MICHAEL DANEVITCH (continued 4)

This, of course, was the weapon of a cunning and artful man which he used to menace and subdue the ignorant, the weak and wronged woman. He knew well enough in his own mind that he dare not make that document public; for though part of the girl’s statement might be believed, he would not come off scot-free, for would not people say, ‘If you had nothing to fear, why did you get that confession from her?’

The first step which Danevitch took after reading the contents of the sealed packet was to learn something of the Blok family; and to that end, in the character of an old vagrant man, he visited the mother and the daughter in their retreat at Valdai. It took him some time to gather the materials for the little family history already narrated. Necessarily, before he could do that, he had to worm himself into their confidence, and he would not have succeeded in doing that had he not laid a pretended claim to occult powers, which enabled him to read the past and divine the future. With such people as the Bloks this went a long way. They, in common with their class, had a fixed belief in charms, fortune-telling and spells.

When Danevitch saw the infant son of Catherine, he exclaimed:

‘Ah, that is a fine child! but alas for his future!’

‘How so? What mean you?’ asked the young mother in alarm.

‘The child that knows not his father is ill-starred.’

‘Knows not his father!’ echoed Catherine, with flashing eyes, and a voice tremulous with indignation. ‘How dare you say that?’ she added menacingly, as she stamped her foot.

‘Think you,’ asked the pseudo-seer, ‘that I can be deceived? I see with eyes different to yours. That child knows not his father, and never will know him, for he is dead.’

Here Catherine burst into tears, and between her sobs she exclaimed:

‘It’s true, it’s true, it’s true!’

‘Of course it is,’ said Danevitch, with an air of triumph.

Catherine recovered herself, and in an irascible tone said:

‘No doubt you are very clever; but I doubt if you can tell me how his father died.’

Danevitch closed his eyes for some moments, and drew his hand down his face like one deeply immersed in thought. Then, suddenly starting up, he answered solemnly:

‘He was done to death foully. He was strangled.’

Catherine was terribly distressed, and, sinking into a chair, she covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly.

Mrs. Blok, who was present, was indignant, and said angrily to Danevitch:

‘Get you out of the house. You distress my daughter. She is an honest woman, and we do not want to hear anything more from you.’

‘Be not angry, good mother,’ said Danevitch. ‘Your daughter questioned, and I answered.’ Then, with sudden and startling abruptness, he asked, ‘Where is your son?’

The mother’s face grew pale, and, with evident distress and emotion, she said:

‘He is dead.’

‘Yes, one is; he moulders at the bottom of the Volga; but the living one, the living one, where is he?’

Mrs. Blok looked appalled, and drew back from this strange old man from whom nothing seemed hidden, and before she could answer, Catherine started up, passionate and flushed, and cried excitedly:

‘Leave us, leave us! in the name of the Great Father, go! My brother is far away; hundreds of versts of sea divide him from his native land, and mayhap he will come back no more.’

‘It were well for him if he stayed away,’ remarked Danevitch with solemnity. ‘But why grow angry with me, my child? I have sorrow for you; I have tears for you. You have been ensnared, deluded, cheated; and he who ensnared you and cheated you stood high in the estimation of men. The penalty of his folly was his life. He has paid it. For your weakness blood lies at your door, and nothing can ever wash it away.’

At these words Catherine uttered a smothered cry, and fell into her mother’s arms, and Mrs. Blok, excited and enraged, screamed at him:

‘Out of the house, I tell you, out of the house! You lay murder to our charge, and you lie. Go away! I command you in God’s name to go.’ She crossed herself as she spoke, and with her finger drew an imaginary cross between herself and the prophet of evil, murmuring as she did so: ‘We are defenceless women; God shield us!’

The painful and dramatic scene affected Danevitch, and he silently withdrew; but he felt that he had got confirmation of his surmises, for as soon as he learnt the story of the family, he came to the conclusion in his own mind that the man who had deprived Ferguson of his life was Catherine’s unhappy brother. The young fellow, proud-spirited and honest, flamed up at his sister’s wrong, and, taking the matter in his own hands, had penned that letter to Ferguson demanding an interview. It was obvious there had been other letters written, because the writer said, ‘This is the last chance I shall give you.’ Who could have written that letter—which Danevitch so patiently pieced together from the shreds picked out of the waste-paper basket—if it had not been the broken-hearted brother? He knew Ferguson, he had been employed in the warehouse; and the great wrong his sister had suffered made him desperate—made him forget the social division which separated him from his sister’s wronger. He went to him, not with robbery in his heart—he was too proud for that—not with murder in his heart, but to demand that the false statement which had been wrung from poor Catherine should be given up to him, and that Ferguson should recognise the claims the girl and the child had upon him.

It was easy to work out the sequel. Peter went to the office; he wanted the paper his sister had signed. He probably grew angry, and threatened his employer. The employer was obstinate, stubborn, perhaps insulting, until, stung into frenzy, the unhappy youth flew at him, and, blinded by his passion, Peter had crushed the life out of the man before he knew it. Youthful strength and fury made Peter Blok a murderer, although he may have had no wish to slay his victim. Finding, to his dismay, that death had silenced for ever the lips of his sister’s betrayer, he made a frantic effort to discover the paper which he knew was in Ferguson’s possession. But his search proving fruitless, he fled with remorse, no doubt, gnawing at his heart.

Danevitch says that never throughout his career did he start to hunt down a man with greater reluctance than he did in the case of Peter Blok. With the exception of Danevitch himself, no one suspected Peter, and as it had taken him some weeks to learn what he had learnt, the young fellow had got a start which would probably save him from the law’s vengeance.

Danevitch, proceeding with great caution and tact, found out that Peter had been second in command of a river-boat engaged in bringing furs down from Astrakhan. The boat was one of the river fleet belonging to Ferguson, Tauchnitz, and Co. Three weeks before the crime in Riga, Peter obtained leave of absence in order to visit his mother, who was sick. As it was a long journey to where his mother was living, his lengthened absence did not arouse any suspicion. After the commission of the crime, there was every reason to believe he quitted Riga at once, and Danevitch satisfied himself that Peter had not gone to Valdai again. As he had already spent several days there with his mother and sister, had he returned he must have been noticed, for it was a small place, and a stranger was spotted immediately.

From what Danevitch had gathered during his interview, in the character of a gipsy, with Catherine and her mother, he inferred that Catherine, at any rate, if not Mrs. Blok, knew that Peter was going to see Ferguson. And from what Catherine said during the interview—‘My brother is far away; hundreds of versts of sea divide him from his native land, and maybe he will come back no more’—the deduction was Peter had gone to sea. Being a sailor, he would probably experience no difficulty in obtaining a ship. And it was equally feasible to suppose that before going he wrote to his sister, telling her he was going far beyond the seas.

The most diligent and careful inquiries in Riga failed to elicit any sign that Peter had sailed from that port, and it was likely enough that he had made his way to some other port on the Baltic Sea, or else to Cronstadt. Anyway, he could not be found; and as Danevitch could not entertain a doubt that Peter had killed Ferguson, he felt bound, as a matter of duty, to circulate a description of him. This description, however, was not made public, but placed in the hands of the police and their thousand and one spies. A whole year passed, however, and no trace of Peter was obtained. The crime had died out of the public memory, though not out of that of the police. They have long memories, and thus it came to pass that one day it was announced that the supposed murderer of Donald Ferguson, the merchant of Riga, had been arrested in St. Petersburg. Although he had grown a beard and whiskers, he was soon identified as Peter Blok, and a ship’s discharge upon him showed that he had come from New York to Cronstadt in an American ship.

Up to this point Danevitch had kept his knowledge of Ferguson’s wrong-doing to himself, but now that Peter Blok was under lock and key he was bound to make the matter public. To the people of Riga it was like a bombshell suddenly dropped in their midst. Everywhere where Ferguson’s name was known, it was a shock. At first doubts were thrown upon it; then there were open and loud expressions of disbelief; but the damning documents were produced, and could not be gainsaid. Then many sympathizers with Peter came forward when the reaction set in, and he was provided with funds for his defence; and, of course, at the trial the whole miserable story was pitilessly unfolded, until everyone knew it. It was a bitter, terrible blow to the Ferguson family. It redounds to their credit, however, that they unostentatiously made the most ample provision for Catherine and her mother, and the boy was provided for in such a way that it was not likely he would ever want, and it was stated that he was to be well educated and well brought up.

The trial of young Blok clearly proved that nearly all Danevitch’s surmises and deductions were correct. The lad had heard through his mother of his sister’s wrong, and from his sister herself he learnt how Ferguson, in order to save himself, had wrung from the unhappy girl that false confession, which, when she signed, she knew very little about. It was not until later that she realized how she had belied herself. Naturally that incensed her, and her brother—smarting with shame and broken pride—placed himself in communication with Ferguson, who at first tried to ignore him, until at last, threatened with exposure, he granted that interview which proved fatal to him.

When the story was all told, a revulsion of feeling in the prisoner’s favour took place, and he received the mild sentence of seven years’ banishment in Siberia.

