William Le Queux (continued 4)

“There is no allegation whatever against mother or daughter, therefore set your mind entirely at rest. We desire to ascertain something. That is all.”

His manner angered me.

“If I were to denounce you as a spy you would be thrown out of this house very quickly,” I said, indignant that this ill-featured man should, for some mysterious reason, watch every action of my well-beloved.

He glanced at me with an amused expression, as he answered in a half whisper,—

“By betraying me, m’sieur would betray one of his closest friends.”

“Oh! How’s that?”

“A word from you to either of these women,” he exclaimed, with brows slightly knit, “and the department in St Petersburg will know the reason that Sonia Korolénko was enabled to pass the frontier at Verjbolovo; they will know that Paul Verblioudovitch, the Secretary of Embassy, has assisted a criminal to escape.”

“You scoundrel!” I cried, facing him fiercely. “You listened to our conversation!”

He shrugged his shoulders, and with the same grim smile, answered,—

“My ears are trained, m’sieur. It is part of my profession.”

“But why do you remain here, in a peaceable household?” I demanded. “Surely neither Mrs Laing nor Ella have incurred the Tzar’s displeasure or the hatred of those in authority! They know nothing of Russia; they have never set foot in the country.”

The man’s features relaxed, and turning from me, he busied himself among some bottles on the sideboard.

“I desire an answer,” I continued.

“I have my instructions,” he replied, without looking towards me.

“From whom?”

“From headquarters.”

“Well,” I exclaimed. “We are not in Russia, therefore, when the ladies return, I shall explain who and what you are.”

“You dare not,” he said, regarding me suddenly with dark, penetrating gaze.

“Miss Ella will soon be my wife, and I will not allow her actions to be noted upon one of those formidable forms of yours that are too often the death-warrants of your victims.”

“These ladies are not my victims, as you are pleased to term them,” he protested, laughing at my anger.

“Victims or friends, they shall no longer remain under your accursed surveillance,” I cried hotly. “You may practice your espionage upon your suspected compatriots; but I will never allow you to keep observation upon my friends here in England.”

“Very well,” he said, quite calmly, with that cynical expression that was so tantalising. “Act as you think fit. We, of the secret service, take no step before due consideration of its consequences, a policy it would be wise for you also to adopt.” Then, with a show of mock politeness, he opened the door of the dining-room, and, bowing, exclaimed, “Madame is out, will m’sieur remain, or call again?”

Our eyes met, and I saw in his a look of triumph.

“I’ll call again,” I replied, and walked out into the hall, gaining the street a moment later.

The first passing hansom I hailed, and drove at once to Chesham House, where I was fortunate to find Paul. When we were closeted together, I told him of the police officer’s threat, and my announcement caused him considerable astonishment.

“Curious,” he repeated, as if to himself. “Very curious that Renouf should be installed in that family, above all others.”

“Above all others,” I echoed. “Why?”

“I—I mean that Mrs Laing could not possibly have done anything to offend our Government,” he said, quickly correcting himself. “It is certainly very strange. Renouf is not a man to be trifled with,” he added quickly. “There must be some very strong reason, known only to himself, that has induced him to act in this manner. If the motive were not a strong one, he would delegate the menial position he has had to assume to one of his subordinates. I know he has his hands full of important inquiries just now, and it therefore surprises me that he is calmly reposing as butler in Mrs Laing’s service.”

“But knowing him to be a spy, I cannot allow him to remain longer in daily contact with those two defenceless women,” I exclaimed.

“Have they ever been in Russia?”

“Never!” I replied. “Only the other evening they were asking me about St Petersburg, and both expressed a wish to visit your country.”

Paul, with his hands behind his back, and head bent in thought, paused for a moment, and then said,—

“From what I know of Ivan Renouf, I believe that were you to do him an evil turn, and obtain his dismissal from Pont Street, he would at once expose to the Ministry of the Interior how Sonia Korolénko obtained her passport. If he did so, the result would be disastrous to me, especially just at a time when our frontier regulations are extremely rigid.”

“What, then, is the best course to pursue?” I asked.

He was silent, looking moodily into the fire. Then turning with a sudden movement, he said, with emphasis,—“You are my friend, Geoffrey. My future is in your hands.”

“Which means that my silence is imperative,” I observed reflectively.

Paul Verblioudovitch nodded, but uttered no word. If I denounced Renouf it was plain that my friend who had seriously imperilled his position at my urgent request, must undoubtedly suffer. In order to shield him I must therefore remain silent. With intense chagrin I saw myself ingeniously checkmated.

I dared not allow one single syllable of suspicion regarding the German servant, who was, according to Mrs Laing, “a treasure,” to escape my lips, and thus, as the weeks passed preceding my marriage, I was compelled to watch and wait without any outward sign.

The reason of his vigilance was an inscrutable mystery. With Ella as my wife I had passed six blissful weeks, visiting many of the quaint, old-world towns in Central France. It had been Ella’s fancy to do this. She hated the glare and glitter of Paris, and would only remain there the night on our outward and homeward journeys; indeed, cities had no charm for her, she preferred the lethargic provincial towns, from which we could make excursions into the country and spend the bright autumn days at old-fashioned inns. Fearing that she was becoming bored, I endeavoured to induce her to go to Biarritz or Pau, but to no avail. The crowded table-d’hôte, of the popular resort possessed no attraction, and I rejoiced in secret, for we spent a far happier time wandering through the country than if installed in some garish hotel in the neighbourhood of a casino.

Once, and only once since our marriage, had I made any mention of the death of Dudley Ogle. We were driving into the ancient town of Chateauroux, in the Indre, on the lumbering, dusty, old diligence that has performed the same daily journey for perhaps a century, when I chanced to incidentally utter his name, and express wonder when the mystery would be solved.

We were speaking in English, not a word of which could be understood by our driver, but instantly she turned to me with a look of reproach, and, placing her little gloved hand on my mouth in haste, exclaimed,—

“No, Geoffrey. Do not recall that terrible tragedy. Promise never again to mention his name; it only brings sadness to both of us, while the mystery surrounding the crime is irritating and puzzling. You have already told me that he was not your friend, although he posed as such, therefore forget him. I have not forgotten; nor shall I ever cease to think and to strive towards the solution of the problem.”

“But cannot I help you to search and investigate?” I suggested. “Why should you strive to elucidate this mystery alone, now that you are my wife?”

“Because it is my ambition,” she answered, regarding me earnestly with clear, trusting eyes. “You will, I know, allow me to retain one object in life apart from you.”

“Certainly,” I answered, surreptitiously pressing her hand, although puzzled at her strange words. In the few weeks we had been together I had discovered that she was a woman of moods and curious fancies. Once or twice she had exhibited a strong desire to walk alone at night when the moon shone, and because I objected she had pouted prettily, scorning the idea that she was not able to take care of herself. Except when in this mood she was always eager to fulfil my every wish, and I had quickly arrived at the conclusion that her strange desires were but natural to one of a slightly hysterical temperament, and therefore troubled myself but little about them.

Thus after an enjoyable trip through one of the most beautiful districts of France, unknown to the average Briton, we returned and settled comfortably at our new home in Kensington. My duties at the Foreign Office took me away the greater part of the day, but Ella was not lonely, for she drove out frequently with her mother, who visited her almost daily. Of interference or maternal influence I had nothing whatever to complain, yet Ella’s desire to wander about alone, aimless and absorbed, soon again seized her. We had been settled about a month when I made this discovery from the servants, who, on my arrival home earlier than usual on several occasions, told me, in answer to questions, that their mistress had gone out by herself. But on her return she betrayed no surprise, mentioning quite incidentally that she had been shopping in High Street, or that she had been to her milliner’s in Bond Street, or elsewhere.

So frequently did this occur that at last I became puzzled, and on making further inquiries found that on many occasions she had been absent the whole day, returning only just in time to change her dress and receive me with that bright, winning smile that always held me entranced.

One bright December afternoon I returned at three o’clock, and found she had been absent since eleven that morning. I took a cab to Pont Street, but ascertaining she had not been there, returned home, and impatiently awaited her until nearly six. As soon as I heard her light footstep I seized a book that lay nearest and pretended to read. She burst in like a ray of sunshine, her face aglow with laughter, and in her hand an immense bunch of sweet-smelling violets.

The book chanced to be a Koran in Arabic. She came across to kiss me, but I waved her off with dignity, and went on translating the Word of the Prophet.

Ella stood back indignant, and with her flowers in front of her waited at the other side of the table.

After a pause I commenced, “You went out this morning ten minutes after I had gone; it is now six o’clock. You have been absent seven hours.”

Ella nodded.

“And how have you employed your time?” I asked. “Have you been shopping, as usual?”

Ella again nodded.

“Seven hours is a long time. Where did you get those flowers?” I asked, sniffing contemptuously at the huge bunch of sweet-smelling blossoms she had let fall before me.

“I bought them at Scott’s.”

“That is a bunch specially made up for presentation,” I said. “Someone gave them to you.”

“Yes, the shopman,” she laughed. “I gave him two shillings for them.” Then she took off her hat and, impaling it with a long pin, cast it heedlessly upon the table.

“It has not occupied seven hours to buy a bunch of violets,” I said ruthlessly. “Where have you been?”

Ella looked round laughing, and said in a quiet voice, “I have been to see a friend.”

“Another aunt—eh?” I asked, suspiciously.

She took a chair and sat down opposite; then, with her head leaning upon her hands, she said demurely, “Yes, it was an aunt.”

There was silence. Ella had picked up her bunch of violets, and every time I looked up she was watching me over them.

“Well,” I exclaimed at last, “where does this aunt live—at Highgate?”

