had shocked the proprieties and outraged the feelings of those who were interested in him and hoped that he would ultimately rise to power and position. Of course, excuses were forthcoming on the grounds of his youth, and, as if trying to establish a right by two wrongs, it was urged that he had simply done what most Russian youths do who are born to high estate and have control of wealth. As a stepping-stone to the future greatness predicted for him by his friends, the Count, after a probationary course in the diplomatic service at home, was sent as an attaché to the Russian Embassy in Paris. As might be supposed, he took kindly to Parisian life. He was what is usually termed an elegant young man, with æsthetic tastes. When he first went to Paris he was about eight-and-twenty, and, apart from the advantages of youth, he had wealth, good looks, sound health, and a cheerful disposition. He enjoyed life, and showed no disposition to mortify the flesh by an austere or monastic régime. His private residence in the Champs Élysées was conspicuous for the magnificence of its appointments, and was the rendezvous of the élite of Paris society—that frivolous section which lives for no higher purpose than to live, and is attracted to wealth and luxury as bees are attracted to sugar. It seemed that this apparently fortunate young man, who could be serious enough when occasion required, was fond of attention and homage. He loved to be surrounded with a crowd of admirers, who flattered him, praised his bric-à-brac, and gorged themselves with the good things he invariably set before them. He knew, no doubt, that they were all fawners and sycophants, but, still, they made up a little world over which he ruled, and wherever he led the noodles would follow.

Two years of this sort of life passed, and then Danevitch was instructed to proceed with all haste from Russia to try and discover what had become of the Count, for he had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared, and all efforts of the Paris police and the boasted skill of the Parisian detectives had failed to reveal a trace of him. The facts of the case were as follows: In the course of the month of January the Count gave a grand ball and reception at his elegant hotel, and the event drew together the gilded youth of both sexes. These functions at the Count’s residence were always marked by a magnificence of splendour and a lavish expenditure which seemed hardly consonant with his position as a mere attaché. But it must not be forgotten that he was the heir to great wealth, and represented a noble family who had ever been distinguished for the almost regal style in which they lived.

About two o’clock in the morning the Count drew an intimate friend of his—a Monsieur Eugène Peon—on one side, and told him he wanted to slip away for an hour, but he did not wish it to be known that he had gone out. He would be sure to be back in about an hour, he added. A few minutes later the concierge saw him leave the hall. He was attired in a very handsome and costly fur coat, with a cap to match; and though the weather was bitterly cold and the ground covered with snow, he wore patent-leather shoes. The concierge, who was much surprised at the fact of his master leaving the house in the midst of the revels, asked him if he wanted a carriage. To this question the Count answered curtly, and, according to the porter, angrily, ‘No.’ The night wore itself out. The dancers danced themselves into limpness and prostration, and began to depart. Some surprise had been expressed at the Count’s absence, and various inquiries had been made about him; but it was suggested that the seductive influences of the wine-cup had proved too much for him, and he had retired. This hint or suggestion appeared to satisfy the light-headed revellers, who gave no further thought to the matter. His friend, Eugène Peon, considered it very strange that the Count should go away and remain away in such a manner, to the neglect of his guests, for he was the most punctilious host. But Peon set it down to an assignation, and thought that he had found the society of some fair one more attractive than the glitter and glare of the ballroom. The day had very well advanced before there was anything like real surprise felt at the Count’s prolonged absence.

It appeared that Eugène Peon called at his friend’s hotel soon after three o’clock in the afternoon, and, ascertaining that he was not at home, went down to the Embassy to inquire for him there, but to his astonishment was informed that the Count had not been there for two days. Although astonished, Peon was not uneasy. He stated that he saw no cause to be uneasy, although he had never known his friend do such a thing before, and was aware that he was most attentive to his duties. When he called again on the following morning, however, and was informed that the Count was still absent, he began then to fear that something was wrong, and he at once communicated his fears to some of the Count’s close personal friends; he had no relations in Paris at all. A consultation was held, but there seem to have been divided counsels, and no steps were taken to ascertain the Count’s whereabouts, though some inquiries were made of the members of the household, but all that could be elicited was that the concierge saw his master go out about two o’clock, and that he was dressed in patent-leather boots, a heavy fur coat, and a fur cap. From the tone in which he said ‘No,’ when asked if he wanted a carriage, he appeared to be angry; but there was no indication in his gait or speech that he was under the influence of wine. It was not until another whole day had passed that anything like real alarm had set in. The alarm by this time had reached the Embassy, and it was decided that the police should be communicated with. Strangely enough, the police did not at first attach any serious importance to the matter. They made certain inquiries in a perfunctory manner, and for some inscrutable reason—unless it was sheer, downright pig-headedness, a quality often enough conspicuous in the French police—they came to the conclusion that ‘Monsieur le Comte’ had been guilty of some little escapade, and would turn up very shortly. As this prediction had not been fulfilled when another twenty-four hours had elapsed, a much more serious view was taken of the young man’s absence, and dark hints were let drop that he had been inveigled into one of the haunts of vice which abound in the gay city, and had been murdered. The murder theory was at once taken up; detectives were communicated with, and the theory of murder found general acceptance.

As may be imagined, a gentleman, who by reason of his position and his riches had cut a conspicuous figure in society, disappearing suddenly in this way was bound to cause a sensation, and as the Parisians dearly love a sensation and a scandal, the matter was a fruitful topic of conversation for several days, while much ink was expended over it by the journalists. But notwithstanding the publicity given to the matter, and the efforts of police and detectives, another week passed, and not a trace or sign of the missing man had been obtained.

Up to this point the Count’s relatives in Russia had not been communicated with, from a desire to avoid alarm, for there were those who still hoped he would turn up again all right; but now his Russian friends in Paris regarded the affair as too serious to be longer withheld. As a preliminary, a message was at once sent asking if the Count had returned home, and almost simultaneously with the despatch of that message a courier set out for Russia with the tidings and details.

As the Count—as far as was known—had not returned to Russia, great consternation was caused amongst his friends by the report that reached them, and no time was lost in securing the services of Danevitch, who was instructed to leave for Paris without a moment’s delay, and institute independent inquiries.

