William Le Queux (continued 6)

“Ask Mr Bingham to see me for a moment,” he exclaimed, when the man answered the summons, and in a few minutes the Earl’s guest came in with that affected jaunty air that had caused me to class him as a cad.

When he had entered, the Earl himself walked to the door and softly closed it, then, turning, said in a hard, dry voice,—

“This, Cecil, is my secretary, Deedes, the husband of the woman known as Ella Laing, with whom you have, I understand, been in correspondence, and have met clandestinely on many occasions.”

“What do you mean?” he cried, resentfully, glancing from the Earl to myself. “I know no one of that name. You are mistaken.”

“There is no mistake,” answered the great statesman, coldly, at the same time taking from an old oak bureau a large linen-lined envelope of the kind used in our Department. From a drawer he took one of his visitor’s letters, while from the envelope he drew forth a second letter. At a glance I saw that the latter was one of those mysterious missives signed “X” that had been received by my wife. Opening both, he placed them together and handed them to me without comment.

They were in the same handwriting.

“Do you deny having written that letter?” asked the Minister, sternly, at the same time showing him the note. He made a motion to take it, but suddenly drew away his hand. His lips contracted, his face grew pale, and with a gesture of feigned contempt he waved the Earl’s hand aside.

“Do you deny it?” repeated my chief.

He was still silent—his face a sufficient index to the agitation within him.

“You have endeavoured to deceive me,” continued the Earl, harshly. “You have some fixed purpose in accepting my invitation, and coming here to visit me, but you were unaware that already I had knowledge of facts you have endeavoured so cunningly to conceal. It is useless to deny that you are acquainted with Deedes’s wife, for he recognises you as having walked with her in Kensington Gardens, while I have ascertained at last who she really is—that her name was never Ella Laing.”

He started at this announcement. His lips moved, but no word escaped him.

That the Earl should have learned the true name and station of my wife apparently disconcerted him. His complexion was of ashen hue; all his arrogance had left him, for he saw himself cornered. I stood glaring at him fiercely, for was not I face to face with the man whom my wife had met times without number, concealing from me all motive or duration of her absences? Some secret had existed between them—he was the man whom she apparently feared, and whose will she had obeyed. I felt that now, at last, I should ascertain the truth, and obtain a key to the strange perplexing enigma that had held me in doubt and suspicion through so many weary months.

His shifty gaze met mine; I detected a fierce glint in his eyes.

“Well?” exclaimed his Lordship, as determined as myself upon seeking a solution of the problem. “Now that you admit these mysterious meetings with Her Highness, perhaps you will explain their object.”

“I admit nothing,” he answered in anger, knitting his brows. “Neither have I anything to explain.”

“See!” the Earl said, drawing Ella’s photograph from the envelope. “Perhaps you will recognise this picture?” and his bony hand trembled with suppressed excitement as he placed it before him.

At sight of it my wife’s strange friend drew a long breath. He was white to the lips. Never before had I witnessed such a complete change in any man in so short a period, and especially curious, it seemed, when I reflected that he had been charged with no very serious crime.

“You may allege whatever it may please you,” he said at last, with affected sarcasm. “But a woman’s honour is safe in my hands.”

“My wife’s honour!” I cried, with fierce indignation, walking towards him threateningly. I could no longer stand by in silence when I recollected what Ella had said about being compelled to act according to the will of another. She had, no doubt, been under the thrall of this overdressed dandy. “Now that we have met,” I exclaimed, “you shall explain to me, her husband.”

With a quick movement he strode forward as if to escape us, but in an instant I had gripped him by the shoulder with fierce determination, whole the Earl himself, apprehending his intention, placed his back against the door.

“Speak!” I cried wildly, shaking him in my anger. “You shall tell us the true nature of the secret between you and my wife, and prove your statement to our satisfaction, or, by heaven, I’ll thrash you as a cunning, cowardly cur!”

Chapter Thirty One.

Due East.

“Bah!” retorted the Earl’s visitor, contemptuously, shaking himself free with a sudden twist, and standing before me in defiance. “I understand,” he cried, glancing towards the elder man before the door. “You believe, gentlemen, that from me you can ascertain a key to certain curious occurrences that have puzzled you. But I may as well undeceive you at once. I can tell you absolutely nothing.”

“But you shall tell us!” I cried, angrily. “I found you walking with my wife in Kensington Gardens, and followed you. It was apparent from her demeanour that she feared you.”

He smiled sarcastically, and answered with a flippant air:

“Perhaps she did. If so, she certainly had cause.”

“Why? What power do you hold over her, pray?” I demanded.

In his eyes was a mysterious glance. He was scarcely the brainless young dandy that I had imagined.

“It is hardly likely that I shall divulge to you a secret. Remember that your wife comes of one of the highest families in Europe, and the slightest breath of scandal must reflect upon them.”

“At what scandal do you hint?” I asked, in fierce, breathless eagerness.

“At what is best kept quiet,” he answered, gravely.

His enigmatical words maddened me. I felt that I could spring upon him and strangle him, for I knew instinctively that he was my wife’s enemy—the man of whom she lived in deadly fear. If only I could silence him, she might then relate to me those long-promised facts.

“Then if you decline to prove that there is a concealed scandal, utter no more of your lying allegations,” I blurted forth.

He bowed deeply with mock politeness, and smiled grimly.

“Come,” exclaimed the Earl at last, in a conciliatory tone, advancing towards him and laying his hand upon his shoulder. “Let us get at once to the point. It is useless to quarrel. You decline to reveal to us the nature of your curious friendship with the Grand Duchess—eh?”

“I do,” he answered, firmly.

“Well,” said the tactful old Minister. “First carefully review the situation, and you will, I think, admit that I have been your friend. And how have you shown your gratitude?”

“By concealing from you a truth both hideous and terrible,” he replied, with apparent unconcern.

“But you can, if you will, give us some clue to this remarkable chain of circumstances. I appeal to you on behalf of Deedes, her husband,” the old man said.

“I am well aware of the reason you yourself desire to know the absolute truth, Lord Warnham,” he answered, after a brief pause, “but, unfortunately, I am unable to tell you, because of certain promises having been extracted from me.”

“At least you can tell us from whom I may ascertain the true facts,” I cried.

He looked at me for an instant gravely, then answered in all seriousness:

“The only person who knows the truth is Sonia Korolénko, the refugee.”

“Sonia!” gasped the Earl. “That woman is not in England, surely?”

“I think not,” Bingham replied. “But if you would ascertain the key to the enigma, seek her, and she may explain everything. That is as far as I can assist you. Remember, I myself have revealed nothing.”

“She has returned to Russia,” I observed. “Have you any knowledge where she is?”

“No, there are reasons why her whereabouts should remain unknown,” he answered, hesitatingly. “She is in fear of the police.”

“Do her friends know of her hiding-place?”

“No. A short time ago I desired to communicate with her, but was unable. The last I heard of her was that she was living at Skerstymone, a little town somewhere in Poland.”

“If she can successfully elude the vigilance of the Russian police, I can have but little hope of finding her,” I said, doubtfully.

“Make the attempt, Deedes,” the Earl suggested. “I will give you leave of absence.”

“I intend to do so,” I replied; and remembering my wife, lonely amid all her splendour, I added, “The elucidation of the mystery is, as it has long since been, the main object of my life.”

In consultation we sat a long time. This caddish young man of whom I had been so madly jealous had now grown quite calm and communicative, apparently ready to render me all assistance; yet to my questions regarding my wife he was as dumb as others had been. Now, more than ever, the Earl seemed anxious to solve the strange problem. With that object he obtained from the library a section of the large ordnance map of the Russian Empire, and with it spread before us we discovered that Skerstymone was a little place remotely situated on the bank of the Niemen river, within a short distance of the German frontier. I had long ago learned from Paul Verblioudovitch that my friend, the well-known adventuress, had crossed the frontier at Wirballen, or Verjbolovo, as it is called in Russian; but after that I knew nothing of her movements. Bingham seemed anxious to lead me indirectly towards the truth, and after assuring me with a firm hand-grasp that the secret that existed between himself and my wife was of a purely platonic nature, and that he had throughout acted on her behalf, I ate a hasty luncheon and again left the Hall on the first stage of my long, tedious journey across Europe. As I entered the carriage the old Earl and his guest stood out upon the gravelled drive and heartily wished me “Bon voyage,” and, waving them farewell, I was whirled away through the great park that lay silent and breathless beneath the scorching sun.

At the bookstall at Horsham station I bought an early edition of the Globe, and on opening it in the train my eyes fell upon the following announcement in its “Court and Personal” column,—

“A marriage is arranged, and will shortly take place between Mr Andrew Beck, the Member for West Rutlandshire, who is well-known in connection with African mines, and Miss Gertrude Millard, only daughter of Sir Maynard Millard, Bart, of Spennythorpe Park, Montgomeryshire.”

This was not exactly unexpected, for I had already heard vague rumours that news of Beck’s engagement would shortly be made public, therefore I tore out the paragraph and placed it in my pocket-book, with the reflection that my friend’s marriage might be more happy than mine.