“No, not that one. She is poor. She lives in Camberwell.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said, standing up suddenly.

Ella raised her eyebrows in interrogation. There was an ominous look in her blue eyes, and I put forth my hand to snatch the flowers and cast them into the fire. Instead, I sat down again and turned over another hundred pages of my Koran.

“Geoffrey,” she said at length in a low, timid voice I perused my book with stolid indifference.

“Geoffrey,” she repeated, “why are you angry with me without cause?”

Raising my head, I saw that her fine eyes were dimmed by tears, and almost unconsciously I reached, took her hand, and pressed it. Then Ella, rising slowly, came round and sat upon my knee.

“You see,” she whispered, with her arms around my neck, “this is how it was. Last night I said to myself,—

“This poor, dear Geoffrey—he is so busy with his country’s affairs, and works so hard—he will be away all day; therefore I will go over to call upon my aunt in Camberwell and take her a bottle of wine and some tea, for she is a great invalid and in poverty. Since my marriage I haven’t seen her, and as she is in great straits I know dear Geoffrey will not object.”

Here Ella stopped to nestle closer to me, and went on,—

“And to-day I took a cab down to Camberwell, to a dreary row of drab, mournful-looking houses, and all day long I have sat by her bedside trying to cheer her. Ah! she is so ill, and so sad. Then on my return I called at Scott’s and bought these flowers for my darling, serious old boy who has been working all day in his dreary office with its window overlooking the dismal grey quadrangle. And I am so tired, and it was not at all amusing for me without him.”

The flowers smelt so sweet in front of me; and Ella was so sweet, childlike and full of happiness, that I took her soft face between my hands, as was my habit, and kissed her.

But later that evening, on going to her room alone to fetch something for her, I noticed that her high-heeled French boots, thrown aside, as she had cast them off, were unusually muddy, although, strangely enough, it had been a dry day. I took them up, and upon examining the soles found them caked with damp clay in which were embedded some blades of grass.

I slowly descended the stairs engrossed by my own thoughts. Grass does not grow in the streets of Camberwell.

Chapter Twenty.

Undercurrents of Diplomacy.

A few nights later we went together to a ball at the Russian Embassy. Perhaps of all the functions in London a ball at Chesham House is one of the most brilliant and imposing, for it is always on a scale in keeping with the dignity of the representative of the Tzar.

The spacious state rooms with their great crystal chandeliers and heavy gilding, were filled to overflowing with pretty women and men in uniform of hues as varied as those of the ladies’ dresses, from the black coat of the United States Minister to the bright yellow jacket of the Emperor of China’s representative. All the diplomatic body were present, as well as many personages well-known in English society. At the head of the grand staircase Monsieur Grodekoff, the Russian Ambassador, a striking figure in his spotless white uniform, his breast glittering with orders set in brilliants, including the much-coveted ribbon of St Andrew, stood with his daughter receiving their guests, and as we advanced the courtly, white-haired old gentleman, whom I had met on many occasions in my official capacity, shook me heartily by the hand and congratulated us upon our marriage.

“I heard, Deedes, of your good fortune,” he said, after greeting Ella. “I trust that you and your wife will have long life and every happiness.”

“Thanks, your Excellency,” I answered, smiling contentedly. “There is no doubt, I think, concerning our happiness.”

“You should take madame to St Petersburg,” the aged diplomatist laughed. “She would enjoy it, especially with you, who know our country.”

“I hope to go very soon,” Ella said. “I have heard so much about it, and am longing to see it.”

“Go now,” he urged. “This is just the season; plenty of snow, and skating and sledging and suchlike sports that delight us in the North.”

We both laughed in chorus, while the representative of the White Tzar, dismissing us into the ballroom with a low bow, turned to greet the tall, full-bearded representative of his Imperial master’s ally, the French Republic. In the corridor there was bustle everywhere. Gaily-uniformed servants hurried here and there, young attachés, their breasts decorated with crosses and ribbons of every combination of colour, lounged along with pretty women on their arms, while older diplomats of every shade of complexion from white to black, exchanged greetings as they met.

From the gay cosmopolitan throng in the ballroom rose the mingled odour of a thousand perfumes with the chatter of laughing women, and ere we had entered, Paul Verblioudovitch, erect, spruce and smart in his pale-blue uniform, and wearing many decorations, elbowed his way through the crush towards us.

We had not met since the wedding reception at Pont Street, and as we strolled through the brightly-lit salons, Ella, radiant and enthusiastic, began telling him of our idle days and explorations in the old-world French towns.

“Permit me, madame, to congratulate you,” he exclaimed presently.

“Upon what?” asked Ella, in surprise.

“Upon being the prettiest woman it has ever been our honour to entertain here upon this small square of territory belonging to our Imperial Master,” he said, bowing and smiling with that inborn finesse which was one of his chief characteristics.

“Ah, you diplomatists always flatter,” she laughed lightly behind her fan. “Is it really wise of you to make a woman vain?” she asked, inclining her head slightly.

I felt compelled to admit that Paul had spoken the truth, for as we passed along I had not failed to notice that Ella’s beauty was everywhere remarked. Her gown of cream satin, a trifle décolleté, with the corsage thickly embroidered with pearls and edged with flowers, suited her admirably, and the instant consciousness of success in that brilliant circle of society unfamiliar to her heightened the colour of her cheeks and added lustre to her eyes.

“The majority of the women who honour us with their presence on these occasions are vain enough,” my friend admitted, adding in a low voice, “even though some of them are absolute hags.”

“Mr Verblioudovitch is, I believe, past-master of the art of flattery,” Ella observed, laughing, turning towards me. “He could make a dowager-duchess believe herself as youthful and attractive as a girl of eighteen.”

“It is necessary sometimes, madame,” he answered, amused. “Quite necessary, I assure you.”

At that moment a quietly-dressed elderly lady of pronounced Teutonic type and matronly proportions was struggling to pass us, but, recognised by Paul, was introduced to Ella. It was a woman with whom I was well acquainted, the Countess Landsfeldt, wife of the German Ambassador. She at once joined our little group, and commenced to chat with a strong accent.

“We have not met, madame, for quite an age—three months, is it?” Paul exclaimed presently. “You have been away, I believe.”

“Ah! yes. For a month I was in Berlin, and afterwards, just as I was returning to London, my youngest daughter fell ill, and I was compelled to spend two months with her in Ehrenburg, our schloss on the Mosel.”

“The Ehrenburg!” exclaimed Ella, enthusiastically. “I know it quite well. How romantic and charming it looks perched high up upon its solitary rock. My mother and I drove from Brodenbach along the valley to see it last year.”

“Ah, you did not enter?”

“No,” my wife answered, smiling. “I had not then the honour of madame’s acquaintance.”

“Inside, we are back in mediaeval days, with dungeons, torture-chambers, and all sorts of relics of barbarism; while the legends connected with the place are legion. Some day, if you are interested in ancient castles, you and your husband must visit me in Germany.”

“It is the most carefully preserved stronghold of the middle ages extant,” Paul observed.

“Ah, yes,” replied the Countess, “but it is gloomy and dull—ugh!” and, shrugging her shoulders, she pulled a little grimace. “I prefer Berlin—or even London.”

“You say even London, Countess,” exclaimed Paul. “I quite agree. London is triste after Vienna or St Petersburg. Is his Excellency with you this evening?”

“No. My husband is—oh, so busy. We only returned from Lord Maybury’s this morning, and dispatches accumulate so fast in his absence.”

“He has received another decoration from the Emperor, I hear,” Verblioudovitch observed.

“Yes, the Iron Cross,” replied the Countess, looking at him sharply. Then she added quickly,—

“But who told you? He only received His Majesty’s intimation three days ago, and I thought for the present it was a profound secret.”

Upon Paul’s face there spread that imperturbable smile that he could assume at will, as he answered,—

“It is the object of a diplomatist to ascertain the nature of all secrets.”

The Countess gave vent to a forced laugh as she exclaimed, “My husband, I think, fully deserved the honour.”

“Certainly, madame,” replied the Tzar’s official, courteously, his hands clasped behind his back. “The completion of the secret convention with England was, I admit, a master-stroke, and even though directed against us, the rapidity and cleverness with which it was effected were worthy of reward.” And he smiled at her mysteriously.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, fanning herself slowly with a sudden hauteur; “no secret seems safe from you, m’sieur. Nothing escapes the Embassy of Russia.” And bowing slightly, her stiff silks swept past us, and a moment later she became lost in the chattering, well-dressed crowd.

“You see, my dear Geoffrey,” laughed Paul, when the Countess was out of hearing, “we are accredited with the omnipotence of the Evil One himself quite unduly. I particularly desired to learn whether her husband had been decorated by his Emperor for that convention which nearly cost Europe a war; therefore I hazarded a single remark. Whereupon she at once told me all about it, and having done so, in her next breath denounced us and all our works. But, there,” and he gave his shoulders a shrug, “women are such strange creatures.”

“How cleverly you managed to ascertain what you desired,” observed Ella.

But the fine Viennese orchestra had struck up, and my wife, being engaged to him for a dance then commencing, he led her off, and I failed to overhear his reply.

For the next hour I did not dance, but wandering about the rooms I exchanged greetings and chatted with those I knew, until at length I came across Lady Farringford, the wife of Sir Henry Farringford, our Minister in Washington, sitting with her daughter Mabel. We were old friends, and Mabel quickly responded to my invitation to waltz. She was a smart girl, and rumour said that she had become engaged to a wealthy American, a statement which, in reply to my inquiry, she frankly confirmed. As we waltzed and lounged together I noticed Ella dancing first with Paul, and afterwards with several young attachés of my acquaintance. Once or twice we exchanged smiles, and I knew by the expression on her face how thoroughly she was enjoying her first night in the diplomatic circle. The scene was brilliant and full of colour, the music excellent, and the scent of exotics almost overpowering. Everyone seemed intoxicated with gaiety. In that cosmopolitan crowd hearts were lighter and talk more free than in the ordinary London ballroom, although experienced ones knew that here, amid this brilliant assembly, there were many strange undercurrents affecting the prestige of monarchs and the welfare of nations.