‘I found, on arriving in the French capital,’ says Danevitch, ‘that by order of the Russian Ambassador all the Count’s things had been sealed up and his house temporarily closed. My preliminary investigations were directed to trying to discover if there were any grounds for believing that the missing man had committed suicide. This inquiry was necessarily forced upon one—at any rate upon me, although I learnt that the possibilities of suicide had never entered the heads of the French police. And though at first they had suggested murder, they soon abandoned that idea, for no other reason, as it appeared, than that they had not been able to find his body. And in consequence of this they insisted that he had taken himself off to some other country in order to avoid the results of conduct unbecoming a gentleman and a member of the Embassy. When they were asked to give a name to his conduct, they declined, but darkly hinted at something very dreadful. I myself could find no grounds for the theory of suicide, while everyone at the Embassy, as well as all who knew him, indignantly repudiated the slur which was sought to be cast upon the young gentleman’s character. I could find no one who had a word to say against his honour. That he might have had affaires d’amour, as the French call them, was readily admitted; but as all is considered fair in love, as in war, these matters were not supposed to reflect on the honour of a man.

‘As Monsieur Eugène Peon had been very intimate with the Count, I questioned that gentleman very closely concerning his friend’s movements, and elicited that he had been a pretty general lover, but, so far as he knew, the Count had formed no serious attachment to anybody. Peon could suggest no reason why the Count should have left his guests so abruptly, unless it was to keep an assignation.

‘Now, it must be remembered that when he left his house it was about two o’clock on a winter morning, and, according to the concierge, he seemed angry when he went out. This seemed to me to point to two things as absolutely certain. Firstly, the Count’s going out at such an hour was not premeditated. Secondly, whatever appointment he went to keep, it was not an agreeable one to him, and, being annoyed, he displayed his irritation in the sharp answer he gave the concierge. These points seemed to me of great importance, and naturally led me to an inquiry directed to finding out if one of his servants had delivered any message to him, or conveyed any letter during the evening.

‘The servants had been dismissed, and it was not an easy matter to reach them all; but by persevering I succeeded in doing so, and found at last that the Count’s body-servant, a Frenchman, named Auguste Chauzy, had been out all the evening, after having dressed his master, and knowing that he would not be wanted again until the morning. He returned, however, soon after midnight, and just as he was about to enter the house, a man stepped up to him hurriedly, and, putting a sealed envelope into his hand, said, “Give that immediately to your master, Count Dashkoff. Fail not to do so, as it is a matter of life and death.”

‘When Chauzy got into the hall, he glanced at the envelope, and saw that it simply bore the Count’s name—no address; but in the left-hand corner was the French word Pressant (Urgent) underlined. The valet could not get near his master for some time after this, but as soon as an opportunity occurred to do so, he handed him the note. The moment the Count’s eye caught the superscription, a frown settled on his face, and, with a gesture of annoyance, he thrust the letter unopened in his pocket. About half an hour later, however, the valet was informed by another servant that the Count required his fur coat and cap. They were to be placed in his dressing-room ready for him.

‘I questioned Chauzy about the man who had handed him the letter in the street; but the only description he could give of him was that he seemed to be well dressed, was of medium height, and had a dark beard and moustache.’

Having brought to light the fact about the letter, Danevitch struck a keynote, as it were—and one which had not been touched upon by the French police. If that letter could have been found, it might have revealed much; but it was almost certain that if the Count did not destroy it before leaving the house he had it in his pocket when he went out. Danevitch’s deduction from the letter incident was this: The Count went out owing to some communication made to him in that letter. He did not go willingly; consequently his errand was a disagreeable one, and could hardly have been to keep a love tryst. Whoever the writer of the letter was, he or she must have had some powerful hold on the Count to induce him to leave his friends and guests, and go out at two o’clock on a bitter winter morning. This line of reasoning was one which Danevitch could not avoid, for it was his wont to argue his subject from a given set of premises, and a strict regard for probabilities. He was led—and it was but natural he should be—to the conclusion that the Count’s disappearance was due to conduct which had brought him in contact with unscrupulous people, into whose power he had fallen. It was clear that if he was still living he was forcibly detained somewhere or other, and was in such a position that he could not communicate with those who were so anxious about him. If this was not the case, it was hard to understand why he should have remained silent, knowing well enough the anxiety and distress his prolonged absence would cause. The other hypothesis was—the idea of suicide not being entertained—that he had been murdered. If that was the case, the motive for the murder was either revenge or robbery. It seemed almost absurd to think of robbery, for this reason: it was hardly likely that anyone would have chosen such an inopportune moment; for, at two o’clock in the morning, and entertaining a house full of guests, he would scarcely have much valuable property on his person. If he had been murdered, the crime had been prompted by feelings of revenge, and committed by someone who believed he had a deadly grievance against the young man—a grievance that could only be compensated for by the shedding of the Count’s blood.

It was impossible to ignore what, on the face of it, seemed to be a fact—that the writer of the letter was personally acquainted with the Count, and possessed knowledge which placed a weapon in his hand. Of course, the Count’s friends wouldn’t listen for a moment to any suggestion that he had been guilty of conduct unbecoming a gentleman, and, having discovered that, Danevitch kept his views to himself; though he closely questioned Eugène Peon, who, while admitting that he had had numerous little adventures with the Count, declared that these adventures were only those which a young, handsome, and rich man would engage in, and while they might be described as foolish and reckless, they were never of a nature to reflect upon his honour. They were, in short, simply the follies and venial sins of youth, such as were common, in a greater or lesser degree, to all young men. Nothing further than this could be elicited from Peon, who appeared to be a reserved and reticent person, giving Danevitch the impression that he always had something in reserve—that he had an arrière pensée, and would not tell more than it suited him to tell. At any rate, he declined to suggest any theory that would account for his friend’s sudden and mysterious disappearance.

‘Do you not know if he had any serious love affair?’ asked Danevitch with some sharpness, as he came to the conclusion that Peon was not as candid as he ought to be.

‘I don’t,’ answered Peon emphatically.

‘But surely, intimate as you were with him, you must know something of your friend’s little gallantries?’

‘I do not, beyond what I have told you.’

Peon gave this answer with a sharpness and decisiveness which made it clear that he would not submit to pumping, and would not be drawn on the subject of his friend’s amours.