That evening about six o’clock I called at Chesham House, the Russian Embassy, and obtained the signature of the Ambassador, Monsieur Grodekoff, to my passport. I did not, however, see Verblioudovitch, he being absent at Brighton, therefore I left the same evening for Flushing, and after a long and wearisome ride across Germany duly arrived at Verjbolovo, one of the principal gates of the great Russian Empire. The formalities troubled me but little, for I had passed the frontier on several occasions when stationed in St Petersburg. After getting my passport stamped I strolled up and down the platform gazing about over the flat, uninteresting country, contemplatively smoking a cigarette, and watching the crowd of tired, worried travellers experiencing the ways of Russian officialdom for the first time. Among them was an elderly Russian lady who, travelling with her three daughters, good-looking girls, ranging from eighteen to twenty-three, had omitted to have her passport viséd by a Russian Consul outside the Empire. So stringent were the regulations that, although they were subjects of the Tzar returning to their own country, the officer would not allow them to proceed, and all four were detained while the passport was sent back to the nearest Russian consul in Germany to be “treated.”

At first it had occurred to me to travel on to St Petersburg, and there endeavour to learn from a police official of my acquaintance whether Sonia Korolénko had been heard of lately, but on reflection I saw that every precaution would no doubt be taken by her in order that the police should not be made aware of her presence in Russian territory. A strange vagary of Fate it seemed that through my own action in obtaining for her a false passport she had been enabled to escape, and that my own endeavours had actually thwarted my own ends. As I paced the railway platform, with the brilliant afterglow shedding a welcome light across that dead level country so zealously-guarded by the green-coated sentries in their black and white striped boxes, and Cossack pickets, each with his “nagaika” stuck in his boot, I remembered with failing heart how this woman, whose fame was notorious throughout Europe, had told me that once past this portal of the Tzar’s huge domain all traces of her would be obliterated completely. This fact in itself convinced me that she had never intended to travel direct to St Petersburg, and it became impressed upon me that in order to trace her it would be necessary to first visit the little out-of-the-world town of Skerstymone, that was situated a long way to the north along the frontier. With that object I allowed the St Petersburg express to proceed, and after an hour’s wait entered a local train, alighting at a small town euphoniously termed Pilwiszki, where I spent the night in an exceedingly uncomfortable inn.

Next day I learnt with satisfaction that this town was situated on the main post-road between Maryampol and Rossieny, and that about thirty miles due north along this road was Skerstymone. The innkeeper, at an exorbitant figure, provided me with a rickety old cart and a pair of shaggy horses, driven by an uncouth-looking lad, wearing an old peaked cap so large that his brow and eyes were hidden. An hour before noon I set out upon my expedition. Our way lay across the boundless Nawa steppe, a plain which stretched away as far as the eye could reach without a single tree to break its monotony, until at a wretched little village called Katyle we forded a shallow stream, the Penta, and presently passed through the town of Szaki. Soon afterwards the road became full of deep ruts that jolted us terribly, and for many miles we travelled through a pine forest until at last we found ourselves at the ferry before Skerstymone.

In the mystic light of evening the place, standing on the opposite bank of the Niemen, presented a novel and rather picturesque aspect, with its wooden houses, their green and brown roofs of painted sheet-iron, but when landing from the ferry I was soon undeceived. It was one of those towns best seen from a distance. The dirt and squalor were horrible. For a fortnight I remained at the wretched little inn making inquiries in all quarters, but could hear nothing of the pretty dark-eyed girl who had earned such unenviable notoriety, and who in Vienna spent such an enormous sum in a single year that her extravagance had become proverbial, even in that most reckless of cities. That she had been here was certain from what Bingham had told us, and somehow I had an instinctive feeling that here the dainty-handed refugee had assumed a fresh identity, it being dangerous for her to proceed further into Russia, so well-known was she. Therefore, with fixed determination, I still prosecuted my inquiries everywhere, until I found the police regarding me with considerable mistrust, for the officers of public order are everywhere ubiquitous in the giant empire of the Tzar.

The hot July sun shone on the dusty streets; through the open windows of the white-washed barrack-like Government office the scratching of pens could be heard; the “factors,” agents who offer their services to strangers, lolled in the shade, keeping a watchful eye upon any stranger who might happen to pass by, and looking out eagerly for a “geschäft,” or stroke of business. The townspeople eyed me distrustfully as I wandered aimlessly about the streets, where tumble-down hovels alternated with endless expanses of grey moss-grown wood fences and plots of waste ground heaped with rubbish and offal. The place was full of horrible smells, filth, rags, and dirty children, who enjoyed themselves by rolling in the soft white dust. At either end of the noisy, evil-smelling place, a post-road led out along the bank of the sluggish yellow stream, and at the entrance to the town on the German side was a “schlagbaum,” a pole painted with the national colours that served as toll-bar, in charge of a sleepy invalided soldier in a dingy old uniform with a tarnished eagle on his cap, who looked the very incarnation of undisturbed slumber.

Life in Kovno was by no means diverting. Truly Skerstymone was a wretched, half-starved, miserable little place of terribly depressing aspect, notwithstanding the brilliant sunshine and blue sky.

The long, gloomy days dragged by, but no tidings could I glean of Sonia Korolénko. It was evident that if she had ever been there she had passed under some other name, and that her identity had been lost before arrival there.

One warm morning, while seated outside a “kabák” moodily watching the old women in the market selling their twisted rolls of bread called “kalách,” an ill-dressed man approached me, and, touching his shabby cap respectfully, pronounced my name with strong Russian accent, at the same time slowly sinking upon the wooden bench beside me. He was tall and square-built, with coarse but expressive features. His long grey hair was matted and unkempt; his low brow, protruding jaws, and the constant twitching of his facial muscles reminded me of a monkey, but the stern eyes shining from beneath a pair of bushy, overhanging brows, spoke of indomitable energy, cleverness, and cunning. They never changed; and while the rest of his face was a perfect kaleidoscope whenever he spoke, the expression of his eyes remained ever the same.

His confidence surprised me, and I immediately asked him how he had ascertained my patronymic, to which he replied, not without hesitation,—

“I am fully aware of your high nobility’s object in visiting Skerstymone. You are seeking Sonia Korolénko.”

“Yes,” I replied, in the best Russian I could remember. “Do you know her whereabouts? If you take me to her you shall have a handsome reward.”

He smiled mysteriously, and glanced so wistfully at my vodka that I at once ordered for him a second glass of the spirit so beloved of the Muscovite palate.

“Is your high nobility well acquainted with Sonia!”

I replied in the affirmative, offering him a cigarette from my case. At last I had found one who had met the dark-eyed girl of whom I was in search.

“You know her,” I said. “Where is she?”

“In hiding.”

“Far from here?”

“Well, not very,” he answered. “I could take you to her this very night—if you made it worth my while.”

“Why not in daylight?” I inquired.

“Because the frontier-guards are here in swarms.”

Then, in reply to my questions, he admitted that he was one of those who obtained his living by smuggling contraband goods and persons without passports across the frontier into and out of Germany. Along the whole of the Russo-German frontier there are bands of peasantry who live by smuggling emigrants, Jews, malefactors, and others who have no permit to leave the country, across into Germany by certain by-paths that remain unguarded, notwithstanding the constant vigilance of the military.

“And what is Sonia doing at present?” I inquired, after he had frankly related to me his position in a low tone so that we might not be overheard by any eavesdropper or police spy.

“She has always been a leader,” he answered, laughing gaily. “She is so still.”

“A leader of smugglers!” I exclaimed, surprised that the pretty girl who had been admired in every capital in Europe should adopt such a hazardous, reckless life.

“Well, yes, if you choose to call it so,” he said, rather resentfully, I thought. “We merely assist our countrymen to escape the police, and they pay toll for our aid,” he added. “She heard you were inquiring for her, here in Skerstymone, and has sent me as messenger to take you to her. She fears to come herself.”

I looked steadily at the man, and saw for the first time that, although a moujik, he was nevertheless a sturdy adventurer, whose brow was deeply furrowed by hardship.

“And you wish me to pay toll like the others?” I exclaimed with a smile.

“If we act as guide we are surely entitled to something. There are many risks,” he answered, puffing at his cigarette, afterwards examining it with the air of a connoisseur.

“How much?”

“The high nobility is rich,” he replied. “He was once at the English Embassy in St Petersburg. Let us say two hundred roubles.”

“Two hundred, to be paid only in Sonia’s presence,” I acquiesced eagerly. Truth to tell, I would have paid five hundred, or even a thousand for safe conduct to her.

“It’s a bargain,” he answered, draining his glass. “Meet me to-night at ten o’clock at this place. I hope you are a good walker, for we must travel by the secret paths. The post-road would mean arrest for me; it might also go rather hard with you to be found in my company.”

“I can walk well,” I answered. “To-night at ten.”

Then I ordered more vodka, and after drinking success to our midnight journey, he rose and left me, bending a good deal as he shuffled along the street in his old frieze overcoat many sizes too large for him.

In any other circumstances I should have looked upon this devil-may-care, shock-headed adventurer with gravest suspicion, for his face was of distinctly criminal physiognomy, and his speech was that of one utterly unscrupulous. Yet when I remembered the allegations that Sonia, the woman who lured the young Prince Alexis Gazarin to his death, was an associate of the most desperate thieves in Europe, the fact that she had sent him as messenger seemed by no means remarkable. From what he had told me it was apparent that this girl, whose beauty had brought her renown and held her victims fascinated, had returned to her own country and become leader of a desperate band of nomads who drove a thriving trade by guiding fugitives from justice out of the Tzar’s dominions, and importing from Germany dutiable articles of every description.

Sonia’s offences against the law did not, however, trouble me much. I only desired to ascertain from her the truth regarding my wife, the Grand Duchess, and in order to meet her was prepared for any risk.