THE GREAT CONSPIRACY.

Count Obolensk had resided in London for a good many years. He occupied a magnificent house in the neighbourhood of Hyde Park, where he lived in almost regal style. He kept a retinue of servants. The furnishings and appointments of his princely abode were said to be unique; and he dispensed hospitality with a lavish hand. He was known to be wealthy, to be a member of a very old and influential Russian family, and at one time to have held a high political position in his own country. Here the general knowledge of his affairs ended; but there were vague and ill-defined impressions in the public mind that he had been expelled or had fled from Russia owing to some of those political causes which in Russia count for so much, but which in most other countries, or at any rate in England, would be treated with contempt. But whatever the reasons were which had induced the Count to take up his residence in London, those who enjoyed his acquaintance and hospitality did not allow themselves to be troubled by them. In his own country he might have been regarded as little short of Satanic in his iniquity for aught that the throngs of people who attended his receptions, his at-homes and parties, knew or cared. The majority of mankind, in its concrete selfishness and gluttony, thinks little and cares less about the personal qualities of those who minister to its sensuous gratifications; what most concerns it is the quality and nature of the giver’s gifts. Let these be liberal and lavish, and nothing more is asked. In Count Obolensk’s case it was universally admitted that he excelled as a host, that his benevolence knew no bounds, and he dispensed charity with a cosmopolitan open-handedness which was worthy of all praise. Personally he was a handsome man, with the tact and refinement of a courtier, and the delicacy and deference of a true-bred gentleman. He was a widower, with two grown-up daughters—Catherine and Nathalia—both handsome young women; while at the head of his household, as general manageress, was an English lady, known as Mrs. Sherard Wilson, who, it was generally understood, had lived in Russia for a good many years. She was a fine-looking woman, of commanding presence and strong personality. She invariably presided at the Count’s social functions, and acted as chaperon to his daughters. Of her history no one knew anything, and nobody seemed concerned about it. She was a power in the Count’s household; and while she proved herself to be a woman of exceeding great tact, and one who had made the art of finesse a study, there was a tacit understanding that anyone who offended her ever so slightly could never hope to enjoy again the hospitality of the house over which she presided. Her general characteristics could be summed up thus: she was clever beyond the ordinary, well educated, a good linguist, a tasteful and excellent hostess; she was well informed, had more than a passing taste for politics, and appeared to have been acquainted with many of the leading statesmen of her time. Of them she would talk freely; about herself she was silent, and he would have been a bold man indeed who would have made the attempt to ‘draw her out’; he would most certainly have come to grief. She was frequently absent from London; sometimes for a few days, at others for weeks. But where she went to, why she went, and what she did, were mysteries, and the eye of vulgar curiosity was unable to penetrate them. One thing was noted as peculiar: the Count’s daughters never accompanied her.

One night at the end of January, a night that, according to Russian reckoning, was New Year’s Eve, and usually celebrated with great ceremony in Russia, there was a reception at the Count’s house. It was one of the few occasions when every nationality save Russian was excluded. It had been one of those trying and maddening days, peculiar to the English climate in January. A leaden sky, a choking, foggy atmosphere, a general gloominess, and a sense of that awful depression which seems to justify all the hard things said about our climate by foreigners.

However, the weather notwithstanding, there was a large gathering at the Count’s house. Russians had come from France, from Germany, from Switzerland, in order to be present, and they made up a brilliant assembly. According to Russian custom, there was a religious ceremony first of all. Then followed a sumptuous repast, which included almost every known Russian dish. After that the Count and his guests retired to a large, heavily-curtained room, which, compared with other apartments in the house, was plainly furnished. It was lighted by three long windows on the east side, but each of these windows was screened by massive velvet curtains, which completely shut out the fog and the gloom, while a very handsome twelve-light gaselier, with tinted, rose-coloured shades, diffused a soft and agreeable light throughout the apartment. The floor was covered with an unusually thick carpet laid on very stout felt. Not only was this most comfortable to the feet, but it deadened sound, and the footfalls of the heaviest person walking across the room could not be heard. At one end of the room was a deep angle or recess, and placed diagonally in this recess was a large carved oak bureau or writing-desk. The entrance to the chamber was by a panelled doorway, closed by an ordinary door, masked by a second door lined with thick red felt or baize. This excluded draught as well as sound. And assuming that anyone had been prompted by curiosity or other cause to play eavesdropper, he would have needed an abnormally acute sense of hearing to have gathered any of the conversation carried on in the room. At the opposite end of the apartment—which was oblong—was another door, giving access to a small anteroom, the walls of which were lined with shelves filled with books.

On the evening in question, when the Count and his guests retired to the large chamber described, they made it evident that they wished to be free from any possibility of interruption, for the baize-covered door was locked inside, and so was its companion door. The curtains at the windows were so closely drawn that human eye could not by any possible means have discerned from the outside what was going on in the inside.

In this room the Count and his visitors remained for over two hours. They talked much, but not loudly nor excitedly. Nearly everyone smoked, until the atmosphere became heavy and thick, in spite of a large ventilator in the ceiling. But nobody seemed to mind the heat or the fœtidness. Every man appeared to be very earnest and absorbed with what was going on, and when he rolled a new cigarette, he generally did it in a preoccupied and automatic sort of way. Occasionally the host, who sat at the large desk in the recess, made notes, and read them out to the company. Sometimes what had been written was approved of; at others dissent was expressed, and discussion ensued. Then the writing would either be altered or allowed to remain as first written, according to the wishes of the majority.

It was two o’clock in the morning when the meeting broke up. Then the Count carefully locked his desk, and placed the keys in his pocket. He unlocked the doors, and led his guests to the spacious dining-room, where light refreshments were provided. A quarter of an hour or twenty minutes later a man very cautiously rose up in the recess in the room where the meeting had been held, and where he had been concealed behind the bureau or writing-desk, and, stretching his cramped limbs, he got out, crept towards the door, listened intently, and, having assured himself that the coast was clear, hurried out. At three o’clock such of the guests as were not staying in the house began to take their departure, a few in broughams, the majority in cabs, which had been waiting through the bitter night.

As most people know, the Russian New Year time is kept up with great festivity; and, hospitable though he was at all times, the Count, if possible, excelled himself on this occasion, and those who were privileged to be present went away with a feeling that they might have travelled the wide world over without meeting with such princely entertainment so delicately and gracefully dispensed. Host, hostess, and the host’s daughters were always voted perfect, and very lavish praise was uttered when Mrs. Sherard Wilson was referred to, the English people particularly, who had the entrée to the Count’s rooms during the festive gatherings, expressing their admiration in no measured terms.

At last the series of New Year receptions and entertainments came to an end, and there was a lull, which was taken advantage of by the Misses Obolensk to make their arrangements for a forthcoming ball, which they intended to give on a grand scale. The organizing of this ball was left entirely to the young ladies, as Mrs. Sherard Wilson was on the eve of departure on a journey to the Continent. The Count never concerned himself about his domestic or social arrangements; he left everything to the ladies. He was a great reader, and he wrote a good deal. Such exercise as he took he got either in his carriage or on horseback. He did not visit much, but was passionately fond of music, and went to all the principal concerts, and occasionally attended the theatres. His was a routine life; he was very regular in his habits, and one day was much like another with him. His position in every way seemed an enviable one, and apparently he lived in amity with all men. All those who knew him respected and honoured him.

About a fortnight after the gathering of Russians at his house to celebrate the New Year’s Eve, Miss Nathalia Obolensk was descending the main stairway in a white satin evening dress, with a magnificent red camellia in her hair, for she was going to a grand concert with her father, and the carriage was waiting at the door. Coming after her was a liveried man-servant bearing a large tray full of tea-things, including a kettle of hot water, a silver teapot with the remains of the tea in it, a large jug of cream, and other things, that he had just brought from the drawing-room. He was a stolid, stupid-looking man, and suddenly he justified his looks by stumbling and scattering the contents of the tray over the young lady, tea, hot water, jelly, being poured over her splendid dress, to its ruin. She uttered a shrill cry of alarm, which quickly brought her father, Mrs. Wilson, and some of the other servants into the hall, and a very dramatic scene ensued. The shock to her nerves, and the realization that the mishap had not only spoilt her pretty frock, but would prevent her going to the concert, had such an effect upon Nathalia that she flew down the few remaining stairs, flung her arms about her father’s neck, and fainted.

In the meantime the author of the mischief presented a very sorry spectacle. He seemed thoroughly ashamed of himself, and undecided whether to bolt at once or gather up the wreckage. Nor was his confusion and distress lessened by the torrent of abuse and passionate scolding which fell from Mrs. Sherard Wilson’s lips. In the choicest of Russian she told him he was a ‘dolt,’ an ‘idiot,’ a ‘fool,’ a ‘brute beast.’

‘Leave the things, you stupid!’ she exclaimed fierily. ‘Ever since you entered the house, you have done nothing but make mistakes and smash things up. But it’s the last chance you’ll have of doing mischief here. In ten minutes you’ll be out. Do you mark what I say? Ten minutes only, and if you are not out of the house, then the other servants shall kick you out.’