During the time that Danevitch was searching for a clue—without avail up to this stage—the Count’s friends did not remain inactive. Necessarily, they were impatient, and grew more restless as the weeks sped by without bringing any tidings of the missing man. The police confessed themselves baffled, and seemed to be at a loss to suggest a feasible theory, and they urged the friends to offer a substantial reward for information that would lead to the discovery of the Count if living, and a lesser reward for his body if dead. The friends yielded, and intimated that they would pay ten thousand francs for the Count’s recovery living, or five thousand for his body. The police quite believed this reward would have the desired effect, and that they would be relieved from an embarrassing situation. Of course, the human water-rats who haunt the Seine kept a very sharp look-out indeed, and every corpse that they dragged from the foul and reeking waters of the sluggish river was eagerly scrutinized in the hope that it would turn out to be the body of the missing Count. But though it was reported several times that the dead Count had been fished out of the river, the report, on investigation, proved to be false. Nor did the offer of the ten thousand francs prove more potent. Not a trace of the missing man was discovered.

This failure of the substantial reward to bring forth any tidings confirmed Danevitch in the opinion he had formed that the Count’s disappearance was the result of some plot, and those engaged in it were in a position which rendered them indifferent to the reward. This did not imply that the detective considered it a certainty that the Count was living. On the contrary, he inclined to the belief that he had been murdered, but, necessarily, the murderers could not produce his body for fear of betraying themselves. In his own way, Danevitch worked away quietly and unostentatiously. He was perfectly convinced that the clue to the mystery would be found in the habits of the Count, or among some of his possessions. But the friends in Paris opposed strong objections to any exhaustive search of his effects being made, influenced thereby, no doubt, by a fear of anything being made public calculated to reflect on the missing man’s honour. This supersensitiveness was annoying, and at last Danevitch applied to the relatives in Russia, and asked them to give a peremptory order for him to be allowed to go through the Count’s papers. In response to this application, the Count’s father came at once to Paris, and took possession of everything belonging to his son, and he and Danevitch went through the papers together. There was a mass of official correspondence and business letters, but very few private letters, except those from his parents and his near relatives, and love letters from a young lady residing in Russia. She was of high family, and well known to the Count’s people, who hoped that he would ultimately make her his wife, as in every way the match was a desirable one. The letters evinced a very strong attachment on the lady’s part, and were in many instances couched in warm, even extravagant, phrases of love. But there was nothing in them calculated to throw light on the mystery. She knew of her lover’s disappearance, and was prostrated with grief and anxiety, so the Count’s father asserted.

The result of the examination of the papers so far was very disappointing, but a small diary was found in which were some rather remarkable passages. It was not a diary of doings and events from day to day, but seemed to be the outpourings of the writer’s feelings and emotions, written in a fitful and irregular manner. Those which struck Danevitch the most were as follows:

‘I often wonder whether we are really free and responsible beings; whether the evil we do is the result of deliberate sinning, or whether it is due to some inward promptings which we are absolutely powerless to resist. If the latter, to what extent can we be held liable for our sins? I am sorely troubled at times with this thought, and yearn for someone to whom I could appeal with a hope of receiving such an answer as would seem to me satisfactory. The teachings of my Church do not satisfy me. The Church says that to do evil is to incur the wrath of Heaven; but if I cannot resist doing evil, is it right that I should be held responsible? Of course, the world would say that this is sophistry, but when I find myself on the one hand trying with all my might to avoid doing anything which, according to the laws of ethics and the canons of the Church, could be construed into wrong-doing, and, on the other, being drawn by some vaguely defined power, which I am too weak to resist, into doing that which I am conscious it is not right to do, I ask myself if I can really be held responsible. It seems to me that I have two distinct characters, clearly separated, and entirely antagonistic to each other. The one leads me into paths that I would fain avoid; the other causes me to weep for my frailty. I wonder if all men are constituted like this? Perhaps they are, but are less sensitive than I am.

‘If a man entangles himself in a net, he may exhaust himself in his struggles to get free again, and it may even be that the more he struggles the more tightly he may enmesh himself, until he realizes the horror that he is doomed to remain powerless until death itself releases him. This is figurative language, but it is by such language that we can best convey our true meaning. It is but speaking in parables, and parables better than anything else often enable us to understand and grasp what would otherwise be obscure. Unhappily, I am entangled in a net, and I have struggled in vain to free myself. If I could undo the past, I might know true happiness once more; but that which is done is done, and though we weep tears of blood, we can never obliterate the record which is written on the tablets of memory. I wonder what the pure being in Russia, to whom I gave my heart, would say if she knew how I had wronged her. Can I ever look into her clear honest eyes again with the frank, unflinching gaze of the happy days past and gone? I fear not. Indeed, I feel that I dare not meet her again. I have dug a gulf between us, and that gulf can never be bridged. But I suffer agony of mind when I think how she will suffer when she knows my baseness, as know she must, sooner or later. It is hard to have to live two lives, as I am doing. To my friends I appear all they would believe me to be; but in the solitude of my chamber my heart bleeds as I realize how false I am.

‘I have been weak, but am growing strong again. Desperation is lending me strength, in fact; and I shall burst these accursed bonds asunder. I have still youth and energy, and must make an effort to climb to higher heights. I have been walking blindly hitherto, and have missed my way, but I see it clear enough now; and a resolute and determined man, who finds himself surrounded by obstacles, should sweep them away. He who hesitates is lost; I have hesitated, but will do so no longer. Great things are expected from me, and I must not disappoint those who have placed their hopes upon me. Marie must not be allowed to keep me bound down in the gutter. It is not my place. I was destined to walk on higher heights; and since it is impossible for me to raise her, she must be cut adrift. It may seem cowardly; it may be cruel for me to do this; but it must be done, for I cannot endure the double life any longer. Is a man to suffer all his life for one false step? Am I justified in breaking the hearts of parents and betrothed? No. It must not be—shall not be. In a few weeks I shall send in my resignation, and quit Paris for ever. It will cause a nine days’ wonder, but what of that? People will say I am a fool, but it won’t affect me. I shall plead that I know my own affairs best, and that circumstances of a private and pressing nature necessitate my hasty return to Russia. This I am determined to do, cost what it may. I have taken Eugène Peon into my confidence. He will help me, and satisfy the curious when I am gone.’