“So, you are to marry, Mabel,” I observed when, after waltzing, I led her into an ante-room, and she sat down to eat an ice.

“Yes, at last,” she sighed, looking up at me with a pair of mischievous dark eyes. She was about twenty-two, and rather pretty. “I’m to be married in June, and we are coming to Europe for a twelve months’ tour. You are married already. I’d so much like to meet your wife. Since I’ve been here this evening I’ve heard nothing but admiration of her. You’re the envy of all your male friends, Geoffrey.”

I laughed. I confess that by the sensation Ella had caused I felt flattered.

“I’ll introduce you when I have a chance,” I said. “Our congratulations are mutual. You are to have a husband; I have already a wife.”

“I hope you’ll find the Biblical quotation correct,” she laughed, peering at me over her gauzy fan. “Do you know the words?”

“No,” I replied, “I’m not good at remembering quotations.”

“Well, the Bible says, ‘Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing.’ I hope you’ll be no exception to that rule.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “I don’t know what it says about husbands, but, however it may be worded, you have my heartiest wishes for long life and good luck.”

At that instant Ella, on the arm of a young Italian marquis, possessed of a longer title than his rent-roll, entered. I sprang up at once and introduced her, and soon we all four were chatting merrily. When, a quarter of an hour later, we rose to return to the ballroom, Ella, radiant and happy, walked beside me. In reply to my question, she declared that she was enjoying herself immensely, but as we were re-entering the salon she clutched my arm, and in a half-frightened whisper exclaimed,—

“Look! Geoffrey. Look at that servant in uniform over there. Why, it’s our man, Helmholtz!”

I glanced in the direction she had indicated, and sure enough there was the detective Renouf, who, in the Laing household, posed as Carl Helmholtz, in the handsome blue-and-gold livery of the Embassy, handing an ice to a lady. Instantly I grasped the situation.

“It is a striking resemblance, dearest,” I said; “nothing more.”

“But I’m certain it’s Helmholtz,” she declared excitedly. “Take me closer to him.”

“When we were at Pont Street this afternoon, Helmholtz was there, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He brought tea into the drawing-room.”

“Well, no doubt he is at home now. This fellow may be his brother, or something.”

For a moment we stood watching, and saw him make a servile bow. Fortunately he turned his back upon us, hastening to execute some command, otherwise he must have come towards us and met us face to face.

“I’m certain it is Helmholtz,” Ella exclaimed, in a tone of conviction.

“Without doubt it is a very striking resemblance,” I admitted. “But the servants of an Embassy are not recruited from the nearest registry office. Besides, they would never employ a German here.”

At that moment Paul approached and claimed her for the next dance, while I wandered on alone amid the crowd, my mind full of strange thoughts.

Presently, while watching the dancers, I chanced to glance aside and recognised a sparse, well-known figure approaching. It was the Earl of Warnham. Attired in plain evening dress of a rather antiquated cut, he wore no decorations, save the broad blue ribbon across his narrow strip of shirt-front, the highest honour his Sovereign had bestowed upon him. I was surprised to find him there, for I had believed him to be at Osborne in attendance on Her Majesty.

“Ah, Deedes,” he exclaimed in a low voice, with a slight smile upon his colourless, wizened face. “In the enemy’s camp—eh?”

“Yes, my wife wished to come,” I explained.

“Of course. Women like this sort of thing. I have never met her. You must introduce her presently.”

“She will esteem it an honour,” I said, adding, “She is over there in a cream dress, dancing with Verblioudovitch.”

He glanced in their direction, and started perceptibly. For some moments his keen eyes followed her. Then I noticed that his grey brows contracted, and his usually expressionless face wore a strange, ominous look such as I had never before detected upon it.

“Is that your wife?” he asked huskily, turning and eyeing me curiously.

“Yes.”

“Was it she who alleged that your friend Ogle was the victim of foul play?” he inquired with emphasis, in a voice that betrayed dismay.

“It was,” I replied.

The Foreign Minister sighed. As he again turned his eyes upon the pair at that moment gliding down the room to the strains of the latest fashionable refrain his brow darkened, and his teeth were firmly set. A silence fell between us.

Chapter Twenty One.

In Kensington Gardens.

On our return home in the early hours, Ella sat before the fire in her cosy boudoir, her opera-cape still about her shoulders, resting her tired head upon a cushion, and staring thoughtfully into the dying embers, while I lounged near, smoking a final cigarette. Times out of number I tried to account for the Earl’s agitation when he had encountered her. It was evident they were not strangers, although when I had introduced them he treated her with studied courtesy. There were, I remembered, many suspicious incidents connected with her as yet unexplained, nevertheless, from that memorable evening when Dudley and I had dined at “The Nook” and we had become reconciled, I had never doubted that she loved me. Perhaps I had been foolish, I told myself. I ought to have obtained full explanation of the several circumstances that had caused me such uneasiness before marriage, yet I had abandoned all active effort to ascertain the truth, because of the intensity of my passion. Her beauty had captivated me; her voice held me spellbound, and because I loved her I could not bring myself to suspect her. For a long time she sat, reflecting gravely upon the events of the evening; then, shivering slightly, rose and went to her room, leaving me alone to ponder over her sudden seriousness.

Sometimes a slight shadow of suspicion would flit across my mind, as it often had on finding her absent, yet when she spoke caressingly to me I at once found myself laughing at the foolishness of my thoughts, basking in the sun of her brilliant beauty, heedless and content. Prior to our marriage, I had been madly jealous of every slight attention paid to her by one of my own sex, of whatever age, but now, recognising how marvellously fair she was, and that wherever she went she became the centre of attraction, I was no longer angry with any of our guests who paid court to her. Beck dined with us frequently, always gay and amusing, while once or twice Verblioudovitch had also accepted our invitation, and treated Ella with the courtliness of the polished diplomatist. I did not invite the latter often, because of her antipathy towards him. When, after his first visit, I had asked her what she thought of him, she had replied,—

“There is something about him I don’t like, dearest. I cannot explain what it is. Perhaps it is his excessive politeness; or it may be his profuse flattery that bores me; nevertheless, I seem to have a feeling that I ought to avoid him.”

“He’s one of the best of fellows, darling,” I said, laughing at her misgivings. “In my bachelor days we were very close friends.”

“I don’t like him,” she answered frankly. “I hate all Russians.”

“I thought you said once you would like to go to Russia?”

“Yes, I am anxious to see the country, but the Russians I have met I have always detested,” she said, adding, with seriousness, “Now that I am your wife I may speak plainly, may I not?”

“Of course, darling.”

“Then, in your own interests, promise me to avoid Paul Verblioudovitch as much as possible.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised.

“Because—well,” she answered in hesitation; “because I have some curious, inexplicable feeling that he is not your friend.”

Then it occurred to me that they had been sitting together that evening in a cosy-corner in the drawing-room, deep in conversation, and it might be that Paul had uttered some compliments meant to be polite, but which she had misconstrued into flirtation. In that case, it was only natural that, loving me so deeply as she did, she should warn me that Paul was not my friend.

“In what way do you suspect him of being my enemy?” I inquired.

“He is untrustworthy,” she replied, an answer that tended to confirm my supposition. On several other occasions I laughed at her fears, but she always made the same reply, that she believed he was not straightforward, and even went so far as to ask me not to invite him to our house in future. This caused me some little annoyance, for of all men Paul Verblioudovitch was one of my most valued friends; and, further, while she had conceived a violent dislike towards him, she nevertheless allowed herself to be flattered by the man of whom I had once been madly jealous—Andrew Beck.

Thus the early days of our married life proceeded, blissful and full of love, but with one tiny cloud of mystery that, although growing no larger, still cast its ominous shadow ever between us. Sometimes when alone I pondered deeply, wondering whether my confidence had after all been ill-placed, puzzled over one or two incidents such as I have already described. Trifling as they were in themselves, they nevertheless caused me much uneasiness, yet when Ella entered, bright and radiant, greeting me with an affectionate caress, I could not doubt her. I knew that, however suspicious her actions might appear in my eyes, she loved me honestly, with a passion as fierce and uncontrollable as my own.

Meanwhile Renouf, who explained his absence on the night of the Embassy ball to Ella’s complete satisfaction, still continued to remain in service at Pont Street, and each time we dined there he hovered about us noiselessly and ever watchful, like a spirit of evil. When our eyes met, I saw in his a cold glance of contemptuous triumph, for he had already seen that I feared to denounce him for Paul’s sake, and he was pursuing his mysterious investigations, whatever they were, without let or hindrance. Mrs Laing, sighing as stout ladies will, was always loud in his praise, declaring him to be the most steady and attentive servant that had ever been in her service, while Ella expressed a wish that we could meet with a man possessed of similar virtues. A dozen times I longed to take my wife and her mother into my confidence, but dared not, for the silence imposed upon me was absolutely imperative.