‘If you please, my lady,’ whined the man, ‘I am entitled to a month’s notice or a month’s wages.’

‘You will get neither, you blockhead!’ replied the lady. ‘Why, your month’s wages won’t pay for the things you’ve broken. And what business had you coming down the main staircase. It was your place to use the servants’ staircase.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ moaned Andrey, ‘and beg your pardon——’

‘Sorry, you wretch! well you may be!’ exclaimed the irate lady, unappeased by the culprit’s penitence; ‘but get out of my sight, and in ten minutes you must have left the house. Paul’—this to the head-butler—‘Paul, I charge you to see the fellow is off the premises in ten minutes.’

With this peremptory command, she hastened to the reception-room, whither the Count had had his daughter conveyed. He was much annoyed, but did not allow his annoyance to find expression, as Mrs. Wilson did.

Nathalia had by this time recovered from her faint, and was bewailing her woe-begone condition, and the blighted prospects of an evening’s enjoyment. Her father was urging her to go upstairs and change her dress, saying that they could still be in time for the concert, but she said it was impossible; she was too much upset, and had neither energy nor inclination to perform her toilet over again, notwithstanding that she had two maids to wait upon her. Finding that she was inflexible on this point, her father expressed a hope that she would soon regain her composure, and that he would see her at supper-time, and leaving her to the care of Mrs. Wilson, he retired to his study. In a little more than ten minutes the butler came to Mrs. Wilson and announced that Andrey had gone.

‘Thank goodness!’ exclaimed the lady. ‘I am sure I never had such a stupid person in my service before. Whatever were you doing to engage such a dolt?’

‘He came to me very well recommended, madame.’

‘Then, those who recommended him ought to be ashamed of themselves; that’s all that I’ve got to say. It’s really shameful that people who call themselves honest should recommend incompetent servants in order to get them off their hands.’

‘I am afraid it’s frequently done, madame,’ the butler remarked.

‘That is no excuse.’

‘I do not offer it as an excuse, madame. I agree with you that it is shameful.’

‘But surely when you engaged Andrey you might have seen that he was a fool.’

‘No, madame, I did not,’ answered the butler with some show of wounded dignity. ‘He seemed sharp enough at first. His stupidity set in afterwards. I fancy he is a little given to drink, though I’ve never missed anything, and have never seen him really the worse for liquor.’

‘How long is it since he came here?’ demanded the lady warmly.

‘Just six weeks, I think.’

‘That’s six weeks too long. Take good care that the next man you engage knows his business.’ The butler bowed and was retiring, when Mrs. Wilson called him back. ‘Stay a minute. You are aware that I am leaving London to-morrow, and may be absent three or four weeks. You had better not engage anyone else until I return.’

‘But, madame, we shall be short-handed, and——’

‘I don’t care whether you are short-handed or not. You will do as I tell you.’

Paul knew that it would be fatal to his interests to attempt to argue with his mistress when she was in a bad temper, so he made his bow and discreetly withdrew.

‘Now, Nathalia,’ said Mrs. Wilson, when the man had left them, ‘away you go upstairs, change your dress and take your father to the concert. You know how disappointed he will be if he doesn’t go, and as I am leaving to-morrow, I don’t wish to see him miserable and unhappy. You know what a sensitive man he is, and though he doesn’t say much, he feels the more.’

This appeal had its effect. Nathalia’s ruffled feelings had smoothed down.

‘Very well, I will go,’ she said; ‘but it’s an awful nuisance having to change my things in a hurry.’

She rang for her maids, and while Mrs. Wilson gave orders that the carriage was to be kept at the door, Nathalia hurried to her room, reappearing in about twenty minutes, looking, as far as personal appearance was concerned, as if nothing had happened, though there was still an expression of worry and concern on her handsome face. Mrs. Wilson had already warned the Count not to settle himself to his reading, as he would still be able to go to the concert. He was delighted at this, for he did not like to have his plans changed, and he was waiting in the hall when his daughter came downstairs.

‘Well, my dear,’ he said to her in complimentary strains, ‘you look charming in spite of the little contretemps. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and I suppose the spoilt dress means a fresh order to your dressmaker, and a further lightening of my purse.’

He laughed pleasantly, and, following his daughter into the carriage, they drove off, and after all were in time to hear the best part of the concert.

When Mrs. Wilson and Nathalia appeared at the breakfast-table the next morning, they had both recovered from the previous evening’s little annoyance. Mrs. Wilson was somewhat hasty-tempered, but she very soon got over her small outbursts, and her usual condition was a very pleasant geniality. During the breakfast, Andrey’s gross stupidity was discussed and laughed at; and when the Count, with his usual generosity, said he thought that the fellow’s wages should be sent to him, for, in spite of his stupidity, it was after all an accident, the lady acquiesced, and a little later she put up the amount in a packet, and instructed Paul to see that Andrey got it. Then she busied herself during the rest of the day in seeing that everything was in ‘apple-pie order’ previous to her departure, for whenever she was away the management of the household devolved almost entirely upon the servants. It was true there was an excellent housekeeper, and Catherine was exceedingly domesticated; besides this, she took an interest in the house. Nevertheless Mrs. Wilson was always under the impression that her absence meant disruption, and that it was impossible for things to flow smoothly while she was away. It was a pleasant little bit of conceit and did no harm, for while it gratified her it amused the others.

Dinner was unusually early that evening, for Mrs. Wilson had to catch the night mail to Dover. Her luggage—she never travelled without a considerable quantity—had previously been conveyed to the station, and, dinner over, she arrayed herself in a costly and handsome Russian fur cloak, and, in company with her maid, was driven in her brougham to Holborn Viaduct, and a first-class compartment was specially reserved for herself and her companion.

The weather was still atrocious. It was bitterly cold. There had been a drizzling rain all day long. The mud in the streets was of inky colour, and of glutinous consistency. People flitted by in the foggy atmosphere like ghosts, and not all the lights of London could relieve the gloom and depressing atmospheric effects. There were very few passengers that night; but amongst them was a man of medium height, attired in a long ulster and a seal-skin cap, the flaps of which were turned down until his face was all but hidden. He had taken a second-class ticket, and he and a young German, a commercial traveller, were the only occupants of the compartment. When Dover was reached, the rain was pouring down, the sea roared, and Channelward all was dark as Erebus. The man in the ulster, whose only luggage consisted of a hand-bag, hurried on board the small steamer, which was grinding away at the pier as the water tossed her up and down. Ensconcing himself in the shadow of the funnel, he watched the passengers as they descended the unsteady gangway; and having seen Mrs. Wilson and her maid come on board and retire to the cabin reserved for them, he dived down into the saloon and ordered supper, for he was hungry.

The crossing was an exceedingly rough one. The wretched cockleshell of a steamer which the railway company considered good enough to carry their passengers from one shore to the other was tossed about in a manner well calculated to alarm any but hardened travellers. The man in the ulster, however, was not affected. Having enjoyed a good supper, and washed it down with a pint of champagne, he produced from his case a very big and very strong-looking cigar, and lighting it, he battened his seal-skin cap down on his head and went on deck, where he remained until the steamer glided into Calais Harbour from the storm-tossed waters of the Channel. He remained until Mrs. Wilson and her maid had gone on shore. Then he followed, carrying his hand-bag. He went into the douane, had his bag examined, saw a porter deposit the lady’s wraps and rugs in the first-class compartment of the carriage labelled ‘Through carriage to Geneva,’ and, that done, placed his own bag in an adjoining compartment, and as his second-class ticket had only been from London to Calais, he secured a first-class for Geneva, and was one of the very few passengers who travelled that dark and stormy night to the French capital of Switzerland on the shores of Lake Leman.

At the period of this story Alexander II. sat upon the throne of All the Russias. It is a matter of history now that he was one of the best-threatened monarchs who ever ruled over a so-called civilized people. His life had been attempted so many times that he lived in constant fear and dread, and the most extraordinary measures were taken for his preservation. He changed his bedroom every night; his palace was filled with soldiers; his food was cooked by special cooks, who were solemnly sworn in in accordance with the rites of their Church to protect him; nevertheless, their chef had to appear in the royal presence at every meal and taste all the dishes before they were served to his august master. But even then dozens of eyes watched the man’s every movement, lest he might adroitly slip poison into the food. It was a terrible penalty for an Emperor to have to pay for his greatness, but, unhappily, it was a condition of things that had been familiar, more or less, to Russian rulers for a long time. Michael Danevitch was held high in the esteem of the Czar, who regarded him as one of his strongest safeguards. The famous detective’s restoration to the Treasury of the stolen million roubles was a thing of the past, and was almost forgotten; but that exploit had made his reputation, and gave him an absolutely independent position as well as power. Since then he had displayed remarkable zeal and acumen. He had unearthed numerous dastardly plots, and had sent to the fortress of Peter and Paul, the prison of Schlusselburgh, and to Siberia, many desperate men, who believed that the way to freedom and reform was by the destruction of human life and the shedding of innocent blood.