Thus I placed myself in the hands of this villainous-looking rascal whose name I did not know, and who had come to me entirely without credentials. My natural caution warned me that from every point of view my midnight expedition was fraught with considerable danger, yet thoughts of my sad-eyed wife whom I so dearly loved aroused within me a determination to ascertain some key to the enigma, and I was therefore resolved to accompany the unkempt stranger in face of any peril.

Chapter Thirty Two.

On the Frontier.

The first hour of our walk in the bright balmy night proved fresh and pleasant after the stifling malodorous town. My unknown guide was, I soon discovered, a typical gaol-bird, the fact being made plain by the scanty growth of hair on one side of his head revealed when he inadvertently removed his cap to wipe his brow with his dirty hand. His strong knee-boots were well-patched, but he was out at elbow, and his moustache and matted beard sadly wanted trimming. He kept his appointment to the moment, and declining my invitation to drink, we set off together, ascending the low hill behind the town, and taking a circuitous route back to the river bank. By no means devoid of a sense of humour, he strode along jauntily, laughing, joking, and making light of any risk of capture, until I began to regard him with less suspicion. That he was no ordinary moujik was certain, for he spoke of life and people in Moscow, in Nijni, and even in Petersburg, his conversation showing a more intimate acquaintance than could be acquired by mere hearsay. Our way at first was through narrow lanes of dirty wooden houses, where the foetid odours of decaying refuse greeted our nostrils; then, leaving the town, we ascended through some cornfields until, suddenly descending again, we came to where the Niemen flowed onward between its sedgy banks, its placid bosom a sheet of silver beneath the light of the full moon.

Fully three miles we trudged along the post-road beside the river, passing a solitary little hamlet. Not a soul stirred, not a dog barked. The place seemed uninhabited. Now and then we passed a country cart driven by some sleepy peasant who had imbibed too freely of vodka, until we came to where a striped verst-post stood at the junction of another narrower highway.

“That’s the road to Jurburg, and to the frontier at Poswentg,” my companion remarked, in reply to my enquiry. “It’s too dangerous for us.”

“Why?”

“It swarms with frontier-guards,” he answered, with a low laugh. “We have no desire to encounter any of these gentlemen this evening, therefore we must presently take to the paths. See!” and he nodded upward to the sky, “The tail of the Great Bear points downwards. We shall have luck to-night.”

“Is this the route you take with the fugitives?” I asked, pausing to take breath, and gazing around upon the lovely scene, for here the moonlit river flowed among its osiers and rushes, across the great grass-covered steppe.

“Yes,” he answered. “This is the only portion of our journey where there are serious risks of detection, so let us hurry. On a bright night like this, a man can be seen a long way off. The guards are too fond of hiding along the banks, fearing that any German boats from Endruszen may creep up the river.”

I started forward again, and we both quickened our pace. I now saw from his demeanour that he feared an encounter, for at each unusual sound he paused, his hand uplifted in silence. At last, at a point where the stream made a sudden bend, we left the river road and plunged into a great marsh, where the reeds grew almost as high as ourselves, and where our feet ever and anon sank deep into chill, slimy mud. As soon as we had left the river, my strange guide became as jovial as before, and spoke entirely without restraint. Fear of detection no longer troubled him, for as we held on our way over the soft clay, the silence of the calm night was now and then broken by his coarse laughter. On that flat, marshy land, each step became hampered by huge cakes of yellow mud that clung to our boots, while often I sank with a splash ankle-deep in water, much to my companion’s amusement. Whistling softly to himself, he laughed at all misfortunes, assuring me that we should very soon find drier ground, and that before dawn I should meet Sonia Korolénko, who was awaiting me.

“She is your leader—eh?” I asked.

“Well, of course,” he answered, with a grim smile. In the moonlight he looked a shaggy, evil-faced ruffian, and more than once, when I remembered that I had upon me a good round sum in notes and gold, I regretted that I had trusted myself with him unarmed. “The police drove her from Vienna, from Paris, from London; so she has come to us.”

“And is yours a paying profession?” I asked interested.

“Generally,” he answered, with that frankness that characterised all his conversation. “You’d be surprised how many people seek our assistance. Some of our party are in St Petersburg, Moscow, and Warsaw, and make the contracts with the fugitives; then they hand them over to us, and we do the rest.”

“You guarantee to put them on German soil, or bring foreigners into Russia for a fixed sum?”

“Yes. You would open your eyes if you knew some of the people I’ve guided over this very path. Sometimes it is a Jew peasant who has no permit, and desires to emigrate to London, or to America; at others, an escaped prisoner, a murderer, or a revolutionist, who is being tracked down by the Security Section. We always know why they are leaving Russia, and make them pay accordingly. Not long ago I brought a young titled lady across here; accompanied her into Germany, and put her into the train for Berlin. We had a narrow shave of being captured, but she gave me a thousand roubles when we parted.”

“Why did she want to leave secretly?” I asked.

“She had poisoned her husband somewhere down in Minsk, and the police were in search of her,” he laughed. “Never a night passes, but one or other of us cross the frontier.”

“And you find it an adventurous game—eh?”

“Well, it is pleasant after ten years of Siberia,” he answered grimly. “I let loose the red rooster and burned down the barin’s house in a village in Tver. He well deserved it. I and two friends got away with his money and jewels to Moscow, but one night, a week later, I had an appointment to meet my companions opposite the fountain in the Lubyansky Square, and was arrested.”

“And you got ten years?”

“They made out that the barin got burned to death, so I was packed off for life to Kara. After ten years I managed to escape and become a ‘cuckoo.’ Then after a year’s wandering I succeeded in returning to Moscow, where I found one or two old friends, and we started together in this business. We don’t intend to fall into the drag-net of the police again,” he added with a sardonic grin, at the same moment drawing from his trousers pocket a big army revolver.

“Do the frontier-guards ever trouble you?”

“Sometimes,” he laughed. “When we meet we always show fight. Three were killed in a brush with some of our party not long ago. It will teach them not to interfere with us for a little time.”

Long ago I had heard of a gang of desperate characters who made the strip of zealously-guarded territory between Germany and Russia a terror to travellers, and the utter loneliness of the dismal place, and the swaggering demeanour of my evil-faced companion increased my mistrust.

We left the swamp shortly afterwards, and strode out again across the boundless undulating steppe that stretched away as far as the eye could reach. The moon had sunk lower in the sky, and a whitish cloud appeared in the zenith which seemed to shine with a phosphorescent light. Our trackless path wound between low shrubs, and then, after another hour’s weary, lonely plodding across the grass-covered plain, we came to a clump of trees where the underwood was thick and tangled.

I paused for a moment to gaze behind at the great expanse of flat, uncultivated, uninhabited country we had traversed. A mystery seemed to plane over the boundless steppe. The night wind played among the dry grasses, and sad thoughts awakened in my soul.

Hist!... there was a slight rustling! A reddish fur gleamed in the moonlight so close to me that I could see the ears of a fox and its bushy tail sweeping the ground. It disappeared between the trees, and my heart beat faster as together we went forward, bursting through the underwood. The twigs struck me in the face; I stumbled, gasped for breath, and halted. The wail of a night bird broke the silence.

At that moment I saw my companion bending at the foot of a solitary tree that stood alone amid the tangled undergrowth. There was a hole in its trunk from which he drew forth something and placed it hastily in his pocket. Then, turning towards me, he took out a cigarette and calmly lit it, saying,—

“We have nothing now to fear.”

He allowed the match to burn much longer than was absolutely necessary. Instantly the thought flashed upon me that this light might be a signal to some of his nefarious companions.

But together we went forward again; he jovial and amusing, I moody and thoughtful. His actions had aroused my suspicions. I glanced at my watch, and in the dim light distinguished that it was just past two o’clock. We had already been walking four hours.

Presently, chattering and laughing as we proceeded, we left the wide rolling steppe and plunged into a great wood. The forest was still as death. The moss-grown fir trees stretched out their huge arms as they waved slowly to and fro like funeral plumes. Little light penetrated there, but now and then we could see the bright stars between the branches as we went along a narrow winding track, the intricacies of which were apparently well-known to my guide, for he went onward with the firm, confidential tread of one who know the path, while I followed him closely, the dead branches crackling beneath our feet.

Once or twice a noise fell upon his quick ear, and we halted, he standing revolver in hand in an attitude of defence. Each time, however, we ascertained that we had no occasion for alarm, the noise being made by some animal or bird startled by our sudden intrusion. Then we resumed our midnight journey in single file.

During half an hour we proceeded, he leading the way, directing his footsteps by marks upon the trunks of the trees, so near the ground that they would have escaped the notice of any but those who knew of their whereabouts.

Once I thought I detected a dark figure between the trees, and fearing that it might be one of the sentries, whispered a word of warning to my guide, but he reassured me by telling me that we were skirting the frontier outside guarded territory, therefore there could be no danger. Nevertheless, as he turned to me, I thought his furrowed face looked darker, and his teeth gleamed whiter than usual.

We walked on. The forest was silent, save for the soft whisper of the pines. Without uttering any word I was following closely the footsteps of my guide, when suddenly, how it occurred I know not, I was conscious of being stopped dead by my evil-faced companion, who, with a quick movement, brought up his ready revolver to a level with my head.

Fate had played me an ugly trick. One thought remained uppermost in the chaos of wild, feverish fancies that seized me—the thought of the woman who was my wife.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Bad Company.

“Well,” I managed to ejaculate, standing quite still, without moving a muscle. I saw that his attitude was one of determination, and that he had been joined by a ruffianly-looking companion who had emerged from the undergrowth as if by magic.