One day, early in January, I had received a message from Lord Warnham to call at his house in Berkeley Square, but when I arrived found a note stating that he had been compelled unexpectedly to go down to Lord Maybury’s seat in Hertfordshire to consult him. Therefore I left, and it being a cold but invigorating afternoon I resolved to walk home. Proceeding along Piccadilly and Knightsbridge, I skirted the Park, and entering Kensington Gardens by the Alexandra Gate, strolled towards Kensington in the full enjoyment of a cigar. Ella had, I knew, gone to Pont Street, her mother being rather unwell, therefore I walked leisurely beneath the leafless, smoke-blackened trees. The short, gloomy day was now fast drawing to a close, and, with the falling gloom, a chill wind had sprung up, whistling mournfully through the bare branches, causing me to turn up my coat-collar and draw on my gloves. I fancied myself alone, for at four o’clock in winter the place is dismal and deserted. Having passed Queen’s Gate, I was approaching the Broad Walk, when I was attracted by two figures strolling slowly together in front of me, a man and a woman. At first I took no heed, and would in a few moments have overtaken them, when it occurred to me that the silhouette of the woman was familiar even in the dusk. Again I looked, and noticed that she was fashionably dressed in a dark-brown tailor-made gown, a sealskin cape and close-fitting hat. Next second I realised the amazing truth.

The woman walking before me was Ella.

Her companion, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, wore a long drab overcoat of distinctly “horsey” cut, a silk hat of the latest shape, and displayed a good deal of shirt cuff. He was evidently a fop, and his whole exterior, from his varnished boots to the velvet cuffs of his overcoat, pronounced him to be a cad. Leisurely he strode by her side, smoking a cigarette, and earnest in conversation, now and then emphasising his words by striking the palm of one gloved hand with his fist.

Once, as I dogged their footsteps, my teeth clenched in fierce anger, I heard her give vent to a rippling peal of laughter that echoed among the black, gaunt tree trunks. I knew by that laugh she was tantalising him. My first impulse was to rush up to them and demand an explanation, but my second thought had been to hold my anger in control, and ascertain the true extent of her perfidy. Was not this the second time I had detected Ella walking alone with a man in lover-like attitude?

I loved her with all my heart, and had believed implicitly that she reciprocated my affection, yet here, in this single moment, the cup of happiness was dashed from my lips. I knew I had been the victim of base deception. While I, fool that I had been, had fondly imagined that she loved me; she had abandoned all self-respect and allowed herself to walk in a public garden with a chance-met acquaintance. Sonia’s ominous words recurred to me, and I saw how I had been tricked and betrayed. The pretty refugee was right, notwithstanding the denunciations of the diplomatist and the spy, both of whom had some motive in discrediting her statements.

With eager eyes and heavy heart I followed the pair cautiously, fearing each moment lest either should turn and detect my presence. Apparently they were too deeply engrossed in each other’s talk, which, although carried on in a tone so low that I could catch no single word, seemed scarcely of an amatory nature, judging from the man’s gestures. To me it appeared rather as if he were urging her to do something from which she shrank. Once, while he spoke, she stopped short and stretched out both hands towards him in an attitude of supplication. But he did not heed her, for, giving vent to a low laugh, he continued, emphasising his words as before. Then, clenching her hands, she stamped her foot in anger, and tossing her head in contempt, walked forward again, heedless of her companion’s threatening attitude.

From that moment both grew calmer, for the man, uttering words of forgiveness, snatched up her hand and imprinted a kiss upon it. For a brief second she allowed her hand to linger in his grasp, then withdrew it gently, but firmly, regarding him with earnestness the while. This action aroused my anger to a fierce, murderous hatred. With difficulty I managed to preserve an outward calm, because, in my state of mind, I felt compelled to watch and wait. Yet, if I had had a weapon ready to my hand at that moment, I verily believe that I must have thrown myself upon this arrogant cad, and mercilessly killed him.

The manner in which his hat was set upon his head, slightly askew, in the manner of the London “’Arry,” and his over-burdening mannerism, were in themselves sufficient to show the type of lover my wife cultivated. As I stepped softly behind them in the gloom, I told myself that she must leave my house that night, or I should. I felt in my throat a choking sensation, for I had loved her so fervently that this discovery of her falseness had utterly unnerved me, and even in those moments of fierce anger and hatred I confess that tears welled in my eyes. Ella was the only woman I had ever loved, yet she who had taken her marriage vows only a few short months before had already discarded me for this overdressed idiot, who would be termed in vulgar parlance a “bounder.”

Perhaps he did not know her to be married. This thought took possession of me. When their quarrel ended it became manifest that Ella herself was endeavouring to fascinate and hold him, just as she had charmed me, by the softness of her speech, her exquisite grace, and her wonderful beauty. She spoke quietly, with her dainty finger-tips laid lightly upon his arm, while he listened, gazing earnestly into her face, enchanted.

To-night, I told myself, the bonds uniting me to Ella should be for ever severed. I remembered the many occasions when she had been absent, visiting imaginary friends; I recollected the evening she brought home the violets and preserved them carefully in water until they smelt so faint that she was compelled to throw them away; I had not forgotten the fact that blades of grass did not grow in the squalid, overcrowded streets of modern Camberwell. I glanced around at the grass on every side. Perhaps she frequented that place, and took clandestine walks daily with her lover beneath those leafless trees. The thought provoked my bitter hatred, and I know not how I refrained from facing the pair. I managed, however, to hold myself back, watching them exchange a tender farewell at the gate that led into Kensington High Street, next the Palace Hotel, and while the man raised his hat politely and, turning, walked away in the direction of Knightsbridge, Ella, her face radiant and happy, bowed and set out homeward in the opposite direction.

Beneath the lamp in the gateway I had, in those brief seconds, obtained a glimpse of his face. It was that of a young man of about two-and-twenty, with strongly marked features, fair-haired, and of quite a different type than I had conjectured. The features were rather refined, by no means those of a cad, but rather those of a well-bred young idler, who affected the dress and manners of that class of youths who frequent the Café Monico on Sunday evenings, the slaves of the counter.

Once he glanced back to Ella, but she did not turn; then he went on and was lost in the darkness, while I followed my wife’s neat figure through the bustling throng of foot-passengers.

Chapter Twenty Two.

To Err is Human.

Instead of keeping behind her straight home, I turned from the main road, and with my mind full of gloomy thoughts, wandered about the dark, quiet thoroughfares in the neighbourhood of Campden Hill until, having walked for over an hour undecided how to act, I awoke to a consciousness that I was before my own house.

When I entered I opened a telegram lying on the hall table, and found it was from Lord Warnham, stating that he was leaving the Premier’s suddenly, and asking me to call at Berkeley Square at six. It was then a quarter to six, and I saw that even by cab I must be ten minutes late for the appointment.

“Has my wife returned, Juckes?” I asked my faithful man, who stood ready to relieve me of hat and coat.

“Yes, sir. She returned an hour ago, and is now in the drawing-room.”

My first impulse was to return to Berkeley Square without seeing her, but unable longer to bear the suspense, I allowed Juckes to take my things, and entered the room, where she awaited me.

“Ah! Geoffrey!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet with an expression of joy, and coming forward to meet me. “I expected you home long ago, dearest.” And she raised her face for the habitual kiss.

“Oh,” I said coldly, placing her away from me without caressing her. “Have you been home long?”

“A long, long time,” she answered, regarding my coldness with unfeigned surprise.

“Where have you been to-day?” I inquired, rather sharply, taking up a position on the hearthrug, with my back to the bright wood fire.

“This morning I went to Mr Praga’s studio in Hornton Street, and gave him a sitting. He is painting my portrait for the Academy, you know.”

“Yes,” I answered. “He told me so at the club the other day. Where else have you been?”

“Why are you so anxious to have a complete record of my doings?” she asked, pouting. “You seem absurdly suspicious.”

I smiled bitterly. Since her return she had exchanged her tailor-made gown for a handsome dinner-dress, and wore as her only ornament a string of pearls, my wedding gift. She stood gazing at me with her dark blue eyes wide-open, and brows arched in well-feigned reproach.

“You did not return to lunch,” I said quietly.

“No, I went to Pont Street,” she answered. “Mother was so fearfully upset.”

“Why?”

“Last night she detected Helmholtz in the act of opening a letter he had taken from the postman. It contained a cheque, and she was compelled to discharge him at a moment’s notice.”

“I understood he was quite a model servant,” I said, in genuine surprise at this latest development. To me it was astounding that a shrewd officer like Renouf should have thus allowed himself to be caught napping.

“Mother thought most highly of him,” she went on. “But it now appears that for the past few weeks she has had suspicions that her letters were being tampered with, for two cheques sent by tenants for rent have been stolen.”

“I never thought very much of him,” I said.

“Neither did I,” she declared. “He had such a silent, cunning way, and moved so softly, that dozens of times when I have turned suddenly I have been quite startled to find him standing close to me. I’m glad mother has got rid of him. She packed him off bag and baggage.”

“Did he protest his innocence?”

“No. He treated her with cool indifference, placed his things in his portmanteau leisurely, hailed a cab, and went off without asking for his wages.”

I was silent. The reason Renouf should descend to steal cheques was inexplicable. One thing, however, appeared clear, namely, that he had taken an unusual interest in the nature of Mrs Laing’s correspondence. To me it was a matter for congratulation that as he had been detected by his mistress and discharged, he could not cast upon me the blame for his betrayal.

“What did you do after lunch?” I at last inquired, returning to my charge.

“I went shopping,” she replied, smiling.

“With whom?”

“Alone.”

“Were you alone the whole time?” I inquired, regarding her intently.

Her lips quivered slightly and her glance wavered. “Yes,” she answered, “I did not meet anyone I knew.”

“That is a lie, Ella!” I cried.

“It is not,” she stammered, pale and agitated. “I have told you the truth.”

“To prevaricate is utterly useless,” I said angrily. “I followed you through Kensington Gardens, where you were walking with your lover. I—”

“My lover?” she cried hoarsely, in dismay. “He—he is not my lover. I had never seen him before!”