It was well known throughout Russia at this time that a secret Nihilist organization existed of vast proportions, and that one of the main objects of the association was to bring about the death of the Czar. It is difficult to understand how men and women, claiming to be intelligent and reasoning beings, could come to believe that by slaying their monarch they would redress their own wrongs, real or imaginary. Everyone was aware that the moment the breath was out of the body of one Czar, another would step into his place. The cry of ‘Le Roi est mort!’ would be echoed back by ‘Vive le Roi!’

There could be no interregnum for a single hour, unless a tremendous social upheaval took place and a republic was proclaimed. But while that is the easiest thing imaginable in France, it never has been possible in Russia; firstly, on account of the enormous extent of the country; secondly, by reason of the varied nationalities represented; and thirdly, owing to the want of anything like homogeneousness among the vast masses of people swayed by the Imperial rule. Nevertheless, to kill the Czar was the constant aim of thousands and tens of thousands of his subjects. It thus became necessary for his Imperial Majesty to take the most extreme measures for the preservation of his life. It was like a game of check and counter-check. The Nihilists watched with a thousand eyes; they plotted and planned with busy brains. But they in turn were watched; and the forces of the law were constantly at work against them. The Nihilists, however, had the best of it. They played the cleverer game. For in the army, the navy, in the law, the civil service, in all classes and ranks of society, even in the Church itself, they had their spies and agents, and those who were on the side of the Czar found all their energies, all their vigilance, taxed to avoid the mines which the others were ever ready to spring. Amongst the Czar’s most devoted adherents and trusted followers was Colonel Vlassovski, who was in command of the military guard which night and day did duty at the Winter Palace, where the Emperor was then residing.

The Winter Palace of St. Petersburg is the largest residential palace in the world, with the exception of Versailles and the Vatican. Its length is four hundred and fifty-five feet, and its breadth three hundred and fifty. So spacious is its interior that as many as six thousand persons can be easily accommodated there at one time. It will be readily understood that to effectually guard a place of these stupendous dimensions from a crafty, cunning, and silent enemy, who gave no sign of his presence until he had struck his blow, was not an easy task; and the tremendous responsibility and ceaseless strain on the nerves which were inseparable from Colonel Vlassovski’s position, transformed him in a few months from a comparatively young man to an old and haggard one. One day in the month of December the Colonel sent an urgent message by special courier to Danevitch, in whom he had the utmost confidence. The message was to the effect that he wished to see Danevitch immediately. The detective hurried at once to the palace, and was immediately ushered into the Colonel’s private cabinet, where there were numerous telegraphic machines that placed the chief in communication with all parts of the city, and nearly every part of Russia. The Colonel temporarily dismissed his clerks and attendants when Danevitch arrived, and bolted the door so that they might be alone and free from interruption.

‘I have sent for you,’ he began, ‘to make an investigation. Last night one of the guard in the interior of the palace, a young soldier named Vladimir, who was on duty near the Czar’s apartments, was surprised by the corporal in the act of making drawings and plans of that part of the palace. He was immediately arrested, but made the most desperate efforts to destroy his papers. He was prevented, however, from doing this, and an examination proved them to be drawings to scale of certain portions of the interior of the palace. Vladimir, before he joined the army, was in an architect’s office. On being questioned he grew sullen, and resolutely declined to say anything.’

‘And what inference do you draw from the man’s act, Colonel?’

‘What inference! Why, can there be any doubt that he is a Nihilist spy?’

‘Where is he now?’

‘In the fortress of Peter and Paul.’

‘What will be his punishment?’

‘As a soldier on duty he has been guilty of treason—for it has been declared treason for any unauthorized person to make drawings or tracings of any part of a royal residence—he will therefore be summarily tried, and, if proved guilty, will be instantly shot.’

‘And you think he will be proved guilty?’

‘There is not a doubt about it. He was discovered making drawings of the palace without orders. When questioned, he declined to give any explanation, and his endeavours to destroy the plans showed that his motives were not innocent ones. Of course we shall try, before he is executed, to get information from him.’

‘Which you will fail to do.’

‘Why?’

‘Because these Nihilists’ agents will not betray their comrades.’

‘But he will be tortured into a confession.’

‘You may torture him, but he will not confess. The Nihilists are pitiless. A traitor to their cause not only destroys himself, but all those belonging to him, for the vengeance falls also on his family and connections, however innocent they may be. Vladimir knows that, and you may depend upon it that, punish him as you will, you will never wring from him a word of confession.’

‘What’s to be done, then?’ asked the Colonel, in distress.

‘Let the fellow go free. Reinstate him.’

The Colonel stared in blank amazement; then he broke into a mocking laugh, as he asked caustically:

‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Danevitch, or become a fool?’

‘Neither.’

‘Explain, then. What do you mean?’

‘A dead man cannot speak; a live one can. Put Vladimir back into his place again, and leave the rest to me. He is a key, as it were. With him you may open many doors. Kill him, and the doors will remain closed against you.’

A new light broke on the Colonel. He looked thoughtful, and for some moments remained silent; then he remarked:

‘But there are a thousand difficulties now in the way of setting him free.’

‘Under ordinary circumstances, yes. But in this case a stroke of the Czar’s pen can do it. You are in the Emperor’s confidence. Explain to him what is required, and in two hours’ time Vladimir can be back in the palace again. Then he will betray himself by some act, some sign; on the other hand, all the resources of Peter and Paul will fail to wring from him a word that will be of use to us.’

The Colonel saw the force of the argument, and said that he would lose no time in procuring an interview with the Czar. That was done; result, in the course of the day Vladimir was reinstated. He had been told that on investigation the authorities were not disposed to take a serious view of his offence. He was a young soldier, and of value to the State, and another chance would be given to him. So he was severely reprimanded, and brought back to the palace, much to his own amazement. He had considered himself doomed, and his restoration to liberty puzzled him; but he was too obtuse to divine the real cause, and he did not dream how every movement of his was being watched. Some days later he justified Danevitch’s prediction. Being off duty, he went into the city, and, making his way to one of the quays on the Neva, now frozen over, he met a young woman, and was seen to hand her a paper. They did not confer together long, and when they separated, the young woman was followed to her home by Danevitch. Had he been a mere subordinate of the chief of police, he would have been compelled to have reported this incident, with the result that a domiciliary visit would have been paid to the house, and as a natural corollary of that action, assuming that, as was suspected, she was in conspiracy with others, her co-conspirators would be warned, and justice might be defeated. Danevitch was aware of all this, and, like a well-trained sleuth-hound, he did not attempt to strike his quarry until he was absolutely sure of it. He knew that at the most Vladimir could be but a humble instrument; behind him and influencing him were more powerful foes to the State. These were the people he wanted to lay his hands upon. It was no use casting his net for the little fish only; it was the big ones he fished for. After witnessing the meeting between Vladimir and the young woman, Danevitch had another interview with Colonel Vlassovski, during which he informed him that Vladimir was dangerous, and should be closely watched, though care was to be taken not to allow him to suspect that he was being watched. A few days later Danevitch again went to the Colonel, and said:

‘I believe I am in the way of bringing to light a great conspiracy, and I am going to leave Russia for a time.’

‘But how in the world can you bring the conspiracy to light if you are out of Russia?’ asked the Colonel in alarm. ‘Your presence is required here if there is danger.’

‘No. I can do better elsewhere. There is danger, but it does not threaten immediately. The head of the movement is not in Russia. If the head is destroyed, the tail is sure to perish. I am going to seek the head. The tail, which is here, can be trampled on afterwards.’

‘Where is the head, do you think?’

‘I don’t exactly know. In Berlin, perhaps; in Geneva, Paris, London.’

‘Ah, Geneva and London!’ exclaimed the Colonel angrily. ‘Those two places are responsible for much. They offer refuge to the vilest of wretches so long as they claim to be merely political offenders. Like charity, that term covers a multitude of sins, and under its protecting influence some of the most desperate and bloodthirsty scoundrels who ever walked the earth have found sanctuary.’

‘True,’ answered Danevitch; ‘but we cannot help that. There are ways and means, however, of dragging rascals of that kind from their sanctuary. I am going to see what can be done.’

‘You will keep in touch with me,’ the Colonel remarked.

‘Certainly I will. In the meantime, draw a closer cordon round the palace, and let no one sleep. You must not forget, Colonel, that the plots we are called upon to checkmate are hatched not in Russia, but in some of the European capitals. The poor fools who execute the work here are mere tools. We want to lay hands on the principals, the people who from a safe retreat supply the money. Stop the money, and the tools will cease to work.’