There was a significance in the foregoing passages which was not lost upon Danevitch. The Count gave himself away, though, of course, he never expected that any eyes but his own would read what he had written. It will be said, of course, that it was foolish for him to have committed his thoughts to paper; though it must be remembered that there are some men who seem to derive a strange pleasure in recording their evil deeds. It is a well-known fact that some of the greatest criminals have kept diaries, in which they have written the most damning evidence of their guilt. The Count’s diary proved conclusively that there were certain ugly passages in his life, and two points were made clear—there was a woman in the case, and Eugène Peon knew more of the Count’s affairs than he cared to own to, and confirmed Danevitch in his belief that Peon was a crafty man, and by no means carried his heart upon his sleeve.

As may be imagined, the Count’s father was much cut up, as he realized that his son had been guilty of evil which was calculated to reflect upon the honour of the family, that honour of which the old man was so proud, and which he would gladly have died to shield.

Of course it became necessary now to find out who the ‘Marie’ referred to in the diary was; for it was obvious that she was directly or indirectly responsible for the Count’s disappearance. No letters could be discovered which were calculated to throw any light on the subject, but in a small drawer of the Count’s desk there was found the photograph of a young woman, and on the back, in a scrawling hand, was the following:

‘For ever and ever thine. Marie.’

The likeness was that of a singularly handsome girl of about two-and-twenty; but the handwriting was so bad it suggested that the writer was not educated.

Danevitch felt now that he was in possession of a clue—a vague one, it was true, but it was possible it might lead to very important results. Marie must be found, though he did not know at the moment how he was going to find her. Paris was a big place; Marie was a very common name. Danevitch, however, having once got on the scent, was not likely to go very far astray, and he generally found some means of bringing down his quarry at last. He was not indifferent to the self-evident fact that in this case there were no ordinary difficulties to contend against; this was proved by the large reward having failed to bring forth any information. It showed that those who were responsible for the Count’s disappearance had very powerful motives for keeping their secret; and whether few or many were interested in that secret, ten thousand francs was not strong enough to tempt one of them; and it seemed as if it was not the Count’s money that was responsible for his disappearance. He kept a banking account in Paris, but this had not been drawn upon since the week before he went away, when he cashed a cheque for three thousand francs. But at this stage a curious incident was brought to light, which put a new complexion on the matter altogether.

The incident was this: It appeared that the Count also kept a considerable account at the Moscow branch of the Bank of Russia. He owned a good deal of property in and about Moscow, part of it being a flourishing flax-mill, which turned over a princely revenue. His Moscow affairs were managed by an agent who had been connected with the family for nearly half a century. It was his duty to pay all money that he received into the bank without delay. Consequently, there was generally a large balance standing to the Count’s credit. One day a three months’ bill of exchange, purporting to be drawn on the Count by Paul Pavlovitch and Co., flax merchants, at Riga, for one hundred thousand francs, and accepted by the Count and payable at the bank in Moscow, was duly presented by an individual, who stated that he was a member of the firm. As all seemed right, the bill was paid, and a receipt given in the name of Peter Pavlovitch, who represented himself as the son of Paul. A week later the cancelled bill passed into the hands of the Count’s agent, and he at once declared it to be a forgery. Pavlovitch and Co., of Riga, were immediately communicated with, and they denied all knowledge of the Count, had never had any business transactions with him, had never drawn a bill upon him, and knew nothing of Peter Pavlovitch. This was a revelation indeed, and pointed conclusively to a conspiracy. It seemed to Danevitch pretty evident that the person who forged the bill knew a good deal about the Count, and if that person could be laid hold of the plot might be unmasked. There was another thing, too, that appeared to be no less clear: the forger of the bill was acquainted with the Count’s affairs, and also with Russia. The firm of Paul Pavlovitch and Co., of Riga, was an old-established firm, and there was nothing to strike a stranger as peculiar in their holding a bill of the Count’s; for the Count was the owner of a flax-mill, and did business with a good many flax merchants. Nevertheless, the bank in Moscow was blamed for having been somewhat lax in paying the bill without having taken steps to satisfy themselves that the person who presented it was the person he represented himself to be. Moreover, in the business world bills of that nature were usually collected by a bank. However, the Moscow bank people defended themselves by saying that, though a little out of course, there was nothing extraordinary in a bill being presented by a member of a firm holding it.

As soon as Danevitch heard of the incident of the forged bill, he returned at once to Moscow, deeming it probable that he might there pick up some thread which would lead him to a clue. The man calling himself Peter Pavlovitch, to whom the money was paid, was described as of medium height, of muscular build, dark-complexioned, black hair, beard, and moustache, in age about thirty. He was well dressed, and the receipt he gave was written in a bold, clerkly hand. Of course, there was nothing in this description to distinguish him from thousands of others, and Moscow was a large place; but Danevitch went to work on the assumption that the man, whoever he might be, was well acquainted with the Count, and he knew a good deal of his business; that, to some extent, narrowed the inquiry, which was necessarily directed to trying to discover a person upon whom suspicion could justifiably fasten.

The Count’s agent was a Pole named Padrewski. He was a man of high repute, and one in whom his employer placed the greatest confidence. He could not even vaguely identify the self-styled ‘Peter Pavlovitch’ from the description given, and was of opinion that he was not a resident in Moscow, though probably not a stranger. If he was not a resident in the city, it was likely enough that he sojourned there long enough to enable him to transact his business, and having possessed himself of the money, he would depart without delay. Danevitch ascertained that the bill was presented for payment about half-past ten in the morning. That argued that the person who drew the money and gave the receipt had slept in the city, and probably lodged at some café or hotel. So the detective set to work at once to make inquiries at the various hotels and lodging-houses. In Russia, as in France and Germany, every lodging-house-keeper and hotel proprietor is compelled by law to keep a register of his guests. It is therefore far easier to discover anyone who occupies temporary lodgings than it is in this country. Now, it struck Danevitch that, if the presenter of the forged bill had come to Moscow for the sole purpose of drawing the money, he would in all probability select a place near the railway-station. There were several hotels and cafés in the vicinity of the station. At all of these inquiries were made, and, at a third-rate café-restaurant, called in Russian The Traveller’s Joy, it was found that a man answering the description of the one required had stayed in the house for four days, and had taken his departure by train on the same day that the bill was presented; and on that very day he had paid his account with a brand-new five hundred rouble note, receiving the change in small money. As the restaurant-keeper could not cash the note himself, he got it done at a money-changer’s in the neighbourhood. The money-changer made an entry of the number of the note, and by that Danevitch was able to prove that it was one of the notes paid by the bank to ‘Peter Pavlovitch.’ This, of course, was an important discovery, as it conclusively proved that the man who handed the note to the landlord was the one who got the money for the forged bill. This was an important link, and another was soon discovered.