My only thought was of my past life. How had I been able to bear the suspicion and suspense so long? I had borne it because the star of hope had glimmered in the darkness. And now the star had vanished, and the hope was dead. Darkness had fallen upon my soul, and a storm arose within it like the chill whirling wind that swept across the steppe at dead of night. I could not think; I forgot where I was, forgot everything except my anger. My heart was full of blind despair.

I was conscious that the gaol-bird spoke. He was demanding my money, and threatening to put a bullet through my head if I refused.

“I promised you money on condition that you took me to Sonia Korolénko,” I answered. “I am ready to pay when you have fulfilled your part of the contract.”

Both men laughed heartily.

“We have no knowledge of her,” declared the man who had been my guide. “All we know is that you have money; if you don’t hand it to us quietly your grave will be in yonder heap of dead leaves.”

“He’ll be company for the others,” observed the man with a fox-like countenance, who had joined us, and was leaning upon an old Berdan rifle.

“Then I understand you have brought me here, to this spot, on a false pretence. You mean to rob me?” I said. “You assured me that you were Sonia’s messenger, and so implicitly did I trust you, that I left my revolver behind at the inn.”

“That is no affair of ours,” answered the old scoundrel, shrugging his shoulders unconcernedly. “Hand us over your money, and we are ready to guarantee you safe conduct, either on into Germany or back to Skerstymone.”

“I’ll pay you nothing, not even a rouble, na vódkou, until you take me to your leader,” I answered defiantly, for somehow I had from the first been convinced of the truth of the man’s assertion that Sonia was in that neighbourhood.

“As we are unable to conduct you to the lady, whoever she is, we shall therefore be compelled to use violence,” observed my guide, glancing at his companion, who nodded approvingly. Then, still holding the muzzle of his weapon to my face, he added with brutal frankness: “You’d better make the sign of the cross now, if you want to. It will be the last chance you’ll get. When a man’s dead and buried he can tell the police nothing.”

Well I knew the desperate character of these brigandish nomads, and fully recognised that they were not to be trifled with.

“The people who come to us for aid never get across the frontier unless they part with their money first,” he continued. “If they don’t—well, we put them to rest quietly and unceremoniously, and give them decent burial. A good many of all sorts, rich and poor, lie buried in these woods. You asked me whether it was a paying profession,” he laughed. “Judge for yourself.”

He still spoke with that unaffected carelessness that had impressed me when we had first met outside the dingy little “tractir” in Skerstymone.

“Come,” cried the ragged, fox-faced man, impatiently, with an accent of South Russia. “We have no time to waste; we have many versts before us ere dawn.”

“Then you’d better be off, and leave me to find my way back as best I can,” I said, endeavouring to preserve an outward show of calmness.

Some noise, so faint that I did not distinguish it, caused both outlaws to hold their breath and listen. They exchanged quick glances. They had wandered thousands of versts across the “taiga” and the steppe, and constantly on the alert to evade Cossack patrols and police, knew every sound of the forest. They had learnt to know the voice of the wood; the speech of every tree. The great firs rustle with their thick boughs, the dark, gloomy pines whisper to one another in mystery, the bright green leafy trees wave their dewy branches, and the mountain-ash trembles with a noise like a faintly rippling brook. They knew, to their disgust, too, how those spies of the frontier, the magpies, hover in crowds over the track of the man who tries in daylight to creep unseen across the bare open steppe.

It was evident that the noise had for an instant puzzled them; yet, after listening a moment, both became reassured, and re-demanded with many violent threats whatever money I had upon me.

“I tell you I refuse,” I answered. “If you take me to Sonia you shall have two hundred roubles each, with twenty more na vódkou.”

“Then you do not wish to live?” exclaimed the man who had so cunningly entrapped me.

“I will give you nothing,” I said resolutely.

“Then take that!” he cried, wildly, and at the same time his revolver flashed close to my face.

The shot echoed far away among the myriad tree trunks, but the bullet passed harmlessly by my ear.

Ere he could fire a second time I sprang upon him, and clutching him by the throat with one hand, with the other grasped the wrist of the sinewy hand that held the revolver. It was a struggle for life.

Again my antagonist drew the trigger, but the weapon was exploded in mid-air. Then his companion flung himself upon me in an endeavour to drag me off. This he was unable to do, and, apparently, fearing lest I should succeed in wresting the weapon from his accomplice’s grasp and use it against him, he sought to stun me by raining blows with his clenched fist upon my head.

A third time the ruffianly assassin’s revolver went off with loud report, but doing no harm. At that moment, however, I was conscious that my strength was failing me. I was muscular, but against this pair of hulking brutes I had no chance in a contest of mere physical power.

The repeated blows upon my skull dazed me, but hearing shouts resounding in the darkness, I held on with grim, dogged courage, with the faint hope that they might be Cossacks. In the dim light I could distinguish figures moving rapidly beneath the trees. The forest seemed suddenly alive with men, but at that instant the fox-faced ruffian, finding his efforts unavailing, stepped back a pace or two, and lowering his rifle, took deliberate aim at my breast.

I closed my eyes tightly and held my breath.

A shot rang out, followed by a burst of wild shouting, but finding myself unharmed, I opened my eyes again. In terror I glanced up, and saw my fox-faced assailant lying face downward. The cowardly villain had evidently been shot at the very instant he had covered me with his Berdan.

Half-a-dozen men sprang forward, and wrenching the revolver from the scoundrel who had attempted to take my life, seized him in their strong grasp, while I, breathless and exhausted, struggled up from my knees, amazed at my sudden and unexpected delivery.

Some twenty men, an ill-dressed, ruffianly crowd, in patched cloaks and dirty grey caps covering their long hair, surrounded me, talking excitedly, bestowing opprobrious epithets upon the man who lay wounded and groaning, and as I turned suddenly in wonder, I was confronted by a peasant woman in a short skirt of some dark stuff, an ill-fitting striped bodice, with a handkerchief tied about her head.

She uttered my name. In an instant I recognised her. It was Sonia.

“I arrived only just in time to save you,” she explained, half breathlessly, in English. “The shots attracted us. That villain, Stepanovitch, whom I sent into Skerstymone to bring you here, no doubt intended to take your money and decamp, but, fortunately, we caught him redhanded. He has long been suspected of doing away with people entrusted to his care for conduct across the frontier, but I never believed him capable of treating any of our friends as victims.”

“He fired at me point-blank,” I said, “although I was unarmed.”

“What shall we do with him, little mother?” cried the excited crowd of burly malefactors, dragging the man before the notorious woman, with pleasant countenance, sonorous voice, and lively manners, whom they acknowledged as leader.

“Tie him up to yonder tree and let him be shot,” answered Sonia, pointing out a lofty pine. “Pick a marksman from among yourselves, and do not shout so loudly. Only one shot must be fired, for I believe the guards are lurking about to-night, and more may attract them.”

With yells of execration the crowd hurried away the unfortunate wretch who had so treacherously treated the friend of their leader, and ere a couple of minutes had elapsed he had been secured to the tree. Then they commenced haggling among themselves as to who should fire the fatal shot. It was a weird scene, this summary justice directed by a woman. The choice fell at last upon a tall hulking fellow in ragged coat and a hat of dirty sheepskin, who, addressed by the nickname of “The Goat,” on account of the shape of his beard, lifted his gun with a jeering remark at the cowering wretch, and stepped back to take more deliberate aim.

“No,” I cried, “don’t let him be shot on my account, Sonia. Give him his life.”

She shook her head, saying simply: “He betrayed my trust.”

“I ask you to forgive him,” I urged. “At least grant me this favour.”

She was undecided, and the outlaws hearing us speak in English, called to their tall champion to stay his hand.

“Very well,” she said, at last. “I forgive him because you plead.”

Without a word I pushed past the men surrounding us, and, taking out my pocket-knife, severed the cord holding the terrified wretch. The old scoundrel, dropping upon his knee, kissed my hand amid the loud jeers of his rough, brutal companions, then regaining his feet, took off his cap, and looking towards heaven, made the sign of the cross.

“This, I hope, will be a lesson, Stepanovitch,” exclaimed Sonia, sternly, in Russian, advancing towards him. “I forgive you only because of the request of this Englishman. Remember in future that the person of any friend of mine, or any of our brothers, is sacred.”

“Yes, I will, matóushka,” answered the old villain, penitently. “That I will. I owe my life to his high nobility’s intercession. I will not again offend, little mother.”

“Very well,” she answered, abruptly; then, briefly explaining how they had just returned from a hazardous trip across the frontier, during which they were detected and followed by a Cossack picket, she gave the order to return home, and we moved forward in single file along the narrow secret paths which wound with so many intricacies through the dark, gloomy forest. As I walked behind her we chatted in English, she telling me how she had been compelled to leave London unexpectedly, and relating how she had fared since we had last met. She, however, made no mention of the nefarious trade she had adopted, and I hesitated to refer to it.

When at length we emerged from the forest, the wounded man being assisted along by his companions, it was near morning. The darkness had gradually become less intense, the stars shone more faintly, and a streak of dawn showed on the far-off horizon. The pale light revealed grassy plains as far as the eye could reach, and the fresh morning breeze swept softly over the thick, green grass that promised an abundant hay crop, such as the dwellers on the broad Kovno plains had longed for for many years. Soon after leaving the forest, however, the party separated, arranging as meeting-place, when the moon rose on the morrow, the third verst-post out of Wezajce, a small village five miles distant. All her associates, Sonia explained, lived in villages in the vicinity, scattering themselves in order to avoid detection by the authorities. The villagers themselves, although well aware of their doings, said nothing. To all inquiries by Cossack frontier-guards or police spies they remained dumb, for the simple reason that while contraband trade could be transacted the village thrived, each of these small, wretched little places receiving indirectly a portion of the outlaws’ profit. In summer there were no empty barns or thistle-grown threshing floors, and in winter the stoves in the huts were always burning, and the “borstch,” or soup, was never without its proper proportion of buck-wheat gruel.