All that Danevitch urged was undeniable. The Colonel knew it. Those in power knew it. The Czar himself knew it. But hitherto the great difficulty had been to secure the principals. The prisons were full of the hirelings; hundreds and hundreds of them dragged out their miserable lives in Siberia; but still the danger was not lessened, for as long as ever money was forthcoming men and women could always be found ready and willing to pit their liberties and lives against the forces of the Government. It cannot be denied that amongst them were some, many perhaps, who were not mere hirelings, but were prompted by mistaken notions of patriotism; they were generally young people led away by false sentiments and misplaced enthusiasm. It had been found, too, that young women, for the sake of men they loved, were willing to risk all they held sacred on earth at the bidding of their lovers. They were the most pliant, the most willing tools; but they were also the weak links in the chain. They acted with less caution than men. They went to work blindly, and with a stupid recklessness which was bound sooner or later to betray them. Danevitch had a favourite theory, or saying, to the effect that, given a plot with a woman in it, all you had to do was to find out the woman, and you would discover the plot. In this case he had found out the woman. The one who met Vladimir on the quay by the Neva was a book-keeper in a general store. She shared apartments with another young woman in a poor part of the town. At night, when her duties for the day were over, she was in the habit of attending secret meetings, mostly of women, with a sprinkling of men amongst them. One of these women was a Madame Petrarna. She was an organizer and a leader. Vladimir’s sweetheart was in high favour with her. Petrarna was the wife of a man who was in exile as ‘a danger to the State.’ He had been arrested as a suspicious personage, and though nothing was actually proved against him, he was sent to Siberia.

Having learnt so much about Vladimir’s sweetheart, Danevitch devoted his attention to Petrarna. He had made the ways of Nihilists a study, and though they had their spies everywhere, he was often able to outwit them, and he succeeded in getting around him a little band of devoted agents who were ready to go anywhere and do anything at his bidding. Amongst these agents was a clever little woman, and she succeeded one night in gaining admission to a meeting over which Petrarna was presiding. The president spoke of the arrest and release of Vladimir, and how he had been able, after all, to hand to his sweetheart and their colleague certain drawings of the palace, which would be invaluable to them in their work.

This and many other things the agent learnt, and conveyed the intelligence to her employer Danevitch, whereby he was induced to go abroad to search for the head, as he had told Colonel Vlassovsky.

Weeks passed, and Danevitch was in Geneva. The weather was bitter. The winter had set in very early, and so far had been unusually severe. At this period there were something like five thousand Russians living in Geneva and its environs. The majority of these Russians were Nihilists. One night, although a black bise was blowing, filling the air with spiculæ of ice, and freezing to the marrow all those who ventured into the streets, various individuals—singly, in twos and threes—wended their way to an old building in a lonely side-street not far from the Gare. It was a short street, and devoted principally to warehouses, which were closed at night; consequently it was badly lighted, and after business hours practically deserted. The entrance to one of these buildings was by an arched gateway, closed with massive wooden gates, in one side of which was a small door to allow the workpeople to pass in and out when the gates were closed. On the night in question, this little door opened and shut many times; each time it opened, somebody entered after having been asked for a sign, a counter-sign, and a password. Without these none could enter. At length there were nearly fifty persons present. Then the gate was barred and guarded. In a long back upper room, the windows of which were so screened that not a ray of light could escape, a meeting was held. It was a Nihilist meeting, and the chief thing discussed was the destruction of the Czar of Russia. Reports were also read from many ‘Centres,’ detailing the progress that was made in what was called ‘The Revolutionary Movement.’ One man brought with him a great quantity of seditious literature in Russian. It had been printed by a secret press in the town. The meeting was presided over by a lady; that lady was Mrs. Sherard Wilson. She distributed a considerable amount of money among those present, and talked the most violent of language. She was a fluent and eloquent speaker, and swayed the meeting as reeds are swayed by the wind.

A long discussion followed, and many things were settled. Amongst others, the date of the ‘Czar’s execution’ was fixed; and Mrs. Sherard announced that she would leave for St. Petersburg in a very few days to hasten the ‘good cause.’

The meeting was orderly, business-like, and quiet. Every person present—man and woman—seemed terribly in earnest, and there was a grim severity in their tone and speech which argued unrelenting bitterness and hatred against the ruler of Russia and many prominent members of his council, all of whom were marked for swift and sudden death. It was midnight when the meeting broke up. Silently the people came, silently they departed; and when the last one had gone, and the door in the gate had been locked, a death-like stillness reigned in the deserted warehouse. Outside, the black bise roared, bringing from the lake and the surrounding hills fierce storms of hail.

A little later the door of the gate opened noiselessly, and a man, having glanced carefully up and down to see that no one was in sight, passed out, locked the door after him, and disappeared in the darkness of the night.

That man was Michael Danevitch. He had heard all that had passed at the meeting, for he had been concealed behind a pile of packing-cases, and his note-book was filled with the names, so far as he could gather them, of all those who had taken part in the proceedings.

Three days after the meeting had been held, Mrs. Sherard Wilson took her departure for Berlin, where she rested for a day and a night, and had interviews with several influential people, and at a certain bank and money-changer’s in Berlin she converted an English cheque for a large amount into Russian money. She was known to the money-changer; he had cashed similar cheques before. Having completed her business, she pursued her way to Russia. At the frontier her luggage and passport were examined. There was nothing liable to duty in the former; the latter was all in order and duly viséd. The examiners at the frontier, however, failed to discover in one of her trunks a very artfully and cleverly contrived false bottom, where lay concealed not only a mass of inflammatory literature, but documents of the most damaging description. So she passed on her journey, distributing largess freely, and regarded by the officials as a lady of distinction, travelling no doubt on important business, for no one travelled for pleasure in the winter weather. Mrs. Wilson spoke French, German, Russian, and many dialects, so that she had no difficulty with regard to tongues. In the same train with her travelled a man, who was ostensibly a fur merchant, in reality her shadower—Danevitch the detective.

In due course they reached St. Petersburg, and the lady was driven to one of the principal hotels, where she engaged a suite of rooms; and when three or four days had elapsed, during which she was very active and went about much, she attended a secret meeting, held in the house of one Alexeyeff, who was a bookseller in a small way of business. In that house over sixty persons assembled, including the indefatigable Mrs. Sherard Wilson. When the last person had entered, there gradually closed around the place a cordon of heavily-armed policemen. They, again, were reinforced by a body of soldiers with loaded guns and fixed bayonets. At a given signal, when all was ready, the door of the house was burst in and the meeting, which had just got to business, was broken up in wild confusion. The people saw that they had been betrayed and were trapped. For a moment a panic seized them. Some made a bid for liberty, and rushed off, but could not get far; the cordon was too strong to be broken through. Others, with a wild despair, prepared to sell their lives and liberties dearly. But, as is well known, Continental police, and particularly the Russian police, stand on no ceremony when resistance to their authority is offered. The maudlin sentiment which we in England so often display, even when the most desperate ruffians are concerned, is quite unknown abroad. Resistance to the law generally means injury, and often death, to the resister. On the occasion in question, the police and the soldiers were all heavily armed, for they were aware that the work they were called upon to perform could not be undertaken with kid gloves on; the glittering swords and bayonets which menaced the trapped people had an effect, and what threatened to be a scene of bloodshed and death ended in a despairing surrender to the forces that were irresistible. From the moment that the police broke in upon the meeting Mrs. Sherard Wilson felt that hope had gone, and she made no attempt either to save her own liberty or arouse her followers to action.

Under a very strong escort the misguided people were conveyed to prison, and very soon it was made evident that Danevitch had brought to light one of the most desperate and gigantic conspiracies of modern times. Not only had plans been drawn up and arrangements made for killing the Czar, but many noblemen and high officials were to be killed. The conspirators were chosen from all ranks of society, and they had followers in the army and the navy, as well as in the police. That they would have succeeded in their nefarious designs there is little doubt, had it not been for the vigilance and cleverness of Danevitch. He found out that Count Obolensk, who resided in London, was supplying large sums of money to aid the work of the conspiracy. The detective therefore decided upon the bold step of taking service in the Count’s household for a time. This he succeeded in doing, and on the night of the meeting recorded in the early part of this story, which was held at the Count’s house, he hid himself behind the writing-desk and heard all that took place. In order to get away from the house without raising suspicion, he let the tray of china fall on the stairs as Miss Obolensk was descending. He followed Mrs. Sherard Wilson to Geneva, and was present at that other meeting, when he gained most important information, and subsequently, all unknown to her, accompanied the lady to Russia.

Investigation brought to light the fact that Mrs. Wilson was the wife of a Russian of high social position, but he had been sent to Siberia for life as a political offender. From that moment his wife became the sworn enemy of the Government and the Czar. She had previously been acquainted with Count Obolensk, and was able to exert great influence over him, and, as he was very wealthy, he proved a valuable ally. The plot failed, however, at the eleventh hour, thanks to Danevitch. How narrow had been the escape of the Emperor from a violent death was revealed at the trial of the prisoners, when it was proved that a considerable number of the officials of the palace, as well as soldiers and servants, had been corrupted, and on a given date a man was to be admitted to the palace at night, and he was to throw a bomb into the Czar’s bedroom.

Simultaneously an attempt was to be made on the lives of several influential people residing outside of the palace. Desperate and terrible as all this seems, there is no doubt it would have been attempted, for the men and women who were mixed up in the plot were reckless of their lives, and terribly in earnest.