‘From information received,’ to quote the common police-court expression, Danevitch learnt that during the time the pseudo Peter Pavlovitch was staying at The Traveller’s Joy he was visited daily by a pretty young woman, who, from her manner, style of dress, and general get-up, was supposed to be connected with the theatrical profession. Every evening Peter went out with her, then both returned together and supped, and after that went out again, and some time later Peter returned alone. The deduction from this was, assuming she belonged to the theatrical profession, that Peter took her to the theatre at night, brought her back to supper after she had done her work, and then saw her home to her lodgings. Fortunately, a very minute description of the woman was forthcoming, and from this Danevitch ultimately identified her as a Fräulein Holzstein, supposed to be of Austrian or German nationality. She was a music-hall singer, and had been fulfilling an engagement at a hall in Moscow, but had then left and gone to a place of entertainment in St. Petersburg, whither Danevitch journeyed without delay. He soon discovered the lady he was seeking, but was very cautious not to let her know that she was under surveillance. He had no difficulty in making her acquaintance, in the capacity of a man about town who enjoyed the privilege of being allowed on the stage; and on one or two occasions she deigned to accept an invitation to sup with him. He learnt from her that when her engagement terminated in St. Petersburg, as it would do in a few days, she was going to Vienna for a week, thence to Berlin for a fortnight, and after that to Paris to perform in a sensational drama at the Châtelet. Danevitch was now instinctively certain that he was on the trail, and he resolved not to lose it. Therefore, when Fräulein Holzstein took her departure from the Russian capital, he left by the same train, though she was not aware of it. He followed her to Vienna, from Vienna to Berlin, from Berlin to Paris. When she arrived at Paris she was met by a man who was at once identified from the description Danevitch had received as the man who had presented the forged bill for payment at the Moscow bank. The scent was now getting warm, but at this stage it would have been premature to have taken any steps calculated to frighten the quarry which was being so patiently shadowed. This man and woman were not the only actors in the drama, if, as was thought probable, they were in any way connected with the Count’s disappearance; and Danevitch had yet to prove that there was any connection between that incident and the forged bill.

The man who had passed himself off as Peter Pavlovitch in Moscow was known in Paris as Henri Charcot, and by calling he was a theatrical and music-hall agent. He rented a small office not very far from the Châtelet Theatre; but, judging from appearances, he was not in a very flourishing way of business, although Danevitch gathered that at one time he had had an extensive connection. He had lost it, however, by inattention and shady practices. Fräulein Holzstein was, or at any rate represented herself to be, the wife of Charcot.

Another discovery was now made by the patient and watchful Danevitch. A man was in the habit of visiting the Charcots. He occupied a much higher social position than they did; but it was made evident he did not care for his visits being known to other people, for he always went at night, and invariably wore a cloak of such ample proportions that his figure was practically disguised, while a broad-brimmed, soft hat served to conceal his features. The Charcots lived in rather a poor quarter of Paris, not far from the Gare de l’Est. In this region was a very popular and much-frequented restaurant, largely patronized by the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. The Charcots invariably went there to dine. And when the strange man visited them, he generally went with them to dine or sup, as the case might be, on those occasions. They indulged in the privacy of a cabinet particulière, as it is called in France—that is to say, a private room.

One night the three went to the restaurant for dinner, and were shown into a snug cabinet, where a small stove dispensed a comforting warmth, for the night was excessively cold, and to protect the occupants from draught a heavy screen was drawn between the table and the window. When the coffee and cognac were placed on the table, and Madame Charcot and the two men had lighted their cigarettes, the waiter was dismissed and the door closed. Then the lady and her two companions, feeling under no restraint, freely indulged in conversation.

‘Do you people intend to remain in Paris?’ asked the stranger.

‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Charcot. ‘I don’t see that there is much to fear. No one suspects us, and it is not worth while giving up our business, such as it is.’

‘You feel sure that your visit to Russia in connection with the bill is not known?’

‘Perfectly sure. My wife and I managed the business too cleverly for suspicion to be directed against us.’

‘But you mustn’t forget that Michael Danevitch has got the matter in hand.’

Madame Charcot broke into a mocking laugh, as she exclaimed:

‘Pooh! There is nothing to fear from Danevitch. He is a very much overrated man. All the wonderful stories that one hears about him are, I believe, invented by himself; any way, I am not afraid of him. It seems to me that it was impossible for anyone to get a clue in Russia. No, mon frère; the business has been managed too cleverly, and unless we give ourselves away we are perfectly safe.’

‘I am not so sure of that,’ answered the stranger musingly.

‘But you’ve not heard or seen anything to cause you alarm, have you?’ asked Charcot.

‘No, no, not at all,’ said the stranger, pulling his moustache and looking grave; ‘but one never knows.’

‘You are surely in a despondent mood, cher frère. The dinner must have disagreed with you,’ madame remarked banteringly.

‘The dinner was all right; but I haven’t been easy in my mind for some time.’

‘It’s the liver, the liver, my dear boy,’ Charcot remarked.

‘What’s the use of troubling yourself about shadows?’ put in the lady. ‘Haven’t the Paris police used some of their best men, and yet failed to get a scent?’

‘That’s true,’ said the stranger; ‘but the affair must come to light sooner or later.’

‘And what if it does?’ asked madame. ‘How are we to be identified with the case?’

‘Not easily, if he is dead,’ answered the stranger. ‘The dead tell no tales.’

‘Then, why in the name of common-sense should he live?’ asked Madame Charcot, blowing a stream of smoke from her nostrils, and speaking with energy.

The stranger shuddered, and said:

‘I’ll have nothing whatever to do with his death.’

‘You are chicken-hearted, man,’ Charcot remarked. ‘One word and an extra hundred francs to old Pierre, and every danger would be removed.’

‘It might, or might not. Any way, I would rather not speak the word. The business has been bungled as it is, and instead of its proving a source of wealth to us, we only made a miserable hundred thousand francs between us, and it’s hopeless to expect that we can get any more.’