“Then by your own admission you have abandoned all respect for me and yourself. You are addicted to strolling alone with any idiot who flatters you.”

“I swear I do not,” she retorted. “You misjudge me entirely.” And she placed her trembling hand upon my arm.

But I shook it off wrathfully, saying, “I have discovered the truth, alas! too late. While making pretence to love me you prefer the society of other men. I was a blind fool, or I should have discovered the fact, plain to everybody else, that Ogle was your lover, and that you mourned for him when he met the fate he so justly deserved.”

“He never uttered one word of love to me, Geoffrey,” she protested. “How can you make such horrible charges against me when I love you so dearly,” she cried, bursting into a torrent of tears.

“Because!” I said, with emphasis, “because I have myself followed you this evening. Surely Kensington Gardens is not the spot where a wife should take recreation, unless clandestinely, as you have done! No, this is not the first occasion you have lied to me, Ella; but it shall be the last.”

“The last!” she gasped, glancing up at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I can have no further confidence in you, and that we are better apart.”

“You don’t intend to leave me. Surely you would never be so cruel, Geoffrey. It would kill me.”

“I have loved you, Ella,” I said hoarsely, after a pause, brief and full of suspense. “No man could have loved a woman with a passion more tender than I have done, but now that I have discovered how basely I have been deceived, my affection has turned to hatred.”

“You hate me!” she wailed. “Ah, no, you cannot—you shall not,” she cried, as, rushing towards me, she threw both arms around my neck, and, notwithstanding my efforts to avert her, pressed her tear-stained face to mine.

Roughly I unclasped her arms and cast her from me, saying,—

“I have resolved. Nothing will cause me to reconsider my decision. We must part.”

“It is not like you, Geoffrey, to be cruel to a woman,” she said reproachfully, standing before me. “I admit I have acted foolishly, but that man you saw was not my lover. I care for no one except your own dear self.”

“Terms of endearment are unnecessary,” I answered impatiently, turning from her. “Such expressions from one who has so grossly deceived me are absolutely nauseating. I have striven for your social advancement and have loved you dearly, but from this moment you are my wife only in name.”

She buried her face in her hands and was seized by a fit of hysterical sobbing. All her self-control had vanished at the instant she realised that I know the truth, and she now stood before me bent and penitent.

“Forgive me,” she whispered earnestly. “Forgive me, Geoffrey.”

“No,” I answered, with firmness. “I cannot trust you.”

“Overlook this incident, and I will never again give you cause for jealousy,” she exclaimed. “I will do anything you ask, only have patience with me.”

“I have already had patience,” I answered. “Yet, deceived as I am daily, we can live together no longer.”

“But I love you,” she declared, with fierce earnestness, fixing her fathomless eyes upon me. “If I lose you I shall kill myself.”

“It is your own fault entirely,” I said. “You have chosen to act in this manner, and whatever are the consequences they are of your own seeking. I suppose you will tell me next that this man who was with you compelled you to meet him.”

“That is the absolute truth,” she faltered.

“Ah, always the same lame tale,” I observed in disgust. “I have not forgotten that night at ‘The Nook’ when I watched you walking with Beck. No, Ella. There is some strange mystery about it all that I don’t like. You pretend to love me; but you have some ulterior motive.”

“There is a mystery, it is true,” she admitted, her eyes dimmed with tears. “A mystery so strange and startling that when you know the truth you will stand aghast and dumbfounded. But with its elucidation you will have knowledge of how I have suffered and striven for your sake; therefore I can only pray that the revelations that must accrue may be hastened, for, although to-day you regard me as base and deceitful, you will then learn how much one woman has endured and sacrificed because she loved you.”

“Then we must part until this mystery is cleared up,” I said calmly, my heart full of grief. “You refuse to take me, your husband, into your confidence, therefore I can place no further reliance in your word.”

“Think,” she cried, clutching my arms convulsively. “Why should the happiness of both of us be wrecked by a mere misunderstanding?”

“A misunderstanding!” I echoed. “It is assuredly more than that.”

“No,” she answered, endeavouring to stifle her sobs. “You misunderstand me, believing me false to you, whereas I am acting solely in our mutual interests.”

“To walk alone with a stranger is surely not acting in your husband’s interests,” I observed bitterly.

“Ah, you are mistaken,” she said quickly. “When all is explained you will regret the cruel words you have uttered this evening.”

“Have I, then, no cause to object to your acquaintance with this man?” I inquired, looking sharply at her.

“None whatever. He is neither my lover nor my friend.”

“What is his name?”

“I do not know. He did not tell me,” she replied.

“Was this the only occasion you had met?”

“It was.”

“He spoke to you casually in the street, I suppose?”

“No, we met by appointment at Victoria Station,” she answered quite frankly.

“By appointment! Then you knew him!”

“No, our meeting was arranged by a third person. It was by no means of an amatory character, I assure you.”

“What was its object?” I asked.

Slowly she shook her head. “I cannot tell you without relating to you facts which I dare not yet divulge.”

“Ah! as I thought,” I cried in anger. “You refuse always to explain. As each week passes the mystery surrounding you increases.”

“Unfortunately I cannot prevent it,” she answered in a low, earnest tone. “Before we married I told you plainly that I intended to seek the truth of the conspiracy against Dudley’s life, and you did not object.”

“Why not leave that wretched affair to the police and secure our own happiness?” I urged.

“Because the police are powerless. They can have no clue.”

“Is it then absolutely necessary that you should attain this end?” I inquired dubiously. “Are you ready to sacrifice your own home and husband in order to ascertain the truth regarding a crime?”

“Yes, it is absolutely imperative,” she replied emphatically. “Before perfect happiness can be ours we must both be aware of the causes which led to Dudley’s sudden death. Towards that end I am striving, and knowing what I do, I am regardless of your suspicions and your cruel words. If we part—well, it will be you who one day will be filled with bitter regret; and as for me, I shall not pause in my merciless quest.”

Often she had told me that to ascertain the true cause of Dudley’s death was, next to her duty as my wife, her main object in life, and these words, uttered with an earnestness that was genuine, bore out her most frequent declarations. Glancing at the facts as a whole, it was not surprising that I should have suspected Dudley of having been her lover, whose death she intended to avenge.

In silence and hesitation I paced the room that she had furnished with such exquisite taste. A dozen times she asked forgiveness, but no word passed my lips. She stood motionless, her head bent in submission, her hands clasped before her, awaiting my decision.

Her pale, tear-stained face betrayed signs of a terrible, breathless suspense, she fearing that I intended to cast her off, while I could not bring myself to any firm belief that her declarations of affection were genuine. Between us there yawned a gulf of darkness and mystery which hourly grew wider and more impassable.

“Tell me that you’ll still be patient and wait,” she implored at last. “Surely you can see how intensely I love you and how utterly aimless will be my life if we part.”

“This mystery is, I confess, Ella, driving me to distraction,” I said, halting at last before her. “Cannot you confide in me? I will preserve silence, I promise.”

“No, no,” she gasped in fear. “I dare not.”

Her attitude was one of deep dejection, yet I could not fail to notice, even at this moment of her abject despair, how beautiful she was. But a look of unutterable terror was in her deep blue eyes, and upon her handsome features was an expression as though, dreading exposure, she were haunted by some terrible ghost of the past.

“You told me this once before,” I said gravely, “and I trusted you. To-day I have discovered my confidence ill-placed.”

“Trust me once again,” she cried hoarsely. “Only once, and I will show you ere long that your suspicions are utterly without foundation.”

I took another turn up and down the drawing-room, my hands clasped behind my back, my gaze fixed upon the carpet. I was still undecided.

With a sudden impulse she rushed forward, and flinging her warm arms about my neck, kissed me, next second bursting into tears and burying her face upon my shoulder. My hand unconsciously stroked her hair, and, bending, I pressed my lips upon her soft cheek.

Then she knew that I had forgiven, and holding back her sobs with difficulty, raised her face, and kissing me passionately, thanked me in a low, broken voice, assuring me that I should never regret the step I had taken.

During half-an-hour we remained together, she full of love and confidence, I admiring and hopeful. I was glad I had not acted rashly, nor left her as I had intended, and as we went in to dinner arm in arm, we laughed together, joyous in each other’s love.

After we had eaten, I smoked a cigarette and lingered as long as possible, happy with my well-beloved; then kissing her fondly, I was compelled to take a hansom to Berkeley Square, promising her to return at the earliest possible moment, and expressing confidence that our love would last always.

The Earl, grumbling at my tardy arrival, was busy in his library with a number of important dispatches relating to our affairs in the East. When he had expressed displeasure that I had not been waiting to receive him, he added,—

“But there, I suppose now you are married, Deedes, your wife is exacting; they always are. She likes you to dine with her, eh?”

“Yes,” I admitted, smiling. “I did dine at home.”

“Ah, I thought so,” snapped the shrewd old Minister. “A good dinner and your wife’s smiles were of more consequence to you than England’s prestige with the Sultan,—oh?”

I made no answer to this sarcasm, but began busying myself with the correspondence, packing it away in the dispatch-bag and sealing it for delivery to Hammerton, the messenger, who was waiting in an adjoining room ready to take it to Constantinople.

Not until eleven o’clock was I able to get away from Berkeley Square, and leaving the aged statesman alone, deeply immersed in the puzzling applications for advice of all sorts from Her Majesty’s representatives at the various Courts of Europe, I drove back to Phillimore Gardens.

On arrival home my first question of Juckes was whether Ella was in the drawing-room.

“No, sir. Madame is out, sir.”

“Out! When did she go out?”

“About an hour after you had left, sir,” replied the man. “She has gone into the country, I believe.”