No mercy was shown to the prisoners, and the majority of them were sent to some of the most inhospitable regions of Northern Siberia, including Mrs. Sherard Wilson. To her it must have been infinitely worse than death, and it may be doubted if she ever survived to reach her destination.

THE CROWN JEWELS.

Moscow—or, as the natives call it, Maskva—might almost be described as a city within a city; that is to say, there is the Kremlin, and a town outside of that again. The word Kremlin is derived from the Slavonic word Krim, which signifies a fort. It is built on a hill, and is surrounded by a high turreted wall from twelve to sixteen feet thick. This wall varies from thirty to sixty feet high, and is furnished with battlements, embrasures, and gates. Within the Kremlin are most of the Government offices: the Treasury; the renowned Cathedral of St. Michael, where the monarchs of Russia were formerly interred; and the Cathedral of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, long used as a place of coronation of the Emperors.

In the Treasury are preserved the State jewels, which, in the aggregate, are probably of greater value than any other State jewels in the civilized world. There are something like twenty crowns of such a size, splendour, and intrinsic value that each in itself is a fortune. Tradition says that one of these crowns was given by the Greek Emperor Comnenus to the great Vladimir. Some are covered with the most magnificent diamonds; others with turquoises of immense size; others, again, with rubies and pearls; the groundwork of all is solid gold, and the workmanship exquisite. Then there are sceptres of massive gold, powdered with priceless gems. There are diamond tiaras, diamond cinctures, services of gold and jewelled plate, jewelled swords. These costly treasures are preserved in a large well-lighted room of noble proportions, and to this room the public are freely admitted. It need scarcely be said that the State jewel-room of the Treasury is a source of great attraction to foreigners, and no one visiting Moscow for the first time would think of leaving the city without having paid a visit to the Treasury jewel-room. One morning, on opening the Museum for the day, there was tremendous consternation amongst the officials and attendants, when one of the guardians of the treasure-house made the discovery that no less than three crowns, two sceptres, a diamond belt and a diamond tiara were missing. The circumstance was at once reported to the keeper of the jewels—General Kuntzler. The office was generally held by a retired military officer, and was much sought after, as it was a life appointment and the salary was good. The keeper had many subordinates under him, and while they were responsible to him, he himself was held entirely responsible by the Government for the safe-guarding of the jewels. General Kuntzler had occupied the position for about two years, after long and important military service. When he heard of the robbery, he was so affected that his mind gave way, and before the day was out he shot himself.

Investigation soon made it evident that a crime of unparalleled audacity had been committed under the very noses of the Government officials, and property intrinsically valued at many thousands of pounds had disappeared. As the affair was a very serious one for all concerned, no time was lost in summoning Michael Danevitch and enlisting his services. As can readily be understood, quite apart from the monetary value of the lost baubles, the associations surrounding them made it highly desirable that every effort should be put forth to recover them; and it was impressed upon Danevitch how imperatively necessary it was to take the most active measures to get on the track of the thieves immediately, because, as everyone knew, the gold would be melted down as soon as possible, and the precious relics be thus destroyed. Amongst the crowns carried off was the one worn by the last King of Poland. It was a magnificent bauble, and was so thickly encrusted with gems that in round figures it was worth in English money something like fifty thousand pounds. It will be seen, therefore, that the loss in mere value to the State was enormous. It was, of course, as Danevitch saw clearly enough, no ordinary robbery. It must have been planned deliberately, and carried out with great ingenuity. Nor was it less obvious that more than one person had been concerned in the daring crime.

There was a prevailing impression at first that General Kuntzler must have had a share in the robbery, but Danevitch did not take that view. The unfortunate General had an untarnished record, and though his suicide was calculated to arouse suspicion, it was established by Danevitch that the poor man—fully realizing the great responsibility that rested on his shoulders—was unable to face the blame that would attach to him. It would be said that he had not exercised sufficient care, and had been careless of the safety of the priceless treasures committed to his charge. This was more than he could bear, and he ended the whole business as far as he was concerned by laying violent hands upon himself.

‘I saw from the first,’ Danevitch writes, ‘that the guilty parties must be sought for among the ranks of those who make robbery a fine art, if one may be allowed to so express himself. Mere commonplace, vulgar minds would have been incapable of conceiving, let alone of carrying out, so daring a deed as that of robbing the State of its priceless historical baubles. It was no less self-evident to me that the affair must have been very carefully planned, and arrangements made for conveying the articles out of the country immediately, or of effectually destroying their identity. In their original condition they would practically be worth nothing to the illegal possessors, inasmuch as no man dare offer them for sale; but by taking out the gems and melting the gold the materials could thus be converted into cash. I ascertained that when the Museum was closed in the evening previous to the robbery being discovered, everything was safe.’

It appeared that it was the duty of the chief subordinate, one Maximoff, to go round the hall the last thing, after it had been closed to the public for the day, and see that everything was safe. He then reported to General Kuntzler. This had been done with great regularity. It so happened, however, that the day preceding the discovery that the jewels had been stolen was an official holiday. At stated periods in Russia there is an official holiday, when all public Government departments are closed. This holiday had favoured the work of the thieves, and some time during the forty hours that elapsed between the closing of the hall in the evening before the holiday, and the discovery of the robbery on the morning after the holiday, the jewels had been carried off.

The holiday was on a Wednesday; on Tuesday evening Maximoff made his round of inspection as usual, and duly presented his official report to his chief, General Kuntzler. According to that report, everything was safe; the place was carefully locked up, and all the keys deposited in the custody of the General, who kept them in an iron safe in his office. It was pretty conclusively proved that those keys never left the safe from the time they were deposited there on Tuesday night until Maximoff went for them on Thursday morning. During the whole of Wednesday Maximoff and the attendants were away. Maximoff was a married man, with three children, and he had taken his family into the country. Kuntzler remained, and there was the usual military guard at the Treasury. The guard consisted of six sentinels, who did duty night and day, being relieved every four hours.

‘The whole affair was very complicated,’ proceeds Danevitch, ‘and I found myself confronted with a problem of no ordinary difficulty. I was satisfied, however, that General Kuntzler was entirely innocent of any complicity in the affair; and, so far as I could determine then, there was not the slightest ground for suspecting Maximoff. There were twelve other subordinates. They were charged with the duty of dusting the various glass cases in which the jewels were deposited, and of keeping the people in order on public days, and I set to work in my own way to endeavour to find out what likelihood there was of any of these men being confederates. It seemed to me that one or more of them had been corrupted, and proved false to his charge. Without an enemy in the camp it was difficult to understand how the thieves had effected an entrance.’

The Treasury was a large white stone building, with an inner courtyard, around which were grouped numerous Government offices. The entrance to this yard was by a noble archway, closed by a massive and ornamental iron gate. In this gateway a sentry was constantly posted. The Museum was situated in about the centre of the left wing of the main block of buildings. The entrance was from the courtyard, and the hall, being in an upper story, was reached by a flight of marble steps. To gain admission to the hall, the public were necessarily compelled to pass under the archway, and so into the courtyard. Of course there were other ways of reaching the hall of jewels, but they were only used by the employés and officials. General Kuntzler, his lieutenant, Maximoff, and four of the subordinates, resided on the premises. They had rooms in various parts of the building.

A careful study of the building, its approaches and its exits, led Danevitch to the conclusion that the thief or thieves must have reached the hall from one of the numerous Government offices on the ground-floor of the block, or from the direction of Kuntzler’s apartments, and he set to work to try and determine that point. He found that one of the offices referred to was used as a depository for documents relating to Treasury business, and beneath it, in the basement, was an arched cellar, also used for storing documents. This cellar was one of many others, all connected with a concreted subway, which in turn was connected with the upper stories by a narrow staircase, considered strictly private, and used, or supposed to be used, by the employés only. The office was officially known as Bureau 7. Exit from it could be had by a door, which opened into a cul-de-sac, and was not a public thoroughfare. It was, in fact, a narrow alley, formed by the Treasury buildings and a church.

Danevitch was not slow to perceive that Bureau 7 and the cul-de-sac offered the best, if not the only, means of egress to anyone who, being on the premises illegally, wished to escape without being seen. It was true that one of the sentries always on duty patrolled the cul-de-sac at intervals; but that, to the mind of Danevitch, was not an insuperable obstacle to the escape of anyone from the building. Of course, up to this point it was all conjecture, all theory; but the astute detective brought all his faculties to bear to prove that his theory was a reasonable one.

He ascertained that the door into the cul-de-sac was very rarely used indeed, and had not been opened for a long time, as the office itself was only a store-room for documents, and days often passed without anyone going into it. Critical examination, however, revealed to Danevitch that the outer door had been very recently opened. This was determined by many minute signs, which revealed themselves to the quick and practised eyes of the detective. But something more was forthcoming to confirm him in his theory. On the floor of Bureau 7 he found two or three diamonds, and in the passage of the cul-de-sac he picked up some more. Here, then, at once was fairly positive proof that the thief or thieves had made their exit that way. Owing to rough handling, or to the jarring together of the stolen things, some of the precious stones had become detached, and by some carelessness or other a number of them had fallen unperceived to the ground; these as surely pointed the way taken by the robbers as the lion in the desert betrays his track by the spoor. This important discovery Danevitch kept to himself. He was fond of likening his profession to a game at whist, and he used to say that the cautious and skilful player should never allow his opponent to know what cards he holds.