‘You should have played your cards better,’ remarked Charcot.

‘But who in the name of Satan thought that he was going to peg out as he has done.’

‘Well, there is one thing we mustn’t forget,’ said madame; ‘unless Pierre’s palms are kept well greased, he’ll let the cat out of the bag.’

‘No, I don’t think he will do that. He has already been well paid; and before I gave him the last thousand francs I made the old rascal sign a document, in which he confesses his share in the business, so that if he turns traitor I’ve got him on the hip. But, any way, it strikes me this is not a safe place, and I shall go abroad. No living soul suspects me, but one never knows what may happen; it’s best to be on the safe side.’

‘Well, you are a soldier of fortune,’ said Charcot, ‘and can march at an hour’s notice; but we’ve got interests here, and unless danger really menaces, it would be folly for us to sacrifice those interests. What do you say?’ turning to his wife.

‘Oh, I think it’s all right. If we have reason to believe there is any danger, we can clear out; but my own impression is that there is not much chance of our being suspected. Besides, we must have more money yet. Fate has been against us in that respect. We bungled in the beginning, and are paying the penalty of the error. By-and-by, however, we may be rewarded.’

‘If you think so, you are much more of an optimist than I am,’ the stranger remarked.

‘You’ve always been disposed to look on the gloomy side of things,’ said madame sharply. ‘What is the use of meeting trouble half-way? We’ve played our cards, and must abide by the game. At any rate, you’ve done fairly well, and fortune has favoured you throughout your life. You’ve no just cause to grumble.’

‘But suppose the game goes against us?’ now asked the stranger.

‘What is the use of supposing? It hasn’t done so up to the present, and we’ve netted a fair stake.’

‘But nothing nearly as much as we ought to have done.’

‘That can’t be helped. We’ve not lost, any way. But, for goodness’ sake, don’t mope like that. You make me miserable. We’ve bled our victim pretty freely, and though he has plenty more blood in him, if we cannot get it, we had better be satisfied.’

‘It’s tantalizing, nevertheless. Don’t you think we might risk another bill here?’

‘No; it would be too dangerous,’ said madame.

‘I would have nothing to do with it,’ added her husband, ‘Any attempt of that kind would betray us as sure as fate. No, no, mon cher; it can’t be done.’

The stranger sighed, and resigned himself to the situation, for he was forced to admit that the arguments used against him were unanswerable.

In a little while the party broke up. The stranger embraced the woman warmly, and, shaking hands with the man, hurried away.

Charcot and his wife lingered for a while to smoke another cigarette, and for the man to consume an absinthe.

‘Eugène is melancholy,’ the woman remarked; ‘but it’s folly to weep over the milk that is lost. If matters hadn’t turned out as they have done, we might all have raked in a snug little fortune. But, as it is, we haven’t done so badly, and we’re safe.’

‘But not as safe as we should be if the Count were dead,’ the husband remarked.

‘That’s true,’ said the woman thoughtfully, while her pretty face took on a very wicked expression. ‘But you know Eugène is far too sentimental. It doesn’t do to be sentimental in a case of this kind. We’ve got ourselves to consider, and, having gone so far, it is downright folly to hesitate to take the final step, which would complete the work. What do you think?’

‘I agree with you.’

‘Then, you go and see Pierre, and give him a quiet hint.’

‘I’ve a good mind to,’ mused the husband.

‘Don’t spoil a good mind, dear.’

‘But, you know, we should have to give the old rascal two or three hundred francs more.’

‘And it’s worth it; we can afford it. Better to pay that than allow a risk to remain that we can remove.’

‘You are right—you are right, dear,’ said the husband.

‘And you will go and see Pierre?’

‘I must consider the matter.’

‘Tut, man! What does it want consideration for? We are agreed on the subject. Vacillation shows weakness. Hesitation may cost us dear. Make up your mind at once.’

‘It’s made up,’ said the husband, after some reflection.

‘And you will go?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘To-morrow morning.’

‘Good. That’s a point settled, and my mind is easier.’

The man and woman now took their departure; but little did they dream that every word of the conversation which they and the stranger—who was none other than Eugène Peon—had uttered had been most carefully taken down in shorthand. Behind the screen a young man had patiently sat the whole evening, with note-book and pencil in hand. He was a trusted agent of Danevitch, who had made arrangements with the landlord of the restaurant. And thus the conspirators had been neatly trapped. Nevertheless, the story was not all learnt yet, and Danevitch considered it would have been premature to make any move or show his hand until he found out where the Count was concealed. Of course, a close watch was set on Eugène Peon’s movements, so that no chance should be afforded him of slipping through the meshes of the net which was so cleverly being drawn around him and his companions in guilt. Charcot was also closely shadowed, and the next day was followed to an old house situated in the western part of Paris, outside of the barrier. It was a curious, ramshackle, tumble-down-looking building, mournful and melancholy in its ruin, and mournful and melancholy in its surroundings. At one time it had probably been the country residence of some rich person, standing in pleasant gardens, on the banks of a stream, and commanding a fine panoramic view. But that was in the long ago. The grounds were now a howling wilderness; the stream was a foul and stagnant strip of slimy water, from which protruded the decaying ribs of a half-sunk barge.

Within twenty or thirty yards were the grim and blackened ruins of a burnt-out mill that at one period had been a flourishing concern. The stream communicated with a canal a quarter of a mile away, and time was when barges came and went. The house had been the private residence of the owner of the mill, and he lived there for many years in contentment and comfort with his wife and son and daughter. Then misfortune overtook him. His daughter was accidentally drowned in the stream. Some time afterwards the son died of consumption. Then the unfortunate father gave way to dissipation, and neglected his business, with the usual result. At length the mill was destroyed by fire, and when the owner went to the insurance offices to claim the amount for which he had insured, the people refused to pay it, alleging that the fire was due to incendiarism, and a charge was laid against the unfortunate man; but he rendered it useless by drowning himself in the stream. And his widow did not long survive him; grief killed her. Then litigation ensued about the property, and as a legal heir could not be found, it fell into ruin and neglect. For many years a man named Pierre Mousson had been allowed to occupy the place, subject to the payment of a nominal rental. He was a rag-picker by calling, and a reputed miser: a low-browed, villainous-looking rascal, who had once served a term of imprisonment for nearly beating a companion to death during a quarrel about a franc, which he accused his companion of stealing from him. With that exception, there had been no charge against him. He was a big, muscular old fellow, with a suggestiveness in his appearance that he could be very dangerous in defence of himself or his belongings. His mother lived with him. She was an old woman, upwards of eighty years of age, and half imbecile.