Many were the rumours of missing travellers and violent deaths in that neighbourhood, but the villagers feared nothing from this adventurous gang, who had grown more bold now that they were led by their “little mother.” From what I gathered from my fair companion as we pushed forward together towards the dim line of trees that bounded the steppe in the direction of the sunrise, it appeared that the band had been in existence for several years, but that a few months before, the leader, a well-known escaped convict, was shot dead by a picket while creeping by day across the Zury steppe, and that a proposal had been sent to her at Skerstymone, where she was hiding, that she should become their head. She admitted, with a smile, that the men who had just left us to return to their various occupations were all of bad character, and that, almost without exception, all had served long terms of imprisonment for robbery or murder.

“But is not the assassination of those who have paid for guidance into Germany quite unjustifiable?” I exclaimed, reproachfully, as we walked side by side across the long, dewy grass.

“How can I prevent it!” she asked. “I do all I can to preserve the lives of our clients, but with men of their stamp it is impossible to stop it. Nearly every one of the brotherhood would slit a throat with as little compunction as lighting his cigarette: first, because it avoids the risk of crossing the boundary, and secondly, because of the money the victim has in his pockets. Again, persons who accept our escort are not those persons after whom any inquiry is made. When they are missed, their friends naturally conclude they’ve fallen into the hands of the police, or have escaped abroad and fear to write. Stepanovitch, for instance, does not obtain the rolls of notes he sometimes has by importing contraband goods, neither could he afford to keep a snug house down in Ludwinow, where he spends the winter, and is regarded as a highly respectable member of the Mir.”

“He is an assassin, then?”

Sonia smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

We were approaching a small village with a background of high pine trees, situated on the edge of the great treeless plain. Its name was Sokolini, she told me. Once, in the days of serfdom, it had been the property of a landowner, but now, enjoying liberty, its emancipation was attested by its half-ruined huts, whose bulging walls and smoke-blackened timbers were supported by wooden props. There were not more than thirty houses, all of a similarly squalid, miserable character, and as we entered the tiny place the cocks were crowing in the yards, for the sun had by this time fully risen.

“Five miles through yonder forest as the crow flies brings us into German territory,” she said, indicating the dense wood behind the houses, then pausing before the door of one of the tumble-down huts, pushed it open, and invited me to enter.

The interior was one square room, with huge brick stove, the flat top of which served as bed in winter, a low sloping ceiling and two small windows with uneven panes of greenish glass that imparted to the rays of light a melancholy greyish tint. The bare miserable place was poorly furnished with wooden chairs, a rickety table, and a very old moth-eaten sofa covered with velvet that was once red, but now of faded brown. Over the door was nailed a cheap, gaudy ikon, and on the opposite wall was pasted a crude woodcut of his Majesty the Tzar.

The room was, indeed, in strange contrast to the dainty little drawing-room in Pembroke Road.

While I threw myself into a chair worn-out by fatigue, she removed the ugly wrapper from her head, and disappearing into a little inner den, the only other room in the house, soon reappeared with a steaming samovar, afterwards handing me tea with lemon.

The pale yellow sun struggling in through the thick green panes, fell in slanting rays across the carpetless room, and as we sat opposite one another sipping our cups we exchanged curious glances. Ours had, indeed, been a strange meeting.

She burst out laughing at last.

“Well,” she said, “I see you are surprised.”

“I am. I did not expect you had exchanged your life in London for this,” I exclaimed.

“Ah! I was horribly tired of inactivity there. I had spent all my money, and could do nothing in your country. It is a drawback to be too well-known,” she laughed.

“But surely this life is attended by very serious risks,” I observed, noticing, as the sunlight fell across her hair, that she was still as handsome as ever, notwithstanding her ugly peasant costume and clumsy boots.

“Yes,” she answered reflectively. “Perhaps, in a little while, when I have made more money I shall leave here and return to London. One cannot live without money.”

“True,” I answered. “Yet life here must be terribly dull and monotonous after Vienna and Paris.”

“Ah!” she cried, with the slightest suspicion of a sigh. “All that I have forgotten long, long ago.”

Her eyes were downcast, and I thought I detected tears in them. I gazed at her, this woman who was known in nearly every capital in Europe as one of the most daring and enterprising adventuresses of the century, half-fearing that she might still refuse to disclose her secret.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Outcast.

She moved slightly, raised her cup to her lips with a coquettish air, and on setting it down her dark bright eyes again met mine with inquiring glance.

“Well,” she exclaimed. “Is it not strange that you, of all men, should be in Skerstymone?”

“I came to seek you,” I said, looking earnestly into her pretty face.

“For what reason?”

“Because by your aid alone can I regain my lost happiness,” I answered in deep earnestness. “Once, before you left London, you made certain allegations against Ella; but you failed to substantiate them, or to fulfil your promise in exchange for your passport.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“She is now my wife, and I have come to hear the truth from your own lips, Sonia.”

“Your wife!” she gasped, glaring at me. “Has—has she actually dared to marry you?”

“Yes,” I answered. “She has dared, because she loves me.”

She remained silent, with knit brows, for a long time engrossed in thought.

Then briefly I told her how, after her departure, we had married, and related how suspicion had been aroused within me by her clandestine meetings with Cecil Bingham, her flight, and my subsequent discovery of her true position.

“Then you are aware who she really is,” she observed slowly at last. “That she has dared to enter into a matrimonial alliance with you is certainly astounding. Indeed, it is incredible.”

“Why?” I inquired in surprise.

“There are the strongest reasons why she should never have become your wife,” she replied ambiguously.

“She lives apart from me. She has returned to her house in Paris,” I said.

“Ah! it is best,” she answered mechanically. “It is best for both of you.”

“But we love one another, and although she fears to tell me the truth regarding all this mystery that has enveloped her for so long, you, nevertheless, are in a position to explain everything. Therefore I have come to you. You were my wife’s friend, Sonia,” I went on. “Tell me why she has acted with all this secrecy.”

“Her friend,” she echoed blankly. “Yes, you are right,” she sighed. “It was a strange friendship, ours; she, a Grand Duchess against whom never a word of scandal had been uttered, and I—well I was notorious. The people in Vienna and Paris pointed at me in the streets, and fashionable women copied my manners and my dress. Yet there was, nay there still is, a strong tie between us, a tie that can never be severed.”

“Tell me of it,” I urged, when, pausing, she turned her pale agitated face away from me towards the small grimy window that overlooked the great sunlit steppe.

“Once I believed that she was your enemy, and told you so. I feared that because of her position she would never marry you. Yet it seems she was really in earnest, therefore I now withdraw that allegation. She evidently loves you.”

“Yes, but we are living apart because she fears the revelation of some terrible secret if she acknowledges me as her husband.”

“And that is why you have come here—to learn of her past!” she cried in a hoarse hollow voice, as if the truth had suddenly dawned upon her.

I nodded gravely in the affirmative, then told her of our meeting in Paris, and her refusal to make any satisfactory explanation.

“I envied Elizaveta once,” she said reflectively at last. “I envied her because she was so supremely happy in your love. Yet it now seems as if I, degraded outcast that I am, have even more happiness and freedom.”

“You were once her friend—she visited you every day. You can be her friend now; and by telling me the truth, bring joy and confidence to both of us. You can make our lives happy, if you only will.”

“No,” she answered coldly, her face hard and set. There was a cruel look in her eyes. “Why should I? Why should I strive for the happiness of one to whom I owe all my grief and despair?”

“Surely no misfortune of yours is due to her?” I protested quickly.

“Misfortune!” she wailed, her eyes flashing. “Would you not call the loss of the man you love, misfortune?” Then, in quieter tones, she added with a sigh, “Ah, you don’t know, Geoffrey, how intensely bitter my strange, adventurous life has been. You believe, no doubt, that a woman of my character cannot love. Well, I thought so once. But I tell you that in London I loved one man; the only man I ever met that I could marry. I had renounced my past, and sought to lead a new life when I knew that he cared for me, and was preparing to make me his wife. But she, the Grand Duchess who tricked you so cleverly, came between us, and we were parted. Then I came here, to Russia, sought solace among my former companions, the scum of the gaols and ghettos, and have now descended in despair to what I am. By her, the woman you ask me to free from a terrible thraldom, I have been thrust back into hopelessness, and have lost for ever the one chance I had of joy and love.”

Then, covering her handsome face with her hands, she burst into a torrent of tears.

“Come,” I said, rising, and stroking her soft, silky hair. Her arms were upon the table, and she had buried her head in them, sobbing as if her heart would break. “Come, do not give way,” I urged. “Who was the man you loved?”

“That concerns no one but myself,” she murmured. “Even she has never had proof that we loved one another. Yet to her is due all this grief, that has fallen upon me.”

Raising her head, she strove to suppress her emotion, and her brilliant tear-bedewed eyes fixed themselves steadily upon mine.

“I may perhaps be able to assist you,” I said. “I did on a former occasion.”