“Into the country? What makes you think so?”

“Because she put on her travelling dress, and took two trunks with her,” he answered. “Roberts, her maid, says she packed the boxes herself three days ago.”

“Did she say where she was going?” I inquired breathlessly.

“No, sir. She left no message with anyone.”

Entering the drawing-room with my overcoat still on, I noticed, lying upon her little rosewood escritoire, a note addressed to me.

Eagerly I took it up, tore it open, and read its contents. There were only a few hurriedly-scrawled words—a brief and formal farewell.

“You cannot trust me,” she wrote, “therefore we are best apart. Do not attempt to follow me, for you cannot find me. Do not think ill of me, for even if I have wronged and deceived you, I have, nevertheless, been your friend.” It commenced formally, without any endearing term, and concluded abruptly with the two words, “Your Wife.”

For a few moments I stood with it in my hand, staring at it in blank amazement. Then it occurred to me that in that very escritoire she kept all her correspondence, and it was more than probable that I might learn the truth from some of the letters therein contained.

I endeavoured to open it, but it was, as usual, locked. She had taken the key. In my sudden excitement I called to Juckes to bring a hammer, and with a few sharp blows broke open the sloping, leather-covered top, finding a number of letters addressed in unfamiliar handwriting.

One, larger than the rest, crumpled, dirty and worn, as if it had reposed in someone’s pocket for a long period, I took out, and eagerly opened beneath the soft-shaded lamp.

“My God!” I cried aloud, scarcely able to believe my own eyes, when next instant I realised the terrible truth. “My God! I had never suspected this!”

Chapter Twenty Three.

A Terrible Truth.

Ella’s cold, formal adieu stunned me. I stood open-mouthed, petrified. We had parted on the best of terms, she kissing me affectionately, and with wifely solicitude bidding me hasten back; yet in my absence she had departed, evidently carrying out some pre-arranged plan. Her maid, Roberts, had noticed her packing her trunks three days before, therefore it was certain that she meant to desert me as soon as opportunity offered.

Unaccountable and astounding as was her sudden flight, the discovery I had made among the papers in her escritoire was even more amazing. It held me stupefied and aghast.

The paper I held in my hand was the original of the secret convention between England and Germany; the document which had been stolen from me, transmitted by telegraph to the Russian Foreign Office, and had nearly caused a terrible and disastrous European war.

When I took it from among the letters and saw its neat, formal writing and sprawly signatures, I gazed upon it in blank amazement, unable at first to realise the startling truth. There was, however, no room for doubt. It was the actual document which had been so ingeniously purloined, for it reposed in the escritoire still in its official envelope. The great black seal affixed by the Earl of Warnham had been broken, and both envelope and document had the appearance of having at some time or other been folded small, besides being sadly crumpled.

Beneath the shaded light I examined the envelope carefully, and detected a faint carmine streak upon it; then, placing it to my nostrils, found that it exuded a stale odour of sampaguita. In an instant the truth was plain. The pink discolouration had been caused by rouge; the scent was Ella’s favourite perfume, which she always procured from Paris. No doubt the document had been carried for a considerable period in her pocket for safety, and become crumpled, as papers will if carried in a woman’s dress. While the envelope might easily have absorbed the odour of that unmistakable perfume from her handkerchief, the streak of rouge puzzled me, for I had never suspected her of an artificial complexion, nor had I ever seen the hare’s foot and carmine among her toilet articles.

“Tell Roberts I wish to speak to her,” I said, turning to Juckes, who had stood by in silence, puzzled at my strange action of breaking the top of the escritoire.

He obeyed, and in a few moments the neat, dark-eyed maid entered.

“Roberts,” I exclaimed, “I want you to tell me something. Does my wife use any carmine to give artificial colour to her cheeks?”

“Oh, no, sir,” the girl assured me. “Madame is very averse to the use of such things. Once or twice, when she has been going out at night, and looked unusually pale, I have suggested a little additional colour, but she has always refused.”

“Did she have any rouge or anything of that sort in her possession?” I inquired.

“No, sir, I am quite certain she hadn’t.”

“Why are you so confident?”

“Because only the other day, when I was ill with a sick headache, madame urged me to use some colour, as my face was so pale. Visitors were coming, she said, and she didn’t want me to look like a ghost. I told her that I had no carmine, and she remarked that she had none, therefore nothing could be done.”

“When did my wife pack those two trunks she took with her this evening?”

“Last Monday, sir,” the girl answered, slowly twisting her befrilled apron in her hands. “She received a note by boy-messenger, and immediately set about packing the boxes.”

“Did she tell you anything?” I asked, adding confidentially, “I have reason to believe that my wife has left us, therefore anything you tell me may assist me in tracing her.”

The girl glanced at me in genuine surprise.

“Do you mean, sir, that madame has—has run away?” she gasped.

“No—well, not exactly,” I stammered. “But did she tell you anything?”

With eyes downcast the girl paused in hesitation, answering at last, “She didn’t actually tell me anything.”

“But what do you know about her intentions?”

“Nothing,” she answered. Then, after a pause, she added, “Well, to tell you the truth, sir, I had suspicions.”

“Of what? Do not fear to speak because I am her husband,” I said reassuringly. “I may as well know the worst at once.”

“She used frequently to receive notes from a gentleman. They were brought by a commissionaire or by a man-servant, who waited for the answer. When they came I always knew that on the following day she would be absent many hours.”

“You believe that she met this mysterious individual—eh?” I asked huskily.

“Yes, for she always told me never to admit to you that she had been long absent. Therefore I had suspicion that she met somebody clandestinely.”

“What was his name?”

“I have never been able to ascertain. Once I glanced at a note lying on madame’s dressing-table. It merely announced the writer’s intention to attend Lady Pearson’s ‘at home,’ and was signed ‘X.’”

“Well,” I said hoarsely, after a long silence. “What else?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “That is all I know, sir.”

“Has my wife taken her jewels?” I inquired.

“No. She has left her jewel-case unlocked, but everything is there. She has even left behind her wedding-ring.”

“Her wedding-ring!” I echoed, astounded and dismayed. “Then she has discarded me completely.”

“Unfortunately it appears so, sir,” the girl observed gravely.

“Very well, Roberts,” I said in a broken voice. “Thank you. You may go.”

The girl glanced at me for an instant, with a sad, pitying look, then turned and left, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

Alone, I sank into the chair utterly broken down, still holding in my nervous, trembling fingers the secret document that secured the peace and welfare of the two most powerful nations on earth. I had at last discovered the hideous truth. Ella, the woman whose grace and beauty had held me enmeshed, and whom I had loved with an intensity of passion that was all-consuming, was, after all, base and worthless. Although making a hollow pretence to love me, she had cast me aside for this mysterious man who signed himself with an initial, and who met her secretly almost daily. I had been a blind, devoted idiot, I knew, but until I had watched her in Kensington Gardens I had never suspected her of infamy. It seemed, however, that she had no sense of shame, and cared nought for my dishonour or despair. Her perfidy was now revealed in all its painful reality. Ella, whom I had always regarded as pure, honest and trusting, was a woman of tarnished repute. The fact that she had the secret convention in her possession was, in itself, sufficient evidence that the mystery surrounding her was deep, and of no ordinary character. Sonia had warned me that she was my enemy, and this fact was now indeed vividly apparent.

How she had become possessed of the stolen treaty was inexplicable. Full well she knew all the terrible anxiety its loss had caused me, and the sensation that its revelation had created throughout Europe. Times without number I had mentioned to her how anxious my chief was to recover the original, so that our enterprising friends in St Petersburg could have no tangible proof that it had actually existed, yet she had given no sign that she knew anything of it, much less that it actually reposed in my own drawing-room. I did not fail, in those moments of my despair, to recollect that she had been on the most intimate terms with Dudley Ogle, the man suspected to have been in the service of the Tzar’s Government, and as I sat in wonderment it became gradually impressed upon me that through those many months I had been basely tricked, and that Ella herself, charming and ingenuous as she seemed, was actually a secret agent of the enemies of England.

Several facts that I recollected combined to produce this startling belief. Because of my confidential position as secretary to the Earl of Warnham, it was apparent that Ella, with the assistance of my whilom friend Dudley and the encouragement of her mother, had conspired to hold me beneath her spell. She had become my wife, not because she had ever loved me, but because she could feign affection or hatred with equal impunity, and had some ulterior motive in obtaining my confidence. Her firm resolve to ascertain the true facts regarding Dudley’s mysterious end showed plainly that if they were not lovers they had acted in complete accord, and what was more likely than that he, having stolen the secret convention, had on that memorable night at “The Nook” handed it to her, the instigator of the ingenious theft. Yet an hour or so later he died from some cause that neither doctors nor police had been able to determine.

To her, the tragic occurrence was a mystery, as to all, and her refusal to render me any explanation of her suspicious actions was, I now saw, quite natural. Held beneath the iron thraldom of her masters in St Petersburg, she dared not utter one word; hence I had remained in the outer darkness of doubt and ignorance.

However it might be, one thing was certain. She had been unexpectedly parted from me, either by choice or compulsion. Perhaps it was that to pose as my wife was no longer necessary; yet if she were actually a spy, was it not curious that in departing she should overlook this document, of which the Ministry at St Petersburg were so anxious to possess themselves.