To this place Charcot was followed by Danevitch and three French police officers, all heavily armed; and while Charcot and old Pierre were conferring together, the Russian and his companions entered, to the utter amazement of the two rascals, who were made prisoners before they could recover from their surprise. To both of them this coup must have been like a thunderbolt, but perhaps more particularly so to Charcot, who only the night before seemed to think he was in little or no danger. In a cellar or vault, below the level of the putrid stream, a man was discovered in a state of idiocy. He was lying on a low truckle bed, close to the damp, slimy wall, to which he was fastened by a chain and staple, and a broad leather belt round his waist. The vault was fœtid, and inconceivably horrible with filth and noisomeness, and the wretched man’s feet and hands had been partly gnawed by rats. That man was Count Dashkoff, the once brilliant and handsome attaché, but now a pitiable and unrecognisable wreck. His hair was matted with slime and dirt, his beard unkempt, his eyes sunken, his face awful in its corpse-like appearance. His body was so emaciated that he was simply an animated skeleton, while the few rags that clung to his vermin-covered body scarcely sufficed to hide his nakedness.

As soon as possible, the poor fellow was removed in an ambulance to a hospital, the imbecile old woman was conveyed to an asylum, while Charcot and Pierre were hurried to prison. An hour later Eugène Peon and Madame Charcot were arrested, and before the day was out—thanks to certain letters found in Madame Charcot’s possession—another man was being searched for. His name was Buhler, and he had recently acted as secretary to the Count, replacing a young man who had died. Buhler was a Russian, but had long resided in Paris. He was recommended to the Count by Eugène Peon. As was subsequently proved, Buhler had once before fulfilled the position of a secretary, but been dismissed for dishonesty. Since then he had got his living as a waiter, until he became a creature of Peon’s. The strangest part of the tale has now to be told.

As most people know, the mode of procedure in France in connection with criminal cases is very different to that adopted in England. In a certain sense it partakes somewhat of the nature of the Inquisition. A functionary, who is known as a Judge of Instruction (Juge d’Instruction), with his assistants and clerks, subjects a suspected person to an ordeal of examination which few can pass through unscathed, unless they be absolutely innocent. The Judge is a legal man of wide experience, and generally with a very intimate knowledge of human nature. He is an adept in the art of cross-examination, and the ‘suspect’ must be clever indeed if he can outwit this examining Judge. Where several persons are under suspicion of complicity, they are confronted with each other, and very rarely do they fail to condemn themselves, and betray their guilt, if they are guilty, under the pitiless fire of questioning to which they are subjected. In this way the truth is brought to light, and piece by piece a story is built up. The story that was partly wrung from the prisoners in this case, and partly learnt from other sources, was as follows:

Years before the events already narrated, an Austrian named Schumacher took up his residence in Paris, with his wife and two daughters, named respectively Rosine and Anna, and a son, Fritz. The girls were at that time quite children. Schumacher, who was a cabinet-maker by trade, and his family ultimately became naturalized French subjects. As the girls grew up, they developed remarkable beauty; but this was allied to vulgar tastes and loose habits, well calculated to bring them to trouble sooner or later. At quite an early age they showed talent for the stage, and began life at a café-chantant. In the course of time Anna married a theatrical and music-hall agent named Charcot; and Rosine, who seems to have had numerous lovers, joined a theatrical company, and travelled for some time, but ultimately secured a permanent engagement at a Paris theatre. Soon after that, when she was only one-and-twenty years of age, and noted for her good looks, she made the acquaintance of Count Dashkoff. The Count was young, impressionable, foolish; the girl artful, cunning, clever. And there is no doubt she resolved to play her cards with a view to gaining a powerful influence over the Count. In this matter she was aided and abetted by her brother Fritz, though that gentleman was no longer known as Fritz.

At quite an early age Fritz had come under the notice of an old and rather eccentric lady, who sent him to school, fostered in him expensive tastes, luxurious habits, and led him to dream of future greatness. He received a good education, and spent four years—from sixteen to twenty—at the Lyceum. Unfortunately for him, his patroness died. It was then found that, though she had made a will leaving a million and a half francs to the young man, she was not worth a million sous. She had simply enjoyed a life interest in a property which produced her a handsome income, though she expended it to the last sou every year. Fritz had also taken her name of Peon, and had substituted Eugène for that of Fritz.

To find himself penniless was a great blow to his hopes and pride. His natural talents and the education he had received should have enabled him to have done well, but he hated work; he lacked energy, and so he set himself to live by his wits. He was a fascinating young fellow, with the power of attracting both men and women. When he made the acquaintance of the Count, the Count at once took to him, and Peon was far too clever to lose such an opportunity of benefiting himself; for clever as the Count was, he was rash and weak-minded in many respects, and no match for an unscrupulous adventurer like Peon, who arranged with his sister Rosine that they were to keep their relationship secret, and use every endeavour to trap the Count into a marriage. Rosine was quite equal to playing her part in this nefarious little scheme. Her fascinations proved too much for the Count, and when he found that she was deaf to all his entreaties, and proof against his costly presents, he came to the conclusion that she was a model woman, a paragon of virtue, a credit to her sex, and in an evil hour he married her. After that it did not take him long to discover what a terrible error he had made. The wife’s rapacity for money, jewellery, dress, was insatiable, and her brother Eugène took good care to share her purse.

For a considerable time the Count yielded to the bleeding process tamely; and his secretary, Buhler, working in connection with Peon and Rosine, succeeded in drawing from him large sums of money. Of course, all this time the unhappy Count believed that his friend Eugène Peon was true and reliable, that Buhler was the most faithful of secretaries, and he began to yearn for some means of breaking the matrimonial bond with which he had bound himself. He found that Rosine had developed a taste for drink; he encouraged this in every possible way, and induced her particularly to consume large quantities of absinthe. The result was, she soon became a confirmed dipsomaniac; and one night, to the horror of the band of conspirators, she either threw herself into the Seine or fell in accidentally; at any rate, she was drowned. That was at a little village about twenty miles from Paris, where the Count had installed her, and where, under an arrangement with him, she lived as a single woman.