“No,” she answered, in a voice of intense sorrow. “I have now grown careless of myself, careless of life, careless of everything since I left London. With the man I loved so truly I could have been happy always, yet she knew my past, and would allow me no chance to redeem myself. It is but what I deserve, I suppose, therefore I must suffer. But can you wonder that, hating the world as I do, I entertain a certain grim satisfaction in being leader of this ragged, ruffianly band of frontier free-lances?”

“No,” I answered, echoing her sigh; “I am scarcely surprised, yet I cannot think that my wife, who was your friend, would willingly serve you as you believe.”

“She did,” Sonia answered, again raising her sad, dark eyes. “She alone I have to thank for the sorrow that has wrecked my life.”

“What was the name of the man you loved?” I asked. “Do I know him?”

“Yes, you know him; but his name is of no consequence,” she answered evasively, in a faint voice, lowering her eyes. “My secret is best kept in my own heart.”

“If my wife did it unintentionally, without knowing you were lovers, there is some excuse,” I said, half apologetically.

“No,” she answered, with sudden harshness. “No excuse is possible. There were other circumstances which rendered her conduct unpardonable.”

“I really can’t believe it,” I said. “I feel certain that she would never have exposed you willingly.”

“Alas!” she said at last, “the evil is now done, and the stigma cannot be removed. But you asked me to reveal certain facts that would place her mind at rest, restore her confidence, and give her freedom. I have told you. I have made a confession to you that no other person has had from my lips.”

“Ah, do not be pitiless,” I cried imploringly, feeling assured that she alone knew the truth. Her assertion that she could restore my wife to freedom meant, I knew, the removal of that dark cloud of suspicion and dread that, overshadowing her, held her spellbound by fear. “Think,” I urged, standing close to her, my hand resting upon the bare, unpolished table. “Once when you came to me, a stranger, and I rendered you a service, you promised to perform one for me in return when I desired it. I am now sorely in need of your friendship, and have come to you for aid.”

“We shall be friends always, I hope, Geoffrey,” she answered quietly, pushing back her dark hair from her brow. Her head was untidy and her hair tangled, for so callous had she grown that she took no heed either of attire or personal appearance.

“Then you will, at least, fulfil your promise,” I said.

“No,” she replied, with dogged firmness. “In this matter I absolutely refuse. I know how weary and wretched your life must be, with mystery surrounding you as it does, and being compelled to live apart from the woman you love; but, frankly, the fact that her cold, proud Highness fears to acknowledge you, or tell you the truth, is a source of satisfaction to me. She has sown dissension, and is now reaping her harvest of tears.”

The cankerworm of care was eating out my heart, and I resolved to make one final appeal to her better nature, albeit I saw from her demeanour how embittered she was against Ella.

“No effort have I left unattempted to seek some solution of the problem,” I said. “Yet all is unavailing. I have sought the truth from Cecil Bingham, but he refused to utter one word, and referred me to you. He said you knew all.”

“Cecil Bingham!” she cried, suddenly starting. “Do you know him? He was your wife’s friend.”

“Yes,” I answered. “I know that, although I am unaware of the true character of their relationship.”

“Ah!” she ejaculated, and I thought she winced beneath my words. “He sent you here?”

“Yes,” I said. “But before seeing him I had endeavoured to obtain some facts from another of Ella’s acquaintances, Andrew Beck.”

“Andrew Beck?” she repeated in a low, hollow voice, her brows contracting as if mention of his name were unpleasant to her ears. “You were jealous of him once,” she added in a hard, dry tone.

“Yea,” I smiled. “But I am so no longer.”

“Why? I thought from what Ella told me long ago that you had some cause. He certainly was one of her admirers.”

“Yes. But he’s about to be married.”

“Married!” she cried wildly, starting to her feet, her lips moving convulsively. “Andrew Beck?”

I nodded, for a moment surprised; but, suddenly remembering, I took from my pocket-book the newspaper cutting announcing the engagement.

Eagerly her strained eyes read the three formal lines of print, then hastily crushing the piece of paper in her hand she cast it from her with a gesture of anger. Her face was pale and determined, her thin hands, no longer loaded with rings as they once had been, twitched nervously, and I could plainly see the strange convulsion that the unexpected intelligence had caused within her.

“Do you know the—the girl who is to be his wife?” she stammered presently.

“No, we have never met,” I answered. “His marriage does not, however, concern us for the moment. It is of Ella and her strange secret that I seek knowledge. Tell me the truth, Sonia, so that I may be able to place within her hand a weapon wherewith to combat this mysterious enemy she fears.”

There was a long pause. Her breath came and went quickly in hot convulsive gasps. Her hands were so tightly clenched that their nails were driven into the palms; her mouth was firmly set, and in her eyes was a cold, stony stare. The knowledge of Beck’s intended marriage had aroused within her a veritable tumult of passion.

“The truth!” she cried hoarsely at last, her hand upon her throbbing breast. “You ask me to clear suspicion from the woman whose whim it has been to marry you and I refuse, because I should bring her happiness, and remove from her the terror that now holds her enthralled. But I have reconsidered my decision. I—”

“Ah, tell me!” I exclaimed, interrupting her in my eagerness.

“I will speak because my disclosures, remarkable though they may be, will not only bring peace to you and your wife, but will also prove a trifle disconcerting to her companions. Once they hunted me from town to town as a criminal; they will now beg to me for mercy upon their knees.”

“Tell me. Do not conceal the truth longer,” I cried anxiously.

“No. Only in Elizaveta’s presence will I speak,” she answered, in a strained voice quivering with violent emotion. “Let us start for Paris to-night. When the moon rises I will guide you through the forest into Germany; we can cross the Jura by the bridge beyond Absteinen, and from Tilsit take train to Berlin. In two days we can be in Paris. Take me to her,” she said with sudden eagerness, “and you shall both learn facts that will astound you.”

“I am quite ready,” I said; “I knew you alone would prove my friend.”

“No,” she answered, regarding me gravely. “No, Geoffrey. It is a secret full of grim realities and ugly revelations, which, when disclosed, will, I fear, cause you to hate me, and count me among your enemies. But you seek the truth; you shall therefore be satisfied.”

Chapter Thirty Five.

Confession.

“Her Highness has this moment returned from driving, m’sieur,” answered the big Russian concierge, when, accompanied by Sonia, I entered the hall of the great house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, and handed him a card.

Then a second servant, in the blue-and-gold livery of the Romanoffs, conducted us ceremoniously along the wide, soft-carpeted corridor to the well-remembered room wherein I had taken leave of the woman I loved. My companion, in her neat, tailor-made travelling gown of dark grey cloth, looked a very different person to the dirty, unkempt peasant woman who led that band of desperate gaol-birds on the frontier, and as she glanced around the fine apartment on entering, she observed, with a slight sigh, that this was not her first visit.

The afternoon was breathless. All Paris had left for the plages of Arcachon, Dieppe, or Trouville, or the baths of Royat, Vichy or Luchon, and the boulevards were given over to unhappy business men, café loungers, and soft-hatted, gaping tourists in check tweeds. The green jalousies of the room were closed, the senses were suffused with a tender and restful twilight, for the glare had been tempered to suit the dreamy languor of that great mansion’s world-weary mistress. The open windows admitted, with air, the faint sound of traffic from the Avenue. A lad passing somewhere outside whistled a few bars from the gay chansonette, “Si qu’on leur-z-y, f’rait ça,” which Judic was singing nightly with enormous success at the Summer Alcazar. I noticed that upon the piano there still stood my own photograph, while that of my betrayer had been replaced by a picture of my wife.

With my back to the great tiled hearth, filled with ferns and flowers, and surrounded by its wonderful mantel of Italian sculptured marble, I waited, while Sonia, fatigued after our long and dusty journey, sank into one of the silken armchairs, unloosened her coat, and sniffed at her little silver bottle of smelling-salts. Scarce a word had she uttered during our drive across the city from the Gare de Lyon, so full she seemed of unutterable sadness.

During several minutes we remained in silence, when, without warning, the long doors of white-and-gold were flung open by the flunkey who, advancing into the room, announced his mistress.

Next instant we were face to face.

“Ah! Geoffrey. At last!” she cried, with flushed cheeks, a smile of glad welcome lighting up her pale countenance as she rushed towards me with both hands outstretched. A second later, noticing Sonia, she suddenly halted. Instantly a change passed over her face. She was unlike the gay, light-hearted girl who loved to idle up the quiet Thames backwaters, or punt along the banks at sundown. She was different from the happy, trustful bride who had wandered with me during those autumn days in quaint old Chateauroux. She had none of the flush of joyous youth, and the harder lines of resolve and determination were softened by an expression for which there is no better word than consecration. There were signs of endurance in her face, but it was the endurance of the martyr, not of the champion.

Facing Sonia, she drew herself up haughtily, and demanded in French in a harsh, angry voice,—

“To what, pray, do I owe this intrusion? I should have thought that after what has passed you would not dare to come here. But I suppose cool audacity is a characteristic which must be cultivated by a woman of your character.”

Sonia rose slowly from her chair, her features haggard and blanched, her head bent slightly, as if in penitence. No effort did she make to resent the bitter, angry words my wife had uttered, but in a low tone simply replied,—

“I have come here with Geoffrey, to tell you the truth.”

“The truth!” echoed the Grand Duchess, with withering contempt. “The truth from such as you! Who would believe it?”