Having determined so much, his next step was to discover, if possible, the guilty persons. It was tolerably certain that, whoever they were, they must have been well acquainted with the premises. Of course it went without saying that no one could have undertaken and carried out such an extraordinary robbery without first of all making a very careful study of every detail, as well as of every means of reaching the booty, and of conveying it away when secured. The fact of the robbery having been committed on the Wednesday, which was a Government holiday, showed that it had been well planned, and it was equally evident that somebody concerned in it was intimately acquainted with the premises and all their ramifications. The importance of the discovery of the way by which the criminals had effected their escape could not be overrated, and yet it was of still greater importance that the way by which they entered should be determined. To do that, however, was not an easy matter. The probability—a strong probability—was that those concerned had lain perdu in the building from the closing-time on Tuesday night until the business was completed, which must have been during the hours of darkness from Tuesday night to Wednesday morning, or Wednesday night and Thursday morning. In the latter case, however, the enterprising ‘exploiters’ must have remained on the premises the whole of Wednesday, and that was hardly likely. They certainly could not have entered on Wednesday, because as it was a non-business day a stranger or strangers seeking admission would have been challenged by the sentries, and not allowed to pass without a special permit. At night a password was always sent round to the people residing in the building, and if they went out they could not gain entrance again without giving the password. These precautions were, in an ordinary way, no doubt, effective enough; but the fact that on this occasion they had proved of no avail pointed to one thing certain, which was that the intruders had gained admission on the Tuesday with the general public, but did not leave when the Museum was closed for the night, and to another thing, not so certain, but probable, that they had been assisted by somebody living on the premises.

Altogether something like sixty persons had lodgings in the Treasury buildings, but only fourteen of these persons, including Kuntzler himself, were attached to the Museum portion. The General’s apartments were just above the hall in which the Crown jewels were kept. He had a suite of six rooms, including a kitchen and a servant’s sleeping-place. He was a widower, but his sister lived with him as his housekeeper. She was a widow; her name was Anna Ivanorna. The General also had an adopted daughter, a pretty girl, about twenty years of age: she was called Lydia. It appeared she was the natural child of one of the General’s comrades, who had been killed during an émeute in Siberia, where he was stationed on duty. On the death of his friend, and being childless himself, Kuntzler took the girl, then between six and seven years of age, and brought her up. For obvious reasons, of course, Danevitch made a study of the General’s household, and so learned the foregoing particulars.

As may be imagined, the General’s death was a terrible blow to his family, and Lydia suffered such anguish that she fell very ill. Necessarily it became the duty of Danevitch to endeavour to ascertain by every means in his power if Kuntzler’s suicide had resulted from any guilty knowledge of the robbery. But not a scrap of evidence was forthcoming to justify suspicion, though the outside public suspected him. That, perhaps, was only natural. As a matter of fact, however, he bore a very high reputation. He had held many important positions of trust, and had been elected to the post of Crown Jewel Keeper, on the death of his predecessor, on account of the confidence reposed in him by the Government, and during the time he had held the office he had given the utmost satisfaction. An examination of his books—he had to keep an account of all the expenses in connection with his department—his papers and private letters, did not bring to light a single item that was calculated to arouse suspicion, and not a soul in the Government service breathed a word against him, while he was highly respected and esteemed by a very large circle of friends.

It was admitted on all sides that General Kuntzler was a very conscientious and sensitive man. The knowledge of the robbery came upon him with a suddenness that overwhelmed him, and, half stunned by the shock, his mind gave way, and he adopted the weak man’s method to relieve himself of a terrible responsibility. That was the worst that anyone who knew him ventured to say; he was accorded a public and a military funeral, and was carried to his last resting-place amidst the genuine sorrow of great numbers of people.

‘I confess that at this stage of the proceedings,’ writes Danevitch in his notes of the case, ‘I did not feel very sanguine of success in the task imposed upon me; and when Colonel Andreyeff, Chief of the Moscow Police, sent for me, and asked my views, I frankly told him what I thought, keeping back, however, for the time being, the discovery I had made, that the culprits had departed from the building by Bureau 7, and had scattered some diamonds on the way. The Colonel became very grave when he learnt my opinion, and paid me the compliment of saying that great hopes had been placed on me, that the reputation of his department was at stake, and if the jewels were not recovered, and the culprits brought to justice, it might cost him his position. I pointed out that I was quite incapable of performing miracles; that while I could modestly claim to have been more successful in my career than any other man following the same calling, it was not within my power to see through stone walls, or divine the innermost secrets of men’s hearts.

‘“But you are capable of reading signs which other men have no eyes for,” exclaimed the Colonel.

‘“Possibly,” I answered, as I bowed my thanks for the good opinion he held of me; “but in this instance I see no sign.”

‘“But you are searching for one?” said the Colonel anxiously.

‘“Oh, certainly I am,” I responded.

‘The anxious expression faded from the Colonel’s face, and he smiled as, fixing his keen gray eyes on me, he remarked:

‘“As long as you are still searching for a sign, Danevitch, there is hope. There must be a sign somewhere, and unless you have grown blind and mentally dull, it will not escape you for long.”

‘This was very flattering to my amour propre, and I admit that it had a tendency to stimulate me to renewed exertion, if stimulus was really needed. But, as a matter of fact, I was not just then very hopeful. Nevertheless, as I took my leave, I said that, if the problem was solvable by mortal man, I would solve it. This was pledging myself to a good deal; but I was vain enough to think that, if I failed by methods which I had made a lifelong study, to say nothing of a natural gift for my work, no one else was likely to succeed, except by some accident which would give him the advantage.’

Like most men of exceptional ability, Danevitch was conscious of his strength, but he rarely allowed this self-consciousness to assert itself, and when he did he was justified. His methods were certainly his own, and he never liked to own defeat. That meant that where he failed it was hardly likely anyone else would have succeeded. Not only had he a tongue cunning to question, an eye quick to observe, but, as I have said elsewhere, a sort of eighth sense, which enabled him to discern what other men could not discern.

After that interview with Colonel Andreyeff, he fell to pondering on the case, and bringing all the logic he was capable of to bear. He saw no reason whatever to change his first opinion, that there had been an enemy in the camp. By that is meant that the robbery could never have been effected unless with the aid of someone connected with the place, and knowing it well. Following his course of reasoning, he came to the decision that the stolen property was still within the Kremlin. His reason for this was, as he states:

‘The thieves could not have passed out during the night, as they would have been questioned by the guards at the gates. Nor could they have conveyed out such a bulky packet on Wednesday, as they would have been called upon for a permit. On the other hand, if the property had been divided up into small parcels, the risk would have been great, and suspicion aroused. But assuming that the thieves had been stupid enough to carry off the things in bulk, they must have known that they were not likely to get far before attracting attention, while any attempt to dispose of the articles as they were would have been fatal. To have been blind to these tremendous risks was to argue a denseness on the part of the culprits hardly conceivable of men who had been clever enough to abstract from a sentry-guarded Government building property of such enormous value. They would know well enough that melted gold and loose gems could always find a market; but, having regard to the hue and cry, that market was hardly likely to be sought for in any part of Russia. Therefore, when reduced to an unrecognisable state, and when vigilance had been relaxed, the gold and the jewels would be carried abroad to some of the centres of Europe, where the infamous receiver flourishes and waxes fat on the sins of his fellow-men.

‘In accordance with my custom in such cases,’ continues Danevitch in his notes, ‘I lost not a moment when I took up the case in telegraphing to every outlet from Russia, including the frontier posts. I knew, therefore, that at every frontier station and every outlet luggage would be subjected to very critical examination, and the thieves would experience great difficulty indeed in getting clear. But there was another aspect of the case that could not be overlooked, and it caused me considerable anxiety; it was this—the gems could be carried away a few at a time. A woman, for instance, could conceal about her person small packets of them, and excite no suspicion. To examine everyone personally at the frontiers was next to impossible. There was another side, however, to this view, and it afforded me some consolation. To get the gems out of the country in the way suggested would necessitate a good many journeys on the part of the culprits, and one person making the same journey several times would excite suspicion. If several people were employed in the work, they would be certain to get at loggerheads sooner or later, and the whole business would be exposed. I always made it a sort of axiom that “when thieves fall out honest men come by their due,” and experience had taught me that thieves invariably fall out when it comes to a division of plunder. Of course, I was perfectly alive to the fact that it would not do to rely upon that; something more was wanted: it was of the highest importance to prevent the stolen property being carried far away, and all my energies were concentrated to that end.

‘I have already given my reasons for thinking that at this stage the stolen jewels had not been removed from the Kremlin. Although there are no regular streets, as understood, in the Kremlin, there are numerous shops and private residences, the latter being inhabited for the most part by the officials and other employés of the numerous Government establishments. The result is that within the Kremlin itself there is a very large population.’