Again, as I sat alone before the cheerless grate, I reflected that if she were in the pay of Russia, surely Monsieur Grodekoff, the Ambassador, would have been acquainted with her. Besides, what reason could Renouf have had in making such careful inquiries, or why did Paul Verblioudovitch discredit the truths uttered by Sonia and urge me to marry the woman I loved? Nevertheless if, as I supposed, my position in the Foreign Office had caused me to be the victim of a clever and deeply-conceived conspiracy, it was scarcely surprising that the Tzar’s representative should disclaim all knowledge of the sweet-faced agent, or that Paul had praised her and cast obloquy upon Sonia in order that their plans, whatever they were, should be achieved. Of the actions of Renouf, and his strange disregard for detection, I could form no satisfactory conclusion. All I knew was that Ella’s career had been an unscrupulous and inglorious one, and that she had cast me aside as soon as her infamous ends had been attained.

The only person who could elucidate the mystery was Sonia, the pretty girl who had been denounced by Renouf as a murderess, and who was now in hiding in far-off Russia, in some out-of-the-world place where I could never hope to find her. If she were clever enough to elude the combined vigilance of the detective force of Europe, as undoubtedly she had done, there was but little hope that I could ever run her to earth.

The mystery had, by Ella’s flight, been increased rather than explained, for the more I pondered the more deeply-rooted became the conviction that she had decamped because she had cause to fear some strange development that would lead to her exposure and shame.

After a time I roused myself, and taking from the broken escritoire the other letters it contained, five in number, examined them eagerly beneath the light.

All were in the same hand, a heavy masculine one, written evidently with a quill. One by one I read them, finding that they contained appointments, which fully bore out her maid’s suspicions.

“My dear Ella,” one ran, “to-morrow I shall be on the departure platform at King’s Cross Station at 11:30. I have good news for you. Come.—X.”

Another regretted the writer’s inability to keep an appointment, as he had been called unexpectedly to Paris, and was compelled to leave by the night mail from Charing Cross. He, however, promised to return in three days, and gave her the Grand Hotel as his address if she found it necessary to telegraph.

Strangely enough, the letters contained no endearing terms either at their commencement or conclusion. Formal and brief, they all related to appointments at various places in London where two persons might meet unnoticed by the crowd, and all were signed by the single mysterious initial. I stood with them in my hand for a long time, puzzled and hesitating, then placing them carefully in my pocket, together with the secret document I had so unexpectedly unearthed, I crammed on my hat and hastily drove to Pont Street.

The house was in darkness, save for a light in the basement, and in answer to my summons, after a lapse of some minutes a tall, gaunt, woman in rusty black appeared in the area below.

I was surprised at being thus met by a stranger, but inquired for Mrs Laing.

“Mrs Laing ain’t at ’ome, sir,” answered the woman, looking up and speaking with a strong Cockney twang.

“Not at home?” I exclaimed, surprised. “Where is she?”

“She’s gone abroad somewheres, but I don’t know where,” the woman answered. “She’s sold all her valuables, discharged the servants, and left me ’ere as ’ouse-keeper.”

“When did she go?” I asked.

“This morning. I answered an advertisement in the Chronicle yesterday, and entered on my duties ’ere to-day. Quick, ain’t it?”

The rapidity of her engagement I was compelled to admit, but proceeded to make further inquiry whether Mrs Laing’s daughter had been there.

“No, sir. No one’s been ’ere to-day, except a foreign-looking gentleman who asked if madame had left, and when I said that she had, he went away quite satisfied.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“Tall and thin, with a longish dark beard.”

The description did not correspond with anyone of my acquaintance; therefore, after some further questions regarding Mrs Laing’s mysterious departure, I was compelled to wish the worthy woman good evening. She knew nothing of Mrs Laing’s movements, not even the name of the terminus to which she had driven, such pains had Ella’s mother taken to conceal the direction in which she intended to travel.

Some secret undoubtedly existed between mother and daughter; its nature held me perplexed and bewildered.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Strictly Confidential.

The early morning was dry, frosty, but starless. The clock of that fashionable temple of Hymen, St George’s, Hanover Square, was slowly chiming three as I alighted from a cab at the corner of Mount Street, and walking along Berkeley Square, ascended the steps of the Earl of Warnham’s great mansion, and rang its ponderous bell. The place was severe and gloomy enough by day, but in the silence and darkness of the night its exterior presented a forbidding, almost ghostly appearance. It was an unusual hour for a call, but, knowing that a porter was on duty always, and that dispatches frequently arrived during the night, I had no hesitation in seeking an interview.

In a few moments there was a grating sound of bolts drawn back, a clanking of chains, and the heavy door was slowly opened by the sleepy man, who, with a word of recognition, at once admitted me. Walking across the great square hall; warmed by a huge, roaring fire, I passed down the passage to the Earl’s study and rapped at the door, receiving an impatient permission to enter.

The Minister for Foreign Affairs was sitting at his table where I had left him, with an empty tea-cup at his side, resting his pale, weary brow upon his hand and writing dispatches rapidly with his scratchy quill. His fire was nearly out, the pair of candles, in their heavy, old-fashioned silver candlesticks that stood upon his writing-table, had burned down almost to their sockets, and the strong smell of burnt paper that pervaded the book-lined den, showed that, with his innate cautiousness, he had destroyed documents that he did not desire should be seen by other eyes.

The world-renowned statesman raised his head as I entered, gave vent to a low grunt of dissatisfaction, and continued writing at topmost speed. I saw I was unwelcome, but, well acquainted with his mannerisms and eccentricities, walked to the fire, added more fuel, and waited in patience until he had finished.

“Well,” he snarled, casting down his pen impatiently, and turning upon me at last. “I thought you, of all men, were aware that I do not desire interruption when at work.”

“I should not have ventured to come at this hour,” I said, “were it not that the news I bring is of extreme importance.”

He sighed, as was his habit when expecting further complications.

“What is its nature?” he asked coldly, leaning back in his chair. “Abandon preliminaries, please, and come to the point. What is it?”

“I have recovered the original of our secret convention with Germany,” I answered in as quiet a tone as I could assume.

“You have!” he cried excitedly, starting up. “You are quite right to seek me at once—quite right. Where did you obtain it?” he inquired.

Slowly I drew forth the precious document from my pocket, and handed it to him, still in the envelope that bore my own mark, with the remains of his broken seal. He took it eagerly and bent to the candles to examine it more closely. A few seconds sufficed to reassure him that the document was the genuine one.

“It is fortunate that this has returned into our possession,” he observed, his thin blue lips quivering slightly. “I feared that it had already passed beyond our reach, and that one day or other in the near future our policy must be narrowed by the knowledge that it was preserved in the archives of the Foreign Office at St Petersburg, and could be used as a pretence for a declaration of war by Russia and France. Now, however, that the original is again in our possession we can disclaim all copies, and give assurances that no secret understanding exists between us and Berlin. The only fact that at present lends colour to the assertion of the boulevard journals is the ill-timed bestowal of the Iron Cross upon Count Landsfeldt. Such an action was characteristic of their impetuous Emperor.” Then, after a second’s reflection, he added, “Just sit down, Deedes, and write to Sir Philip Emden at Berlin, asking him to obtain audience immediately of the Kaiser, point out the harmful impression this decoration has occasioned, and get His Majesty to exhibit his marked displeasure towards Landsfeldt in some form or other. That will remove any suspicion that the convention is actually an accomplished fact. Besides, you may hint also that it may be well for the relations between the Kaiser and Sir Philip to appear slightly strained, and that this fact should be communicated indirectly to the Press. Sit down and write at once: it must be sent under flying seal.”

I obeyed, and commenced writing a formal dispatch while, in answer to the electric bell rung by his Lordship, the sleepy night-porter appeared.

“Calvert,” exclaimed the Minister, “telephone to the Foreign Office and say that I want a messenger to call here and proceed to Berlin by the morning mail.”

“Yes, m’lord,” answered the man, bowing and closing the door.

While I wrote, the Earl perused the document, the loss of which had caused the Cabinets of Europe so much apprehension, and taking his magnifying glass he examined the portions of the seal still remaining. Then carefully unlocking one of the small private drawers in the top of the great writing-table, he took therefrom some object, and gazed upon it long and earnestly. With a heavy sigh he again replaced it, and slowly locked the drawer. When I had finished and placed the instructions to Sir. Philip Emden before him, he took up his quill, corrected my letter, here and there adding an emphatic word or two, and then appended his signature. Obtaining one of the bags used for the transmission of single dispatches, I deposited it therein, sealed it, and placed upon it one of those labels with a cross drawn upon its face, the signification of that mark being that it is never to be lost sight of by the messenger. There are two kinds of bags sent out and received by the Foreign Office, one with this cross-marked label, and the other without it. The latter are generally larger and less important, and may be placed with the messenger’s luggage. It is no pleasant life our messengers lead, liable as they are to be summoned at an hour’s notice to “proceed at once” to anywhere, from Brussels to Teheran. Armed with a laissez-passer, they are constantly hurrying over the face of Europe as fast as the fastest expresses can carry them, passing through the frontier stations freed from the troublesome concomitant of ordinary travelling—the examination of luggage—known on all the great trunk lines from Paris to Constantinople and from Rome to St Petersburg, sometimes bearing epoch-making documents, sometimes a lady’s hat of latest mode, or a parcel of foreign delicacies, but always on the alert, and generally sleeping on a layer of stiff dispatches and bulky “notes.”

At last, having made up the bag, I rose slowly and faced my chief.

“Well,” he exclaimed, raising his keen eyes from the document I had brought him and regarding me with that stony, sphinx-like expression he assumed when resolved upon cross-questioning, “how did you obtain possession of this?”

“I found it,” I answered.

“Found it?” he growled, with a cynical curl of the lip. “I suppose you have some lame story that you picked it up in the street, or something—eh!” he exclaimed testily.

“No,” I replied hoarsely. “Mine is no lame story, although a wretched one. The discovery has unnerved and bewildered me; it—”

“I have no desire to know how its discovery affected you mentally,” he interrupted, with impatient sarcasm. “I asked where you found it,” he observed coldly.