“Wait! Hear me before you denounce me,” Sonia urged, in a strange, hollow voice, that sounded like one speaking in the far distance. “I do not deny that my presence may seem unwarrantable. I admit that between us there can no longer be friendship, yet strange it is that, although you are honest, upright and respected, while I am a social outcast, spurned and degraded by all, there nevertheless exists a common bond between us—the bond of love. You love Geoffrey, the man who by law is your husband; while I love another, a man you also know;” and her voice faltered, “the man to whom you denounced me as base and worthless.”

“Well?” asked Ella, standing stern, upright, full of calm, unruffled dignity. She still wore the cool-looking summer gown in which she had been driving in the Bois, and had not removed her large black hat with its long ostrich plumes.

“You are quite right, quite right,” Sonia admitted in a voice trembling with emotion. “You were justified to undeceive him as you did. I know, alas! how black is my heart—how blunted is all the womanly feeling I once possessed, like you. But you have been nurtured in the lap of luxury, while I, fed from infancy upon the offal of a slum, and taught to regard the world from a cynical point of view, have grown old in evil-doing, and am now a mere derelict in the stream of life. Long ago we met, and parted. I treated you, as I did others, as an enemy. We have now met again, and I, conscience-stricken and penitent, have come to atone for the past—to prove your friend, to beg forgiveness.”

My wife shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of quick impatience.

“Ah! You don’t believe I am in earnest,” cried the unhappy woman. “Has it never occurred to you that I alone can free you from the bond that has held you aloof from your husband?”

“What do you mean?” cried Ella, with a puzzled expression.

“I mean,” she answered, in a deep, earnest voice. “I mean that if you will make full and open confession to Geoffrey I will furnish you with proof positive of the identity of the murderer of Dudley Ogle. By this means only can you obtain freedom from your bondage of guilt.”

“My freedom!” echoed my wife. She was pale as death; her hot, dry lips moved convulsively, and she glanced at me in feverish apprehension. “How can you give me my freedom?”

“By revealing the truth,” Sonia answered. “When you have told Geoffrey all, then will I disclose the terrible secret that I have selfishly kept from you because I envied you your happiness.”

The silence remained unbroken for some moments. Ella stood with her gloved hands clasped before her. The haughty demeanour of the daughter of the Romanoffs had entirely forsaken her; with head bent she stood immovable as a statue. Terror and despair showed themselves in her clear, bright eyes. It seemed as though she mistrusted this woman of evil repute, whose assertions half induced her to confess to me.

“Come,” Sonia said, “speak, and freedom, love and happiness are yours.”

Her breast, beneath its lace and flimsy muslin, heaved and fell. Her fingers hitched themselves nervously in the trimming of her gown. Then, at last, with sudden resolve, she turned, and with terror-stricken eyes fixed upon me, said in English, in low, faltering tone,—

“To confess to you, Geoffrey, will cause you to hate, ah! even to curse me. After to-day I fear we shall part never again to meet.”

“No, no,” I cried, advancing to take her soft hand in mine. “Tell me your secret. Then let us hear what Sonia has to reveal.”

“Ah! mine is a wretched, horrible story of duplicity,” my wife faltered, standing in an attitude of deep dejection. “Although I am a Grand Duchess, the bearer of an Imperial name, I can hope for neither pity nor mercy from you, nor from the world outside.”

“Why?”

“Because I have foully deceived you. I am a spy!”

“A spy!” I gasped, amazed. “What do you mean?”

“Listen; I will tell you,” she answered, in a hard, strained voice, swaying slowly forward and clutching at the table for support. “Three years ago, when my mother, the Grand Duchess Nicholas, was still alive, we were spending some months as usual at our winter villa that faced the Mediterranean at St Eugene, close to Algiers, and my mother engaged as valet de chambre an Englishman. Soon this man grew, I suppose, to admire me. He pestered me with hateful attentions, and at last had the audacity to declare his love. As may be readily imagined, I scornfully rejected him, treated him with contempt, and finding that he still continued his protestations, meeting me when I went for walks along the sea-road to Algiers, or under the palms and orange groves in the Jardin Marengo, I one day in a fit of ill-temper, disclosed to my mother the whole of the circumstances. The fellow was at once discharged, but before he left for Europe he wrote me a letter full of bitter reproach, and expressed his determination to some day wreak vengeance upon me, as well as upon a young Englishman whom he suspected that I loved. His suspicions, however, were entirely unfounded. I, known at home and throughout all our family by the pet name of ‘Tcherno-okaya,’ or ‘Sparkling Eyes,’ a nickname taken from our Russian poet Lermontoff, had met this young Englishman quite casually, when one day, while passing through the Kasbah, I was insulted by two half-drunken Arabs, and he escorted me home. Then, when we parted, he told me that he was staying at the Hôtel de la Régence, opposite the great white mosque, and gave me his name. It was Dudley Ogle.”

Chapter Thirty Six.

The Thrall.

“Dudley Ogle!” I echoed in blank amazement. “Are you certain that the servant’s suspicions were devoid of foundation?”

“Absolutely,” she answered in quick breathlessness. “In those days I was supercilious and disdainful, being taught to regard my dignity as Grand Duchess with too great a conceit to make a mésalliance. My mother used constantly to urge that in the marriages contracted by members of our family love was not absolutely necessary—position was everything. Well, the months went by. We left Algiers, returned to St Petersburg, and soon afterwards my mother died, leaving me alone. I found myself possessor of great wealth, and when, after a period of mourning, I reappeared in society, I was courted and flattered by all sorts and conditions of men. In a year I grew tired of it all and longed to return to England, the land wherein I had spent many years of my youth; therefore I engaged a woman to pose as my mother, and dropping my title, went to London and lived there as Ella Laing. Then I met you,” and she paused, looking earnestly into my face with her deep blue eyes. To me she had embodied everything that was fair, honourable, and pure, yet I had dreaded some sinister peril from an unknown source.

“And we loved each other,” I said simply.

“Yes,” she went on fervently. “But from the first I was fettered, being unable to act as my heart prompted. I loved you fondly, and knew you wished to make me your wife, yet I dared not to risk such a step without the permission of our House. I went to St Petersburg, explained who and what you were, and craved leave to marry you. A family council was held, but the suggestion was unanimously denounced as a piece of sentimental folly. Ah, shall I ever forget that night? I pleaded to them upon my knees to let me obtain happiness in your love, but they were inexorable and refused. At length, when in a moment of despair I threatened that if shut out from love by the barrier of birth I would end my life, a suggestion was made—a horrible, infamous one, prompted by Makaroff, Minister of the Household. Yet I was ready to commit any act, to do anything in order to secure happiness with you. Permission was given me to marry you on condition that I entered the Secret Service as spy. I appealed personally to the Tzar, but in vain. You were in the Earl of Warnham’s confidence, and it was seen that from you I could obtain information which would be of greatest utility to our Foreign Department.”

“So you accepted,” I said sternly.

“Yes. I accepted their abominable conditions because I loved you so well, Geoffrey,” she said gloomily, her trembling hand upon my shoulder. “It was not my fault, indeed it wasn’t. If I had known what was to follow I would have killed myself rather than bring about all the trouble and disaster for which I became responsible.”

“No,” I said, “don’t speak like that.”

“I would,” she declared despairingly. “What followed was a dark, mysterious tragedy, while all the time I knew that you must suspect—that, after all, you might forsake me. Within a week after binding myself irrevocably to the Tzar’s army of spies I made a discovery that held me appalled. I found that my master, the man to whose will I was compelled to submit, was none other than our discharged valet de chambre—the man who two years before had declared his love. At the time my mother had engaged him he was already in the Secret Service, and had no doubt kept watch upon us. He came to me at ‘The Nook,’ and, exulting in the fact that I had become his puppet, renewed his protestations of affection. When, frankly, I told him that I hated him and loved only you, he at once informed me, with a grin of satisfaction, that the department in St Petersburg found it compulsory to obtain possession of a copy of a secret convention at that moment being concluded between your country and Germany, and that I must get possession of it at any cost, through you. It was in order that I might betray you that the Imperial permission had been given to our marriage. In indignation I refused, whereupon he threatened to expose me to you as a Russian spy, and I saw only too clearly that any such revelation must end for ever our acquaintance. He cajoled, urged, threatened, and explained all the elaborate precautions that had been taken by two clerks in Russian pay at your Foreign Office in order that on a certain day you should carry the precious document in your pocket, and how he had prepared the dummy envelope sealed with your Minister’s seal. At last—at last, after striving long and vainly against the performance of this ignominious action that I knew must reflect on your honesty, I was compelled to submit. Ah! you can never know what agony I suffered. I verily believe that in those few days the terrible vengeance of that scoundrel drove me insane. The hideous ghost of the past causes me to shudder whenever I think of it.”

I echoed her sigh, but no word escaped me. Her revelations were astounding. I had never suspected her of being actually a spy, although the discovery of the stolen convention in her escritoire had lent colour to that view.