Peon, Buhler, and Anna Charcot and her husband managed to keep the news of his wife’s death from the Count, and he was given to understand that she had taken herself off somewhere. A few months passed, and the conspirators felt the loss of their supplies severely. Then, in their desperation, they concocted a scheme which, for daring and wickedness, had not been surpassed for a long time. The scheme was nothing more nor less than the abduction of the Count, who was to be kept a prisoner until he secured his release by the payment of a large ransom.

The night of the ball was chosen as a fitting opportunity to put the plan into execution. Buhler wrote a letter closely imitating Rosine’s handwriting. The letter stated that she had been away from Paris, but had come back seriously ill, and was then unable to leave her bed. She craved him to go and see her immediately, and promised that, if he would give her a sum of money down, she would go away and he should never hear of her again. If not, she would proclaim the following morning to all Paris that she was his lawful wife, and would also send an intimation to that effect to the Embassy. The note wound up by saying that a carriage would be in waiting not far from his house to convey him to her lodgings, and that he could easily get back again in an hour or an hour and a half.

This letter was delivered to the Count in the way that we have seen, and, unhappily for himself, he was influenced by it. He found the carriage at the spot indicated, and was driven out to the barrier to Pierre’s house. Two powerful ruffians, who were to be well paid for their part of the work, had ridden on the box beside the coachman. When the destination was reached, the Count alighted, and then the lonely spot seems to have caused him to suspect that he had been brought there for some villainous purpose. He at once stepped into the carriage again, and ordered the coachman to drive him back to Paris. The two ruffians, however, seized him and dragged him out on to the road, where a desperate struggle took place. To put an end to it, one of the rascals struck the unhappy Count a violent blow over the head with a heavy stick, rendering him unconscious. He was then carried into Pierre’s den.

For two days he remained insensible, and when he recovered it was found, to the horror of all the wretches concerned, that he was imbecile, but it was hoped that he would be all right in a few days. These hopes, however, were doomed to disappointment, and, being pressed for money, Buhler undertook to forge a bill, and Madame Charcot, who was then fulfilling an engagement in Moscow, was instructed to find out something of the Count’s business transactions there; while Charcot went to Moscow, and, representing himself as Peter Pavlovitch, presented the forged bill at the bank and received payment for it. The money was, of course, shared by all concerned. Buhler, who seems to have been shrewder than the rest of them, having got his share, and possessed himself of such portable property of the Count’s as he could lay his hands upon, took himself off somewhere, and managed to elude justice, though every effort was made to capture him.

As already stated, all this terrible story of fiendish wickedness was gradually brought to light by the Juge d’Instruction, and there was little doubt that, had Danevitch not succeeded in unravelling the plot, the unfortunate Count, who was becoming an expensive burden, and a menace to the safety of the plotters, would have been placed in a sack with a quantity of scrap iron, and deposited at the bottom of the foul and stagnant water opposite Pierre’s hovel. Peon showed considerable reluctance to resort to this extreme measure, but Madame Charcot, who was less sentimental and more callous, had no scruples. She saw clearly enough that as long as the poor Count remained alive there was an ever-present danger, for if Pierre should get into trouble or die a revelation was certain. She influenced her husband to take her view of the case, and had Danevitch not stepped in when he did, murder would have been added to the other infamy. As it was, the careers of the wretches were brought to a close, and exemplary punishment was meted out to all of them. The extradition of both Charcot and his wife was demanded by the Russian Government, to answer in Russia for the affair of the forged bill—the man for having presented it and drawn the money, the woman for aiding and abetting him. But, of course, this demand was not complied with, as they had first of all to suffer punishment in France for their deeds there. After that they would be handed to the tender mercies of the Russian Government, and were destined to end their days in exile in Siberia.

For a long time Count Dashkoff remained in a pitiable state, but under tender care and treatment his health was gradually restored, though his mind was shattered beyond repair. Of course, he could not be altogether exonerated from blame for the part he had played with regard to his unhappy wife. But if he had sinned, he had also suffered, and everyone must admit that it was a terrible ending to a brilliant and what seemed a most promising career. Unhappily, neither his position, his wealth, nor his associations could save him from yielding to the fatal fascinations of vulgar beauty; and the disastrous results that followed doomed him to social extinction and a living death.

THE FATE OF VASSILO IVANOFF.

Possibly very few readers of these chronicles know anything of the peculiarity—I had almost said iniquity—of the Russian law. The freeborn Briton, who in his own country may spout and write treason as long as it pleases him, and do anything that is not regarded as a legally punishable offence—and the law is very tolerant in this respect—is apt to open his eyes in astonishment when he goes on the Continent and finds himself haled to a prison-house simply because he has been jotting down some memoranda in a note-book, or mayhap has taken a snap-shot with a Kodak at a picturesque fortification which he thinks will look well in his album when he gets home. This arbitrary and high-handed proceeding is common to all parts of Europe outside of Great Britain. But though the liberty of the subject and of the foreigner is ever menaced on the Continent, and a simple indiscreet act may serve to bring the might of the law down on the luckless offender, this state of things is nothing as compared with that which prevails in Russia. It is a plain statement of fact to say that, of all the countries which boast of their civilization, Russia is the least civilized. The Russians themselves are a most hospitable people, they are clever, they make good friends and good neighbours; but their laws are antiquated, the method of government is barbarous, while the system of espionage which is in force all over the country would irritate a Briton into madness. And there is another aspect of the law, which, though it has been denied, still obtains in Russia, and that is the power of the law to keep an untried man whose guilt is not proved in prison indefinitely, and to subject him to such mental or physical torture that, to escape from it, the victim either confesses to a crime of which he is innocent or goes raving mad. To understand this, one must bear in mind that, while in our country a man is considered innocent until he is proved guilty, in Russia, as soon as ever he falls under suspicion, he is regarded as a criminal. He can then be thrown into a dungeon and kept there. If he persists in asserting his innocence, the law, if it can procure no proof one way or the other, will persist in regarding him as guilty, and will exhaust every means to overcome him, and if compelled to let him go will do so with the greatest reluctance.