“I found it in my own house,” I answered.

“Then you mean to tell me that it has been in your possession the whole time. The thing’s impossible,” he cried angrily. “Remember the dummy palmed off upon me, and the fact that an exact copy was transmitted to St Petersburg.”

“No. It has not been in my possession,” I answered, leaning against my writing-chair for support. “I found it among my wife’s letters.”

“Your wife!” he gasped, agitated. He had turned ghastly pale at mention of her name, and, trembling with agitation, swayed forward.

A moment later, however, he recovered his self-possession, clutched at the corner of his table, and regarding me sharply, asked, “What do you suspect?”

“I scarce know what to suspect,” I answered gravely, striving to remain calm, but remembering at that instant the curious effect produced upon the Foreign Minister when he had first seen Ella dancing at the Embassy ball. My declaration that I had found this official bond of nations in her possession had produced a similar disquieting result which puzzled me.

“But surely she can have had no hand in the affair,” he cried. “She certainly did not strike me as an adventuress, or an agent of the Tzar’s secret service.”

“It is a problem that I cannot solve,” I exclaimed slowly, watching the strange, haggard look upon his usually imperturbable features. “After leaving you this evening I went home only to find a letter of farewell from her, and—”

“She has fled, then!” he exclaimed, with quick suspicion.

“Yes. Her flight was evidently pre-arranged, and curiously enough her mother, who lives in Pont Street, has discharged her servants, disposed of a good deal of her property, and also departed.”

“Gone together, no doubt,” the Earl observed, frowning reflectively.

“But is it not very strange that she should have left the stolen convention behind? Surely if my wife were actually a Russian agent she would never have been guilty of such indiscretion,” I said.

“The mystery is inexplicable, Deedes,” he declared, with a heavy look, half of pain, half of bewilderment. “Absolutely inexplicable.”

This aged man, to whose firmness, clever statesmanship, and calm foresight England owed her place as foremost among the Powers, was trembling with an excitement he strove in vain to suppress. In manner that surprised me, his cold, cynical face relaxed, and placing his thin, bony hand upon my shoulder with fatherly tenderness, Her Majesty’s most trusted Minister urged me to confide in him all my suspicions and my fears.

“You have, I believe, after all, been cruelly wronged, Deedes,” he added in a low, harsh tone. “I sympathise with you because I myself once felt the loss of a wife deeply, and I know what feelings must be yours now that you suspect the woman you have trusted and loved to have been guilty of base treachery and espionage. She, or someone in association with her, has besmirched England’s honour, and brought us to the very verge of a terrible national disaster. Providentially, this was averted; by what means we have not yet ascertained, although our diplomatic agents at the Court of the Tzar are striving day and night to ascertain; yet the fact remains that we were victimised by some daring secret agent who sacrificed everything in order to accomplish the master-stroke of espionage. I can but re-echo the thanks to Heaven uttered by my gracious Sovereign when she received the news that war had been averted; nevertheless it is my duty—nay, it is yours, Deedes, to strive on without resting, in order that this mystery may be satisfactorily unravelled.”

For a moment we were silent. Then in a voice that I felt painfully conscious was broken by grief and emotion, I related to him the whole of the wretched story of my marriage, my suspicions, the discovery of Ella in Kensington Gardens, how I had taxed her with flirtation and frivolity, our peace-making, and her sudden and unexpected flight.

He heard me through to the end with bent head, sighing now and then sympathetically. Then he slowly asked,—“Did you ever refer to those earlier incidents, such as the death of that young man Ogle? Remember, whatever you tell me I shall regard as strictly confidential.”

“I seldom mentioned it, as she desired me not to do so.”

“When you referred to it, what was her attitude?” he inquired, in a pained tone, the furrows on his high white brow deep and clearly defined.

“She declared always that he had been murdered, and vowed to detect the author of the crime.”

“Are you, in your own mind, convinced that there was anything really mysterious regarding her actions; or were they only everyday facts distorted by jealousy?” he asked gravely.

“There is, I believe, some deep mystery regarding her past,” I answered.

He knit his grey, shaggy brows, and started perceptibly.

“Her past!” he echoed. “Were you aware of any—er—unpleasant fact prior to marriage?” he inquired quickly.

“Yes. She promised to explain everything ere long; therefore, loving her devotedly as I did, I resolved to make her my wife and await in patience her explanation.”

“Love!” he cried cynically. “She did not love you. She only married you, it seems, to accomplish her own base and mysterious designs.” Then, pacing the room from end to end, he added, “The more I reflect, the more apparent does it become that Ella Laing meant, by becoming your wife, to accomplish some great coup, but, prevented by some unforeseen circumstance, she has been compelled to fly, and in her haste overlooked this incriminating paper.”

This, too, was my own opinion, and taking from my pocket the whole of the letters that were in the escritoire, I placed them before him.

“They are from your wife’s mysterious lover,” he observed, when a few moments later he had digested them. “Who he is there is no evidence to show. You suspect him, of course, to be the man she met in Kensington Gardens?”

I nodded. A sigh escaped me.

“Well,” he went on. “Leave them with me. A calligraphic expert may possibly find some clue to the identity of their writer.”

Afterwards, he took up the broken envelope that had contained the treaty, carefully re-examining its edges by the aid of his large magnifying glass.

“There is another curious fact that we must not overlook,” he observed slowly. “While the seal has been broken this envelope has also passed through a ‘cabinet noir.’ See, this edge bears unmistakable traces after wear in the pocket,” and he handed it to me, together with his glass.

The suggestion was startling, and one that I had entirely overlooked. The “cabinet noir” is a term well understood in diplomacy, but unfamiliar perhaps to the general public. Official documents of no great importance are often sent by post, and in most European countries this has led to the establishment of a “cabinet noir,” in which the envelope is opened and its contents examined. The mode of procedure is interesting. The letter to be opened is first shaken well in such a way that the enclosure falls to one side of the envelope, leaving a space of about a quarter of an inch between it and the outer edge. This edge is then placed under an extremely sharp knife worked like a guillotine, care being taken to put it carefully at right angles to the knife, which is then brought down and cuts off a slip about one hundredth part of an inch wide. The envelope is now open, and the enclosure is extracted by a pair of pincers made for the purpose. After examination it is replaced, and the ticklish job of removing all trace of the opening has to be done. This is very ingenious. There are different pots of paper pulp mixed with a little gum, and each tinted a different colour to suit the various shades of paper that are operated upon. A very fine camel-hair brush is dipped into the pot containing the proper tint, and is then run carefully along the edges which have been cut open. They are then closed and left under a press for an hour or so, and after being smoothed with a flat steel instrument, it would take a very clever expert to notice that the envelope has passed through the “cabinet noir.”

I saw, however, in this worn envelope the two edges were coming apart, and at once admitted the truth of the Earl’s assertions. He was intensely shrewd; scarcely any minute detail escaped him.

“Well,” he said reflectively, at last, “there is but one person from whom we may ascertain the truth.”

“Who?”

“Your wife.”

“But she has disappeared.”

“We must trace her. She must not escape us,” he cried fiercely, with set teeth. “She has wronged you and acted in collusion with a man who has betrayed his country and met with a tragic end, even if she herself did not actually sell the copy of the secret convention to our enemies—which appears to me more than likely.”

“What causes you to believe this?” I inquired, surprised at his sudden assertion.

“I have a reason,” he answered quickly, with an air of mystery. The cold manner of the expert diplomatist had again settled upon him. “If it is as I expect, I will show her no mercy, for it is upon me, as Foreign Minister of Her Majesty, that opprobrium has fallen.”

“But she is still my wife,” I observed, for even at that moment, when I had discovered her false and base, I had not ceased to regard her with a passionate affection.

“Wife!” he snarled angrily. “You would have been a thousand times better dead than married to such as she.” Then he added, “Remain here. I am going to the telephone to apprise Scotland Yard of her flight. She only left to-night after the mails were gone, therefore if we have the ports watched we may yet find her.”

And he left me, his quick footsteps echoing down the long corridor.

The moment he had gone I went to his table. Some sudden curiosity prompted me to endeavour to ascertain what he had been gazing upon so intently while my back had been turned in penning the instructions to Sir Philip Emden.

Quickly I took his keys, and, unlocking the tiny drawer, opened it.

Inside there reposed a highly-finished cabinet portrait of my wife.

Amazed to find this picture in the possession of my chief, I took it in my hands and stood agape. Its pose was unfamiliar, but the reason I had never before seen a copy of it was instantly made plain. It bore the name of a well-known St Petersburg photographer.

Ella had lied to me when she had denied ever having been in Russia.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Man of the Hour.

Months of anxiety went wearily by, but no tidings of Ella could I glean. Time could never efface the bitter memories of the past. The police had, at Lord Warnham’s instigation, exerted every effort to trace her, but without avail. She had disappeared with a rapidity that was astounding, for, apparently expecting that some attempt might be made to follow her, she had ingeniously taken every precaution to baffle her pursuers in the same manner as her mother had done. The cause of her sudden flight was an enigma only equalled by my discovery of her portrait in the Earl’s possession. Although I had several times in conversation led up to the subject of photographs, and shown him Ella’s picture, that had been taken by a firm in Regent Street, the astute old statesman made no sign that he already had her counterfeit presentment hidden among his most treasured possessions. When I recollected, as I often did, how on gazing upon it, while believing me engrossed in the writing of a dispatch, the sight of it had affected him, the new phase of the mystery perplexed me sorely. That they had been previously acquainted seemed more than probable, and his Lordship’s earnest desire to secure knowledge of her whereabouts lent additional colour to this opinion.