“I deceived you,” she went on in a hard, monotonous voice. “But only because I loved you so fondly, and dreaded that this man, who had long ago vowed to wreck my life, would expose, and thus part us. Yet I could not bring myself to commit the theft. How could I place upon you—the man who was all in all to me—the stigma of having traitorously sold your country’s secrets? The man who held me enslaved, and whose attentions I had spurned, exulted in his malevolent revenge. Once he offered, if I would renounce all thought of you and treat him with more cordiality, to commit the theft himself; but I refused, determined at all hazards to remain with you as long as possible. Once it was thought that the secret convention would be sent to Warnham Hall, and I was compelled to go down there to devise some means of obtaining it. I found Dudley staying in the village, and we returned to London together. The end must soon come, I knew. Therefore I lived on in daily terror of what must follow. At last the day dawned on which I had to meet you at the Foreign Office, and filch from you the bond of nations. After breakfast I stood out on the lawn by the sunny river’s brink, contemplating suicide rather than your ruin, when there rowed up to the steps Dudley Ogle, who hailed me, inviting me to pull up to Windsor, and there lunch with him. At once I accepted, and after embarking, told him of my dilemma, and besought his assistance. As you know, he was a good amateur conjurer, and skilled in feats of sleight-of-hand. Without thought of the consequences, he resolved to commit the theft for my sake, and when I had fully explained all the facts and given him the dummy envelope that the cunning chief of the Okhrannoë Otdelenïe had prepared, he turned the boat and put me ashore at ‘The Nook,’ afterwards rowing rapidly down to Shepperton to change and go at once to London.”

“He did this because he loved you?” I exclaimed sternly.

“No,” she answered reassuringly. “Poor Dudley was simply my friend. He called on you and extracted the document from your pocket while you lunched together, because he saw in what a dilemma I was. He knew I loved you dearly, and never once spoke a single word of affection to me. That I swear before Heaven. What followed his visit to Downing Street I have only a hazy idea, so full of awful anxieties was that breathless day. From Waterloo Station he telegraphed to me that he had successfully secured the agreement and handed it to the chief of spies. The latter, who had been waiting in Parliament Street expecting me, seeing him, took in the situation at a glance, and approaching him, asked for the document, which he gave up. An hour afterwards, fearing that you might suspect me, I telegraphed to you at Shepperton to dine with us, well knowing that already the text of the convention was at that moment being transmitted to Petersburg, and that war was imminent. You came; you kissed me. I loved you dearer than life, yet dreaded the frightful consequences of the dastardly act I had instigated. Suddenly, while we were at dinner, and you were laughing, happy and unconscious of the conspiracy against the peace of Europe, a thought flashed across my mind. I well knew that an awful conflict of armed forces must accrue from my deep, despicable cunning, and it occurred to me, as I sat by your side, that I would, using the secret cipher I had been provided with, telegraph to St Petersburg in the name of the chief of spies, assuring our Foreign Department that a mistake had been made. I slipped out, and running down to the telegraph office just before it closed, sent a message to an unsuspicious-looking address, stating that the text of the convention already sent had been discovered to be that of a rejected draft, and not that of the actual defensive alliance which had received the signature of the Emperor William.”

“Then it was actually this message of yours that prevented war?” I gasped, in profound astonishment.

“Yes,” she answered. “Before receipt of my telegram all preparations were being made for the commencement of hostilities, but on its arrival the Tzar at once countermanded the mobilisation order, and Europe was thereby spared a terrible and bloody conflict. Ah! that was indeed a memorable night, brought to a conclusion by a dark and terrible tragedy.”

Her astounding disclosures held me dumbfounded. I remembered vividly how, during our lunch at the Ship, Dudley had risen and gone out to the bar to speak to an acquaintance. It was at that moment, having stolen the document from me, he glanced at its register number and imitated it upon the dummy with which Ella had provided him.

“But how came you possessed of the original of the convention?” I asked.

“A week before I fled from you I received it by post anonymously,” she replied. “When compelled by my enemy to leave you and return here to my true position, I unfortunately left it behind, and knew that, sooner or later, you must discover it. The man who, with the Tzar’s authority, held me under the lash, still holds me, the plaything of his spite, and threatens that if I allow you to come here and occupy your rightful place as my husband, he will denounce me to the British Government as a spy. Hence I am still his puppet, still held by a bond of guilt that I dare not break asunder.”

“Be patient,” urged Sonia, in a deep, calm voice. “Be patient, and you shall yet be free.”

“Ah! Geoffrey,” sobbed my wife, her blanched, tearful face buried in her hands, “you can never, I fear, forgive. After all, notwithstanding the glamour that must surround me as Grand Duchess, I am but a mean, despicable woman who foully betrayed you, the man who loved me.”

“You atoned for your crime by your successful effort to preserve the peace of Europe,” I answered.

“Yes, yes,” she cried, with a quiver in her voice there was no mistaking for any note save that of love; “but, alas! I am in the power of an unscrupulous knave who parted us because he saw me happy with you. Can you ever forgive me? Can you, now you know of my unworthiness, ever say that you love me as truly as you did in those bygone days at ‘The Nook’? Speak! Tell me?”

“Yes,” I answered, fervently pressing her closely in affectionate embrace. “I forgive you everything, darling. You sinned; but, held as you have been by the hateful conditions imposed upon you by a base, unprincipled villain, I cannot blame, but only pity you.”

“Then you still love me, Geoffrey?” she cried, panting, gazing up into my face.

For answer I bent until my lips met hers in a long fond caress. In those moments of ecstasy I was conscious of having regained the idyllic happiness long lost. Even though her story was full of bitter and terrible sorrow, and rendered gloomy by the tragic death of her self-sacrificing friend, the truth nevertheless brought back to me the joys and pleasures of life that not long ago I believed had departed from me for ever.

Again and again our lips met with murmured words of tender passion—she declaring that her crime had been flagitious and unpardonable, yet assuring me of what I now felt convinced, that her love had been unwavering. If it were not that she had resolved to renounce her title and become my wife she would never have fallen beneath the vassalage of the infamous scoundrel who sought her social ruin.

Thus we stood together locked in each other’s arms, exchanging once again vows of love eternal, while Sonia stood watching us, sad, silent and motionless, save for a deep sigh that once escaped her. She knew that supreme happiness had come to the woman she had once denounced as my bitterest foe.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Conclusion.

It was four o’clock on the following afternoon. The black, iron-studded doors of the Bank of England were just closing. The beadle mopped his brow. The traffic around the Royal Exchange was becoming more congested, as it generally does at that hour, and perspiring clerks hurrying along Threadneedle Street sought the shady side, for the sun was still powerful. So hot indeed was the season that general permission had been granted everywhere in the City to wear the jacket suit and straw headgear reminiscent of Margate, in place of the conventional silk hat and frock coat. Although in the West the houses were mostly closed, and thousands were absent in the country and by the sea, the great, turbulent, bustling crowd that constitutes business London showed no sign of inactivity or decrease as, accompanied by my wife and Sonia, I walked up Old Broad Street to that pile of offices known as Winchester House, through the swing doors of which passed a constant stream of hurrying clerks.

By the lift we ascended to the second floor, and then passed down a long corridor to a door on which was inscribed the name “Mr Andrew Beck.” We entered a large office of business-like aspect, where some dozen clerks were busy writing, and were informed that their principal, although absent, would return in a few minutes, therefore we decided to wait, and were ushered into a comfortable private room, one door of which opened on to the corridor.

Scarcely had we been seated a few moments when the click of a latch-key was heard in the door, and my friend Beck entered. He was well-dressed as usual, with a green-tinted carnation in his button-hole, and a glossy hat with brim of the latest curl stuck a trifle rakishly upon his head. The instant he confronted us the light died out of his face.

He drew himself up with a quick look of suspicion, while from his lips there escaped a muttered imprecation. Without further ado he turned on his heel, as if preparing to make a hurried exit, but in a moment Sonia, detecting his intention, sprang towards the door and prevented him.

“Well?” he asked, with a sorry endeavour to remain cool, “why are you all here? This is an unexpected pleasure, I assure you.”

It was Sonia who, standing before him with dark, flashing eyes, answered in a tone of fierce hatred and contempt,—

“I have come, Andrew, to present my congratulations upon your forthcoming marriage,” she said, with her pronounced foreign accent.

“They could have been conveyed by a penny stamp,” he retorted impatiently.

“You taunt me, do you?” she cried in a towering passion. “You, the cunning, cowardly spy whom I shielded because you professed love for me. Had I spoken long ago you would have met with your deserts, either at the hands of the Nihilists, or at those of justice. Although myself a criminal I yearned for love, and foolishly believing that you cared for me, preserved the secret of your guilt, allowing you to wreck the happiness of Geoffrey Deedes, the man who twice proved my friend, and of Elizaveta, the only honest woman who ever spoke kindly to me or endeavoured to induce me to reform. Because you were chief of the Tzar’s spies and I was notorious, with plenty of money always at command, you imagined that you held me irrevocably. Well, for a time, you did. Your false protestations of affection caused me to refrain from exposing your base, cunning, heartless infamy. It was you, with your renegade underling Renouf, who contrived to get me introduced to Elizaveta in order to further your own ends; but it was you also, when fearing that I might make some ugly revelations, made unfounded allegations against me to General Sekerzhinski, and informed him of my whereabouts, so that I was compelled to fly from Pembroke Road and seek shelter where I could.”

His eyes were fixed upon her with a look of fierce hatred, and he muttered some incoherent words between his teeth.

“Yes,” she went on defiantly, “I know you are anxious to close my lips, because of the startling disclosures it is within my power to make. The Department in St Petersburg have in you a keen, cunning spy, but when it becomes known throughout England that Andrew Beck, the popular Member for West Rutlandshire, is in the pay of the Russian Government, do you anticipate that you will still occupy your seat in the House of Commons, or at the Committee you have so ingeniously obtained for the investigation of the strength of England’s defences?”

He started. His face was ashen pale; his cigar dropped from his nerveless, trembling fingers.

“Geoffrey,” she went on, “has already heard from Elizaveta how cleverly you tricked her, and with what dastard knavishness you compelled her to instigate the theft of the secret convention. She—”