It will be seen from these particulars that the whole affair bristled with difficulties, and, given that the thieves were sharp, shrewd, and cautious, they might succeed in defeating Danevitch’s efforts. One of the first things he did was to request that every sentry at the Kremlin gates should be extra vigilant, and subject passers to and fro to more than ordinary observation, while if they had reason to suspect any particular person, that person should be instantly arrested. The precautions which were thus taken reduced the matter to a game of chance. If the thieves betrayed themselves by an incautious or careless act they would lose. On the other hand, if they were skilful and vigilant the detective would be defeated; and as the stakes were very large, and to lose meant death to them (that being the penalty in Russia for such a crime), it was presumable that they would not easily sacrifice themselves. At this stage Danevitch himself confessed that he would not have ventured to give an opinion as to which of the two sides would win.

The more Danevitch studied the subject, the more he became convinced that the thieves must have been in league with someone connected with the Treasury Department. In face of the fact that false keys had been used, the theory of collusion could not be ignored; the difficulty was to determine who was the most likely person to have proved traitor to his trust. Maximoff bore a high character; General Kuntzler had reposed full confidence in him. The subordinates were also men of good repute. That, however, was not a guarantee that they were proof against temptation. Nevertheless, Danevitch could not get hold of anything that was calculated to arouse his suspicion against any particular individual. If there was a guilty man amongst them, he would, of course, be particularly careful not to commit any act, or utter any word, calculated to betray him, knowing as he did that Danevitch was on the alert.

When several days had passed, and General Kuntzler had been consigned to his tomb, Danevitch had an interview with his sister, Anna Ivanorna. She was in a state of great mental excitement and nervous prostration; and Lydia, the General’s adopted daughter, was also very ill. Anna was a somewhat remarkable woman. She was a tall, big-boned, determined-looking individual, with a soured expression of face and restless gray eyes. Her manner of speaking, her expression of face, and a certain cynicism, which made itself apparent in her talk, gave one the notion that she was a disappointed woman.

‘This is a sad business,’ began Danevitch, after some preliminary remarks.

‘Very sad,’ she answered. ‘It has cost my brother his life.’

‘He evidently felt it very keenly,’ said Danevitch.

‘A man must feel a thing keenly to commit suicide, unless he is a weak-brained fool, incapable of any endurance,’ she replied with a warmth that amounted almost to fierceness. After a pause, she added: ‘My brother was far from being a fool. He was a strong man—a clever man.’

‘So I understand. Did he make any observation to you before he committed the rash act?’

‘No.’

‘Yes, he did, Anna,’ cried out Lydia from the couch on which she was lying, wrapped in rugs.

Anna turned upon her angrily, and exclaimed:

‘How do you know? Hold your tongue. He made no observation, I say.’

Lydia was evidently annoyed at being spoken to in such a manner, and she replied with spirit, as she raised herself on her elbow:

‘Don’t snap at me like that, Anna. I know perfectly well. My poor father said over and over again that he had been betrayed, that there had been a traitor in the house. It was that that distracted him. He couldn’t bear the thought of it.’

‘And who do you suppose the traitor was?’ Anna asked angrily. ‘You are always thinking wrong of people.’

Lydia did not take any notice of this. She lay still, and seemed to be suffering; keen mental anguish.

‘Have you any opinion how the robbery was committed?’ asked Danevitch of Anna.

‘No.’

‘But surely you must have some idea.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Do you think it possible, now, that such a crime could have been committed without a confederate in the camp?’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded the woman sternly, as though she resented the bare suspicion which the question implied.

‘My meaning is plain, surely. An utter stranger to the place could not have done this deed.’

‘I suppose he couldn’t. But whoever did it couldn’t have been an utter stranger.’

‘Do I understand from that that you suggest the culprit or culprits are people who were employed here?’

‘No, I don’t suggest that. But it stands to reason that anyone undertaking a deed of this kind would be careful to make himself acquainted with the building.’

‘And how do you think he did that?’

‘You know as well as I do that the place is open to the public. What is there to prevent anyone studying the place?’

‘Nothing whatever, so far as the public part of it goes. But, unless with the aid of a confederate, I do not quite see how anyone could become acquainted with those parts where the public are not admitted.’

‘Well, Mr. Danevitch,’ said Anna, with a decisiveness which was meant to clinch the argument, ‘I am not an expert like you, nor do I know anything at all about the matter, therefore don’t bother me with any more questions. I am troubled enough, and have enough on my mind without this affair. I want to forget it.’

‘I make every allowance for you,’ replied Danevitch. ‘I quite understand that your feelings are lacerated, but I thought it was within the bounds of possibility that you might be able to throw some light on the matter. However, I will not disturb you further, but take my leave.’

Anna showed him out with a sigh of relief, and she shut the door with a bang that indicated too plainly how glad she was to get rid of him. At this stage, Danevitch writes, he felt in a quandary. There were certain signs that suggested probabilities, but it was not easy to determine just then whether or not the signs were anything more than shadows, by which he might be misled. Speculation and theory were all he had to guide him, and he was only too well aware that the most astute of reasoners is apt to be misled. What necessarily concerned him was the danger of being led out of the true track by a false sign. He was not indifferent, of course, to the fact that he had made some progress—that is to say, he had determined pretty conclusively how the thieves had left the Treasury buildings when once they had secured their booty. But what was of still greater importance was to discover how they got in. Could he solve that part of the problem, he felt sure it would give him many points.

It was remarkable about Danevitch that, while he was often mistrustful about his own instincts, he seldom erred. He had made human nature so close a study that the person who, as the saying is, could have thrown dust in his eyes would have had to have been preternaturally clever. He maintained, and proved it over and over again, that the face was so certain an index to what was passing in the mind that every thought of the brain was communicated instantly to the features, which indicated it as unmistakably as a delicately-balanced needle notes the slightest current of electricity. Of course, it was necessary to understand these face-signs. That in itself is a science. Indeed, the power to understand it is a gift, and he who fully possesses it is what is termed to-day ‘a thought-reader.’ Danevitch did not call himself that, but he possessed the power in a marked degree, nevertheless; and no one could be indifferent to the extraordinary strength and power of his eyes. When he looked at you, you felt somehow as if he was looking right into your brain. Mr. Gladstone is said to have that peculiar eye, and it can readily be understood that anyone with guilty knowledge having to meet the piercing gaze of such an eye is almost sure to betray himself by face-signs, which to the expert are full of meaning. Danevitch had brought this study to such perfection that it proved invaluable to him, and often afforded him a clue which otherwise he would never have got. Another strong trait in his character was the persistency with which he stuck to an idea when once he had thought it out. That, again, was largely responsible for the success that attended his efforts in the art of solving criminal problems. Of course, his ideas were generally very sound ones, and the result of much cogitation. He never jumped to hasty conclusions.

The foregoing little disquisition is not out of place in view of what follows, and will certainly add to the reader’s interest.

About three weeks after that interview between Danevitch and Anna Ivanorna, three men were seated in a restaurant situated in what is known as the Zemlidnoi-gorod, which, being interpreted, means ‘earthen town,’ and it is so called because at one time it was surrounded by an earthen rampart. This part of Moscow contains a number of drinking-places, spirit-stores, shops, cafés and restaurants. The one in which the three men were seated was a very typical Russian fifth-rate house. The ceiling was black with smoke. Flimsy and frouzy curtains hung at the windows; the floor was sanded; long, rough, wooden tables, forms, and common chairs constituted the furniture. At one end of the room was a small counter, covered with lead, on which stood sundry bottles, glasses, and plates of caviare and sandwiches; at the other end was the indispensable stove—a huge affair with a massive convoluted iron flue, that was suggestive of a boa constrictor.

The night being very cold, the three men were crowded round the stove, engaged in deep and earnest conversation. Two of the men were young; one about two or three and twenty, the other a year or two older. They were well dressed, and apparently belonged to a class not given to frequenting drinking-places of that kind. The third man was of a somewhat striking appearance. He was swarthy as a gipsy—a black beard and moustache, black eyes, black hair, cropped close to the skull. In his ears he wore small gold rings, and his style, manner, and dress proclaimed him unmistakably a seafaring man.

Presently the glazed door of the shop swung open, and a Jew tumbled in. He was heavily bearded; on his head was a small black, tightly-fitting skull-cap. He wore long boots, with his trousers, which were very baggy, tucked into the tops, and a fur-lined coat, which must have been in existence for a generation at least. He divested himself of this coat and hung it on a peg, and then ordered vodka and caviare.

The three men ceased their conversation when the stranger entered; and he, when he had finished his repast, rose, and with somewhat unsteady gait, as if he had been drinking, walked to the stove and asked if he might be allowed a seat there. The other three, with by no means good grace, made room for him. The seafaring man was smoking a very black, very strong cigar. The Jew produced from his pocket a huge pipe, and, filling it with coarse tobacco, asked the seafarer for a light, which was given. When his pipe was fairly in swing, he said to the man with the cigar: