Chapter Twelve.Watchers in the Night.After Her Highness and Miss West had dined with me at the “Métropole” at Brighton on the following evening, the trusted old companion complained of headache and drove home, leaving us alone together.Therefore we strolled forth into the moonlit night and, crossing the road, walked out along the pier. There were many persons in the hall of the hotel, but though a good many heads were turned to see “Miss Gottorp” pass in her prettydécolletégown of black, trimmed with narrow silver, over which was a black satin evening cloak, probably not one noticed the undersized, insignificant, but rather well-dressed man who rose from one of the easy chairs where he had been smoking to follow us out.Who, indeed, of that crowd would have guessed that the pretty girl by whose side I walked was an Imperial Princess, or that the man who went out so aimlessly was Oleg Lobko, the trusty agent of the Russian Criminal Police charged by the Emperor with her personal protection?With the man following at a respectable distance, we strolled side by side upon the pier, looking back upon the fairy-like scene, the long lines of light along King’s Road, and the calm sea shimmering beneath the clear moon. There were many people enjoying the cool, refreshing breezes, as there always are upon an autumn night.A comedy was in progress in the theatre at the pierhead, and it being theentr’acte, many were promenading—mostly visitors taking their late vacation by the sea.My charming little companion had been bright and cheerful all the evening, but had more than once, by clever questions, endeavoured to learn what had taken me to the Embassy on the previous night. I, however, did not deem it exactly advisable to alarm her unduly, either by telling her of my defiance of General Markoff, of my discovery of Danilo Danilovitch, or of the attempt to terrify me by the declaration that another plot was in progress.Truth to tell, Tack, before his return to Petersburg, had run Danilovitch to earth in Lower Clapton, and two private detectives, engaged by me, were keeping the closest surveillance upon him.Twice had we circled the theatre at the pierhead, and had twice strolled amid the seated audience around the bandstand where military music was being played in the moonlight, when we passed two young men in Homburg hats, wearing overcoats over their evening clothes. One of them, a tall, slim, dark-haired, good-looking, athletic young fellow, of perhaps twenty-two, raised his hat and smiled at my companion.She nodded him a merry acknowledgment. Then, as we passed on, I exclaimed quickly:“Hulloa! Is that some new friend—eh?”“Oh, it’s really all right, Uncle Colin,” she assured me. “I’ve done nothing dreadful, now. You needn’t start lecturing me, you know, or be horrified at all.”“I’m not lecturing,” I laughed. “I’m only consumed by curiosity. That’s all.”“Ah! You’re like all men,” she declared. “And suppose I refuse to satisfy your curiosity—eh?”“You won’t do that, I think,” was my reply, as we halted upon one of the long benches which ran on either side of the pier. “Remember, I am responsible to the Emperor for you, and I’m entitled to know who your friend is.”“He’s an awfully nice boy,” was all she replied.“He looks so. But who is he?”“Somebody—well, somebody I knew at Eastbourne.”“And you’ve met him here? How long ago?”“Oh! nearly a month.”“And so it is he whom you’ve met several times of late—eh?” I said. “Let’s see—according to the report furnished to me, you were out for half an hour on the sea-front on Tuesday night; five minutes on Wednesday night; not at all on Thursday night, and one whole hour on Friday night—eh? And with a young man whose name is unknown.”“Oh, I’ll tell you his name. He’s Dick Drury.”“And who, pray, is this Mr Richard Drury?”“A friend of mine, I tell you. The man with him is his friend—Lance Ingram, a doctor.”“And what is this Mr Drury’s profession?”“He does nothing, I suppose,” she laughed. “I can’t well imagine Dick doing much.”“Except flirting—eh?” I said with a smile.“That’s a matter of opinion,” she replied, as we again rose and circled the bandstand, for I was anxious to get another look at the pair.On the evenings I had referred to, it appeared that Her Highness, after dinner, had twisted a shawl over her head, and ran down to the sea-front—a distance of a hundred yards or so—to get a breath of air, as she had explained to Miss West. But on each occasion the watchful police-agent had seen her meet by appointment this same young man. Therefore some flirtation was certainly in progress—and flirtation had been most distinctly forbidden.My efforts were rewarded, for a few minutes later the two young men repassed us, and this time young Drury did not raise his hat. He only smiled at her in recognition.“Where are they staying?” I asked.“Oh you are so horribly inquisitive, Uncle Colin,” she said. “Well, if you really must know, they’re staying at the ‘Royal York.’”“How came you to know this young fellow at Eastbourne?” I asked. “I thought you were kept in strictest seclusion from the outside world. At least, you’ve always led me to believe that,” I said.She laughed heartily.“Well, dear old uncle, surely you don’t think that any school could exactly keep a girl a prisoner. We used to get out sometimes alone for an hour of an evening—by judicious bribery. I’ve had many a pleasant hour’s walk up the road towards Beachy Head. And, moreover, I wasn’t alone, either. Dick was usually with me.”“Really, this is too dreadful!” I exclaimed in pious horror. “Suppose anyone had known who you really were!”“Well, I suppose even if they had the heavens wouldn’t have fallen,” she laughed.“Ah!” I said, “you are really incorrigible. Here you are flirting with an unsuspected lover.”“And why shouldn’t I?” she asked in protest. “Dick is better than some chance acquaintance.”“If you are only amusing yourself,” I said. “But if you love him, then it would be a serious matter.”“Oh, horribly serious, I know,” she said impatiently. “If I were a typist, or a shopgirl, or a waitress, or any girl who worked for her living, I should be doing quite the correct thing; but for me—born of the great Imperial Family—to merely look at a boy is quite unpardonable.”I was silent for a few moments. The little madcap whom the Emperor had placed in my charge, because her presence at Court was a menace to the Imperial family, was surely unconventional and utterly incorrigible.“I fear Your Highness does not fully appreciate the heavy responsibilities of Imperial birth,” I said in a tone of dissatisfaction.“Oh, bother! My birth be hanged!” she exclaimed, with more force than politeness. “In these days it really counts for nothing. I was reading it all in a German book last week. Every class seems to have its own social laws, and what is forbidden to me is quite good form with my dressmaker. Isn’t it absurdly funny?”“You must study your position.”“Why should I, if I strictly preserve myincognito? That I do this, even you, Uncle Colin, will admit!”“Are you quite certain that this Mr Drury is unaware who you really are?” I asked.“Quite. He believes me to be Miss Natalia Gottorp, my father German, my mother English, and I was born in Germany. That is the story—does it suit?”“I trust you will take great care not to reveal your true identity,” I said.“I have promised you, haven’t I?”“You promised me that you would not flirt, and yet here you are, having clandestine meetings with this young man every evening!”“Oh, that’s very different. I can’t help it if I meet an old friend accidentally, can I?” she protested with a pretty pout.At that moment we were strolling along the western side of the pierhead, where it was comparatively ill-lit, on one side being the theatre, while on the other the sea. The photographer’s and other shops were closed at that late hour, and the light being dim at that spot, several flirting couples were passing up and down arm in arm.Suddenly, as we turned the corner behind the theatre, we came face to face with a dark-featured, middle-aged man, with deeply-furrowed brow, narrowly set eyes and small black moustache. He wore a dark suit and a hard felt hat, and had something of the appearance of a middle-class paterfamilias out for his annual vacation.He glanced quickly in our direction, and, I thought, started, as though recognising one or other of us.Then next moment he was lost in the darkness.“Do you know that man?” asked my companion suddenly.“No. Why?”“I don’t know,” she answered. “I fancy I’ve seen him somewhere or other before. He looked like a Russian.”That was just my own thought at that moment, and I wondered if Oleg, who was lurking near, had noticed him.“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t recollect ever having seen him before. I wonder who he is? Let’s turn back.”We did so, but though we hastened our steps, we did not find him. He had, it seemed, already left the pier. Apparently he believed that he had been recognised.Once again we repassed Drury and his friend just as the theatre disgorged its crowd of homeward-bound pleasure-seekers.We were walking in the same direction, Oleg following at a respectable distance, and I was enabled to obtain a good look at him, for, as though in wonder as to whom I could be, he turned several times to eye me, with some little indignation, I thought.I judged him to be about twenty-five, over six feet in height, athletic and wiry, with handsome, clear-cut, clean-shaven features and a pair of sharp, dark, alert eyes, which told of an active outdoor life. His face was a refined one, his gait easy and swinging, and both in dress and manner he betrayed the gentleman.Truth to tell, though I did not admit it to Natalia, I became very favourably impressed by him. By his exterior he seemed to be a well-set-up, sportsmanlike young fellow, who might, perhaps, belong to one of the Sussex county families.His friend the doctor was of quite a different type, a short, fair-haired man in gold-rimmed spectacles, whose face was somewhat unattractive, though it bore an expression of studiousness and professional knowledge. He certainly had the appearance of a doctor.But before I went farther I resolved to make searching inquiry unto the antecedents of this mysterious Dick Drury.The walk in the moonlight along the broad promenade towards Hove was delightful. I begged Her Highness to drive, but she preferred to walk; the autumn night was so perfect, she said.As we strolled along, she suddenly exclaimed:“I can’t help recalling that man we saw on the pier. I remember now! I met him about a week ago, when I was shopping in Western Road, and he followed me for quite a distance. He was then much better dressed.”“You believe, then, he is a Russian?” I asked quickly.“I feel certain he is.”“But you were not alone—Oleg was out with you, I suppose?”“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “He never leaves me. I only wish he would sometimes. I hate to be spied upon like this. Either Dmitri or Oleg is always with me.”“It is highly necessary,” I declared. “Recollect the fate of your poor father.”“But why should the revolutionists wish to harm me—a girl?” she asked. “My own idea is that they’re not half as black as they’re painted.”I did not reveal to her the serious facts which I had recently learnt.“Did you make any mention to Oleg of the man following you?”“No, it never occurred to me. But there, I suppose, he only followed me, just as other men seem sometimes to follow me—to look into my face.”“You are used to admiration,” I said, “and therefore take no notice of it. Pretty women so soon become blasé.”“Oh! So you denounce me as blasé—eh, Uncle Colin?” she cried, just as we arrived before the door in Brunswick Square. “That is the latest! I really don’t think it fair to criticise me so constantly,” and she pouted.Then she gave me her little gloved hand, and I bent over it as I wished her good-night.I wished to question Oleg regarding the man we had seen, but I could not do so before her.I turned back along the promenade, and was walking leisurely towards the “Métropole,” when suddenly from out of the shadow of one of the glass-partitioned shelters the dark figure of a man emerged, and I heard my name pronounced.It was the ubiquitous Hartwig, wearing his gold pince-nez. As was his habit, he sprang from nowhere. I had clapped my hand instinctively upon my revolver, but withdrew it instantly.“Good evening, Mr Trewinnard,” he said. “I’ve met you here as I don’t want to be seen at the ‘Métropole’ to-night. I have travelled straight through from Petersburg here. I landed at Dover this afternoon, went up to Victoria, and down here. I arrived at eight o’clock, but learning that Her Highness was dining with you, I waited until you left her. It is perhaps as well that I am here,” he added.“Why?” I asked.“Because I’ve been on the pier with you to-night,” was the reply of the chief of the detective department of Russia, “and I have seen how closely you have been watched by a person whom even Oleg Lobko, usually so well-informed, does not suspect—a person who is extremely dangerous. I do not wish to alarm you, Mr Trewinnard,” he added in a low voice, “but I heard in Petersburg that something is intended here in Brighton, and the Emperor sent me post-haste to you.”“Who is this person who has been watching us?” I asked eagerly. “I noticed him.”“Oleg doesn’t know him, but I do. I have had certain suspicions, and only five days ago I made a discovery in Petersburg—an amazing discovery—which confirmed my apprehensions. The man who has been watching you with distinctly evil intent is a most notorious and evasive character named Danilo Danilovitch.”“Danilovitch!” I cried. “I know him, but I did not recognise him to-night. His appearance has so changed.”“Yes, it has. But I have been watching him all the evening. He returned by the midnight train to London.”“I can tell you where he is in hiding,” I said.“You can!” he cried. “Excellent! Then we will both go and pay him a surprise call to-morrow. There is danger—a grave and imminent danger—for both Her Highness and yourself; therefore it must be removed. There is peril in the present situation—a distinct peril which I had never suspected. A disaster may happen at any moment if we are not wary and watchful. And there’s another important point, Mr Trewinnard,” added the great detective; “do you happen to know a tall, thin, sharp-featured young man called Richard Drury?”
After Her Highness and Miss West had dined with me at the “Métropole” at Brighton on the following evening, the trusted old companion complained of headache and drove home, leaving us alone together.
Therefore we strolled forth into the moonlit night and, crossing the road, walked out along the pier. There were many persons in the hall of the hotel, but though a good many heads were turned to see “Miss Gottorp” pass in her prettydécolletégown of black, trimmed with narrow silver, over which was a black satin evening cloak, probably not one noticed the undersized, insignificant, but rather well-dressed man who rose from one of the easy chairs where he had been smoking to follow us out.
Who, indeed, of that crowd would have guessed that the pretty girl by whose side I walked was an Imperial Princess, or that the man who went out so aimlessly was Oleg Lobko, the trusty agent of the Russian Criminal Police charged by the Emperor with her personal protection?
With the man following at a respectable distance, we strolled side by side upon the pier, looking back upon the fairy-like scene, the long lines of light along King’s Road, and the calm sea shimmering beneath the clear moon. There were many people enjoying the cool, refreshing breezes, as there always are upon an autumn night.
A comedy was in progress in the theatre at the pierhead, and it being theentr’acte, many were promenading—mostly visitors taking their late vacation by the sea.
My charming little companion had been bright and cheerful all the evening, but had more than once, by clever questions, endeavoured to learn what had taken me to the Embassy on the previous night. I, however, did not deem it exactly advisable to alarm her unduly, either by telling her of my defiance of General Markoff, of my discovery of Danilo Danilovitch, or of the attempt to terrify me by the declaration that another plot was in progress.
Truth to tell, Tack, before his return to Petersburg, had run Danilovitch to earth in Lower Clapton, and two private detectives, engaged by me, were keeping the closest surveillance upon him.
Twice had we circled the theatre at the pierhead, and had twice strolled amid the seated audience around the bandstand where military music was being played in the moonlight, when we passed two young men in Homburg hats, wearing overcoats over their evening clothes. One of them, a tall, slim, dark-haired, good-looking, athletic young fellow, of perhaps twenty-two, raised his hat and smiled at my companion.
She nodded him a merry acknowledgment. Then, as we passed on, I exclaimed quickly:
“Hulloa! Is that some new friend—eh?”
“Oh, it’s really all right, Uncle Colin,” she assured me. “I’ve done nothing dreadful, now. You needn’t start lecturing me, you know, or be horrified at all.”
“I’m not lecturing,” I laughed. “I’m only consumed by curiosity. That’s all.”
“Ah! You’re like all men,” she declared. “And suppose I refuse to satisfy your curiosity—eh?”
“You won’t do that, I think,” was my reply, as we halted upon one of the long benches which ran on either side of the pier. “Remember, I am responsible to the Emperor for you, and I’m entitled to know who your friend is.”
“He’s an awfully nice boy,” was all she replied.
“He looks so. But who is he?”
“Somebody—well, somebody I knew at Eastbourne.”
“And you’ve met him here? How long ago?”
“Oh! nearly a month.”
“And so it is he whom you’ve met several times of late—eh?” I said. “Let’s see—according to the report furnished to me, you were out for half an hour on the sea-front on Tuesday night; five minutes on Wednesday night; not at all on Thursday night, and one whole hour on Friday night—eh? And with a young man whose name is unknown.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you his name. He’s Dick Drury.”
“And who, pray, is this Mr Richard Drury?”
“A friend of mine, I tell you. The man with him is his friend—Lance Ingram, a doctor.”
“And what is this Mr Drury’s profession?”
“He does nothing, I suppose,” she laughed. “I can’t well imagine Dick doing much.”
“Except flirting—eh?” I said with a smile.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” she replied, as we again rose and circled the bandstand, for I was anxious to get another look at the pair.
On the evenings I had referred to, it appeared that Her Highness, after dinner, had twisted a shawl over her head, and ran down to the sea-front—a distance of a hundred yards or so—to get a breath of air, as she had explained to Miss West. But on each occasion the watchful police-agent had seen her meet by appointment this same young man. Therefore some flirtation was certainly in progress—and flirtation had been most distinctly forbidden.
My efforts were rewarded, for a few minutes later the two young men repassed us, and this time young Drury did not raise his hat. He only smiled at her in recognition.
“Where are they staying?” I asked.
“Oh you are so horribly inquisitive, Uncle Colin,” she said. “Well, if you really must know, they’re staying at the ‘Royal York.’”
“How came you to know this young fellow at Eastbourne?” I asked. “I thought you were kept in strictest seclusion from the outside world. At least, you’ve always led me to believe that,” I said.
She laughed heartily.
“Well, dear old uncle, surely you don’t think that any school could exactly keep a girl a prisoner. We used to get out sometimes alone for an hour of an evening—by judicious bribery. I’ve had many a pleasant hour’s walk up the road towards Beachy Head. And, moreover, I wasn’t alone, either. Dick was usually with me.”
“Really, this is too dreadful!” I exclaimed in pious horror. “Suppose anyone had known who you really were!”
“Well, I suppose even if they had the heavens wouldn’t have fallen,” she laughed.
“Ah!” I said, “you are really incorrigible. Here you are flirting with an unsuspected lover.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” she asked in protest. “Dick is better than some chance acquaintance.”
“If you are only amusing yourself,” I said. “But if you love him, then it would be a serious matter.”
“Oh, horribly serious, I know,” she said impatiently. “If I were a typist, or a shopgirl, or a waitress, or any girl who worked for her living, I should be doing quite the correct thing; but for me—born of the great Imperial Family—to merely look at a boy is quite unpardonable.”
I was silent for a few moments. The little madcap whom the Emperor had placed in my charge, because her presence at Court was a menace to the Imperial family, was surely unconventional and utterly incorrigible.
“I fear Your Highness does not fully appreciate the heavy responsibilities of Imperial birth,” I said in a tone of dissatisfaction.
“Oh, bother! My birth be hanged!” she exclaimed, with more force than politeness. “In these days it really counts for nothing. I was reading it all in a German book last week. Every class seems to have its own social laws, and what is forbidden to me is quite good form with my dressmaker. Isn’t it absurdly funny?”
“You must study your position.”
“Why should I, if I strictly preserve myincognito? That I do this, even you, Uncle Colin, will admit!”
“Are you quite certain that this Mr Drury is unaware who you really are?” I asked.
“Quite. He believes me to be Miss Natalia Gottorp, my father German, my mother English, and I was born in Germany. That is the story—does it suit?”
“I trust you will take great care not to reveal your true identity,” I said.
“I have promised you, haven’t I?”
“You promised me that you would not flirt, and yet here you are, having clandestine meetings with this young man every evening!”
“Oh, that’s very different. I can’t help it if I meet an old friend accidentally, can I?” she protested with a pretty pout.
At that moment we were strolling along the western side of the pierhead, where it was comparatively ill-lit, on one side being the theatre, while on the other the sea. The photographer’s and other shops were closed at that late hour, and the light being dim at that spot, several flirting couples were passing up and down arm in arm.
Suddenly, as we turned the corner behind the theatre, we came face to face with a dark-featured, middle-aged man, with deeply-furrowed brow, narrowly set eyes and small black moustache. He wore a dark suit and a hard felt hat, and had something of the appearance of a middle-class paterfamilias out for his annual vacation.
He glanced quickly in our direction, and, I thought, started, as though recognising one or other of us.
Then next moment he was lost in the darkness.
“Do you know that man?” asked my companion suddenly.
“No. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I fancy I’ve seen him somewhere or other before. He looked like a Russian.”
That was just my own thought at that moment, and I wondered if Oleg, who was lurking near, had noticed him.
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t recollect ever having seen him before. I wonder who he is? Let’s turn back.”
We did so, but though we hastened our steps, we did not find him. He had, it seemed, already left the pier. Apparently he believed that he had been recognised.
Once again we repassed Drury and his friend just as the theatre disgorged its crowd of homeward-bound pleasure-seekers.
We were walking in the same direction, Oleg following at a respectable distance, and I was enabled to obtain a good look at him, for, as though in wonder as to whom I could be, he turned several times to eye me, with some little indignation, I thought.
I judged him to be about twenty-five, over six feet in height, athletic and wiry, with handsome, clear-cut, clean-shaven features and a pair of sharp, dark, alert eyes, which told of an active outdoor life. His face was a refined one, his gait easy and swinging, and both in dress and manner he betrayed the gentleman.
Truth to tell, though I did not admit it to Natalia, I became very favourably impressed by him. By his exterior he seemed to be a well-set-up, sportsmanlike young fellow, who might, perhaps, belong to one of the Sussex county families.
His friend the doctor was of quite a different type, a short, fair-haired man in gold-rimmed spectacles, whose face was somewhat unattractive, though it bore an expression of studiousness and professional knowledge. He certainly had the appearance of a doctor.
But before I went farther I resolved to make searching inquiry unto the antecedents of this mysterious Dick Drury.
The walk in the moonlight along the broad promenade towards Hove was delightful. I begged Her Highness to drive, but she preferred to walk; the autumn night was so perfect, she said.
As we strolled along, she suddenly exclaimed:
“I can’t help recalling that man we saw on the pier. I remember now! I met him about a week ago, when I was shopping in Western Road, and he followed me for quite a distance. He was then much better dressed.”
“You believe, then, he is a Russian?” I asked quickly.
“I feel certain he is.”
“But you were not alone—Oleg was out with you, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “He never leaves me. I only wish he would sometimes. I hate to be spied upon like this. Either Dmitri or Oleg is always with me.”
“It is highly necessary,” I declared. “Recollect the fate of your poor father.”
“But why should the revolutionists wish to harm me—a girl?” she asked. “My own idea is that they’re not half as black as they’re painted.”
I did not reveal to her the serious facts which I had recently learnt.
“Did you make any mention to Oleg of the man following you?”
“No, it never occurred to me. But there, I suppose, he only followed me, just as other men seem sometimes to follow me—to look into my face.”
“You are used to admiration,” I said, “and therefore take no notice of it. Pretty women so soon become blasé.”
“Oh! So you denounce me as blasé—eh, Uncle Colin?” she cried, just as we arrived before the door in Brunswick Square. “That is the latest! I really don’t think it fair to criticise me so constantly,” and she pouted.
Then she gave me her little gloved hand, and I bent over it as I wished her good-night.
I wished to question Oleg regarding the man we had seen, but I could not do so before her.
I turned back along the promenade, and was walking leisurely towards the “Métropole,” when suddenly from out of the shadow of one of the glass-partitioned shelters the dark figure of a man emerged, and I heard my name pronounced.
It was the ubiquitous Hartwig, wearing his gold pince-nez. As was his habit, he sprang from nowhere. I had clapped my hand instinctively upon my revolver, but withdrew it instantly.
“Good evening, Mr Trewinnard,” he said. “I’ve met you here as I don’t want to be seen at the ‘Métropole’ to-night. I have travelled straight through from Petersburg here. I landed at Dover this afternoon, went up to Victoria, and down here. I arrived at eight o’clock, but learning that Her Highness was dining with you, I waited until you left her. It is perhaps as well that I am here,” he added.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I’ve been on the pier with you to-night,” was the reply of the chief of the detective department of Russia, “and I have seen how closely you have been watched by a person whom even Oleg Lobko, usually so well-informed, does not suspect—a person who is extremely dangerous. I do not wish to alarm you, Mr Trewinnard,” he added in a low voice, “but I heard in Petersburg that something is intended here in Brighton, and the Emperor sent me post-haste to you.”
“Who is this person who has been watching us?” I asked eagerly. “I noticed him.”
“Oleg doesn’t know him, but I do. I have had certain suspicions, and only five days ago I made a discovery in Petersburg—an amazing discovery—which confirmed my apprehensions. The man who has been watching you with distinctly evil intent is a most notorious and evasive character named Danilo Danilovitch.”
“Danilovitch!” I cried. “I know him, but I did not recognise him to-night. His appearance has so changed.”
“Yes, it has. But I have been watching him all the evening. He returned by the midnight train to London.”
“I can tell you where he is in hiding,” I said.
“You can!” he cried. “Excellent! Then we will both go and pay him a surprise call to-morrow. There is danger—a grave and imminent danger—for both Her Highness and yourself; therefore it must be removed. There is peril in the present situation—a distinct peril which I had never suspected. A disaster may happen at any moment if we are not wary and watchful. And there’s another important point, Mr Trewinnard,” added the great detective; “do you happen to know a tall, thin, sharp-featured young man called Richard Drury?”
Chapter Thirteen.The Catspaw.Just as the dusk had deepened into grey on the following evening I alighted from a tram in the Lower Clapton Road, and, accompanied by Hartwig, we turned up a long thoroughfare of uniform houses, called Powerscroft Road, until we reached Blurton Road, where, nearly opposite the Mission House, we found the house of which we were in search.Hartwig had altered his appearance wonderfully, and looked more like a Devonshire farmer up in London on holiday than the shrewd, astute head of the Sûreté of the Russian Empire. As for myself, I had assumed a very old suit and wore a shabby hat.The drab, dismal house, which we passed casually in order to inspect, was dingy and forbidding, with curtains that were faded with smoke and dirt, holland blinds once yellow, but the ends of which were now dark and stained, and windows which had not been cleaned for years, while the front door was faded and blistered and some of the tops of the iron railings in front had been broken off. The steps leading to the front door had not been hearthstoned as were those of its neighbour, while in the area were bits of wastepaper, straw, and the flotsam and jetsam of the noisy, overcrowded street.Unkempt children were romping or playing hopscotch on the pavement, while some were skipping and others playing football in the centre of the road—all pupils of the great County Council Schools in the vicinity.At both the basement window and that of the room above—the front parlour—were short blinds of dirty muslin, so that to see within while passing was impossible. In that particular it differed in no way from some of its neighbours; for in those parts front parlours are often turned into bedrooms, and a separate family occupies every floor. Only one fact was apparent—that it was the dirtiest and most neglected house in the whole of that working-class road, bordering upon the Hackney Marsh.To me that district was as unfamiliar as were the wilds of the Sahara. Indeed, to the average Londoner Lower Clapton is a mere legendary district, the existence of which is only recorded by the name written upon tramcars and omnibuses.Together we strolled to the bottom of Blurton Road, to where Glyn Road crosses it at right angles, and then we stopped to discuss our plans.“I shall ascend the steps, knock, and ask for Danilovitch,” the great detective said. “The probability is that the door will be unceremoniously slammed in my face. But you will be behind me. I shall place my foot in the door to prevent premature closing, and at first sign of resistance you, being behind me, will help me to force the door, and so enter. At word from me don’t hesitate—use all your might. I intend to give whoever lives there a sudden and sharp surprise.”“But if they are refugees, they are desperate. What then?”“I expect they are,” he laughed. “This is no doubt the hornets’ nest. Therefore it behoves us to be wary, and have our wits well about us. You’re not afraid, Mr Trewinnard?”“Not at all,” I said. “Where you dare go, there I will follow.”“Good. Let’s make the attempt then,” he said, and together we strolled leisurely back until we came to the flight of unclean front steps, whereupon both of us turned and, ascending, Hartwig gave a sharp postman’s knock at the door.An old, grey-whiskered, ill-dressed man, palpably a Polish Jew, opened the door, whereupon Hartwig asked in Russian:“Is our leader Danilo Danilovitch here?”The man looked from him to me inquiringly.“Tell him that Ivan Arapoff, from Petersburg, wishes to speak with him.”“I do not know, Gospodin, whether he is at home,” replied the man with politeness. “But I will see, if you will wait,” and he attempted to close the door in our faces.Hartwig, however, was prepared for such manoeuvre, for he had placed his foot in the door, so that it could not be closed. The Polish Jew was instantly on the alert and shouted some sharp word of warning, evidently a preconcerted signal, to those within, whereat Hartwig and myself made a sudden combined effort and next second were standing within the narrow evil-smelling little hall.I saw the dark figures of several men and women against the stairs, and heard whispered words of alarm in Russian. But Hartwig lost no time, for he shouted boldly:“I wish to see Danilo Danilovitch. Let him come forward. If he does not do so, then it is at his own peril.”“If you are police officers you cannot touch us here in England!” shouted a young woman with dark, tousled hair, a revolutionist of the female-student type.“We are here from Petersburg as friends, but you apparently treat us as enemies,” said Hartwig.“If you are traitors you will, neither of you, leave this house alive,” cried a thick-set man, advancing towards me threateningly. “So you shall see Danilovitch—and he shall decide.”I heard somebody bolting the front door heavily to prevent our escape, while a voice from somewhere above, in the gloom of the stairs, shouted:“Comrades, they are police-spies!”A young, black-haired Jewess of a type seen everywhere in Poland, thin-featured and handsome, with a grey shawl over her shoulders, emerged from a door and peered into my face. There seemed fully fifteen persons in that dingy house, all instantly alarmed at our arrival. Here was, no doubt, the London centre of revolutionary activity directed against the Russian Imperial family and Danilo Danilovitch was in hiding there. It was fortunate, indeed, that the ever-vigilant Tack had succeeded in running him to earth.I had told Hartwig of the allegation which Tack had made against Danilovitch, that, though in the service of the Secret Police, he had arranged certain attempts against members of the Imperial family, and how he had deliberately killed his sweetheart, Marie Garine. But Hartwig, being chief of the Sûreté, had no connection with the political department, and was, therefore, unaware of any agent of Secret Police known as Danilovitch.“I remember quite well the case of Marie Garine,” he added. “I thoroughly investigated it and found that she had, no doubt, been killed by her lover. But I put it down to jealousy, and as the culprit had left Russia I closed the inquiry.”“Then you could arrest him, even now,” I said.“Not without considerable delay. Besides, in Petersburg they are against applying for extradition in England. The newspapers always hint at the horrors of Siberia in store for the person arrested. And,” he added, “I agree that it is quite useless to unnecessarily wound the susceptibilities of my own countrymen, the English.” It was those words he had spoken as we had come along Blurton Road.Our position at that moment was not a very pleasant one, surrounded as we were by a crowd of desperate refugees. If any one of them recognised Ivan Hartwig, then I knew full well that we should never leave the house alive. Men who were conspiring to kill His Majesty the Emperor would not hesitate to kill a police officer and an intruder in order to preserve their secret, “Where is my good friend Danilovitch?” demanded Hartwig, in Russian. “Why does he not come forward?”“He has not been well, and is in bed,” somebody replied. “He is coming in a moment. He lives on the top floor.”“Well, I’m in a hurry, comrades,” exclaimed the great detective with a show of impatience. “Do not keep me waiting. I am bearer of a message to you all—an important message from our great and beloved Chief, the saviour of Russia, whose real identity is a secret to all, but whom we know as ‘The One’!”“The One!” echoed two of the men in Russian. “A message from him! What is it? Tell us,” they cried eagerly.“No. The message from our Chief is to our comrade Danilovitch. He will afterwards inform you,” was Hartwig’s response.“Who is it there who wants me?” cried an impatient voice in Russian over the banisters.“I have a message for Danilo Danilovitch,” my friend shouted back.“Then come upstairs,” he replied. “Come—both of you.”And we followed a dark figure up to a back room on the second floor—a shabby bed and sitting-room combined.He struck a match, lit the gas and pulled down the blind. Then as he faced us, a middle-aged man with deeply-furrowed countenance and hair tinged with grey, I at once recognised him—though he no longer wore the small black moustache—as the man I had met on Brighton Pier on the previous night.“Well,” he asked roughly in Russian, “what do you want with me?”I was gratified that he had not recognised Ivan Hartwig. For a moment he looked inquiringly at me, and no doubt recognised me as the Grand Duchess’s companion of the previous night.His hair was unkempt, his neck was thick, and his unshaven face was broad and coarse. He had the heavy features of a Russian of the lower class, yet his prominent, cunning eyes and high, deeply-furrowed forehead betokened great intelligence. Though of the working-class, yet in his eyes there burned a bright magnetic fire, and one could well imagine how by his inflammatory speeches he led that crowd of ignorant aliens into a belief that by killing His Imperial Majesty they could free Russia of the autocratic yoke. Those men and women, specimens of whom were living in that house at Clapton, never sought to aim at the root of the evil which had gripped the Empire, that brutal camarilla who ruled Russia, but in the madness of their blood-lust and ignorance that they were being betrayed by their leader, and their lives made catspaws by the camarilla itself, they plotted and conspired, and were proud to believe themselves martyrs to what they foolishly termed The Cause!The face of the traitor before us was full of craft and cunning, the countenance of a shrewd and clever man who, it struck me, was haunted hourly by the dread of betrayal and an ignominious end. Even though he might have been a shoemaker, yet from his perfect self-control, and the manner in which he greeted us, I saw that he was no ordinary man. Indeed, few men could have done—would have dared to do—what he had done, if all Tack had related were true. His personal appearance, his unkempt hair, his limp collar and loosely-tied cravat of black and greasy silk, and his rough suit of shabby dark tweed, his whole ensemble, indeed, was that of the political agitator, the revolutionary firebrand.“I am here, Danilo Danilovitch,” Hartwig said at last very seriously, looking straight at him, “in order to speak to you quite frankly, to put to you several questions.”The man started, and I saw apprehension by the slight movement in the corners of his mouth.“For what reason?” he snapped quickly. “I thought you were here with a message from our Chief in Russia?”“I am here with a message, it is true,” said the renowned chief of the Russian Sûreté. “You had, I think, better lock that door, and also make quite certain that nobody in this house overhears what I am about to say,” he added very slowly and meaningly.“Why?” inquired the other with some show of defiance.“If you do not want these comrades of yours to know all your private business, it will be best to lock that door and take care that nobody is listening outside. If they are—well, it will be you, Danilo Danilovitch, who will suffer, not myself,” said Hartwig very coolly, his eyes fixed upon theagent-provocateur. “I urge you to take precautions of secrecy,” he added. “I urge you—for your own sake!”“For my own sake!” cried the other. “What do you mean?”Hartwig paused for a few seconds, and then, in a lower voice, said:“I mean this, Danilo Danilovitch. If a single word of what I am about to say is overheard by anyone in this house you will not go forth again alive. We have been threatened by your comrades down below. But upon you yourself will fall the punishment which is meted out by your comrades to all traitors—death!” The man’s face changed in an instant. He stood open-mouthed, staring aghast at Hartwig, haggard-eyed and pale to the lips.
Just as the dusk had deepened into grey on the following evening I alighted from a tram in the Lower Clapton Road, and, accompanied by Hartwig, we turned up a long thoroughfare of uniform houses, called Powerscroft Road, until we reached Blurton Road, where, nearly opposite the Mission House, we found the house of which we were in search.
Hartwig had altered his appearance wonderfully, and looked more like a Devonshire farmer up in London on holiday than the shrewd, astute head of the Sûreté of the Russian Empire. As for myself, I had assumed a very old suit and wore a shabby hat.
The drab, dismal house, which we passed casually in order to inspect, was dingy and forbidding, with curtains that were faded with smoke and dirt, holland blinds once yellow, but the ends of which were now dark and stained, and windows which had not been cleaned for years, while the front door was faded and blistered and some of the tops of the iron railings in front had been broken off. The steps leading to the front door had not been hearthstoned as were those of its neighbour, while in the area were bits of wastepaper, straw, and the flotsam and jetsam of the noisy, overcrowded street.
Unkempt children were romping or playing hopscotch on the pavement, while some were skipping and others playing football in the centre of the road—all pupils of the great County Council Schools in the vicinity.
At both the basement window and that of the room above—the front parlour—were short blinds of dirty muslin, so that to see within while passing was impossible. In that particular it differed in no way from some of its neighbours; for in those parts front parlours are often turned into bedrooms, and a separate family occupies every floor. Only one fact was apparent—that it was the dirtiest and most neglected house in the whole of that working-class road, bordering upon the Hackney Marsh.
To me that district was as unfamiliar as were the wilds of the Sahara. Indeed, to the average Londoner Lower Clapton is a mere legendary district, the existence of which is only recorded by the name written upon tramcars and omnibuses.
Together we strolled to the bottom of Blurton Road, to where Glyn Road crosses it at right angles, and then we stopped to discuss our plans.
“I shall ascend the steps, knock, and ask for Danilovitch,” the great detective said. “The probability is that the door will be unceremoniously slammed in my face. But you will be behind me. I shall place my foot in the door to prevent premature closing, and at first sign of resistance you, being behind me, will help me to force the door, and so enter. At word from me don’t hesitate—use all your might. I intend to give whoever lives there a sudden and sharp surprise.”
“But if they are refugees, they are desperate. What then?”
“I expect they are,” he laughed. “This is no doubt the hornets’ nest. Therefore it behoves us to be wary, and have our wits well about us. You’re not afraid, Mr Trewinnard?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Where you dare go, there I will follow.”
“Good. Let’s make the attempt then,” he said, and together we strolled leisurely back until we came to the flight of unclean front steps, whereupon both of us turned and, ascending, Hartwig gave a sharp postman’s knock at the door.
An old, grey-whiskered, ill-dressed man, palpably a Polish Jew, opened the door, whereupon Hartwig asked in Russian:
“Is our leader Danilo Danilovitch here?”
The man looked from him to me inquiringly.
“Tell him that Ivan Arapoff, from Petersburg, wishes to speak with him.”
“I do not know, Gospodin, whether he is at home,” replied the man with politeness. “But I will see, if you will wait,” and he attempted to close the door in our faces.
Hartwig, however, was prepared for such manoeuvre, for he had placed his foot in the door, so that it could not be closed. The Polish Jew was instantly on the alert and shouted some sharp word of warning, evidently a preconcerted signal, to those within, whereat Hartwig and myself made a sudden combined effort and next second were standing within the narrow evil-smelling little hall.
I saw the dark figures of several men and women against the stairs, and heard whispered words of alarm in Russian. But Hartwig lost no time, for he shouted boldly:
“I wish to see Danilo Danilovitch. Let him come forward. If he does not do so, then it is at his own peril.”
“If you are police officers you cannot touch us here in England!” shouted a young woman with dark, tousled hair, a revolutionist of the female-student type.
“We are here from Petersburg as friends, but you apparently treat us as enemies,” said Hartwig.
“If you are traitors you will, neither of you, leave this house alive,” cried a thick-set man, advancing towards me threateningly. “So you shall see Danilovitch—and he shall decide.”
I heard somebody bolting the front door heavily to prevent our escape, while a voice from somewhere above, in the gloom of the stairs, shouted:
“Comrades, they are police-spies!”
A young, black-haired Jewess of a type seen everywhere in Poland, thin-featured and handsome, with a grey shawl over her shoulders, emerged from a door and peered into my face. There seemed fully fifteen persons in that dingy house, all instantly alarmed at our arrival. Here was, no doubt, the London centre of revolutionary activity directed against the Russian Imperial family and Danilo Danilovitch was in hiding there. It was fortunate, indeed, that the ever-vigilant Tack had succeeded in running him to earth.
I had told Hartwig of the allegation which Tack had made against Danilovitch, that, though in the service of the Secret Police, he had arranged certain attempts against members of the Imperial family, and how he had deliberately killed his sweetheart, Marie Garine. But Hartwig, being chief of the Sûreté, had no connection with the political department, and was, therefore, unaware of any agent of Secret Police known as Danilovitch.
“I remember quite well the case of Marie Garine,” he added. “I thoroughly investigated it and found that she had, no doubt, been killed by her lover. But I put it down to jealousy, and as the culprit had left Russia I closed the inquiry.”
“Then you could arrest him, even now,” I said.
“Not without considerable delay. Besides, in Petersburg they are against applying for extradition in England. The newspapers always hint at the horrors of Siberia in store for the person arrested. And,” he added, “I agree that it is quite useless to unnecessarily wound the susceptibilities of my own countrymen, the English.” It was those words he had spoken as we had come along Blurton Road.
Our position at that moment was not a very pleasant one, surrounded as we were by a crowd of desperate refugees. If any one of them recognised Ivan Hartwig, then I knew full well that we should never leave the house alive. Men who were conspiring to kill His Majesty the Emperor would not hesitate to kill a police officer and an intruder in order to preserve their secret, “Where is my good friend Danilovitch?” demanded Hartwig, in Russian. “Why does he not come forward?”
“He has not been well, and is in bed,” somebody replied. “He is coming in a moment. He lives on the top floor.”
“Well, I’m in a hurry, comrades,” exclaimed the great detective with a show of impatience. “Do not keep me waiting. I am bearer of a message to you all—an important message from our great and beloved Chief, the saviour of Russia, whose real identity is a secret to all, but whom we know as ‘The One’!”
“The One!” echoed two of the men in Russian. “A message from him! What is it? Tell us,” they cried eagerly.
“No. The message from our Chief is to our comrade Danilovitch. He will afterwards inform you,” was Hartwig’s response.
“Who is it there who wants me?” cried an impatient voice in Russian over the banisters.
“I have a message for Danilo Danilovitch,” my friend shouted back.
“Then come upstairs,” he replied. “Come—both of you.”
And we followed a dark figure up to a back room on the second floor—a shabby bed and sitting-room combined.
He struck a match, lit the gas and pulled down the blind. Then as he faced us, a middle-aged man with deeply-furrowed countenance and hair tinged with grey, I at once recognised him—though he no longer wore the small black moustache—as the man I had met on Brighton Pier on the previous night.
“Well,” he asked roughly in Russian, “what do you want with me?”
I was gratified that he had not recognised Ivan Hartwig. For a moment he looked inquiringly at me, and no doubt recognised me as the Grand Duchess’s companion of the previous night.
His hair was unkempt, his neck was thick, and his unshaven face was broad and coarse. He had the heavy features of a Russian of the lower class, yet his prominent, cunning eyes and high, deeply-furrowed forehead betokened great intelligence. Though of the working-class, yet in his eyes there burned a bright magnetic fire, and one could well imagine how by his inflammatory speeches he led that crowd of ignorant aliens into a belief that by killing His Imperial Majesty they could free Russia of the autocratic yoke. Those men and women, specimens of whom were living in that house at Clapton, never sought to aim at the root of the evil which had gripped the Empire, that brutal camarilla who ruled Russia, but in the madness of their blood-lust and ignorance that they were being betrayed by their leader, and their lives made catspaws by the camarilla itself, they plotted and conspired, and were proud to believe themselves martyrs to what they foolishly termed The Cause!
The face of the traitor before us was full of craft and cunning, the countenance of a shrewd and clever man who, it struck me, was haunted hourly by the dread of betrayal and an ignominious end. Even though he might have been a shoemaker, yet from his perfect self-control, and the manner in which he greeted us, I saw that he was no ordinary man. Indeed, few men could have done—would have dared to do—what he had done, if all Tack had related were true. His personal appearance, his unkempt hair, his limp collar and loosely-tied cravat of black and greasy silk, and his rough suit of shabby dark tweed, his whole ensemble, indeed, was that of the political agitator, the revolutionary firebrand.
“I am here, Danilo Danilovitch,” Hartwig said at last very seriously, looking straight at him, “in order to speak to you quite frankly, to put to you several questions.”
The man started, and I saw apprehension by the slight movement in the corners of his mouth.
“For what reason?” he snapped quickly. “I thought you were here with a message from our Chief in Russia?”
“I am here with a message, it is true,” said the renowned chief of the Russian Sûreté. “You had, I think, better lock that door, and also make quite certain that nobody in this house overhears what I am about to say,” he added very slowly and meaningly.
“Why?” inquired the other with some show of defiance.
“If you do not want these comrades of yours to know all your private business, it will be best to lock that door and take care that nobody is listening outside. If they are—well, it will be you, Danilo Danilovitch, who will suffer, not myself,” said Hartwig very coolly, his eyes fixed upon theagent-provocateur. “I urge you to take precautions of secrecy,” he added. “I urge you—for your own sake!”
“For my own sake!” cried the other. “What do you mean?”
Hartwig paused for a few seconds, and then, in a lower voice, said:
“I mean this, Danilo Danilovitch. If a single word of what I am about to say is overheard by anyone in this house you will not go forth again alive. We have been threatened by your comrades down below. But upon you yourself will fall the punishment which is meted out by your comrades to all traitors—death!” The man’s face changed in an instant. He stood open-mouthed, staring aghast at Hartwig, haggard-eyed and pale to the lips.
Chapter Fourteen.Such is the Law.“Now,” Hartwig said, assuming a firm, determined attitude, “I hope you entirely understand me. I am well aware of the despicable double game you are playing, therefore if you refuse me the information I seek I shall go downstairs and tell them how you are employed by His Excellency General Markoff.”The traitor’s face was ashen grey. He was, I could see, in wonder at the identity of his visitor. Of course he knew me, but apparently my companion was quite unknown to him. It was always one of Hartwig’s greatest precautions to remain unknown to any except perhaps a dozen or so of the detective police immediately under his direction. From the Secret or Political Police he was always careful to hide his identity, knowing well that by so doing he would gain a free hand in his operations in the detection of serious crime. At his own house, a neat, modest little bachelor abode just outside Petersburg, in the Kulikovo quarter, he was known as Herr Otto Schenk, a German teacher of languages, who, possessing a small income, devoted his leisure to his garden and his poultry. None, not even the agents of Secret Police in the Kulikovo district, who reported upon him regularly each month, even suspected that he was the renowned head of the Sûreté.Standing there presenting such a bucolic appearance, so typically English, and yet speaking Russian perfectly, he caused Danilovitch much curiosity and apprehension.Suddenly he asked of the spy:“You were at Brighton last night? With what motive? Tell me.”The man hesitated a moment and replied:“I went there to visit a friend—a compatriot.”“Yes. Quite true,” exclaimed the great police official, leaning against the end of the narrow iron bedstead. “You went to Brighton with an evil purpose. Shall I tell you why? Because you were sent there by your employer General Markoff—sent there as a paid assassin!”The fellow started.“What do you mean?” he gasped.“Just this. That you followed a certain lady who accompanied this gentleman here—followed and watched them for two hours.” And then, fixing his big, expressive eyes upon the man he was interrogating, he added: “You followed them because your intention was to carry out the plot conceived by your master—the plot to kill them both!”“It’s a lie!” cried the traitor. “There is no plot.”“Listen,” exclaimed Hartwig, in a low, firm voice. “It is your intention to commit an outrage, and having done so, you will denounce to the police certain persons living in this house. Arrests will follow, if any return to Russia, the General will be congratulated by the Emperor upon his astuteness in laying hands so quickly upon the conspirators, and half-a-dozen innocent persons will be sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, if they dare ever go back to their own country. You see,” he laughed, “that I am fully aware of the remarkably ingenious programme in progress.”The man’s face was pale as death. He saw that his secret was out.“And now,” Hartwig went on: “when I tell these people who live below—your comrades and fellow-workers in the revolutionary cause—what will they say—eh? Well, Danilo Danilovitch, I shall, when I’ve finished with you, leave you to their tender mercies. You remember, perhaps, the fate of Boutakoff, the informer at Kieff, how he was attached to a baulk of timber and placed upon a circular saw, how Raspopoff died of slow starvation in the hands of those whom he had betrayed at Moscow, and how Mirski, in Odessa, was horribly tortured and killed by the three brothers of the unfortunate girl he had given into the hands of the police. No,” he laughed, “your friends show neither leniency nor humanity towards those who betray them.”“But you will not do this!” gasped the man, his eyes dilated by fear, now that he had been brought to bay.“I have explained my intention,” replied Hartwig slowly and firmly.“But you will not!” he cried. “I—I implore you to spare me! You appear to know everything.”“Yes,” was the reply. “I know how, by your perfidious actions, dozens, nay hundreds, of innocent persons have been sent into exile. To the revolutionists throughout the whole of Russia there is one great leader known as ‘The One’—the leader whose identity is unknown, but whose word is law among a hundred thousand conspirators. You are that man! Your mandates are obeyed to the letter, but you keep your identity profoundly secret. These poor misguided fools who follow you believe that the secrecy as to the identity of their fearless leader whom they only know as ‘The Wonder Worker,’ or generally ‘The One,’ is due to a fear of arrest. Ah! Danilo Danilovitch,” he laughed, “you who lead them so cleverly are a strong man, and a clever man. You hold the fate of all revolutionary Russia in your hand. You form plots, you get your poor, ill-read puppets to carry them out, and afterwards you send them to Siberia in batches of hundreds. A clever game this game of terrorism. But I tell you frankly it is at an end now. What will these comrades of yours say when they are made aware that ‘The One’—the man believed by so many to be sent providentially to sweep away the dynasty and kill the enemies of freedom—is identical with Danilo Danilovitch, the bootmaker of Kazan and police-spy. Rather a blow to the revolutionary organisation—eh?”“And a blow for you,” I added, addressing the unkempt-looking fellow for the first time. Though I confess that I did not recognise him as the man who threw the bomb in Petersburg, I added: “It was you who committed the dastardly outrage upon the Grand Duke Nicholas, and for which many innocent persons are now immured in those terrible cells below the water at Schusselburg—you who intend that His Imperial Highness’s daughter and myself shall die!” I cried.He made no reply. He saw that we were in possession of all the facts concerning his disgraceful past. I could see how intensely agitated he had become, and though he was striving to conceal his fear, yet his thin, sinewy hands were visibly trembling.“You admit, by your silence, that you were author of that brutal outrage!” exclaimed Hartwig quickly. “In it, my friend here narrowly escaped with his life. Now, answer me this question,” he demanded imperiously. “With what motive did you launch that bomb at the Grand Duke’s carriage?”“With the same motive that every attempt is made,” was his bold reply.“You lie!” Hartwig said bluntly. “That plot was not yours. Confess it.”“No plot is mine. The various revolutionary circles form plots, and I, as the unknown head, approve of them. But,” asked the spy suddenly, “who are you that you should question me thus?”“I have already given you my name,” he said. “Ivan Arapoff, of Petersburg.”“Then, Mr Arapoff, I think we may change the topic of conversation,” said the man, suddenly quite calm and collected. I detected that, though an unprincipled scoundrel and without either conscience or remorse, his was yet a strong and impelling personality—a man who, among the enthusiastic students and the younger generation of Russia, which form the bulk of the revolutionists, would no doubt be listened to and obeyed as a leader.“Good. If you wish me to leave you, I will do so. I will go and have a little chat with your interesting and enlightened friends downstairs,” exclaimed Hartwig with a triumphant laugh. Then, turning to me, he added: “Come, Mr Trewinnard, let’s go.”“No!” gasped the spy. “No, stop! I—I want to fully understand what your intentions are—now that you know the truth concerning the identity of ‘The One’ and other recent matters.”“Intentions!” echoed the great detective. “I have none. I have merely forewarned you of what you must expect—the fate of the informer, unless—”“Unless what?” he cried.“Unless you confess the object of the outrage upon the Grand Duke.”“I tell you I do not know.”“But the plot was your own. None of your comrades knew of it.”“It was not my own.”“You carried it out?”“And if I admit anything you will hand me over to the police—eh?”“Surely you know that is impossible in England. You cannot be arrested here for a political crime,” Hartwig said.“I saw you throw the bomb,” I added. “You were dressed differently, but I now recognise you. Come, admit it.”“I admit nothing,” he answered sullenly. “You are both of you entirely welcome to your opinions.”“Forty persons are now in prison for your crime,” I said. “Have you no remorse—no pity?”“I have nothing to say.”“But you shall speak,” I cried angrily. “Once I nearly lost my life because of the outrage you committed, and last night you followed me in Brighton with the distinct purpose of killing both Her Highness and myself. But you were frustrated—or perhaps you feared arrest. But I tell you plainly, if ever I catch you in our vicinity again I shall hand you over to the nearest policeman. And at the police-court the truth concerning ‘The One’ will quickly be revealed and seized upon by the halfpenny press.”“We need not wait for that, Mr Trewinnard,” remarked Hartwig. “We can deal with him this evening—once and for all. When we leave here we shall leave with the knowledge that ‘The One’ no longer exists and the revolutionary party—Terrorists, as they are pleased to call themselves on account of the false bogy which the Secret Police have raised in Russia—will take their own steps towards punishing the man to whom they owe all the great disasters which have befallen their schemes during the past couple of years. Truly, the vengeance of the Terrorist against his betrayer is a terrible vengeance indeed.”As he spoke the creak of a footstep was heard on the landing outside the locked door.I raised my finger to command silence, whereupon the man known throughout all revolutionary Russia as “The One” crossed the room swiftly, and unlocking the door, looked out. But he found no one.Yet I feel certain that someone had been lurking there. That slow creak of the bare boards showed that the pressure of a foot had been released. Yet whoever had been listening had escaped swiftly down the stairs, now dark and unlighted. Danilovitch reentered the bedroom, his face white as a sheet.“Somebody has overheard!” he gasped in a low, hoarse voice. “They know the truth!”“Yes,” responded my companion in a hard, distinct tone. “They know the truth because of your own failure to be frank with us. I warned you. But you have not heeded.”“Your words were overheard,” he whispered. “They no doubt suspected you to be officers of police who had found me here in my hiding-place, and were, therefore, listening. I was a fool!” he cried, throwing his hands above his head. “I was an accursed fool!”His lips were grey, his dark eyes seemed to be starting from his head.Well did he know the terrible fate which awaited him as a betrayer and informer.“Why did you throw that bomb?” I cried. “Why did you last night follow the Grand Duchess Natalia with such evil intent? Tell me,” I urged.“No!” cried “The One,” springing at me fiercely. “I will tell you nothing—nothing!” he shrieked. “You have betrayed me—you have cast me into the hands of my enemies. But, by Heaven! you shall neither of you leave this place alive,” he shrieked. “My comrades shall deal with you as you justly deserve. I will see that you are not allowed to speak. Neither of you shall utter a single word against me!”Then with a harsh, triumphant laugh he called loudly for help to those below.In an instant Hartwig and I both realised that the tables had been suddenly and unexpectedly turned upon us, and that we were now placed in most deadly and imminent peril. The object of the informer was to close our mouths at once, for only by so doing could he save himself from that terrible fate which must assuredly befall him.It was his own life—or ours!
“Now,” Hartwig said, assuming a firm, determined attitude, “I hope you entirely understand me. I am well aware of the despicable double game you are playing, therefore if you refuse me the information I seek I shall go downstairs and tell them how you are employed by His Excellency General Markoff.”
The traitor’s face was ashen grey. He was, I could see, in wonder at the identity of his visitor. Of course he knew me, but apparently my companion was quite unknown to him. It was always one of Hartwig’s greatest precautions to remain unknown to any except perhaps a dozen or so of the detective police immediately under his direction. From the Secret or Political Police he was always careful to hide his identity, knowing well that by so doing he would gain a free hand in his operations in the detection of serious crime. At his own house, a neat, modest little bachelor abode just outside Petersburg, in the Kulikovo quarter, he was known as Herr Otto Schenk, a German teacher of languages, who, possessing a small income, devoted his leisure to his garden and his poultry. None, not even the agents of Secret Police in the Kulikovo district, who reported upon him regularly each month, even suspected that he was the renowned head of the Sûreté.
Standing there presenting such a bucolic appearance, so typically English, and yet speaking Russian perfectly, he caused Danilovitch much curiosity and apprehension.
Suddenly he asked of the spy:
“You were at Brighton last night? With what motive? Tell me.”
The man hesitated a moment and replied:
“I went there to visit a friend—a compatriot.”
“Yes. Quite true,” exclaimed the great police official, leaning against the end of the narrow iron bedstead. “You went to Brighton with an evil purpose. Shall I tell you why? Because you were sent there by your employer General Markoff—sent there as a paid assassin!”
The fellow started.
“What do you mean?” he gasped.
“Just this. That you followed a certain lady who accompanied this gentleman here—followed and watched them for two hours.” And then, fixing his big, expressive eyes upon the man he was interrogating, he added: “You followed them because your intention was to carry out the plot conceived by your master—the plot to kill them both!”
“It’s a lie!” cried the traitor. “There is no plot.”
“Listen,” exclaimed Hartwig, in a low, firm voice. “It is your intention to commit an outrage, and having done so, you will denounce to the police certain persons living in this house. Arrests will follow, if any return to Russia, the General will be congratulated by the Emperor upon his astuteness in laying hands so quickly upon the conspirators, and half-a-dozen innocent persons will be sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, if they dare ever go back to their own country. You see,” he laughed, “that I am fully aware of the remarkably ingenious programme in progress.”
The man’s face was pale as death. He saw that his secret was out.
“And now,” Hartwig went on: “when I tell these people who live below—your comrades and fellow-workers in the revolutionary cause—what will they say—eh? Well, Danilo Danilovitch, I shall, when I’ve finished with you, leave you to their tender mercies. You remember, perhaps, the fate of Boutakoff, the informer at Kieff, how he was attached to a baulk of timber and placed upon a circular saw, how Raspopoff died of slow starvation in the hands of those whom he had betrayed at Moscow, and how Mirski, in Odessa, was horribly tortured and killed by the three brothers of the unfortunate girl he had given into the hands of the police. No,” he laughed, “your friends show neither leniency nor humanity towards those who betray them.”
“But you will not do this!” gasped the man, his eyes dilated by fear, now that he had been brought to bay.
“I have explained my intention,” replied Hartwig slowly and firmly.
“But you will not!” he cried. “I—I implore you to spare me! You appear to know everything.”
“Yes,” was the reply. “I know how, by your perfidious actions, dozens, nay hundreds, of innocent persons have been sent into exile. To the revolutionists throughout the whole of Russia there is one great leader known as ‘The One’—the leader whose identity is unknown, but whose word is law among a hundred thousand conspirators. You are that man! Your mandates are obeyed to the letter, but you keep your identity profoundly secret. These poor misguided fools who follow you believe that the secrecy as to the identity of their fearless leader whom they only know as ‘The Wonder Worker,’ or generally ‘The One,’ is due to a fear of arrest. Ah! Danilo Danilovitch,” he laughed, “you who lead them so cleverly are a strong man, and a clever man. You hold the fate of all revolutionary Russia in your hand. You form plots, you get your poor, ill-read puppets to carry them out, and afterwards you send them to Siberia in batches of hundreds. A clever game this game of terrorism. But I tell you frankly it is at an end now. What will these comrades of yours say when they are made aware that ‘The One’—the man believed by so many to be sent providentially to sweep away the dynasty and kill the enemies of freedom—is identical with Danilo Danilovitch, the bootmaker of Kazan and police-spy. Rather a blow to the revolutionary organisation—eh?”
“And a blow for you,” I added, addressing the unkempt-looking fellow for the first time. Though I confess that I did not recognise him as the man who threw the bomb in Petersburg, I added: “It was you who committed the dastardly outrage upon the Grand Duke Nicholas, and for which many innocent persons are now immured in those terrible cells below the water at Schusselburg—you who intend that His Imperial Highness’s daughter and myself shall die!” I cried.
He made no reply. He saw that we were in possession of all the facts concerning his disgraceful past. I could see how intensely agitated he had become, and though he was striving to conceal his fear, yet his thin, sinewy hands were visibly trembling.
“You admit, by your silence, that you were author of that brutal outrage!” exclaimed Hartwig quickly. “In it, my friend here narrowly escaped with his life. Now, answer me this question,” he demanded imperiously. “With what motive did you launch that bomb at the Grand Duke’s carriage?”
“With the same motive that every attempt is made,” was his bold reply.
“You lie!” Hartwig said bluntly. “That plot was not yours. Confess it.”
“No plot is mine. The various revolutionary circles form plots, and I, as the unknown head, approve of them. But,” asked the spy suddenly, “who are you that you should question me thus?”
“I have already given you my name,” he said. “Ivan Arapoff, of Petersburg.”
“Then, Mr Arapoff, I think we may change the topic of conversation,” said the man, suddenly quite calm and collected. I detected that, though an unprincipled scoundrel and without either conscience or remorse, his was yet a strong and impelling personality—a man who, among the enthusiastic students and the younger generation of Russia, which form the bulk of the revolutionists, would no doubt be listened to and obeyed as a leader.
“Good. If you wish me to leave you, I will do so. I will go and have a little chat with your interesting and enlightened friends downstairs,” exclaimed Hartwig with a triumphant laugh. Then, turning to me, he added: “Come, Mr Trewinnard, let’s go.”
“No!” gasped the spy. “No, stop! I—I want to fully understand what your intentions are—now that you know the truth concerning the identity of ‘The One’ and other recent matters.”
“Intentions!” echoed the great detective. “I have none. I have merely forewarned you of what you must expect—the fate of the informer, unless—”
“Unless what?” he cried.
“Unless you confess the object of the outrage upon the Grand Duke.”
“I tell you I do not know.”
“But the plot was your own. None of your comrades knew of it.”
“It was not my own.”
“You carried it out?”
“And if I admit anything you will hand me over to the police—eh?”
“Surely you know that is impossible in England. You cannot be arrested here for a political crime,” Hartwig said.
“I saw you throw the bomb,” I added. “You were dressed differently, but I now recognise you. Come, admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” he answered sullenly. “You are both of you entirely welcome to your opinions.”
“Forty persons are now in prison for your crime,” I said. “Have you no remorse—no pity?”
“I have nothing to say.”
“But you shall speak,” I cried angrily. “Once I nearly lost my life because of the outrage you committed, and last night you followed me in Brighton with the distinct purpose of killing both Her Highness and myself. But you were frustrated—or perhaps you feared arrest. But I tell you plainly, if ever I catch you in our vicinity again I shall hand you over to the nearest policeman. And at the police-court the truth concerning ‘The One’ will quickly be revealed and seized upon by the halfpenny press.”
“We need not wait for that, Mr Trewinnard,” remarked Hartwig. “We can deal with him this evening—once and for all. When we leave here we shall leave with the knowledge that ‘The One’ no longer exists and the revolutionary party—Terrorists, as they are pleased to call themselves on account of the false bogy which the Secret Police have raised in Russia—will take their own steps towards punishing the man to whom they owe all the great disasters which have befallen their schemes during the past couple of years. Truly, the vengeance of the Terrorist against his betrayer is a terrible vengeance indeed.”
As he spoke the creak of a footstep was heard on the landing outside the locked door.
I raised my finger to command silence, whereupon the man known throughout all revolutionary Russia as “The One” crossed the room swiftly, and unlocking the door, looked out. But he found no one.
Yet I feel certain that someone had been lurking there. That slow creak of the bare boards showed that the pressure of a foot had been released. Yet whoever had been listening had escaped swiftly down the stairs, now dark and unlighted. Danilovitch reentered the bedroom, his face white as a sheet.
“Somebody has overheard!” he gasped in a low, hoarse voice. “They know the truth!”
“Yes,” responded my companion in a hard, distinct tone. “They know the truth because of your own failure to be frank with us. I warned you. But you have not heeded.”
“Your words were overheard,” he whispered. “They no doubt suspected you to be officers of police who had found me here in my hiding-place, and were, therefore, listening. I was a fool!” he cried, throwing his hands above his head. “I was an accursed fool!”
His lips were grey, his dark eyes seemed to be starting from his head.
Well did he know the terrible fate which awaited him as a betrayer and informer.
“Why did you throw that bomb?” I cried. “Why did you last night follow the Grand Duchess Natalia with such evil intent? Tell me,” I urged.
“No!” cried “The One,” springing at me fiercely. “I will tell you nothing—nothing!” he shrieked. “You have betrayed me—you have cast me into the hands of my enemies. But, by Heaven! you shall neither of you leave this place alive,” he shrieked. “My comrades shall deal with you as you justly deserve. I will see that you are not allowed to speak. Neither of you shall utter a single word against me!”
Then with a harsh, triumphant laugh he called loudly for help to those below.
In an instant Hartwig and I both realised that the tables had been suddenly and unexpectedly turned upon us, and that we were now placed in most deadly and imminent peril. The object of the informer was to close our mouths at once, for only by so doing could he save himself from that terrible fate which must assuredly befall him.
It was his own life—or ours!
Chapter Fifteen.A Statement by the Informer.Quick as lightning, Hartwig drew a big Browning revolver and thrust it into the informer’s face, exclaiming firmly:“Another word and it will be your last!”The fellow started back, unprepared for such defiance. He made a movement to cross the room, where no doubt he had his own weapon concealed, but the police officer was too quick for him and barred his passage.“Look here!” he said firmly. “This is a matter to be settled between us, without any interference by your friends here. At word from me they would instantly turn upon you as an enemy. Think! Reflect well—before it is too late!” And he held the revolver steadily a foot from the man’s hard, pale face.Danilovitch hesitated. He controlled the so-called Terrorist movement with amazing ingenuity, playing threerôlessimultaneously. He was “The One,” the mysterious but all-powerful head of the organisation; the ardent worker in the cause known as “the shoemaker of Kazan”; and the base, unscrupulous informer, who manufactured plots, and afterwards consigned to prison all those men and women who became implicated in them.“If I withdraw my cry of alarm will you promise secrecy?” he asked in a low, cringing tone.From the landing outside came sounds of footsteps and fierce demands in Russian from those he had summoned to his assistance. Two of us against twenty desperate characters as they were, would, I well knew, stand but a poor chance. If he made any allegation against us, we should be caught like rats in a trap, and killed, as all police-spies are killed when denounced. The arm of the Russian revolution is indeed a long one—longer than that of the Secret Police itself.“What has happened, Danilo?” demanded a man’s rough voice. “Who are those strangers? Let us in!”“Speak!” commanded Hartwig. “Reassure them, and let them go away. I have still much to say to you in private.”His arm with the revolver was upraised, his eyes unwavering. The informer saw determination in his gaze. A further word of alarm, and a bullet would pass through his brain.For a few seconds he stood in sullen silence.“All right!” he shouted to them at last. “It is nothing, comrades. I was mistaken. Leave us in peace.”We heard a murmuring of discontent outside, and then the footsteps commenced to descend the steep uncarpeted stairs. As they did so, Hartwig dropped his weapon, saying:“Now let us sit down and talk. I have several questions I wish to put to you. If you answer frankly, then I promise that I will not betray you to your comrades.”“What do you mean by ‘frankly’?”“I mean that you must tell me the exact truth.”The man’s face grew dark; his brows contracted; he bit his finger-nails.“What was the motive of the attempt you made upon the Grand Duke Nicholas and his daughter, and the gentleman here, Mr Trewinnard?”“I don’t know,” he replied.“But you yourself committed the outrage?”“At the orders of others.”“Whose orders?”He did not reply. He was standing against the small, cheap chest of drawers, his drawn face full in the light of the hissing gas-jet.“Come,” said Hartwig firmly. “I wish to know this.”“I cannot tell you.”“Then I will tell you,” the detective said in a hard voice. “It was at the orders of your master, General Markoff—the man who, finding that you were a revolutionist, is using you as his tool for the manufacture of bogus plots against the Emperor.”Danilovitch shrugged his shoulders, but uttered no word.“And you went again to Brighton last night at his orders. You—”“I went to Brighton, I admit. But not at the General’s orders,” he interrupted quickly.“Why did you go? Why did you follow Her Imperial Highness and Mr Trewinnard?”“I followed them because I had an object in so doing.”“A sinister object?”“No. There you are mistaken. My object was not a sinister one. It was to watch and endeavour to make clear a certain point which is a mystery to me.”“A point concerning what?”“Concerning Her Imperial Highness,” was his reply.“How does Her Highness concern you?” I asked. “You tried to kill her once. Therefore your intentions must be evil.”“I deny that,” he protested quickly. “I tell you that I went to Brighton without thought of any evil intent, and without the orders, or even knowledge, of General Markoff.”“But he is Her Highness’s enemy.”“Yes, Excellency—and yours also.”“Tell me all that you know,” I urged, adopting a more conciliatory tone. “It is outrageous that this oppressor of Russia should conspire to kill an innocent member of the Imperial Family.”“I know nothing of the circumstances. Excellency,” he said, feigning entire ignorance.“But he gave you orders to throw that bomb,” I said. “What were your exact orders?”“I am not likely to betray my employer,” he laughed. “If you do not answer these questions, then I shall carry out my threat of exposure,” Hartwig said in a hard, determined voice.“Well,” said the informer hesitatingly, “my orders were not to throw the bomb unless the Grand Duchess Natalia was in the carriage.”“Then the plot was to kill her—but unfortunately her father fell the victim of the dastardly outrage!” I cried.“Yes,” the man replied. “It was to kill her—and you, Excellency.”“But why?”He shrugged his shoulders, and exhibited his palms in a gesture of complete ignorance.“And your present intention is to effect in Brighton what you failed to do in Petersburg—eh?”“I have no orders, and it certainly is not my intention,” responded the man, whom I remembered at that moment had deliberately killed the girl Garine in order to preserve his secret.I turned from him in loathing and disgust.“But you tell me that General Markoff intends that we both shall come to an untimely end,” I said a few moments later.“He does, Excellency, and the ingenuity of the plot against you both is certainly one which betrays his devilish cunning,” was the fellow’s reply. “I have, I assure you, no love for a man who holds my life in the hollow of his hand, and whose word I am compelled to obey on pain of exposure and death.”“You mean Markoff,” I exclaimed. “Tell me something of this plot against me—so that I may be on my guard,” I urged.“I know nothing concerning it. For that very reason I went to Brighton yesterday, to try and discover something,” he said.“And what did you discover?”“A very remarkable fact. At present it is only suspicion. I have yet to substantiate it.”“Cannot you tell me your suspicion?”“Not until I have had an opportunity of proving it,” was his quiet reply. “But I assure you that the observation I kept upon Her Imperial Highness and yourself was with no evil intent.”I smiled incredulously. It was hard indeed to believe a man of his subtle and unscrupulous character. All that Tack had told me crowded through my brain. As the catspaw of Markoff, it was not likely that he would tell me the truth.Hartwig was leaning easily against the wooden mantelshelf, watching us keenly. Of a sudden an idea occurred to me, and addressing the informer, I said:“I believe you are acquainted with my friend Madame de Rosen and her daughter. Tell me what you know concerning them.”“They were arrested and exiled to Siberia for the attempt in the Nevski on the return of the Emperor from the south,” he said promptly.Hartwig interrupted, saying gravely:“And that attempt, Danilo Danilovitch, was conceived by you—conceived in order to strike terror into the Emperor’s heart. You formed the plot and handed over the list of the conspirators to your employer, Markoff—you, the person known to the Party of the People’s Will as ‘The One.’”“I knew of the plot,” he admitted. “And though I gave certain names to the police, I certainly did not include the names of Madame de Rosen or of Mademoiselle.”“Why was she arrested?”He was silent for a few moments.“Because her presence in Petersburg was dangerous to the General,” he said at last sullenly.“You know this—eh? You are certain of it—you have evidence, I mean?” asked Hartwig.“You ask me for the truth,” the informer said, “and I tell you. I was extremely sorry for Madame and the young lady, for I knew them when I carried on my trade as bootmaker. An hour after their arrest, at about four o’clock in the morning, the General ordered me to go and search their house for certain letters which he described to me—letters which he was extremely anxious to obtain. I went alone, as he did not wish to alarm the neighbourhood by a domiciliary visit of the police. I searched the house for nearly nine hours, but failed to discover them. While still engaged in the investigation I was recalled to the house where it is my habit to meet the General in secret, when he told me that by a false promise of release he had extracted from Madame a statement that the letters were no longer in her possession, and that Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Natalia held them in safe-keeping. Madame, perfectly innocent as she was of any connection with the conspirators, expected to be released after telling the truth; but the General said that he had only laughed in her face and ordered her and her daughter to be sent off with the next convoy of prisoners—who were leaving for Siberia that same night. By this time the ladies are, I expect, already in the great forwarding-prison at Tomsk.”“And the letters?” I demanded, my blood boiling at hearing his story.“I was ordered to search for them.” Danilovitch replied. “The General gave me instructions how to enter the palace of the Grand Duke Nicholas and there to investigate the apartments of the Grand Duchess Natalia. I refused at first, knowing that if I were detected as an intruder I should be shot at sight by the sentries. But he insisted,” the man added. “He told me that if I persisted in my refusal he would expose me as a spy. So I was compelled to make the attempt, well knowing that discovery meant certain death. The sentries have orders to shoot any intruder in the Grand Ducal palace. On four occasions I went there at imminent risk, and on the fourth I was successful. I found the letters concealed in a room which had once been used as Her Highness’s nursery.”“And what did you do with them?”“I met the General at our usual meeting-place and handed them to him. He was at first delighted. But a moment later, finding that the seal of the envelope in which were the letters had been broken, he charged me with reading them. I denied it, and—”“Then you did not read them? You do not know what they contained, or who they were from?”“They were from General Markoff himself. I looked at the signatures, but, alas! I had no time to read them. I drove straight to the meeting-place, where the General was awaiting me.”“They were from the General!” I echoed. “To whom?”“They bore his signature—one a long letter, closely written,” was the informer’s reply. “Seeing that the seal had been broken, the General flew into a sudden rage and declared that the Grand Duchess Natalia had learned what they contained. The words he used to me were: ‘The girl must be silenced—silenced at once, Danilovitch. And you must silence her. She knows the truth!’”“Well?” I asked.“Well,” he said, his mouth drawn and hard, “under compulsion and more threats of exposure, I launched the bomb, which, alas! killed her father, while the young lady escaped unhurt.”“Then he still intends that Her Highness shall die? His warning the other day was no idle attempt to terrorise me?”“No, Excellency. Take every precaution. The General means mischief, for he is in hourly fear lest Her Highness should expose certain facts contained in those fateful letters which have already cost two ladies their liberty and a Grand Duke and several Cossacks their lives.”“Is this the actual truth?” asked Hartwig in a changed voice, looking the informer full in the face.“Yes,” he answered solemnly. “I have told you the truth; therefore I believe your solemn word that you will make no exposure to the Party.”“If you will disassociate yourself from these dastardly actions,” he said.“Ah!” sighed the other in despair, “that is impossible. The General holds me always to the compact I made with him. But I beg of you to be warned,” he added. “Her Highness is daily in gravest peril!”
Quick as lightning, Hartwig drew a big Browning revolver and thrust it into the informer’s face, exclaiming firmly:
“Another word and it will be your last!”
The fellow started back, unprepared for such defiance. He made a movement to cross the room, where no doubt he had his own weapon concealed, but the police officer was too quick for him and barred his passage.
“Look here!” he said firmly. “This is a matter to be settled between us, without any interference by your friends here. At word from me they would instantly turn upon you as an enemy. Think! Reflect well—before it is too late!” And he held the revolver steadily a foot from the man’s hard, pale face.
Danilovitch hesitated. He controlled the so-called Terrorist movement with amazing ingenuity, playing threerôlessimultaneously. He was “The One,” the mysterious but all-powerful head of the organisation; the ardent worker in the cause known as “the shoemaker of Kazan”; and the base, unscrupulous informer, who manufactured plots, and afterwards consigned to prison all those men and women who became implicated in them.
“If I withdraw my cry of alarm will you promise secrecy?” he asked in a low, cringing tone.
From the landing outside came sounds of footsteps and fierce demands in Russian from those he had summoned to his assistance. Two of us against twenty desperate characters as they were, would, I well knew, stand but a poor chance. If he made any allegation against us, we should be caught like rats in a trap, and killed, as all police-spies are killed when denounced. The arm of the Russian revolution is indeed a long one—longer than that of the Secret Police itself.
“What has happened, Danilo?” demanded a man’s rough voice. “Who are those strangers? Let us in!”
“Speak!” commanded Hartwig. “Reassure them, and let them go away. I have still much to say to you in private.”
His arm with the revolver was upraised, his eyes unwavering. The informer saw determination in his gaze. A further word of alarm, and a bullet would pass through his brain.
For a few seconds he stood in sullen silence.
“All right!” he shouted to them at last. “It is nothing, comrades. I was mistaken. Leave us in peace.”
We heard a murmuring of discontent outside, and then the footsteps commenced to descend the steep uncarpeted stairs. As they did so, Hartwig dropped his weapon, saying:
“Now let us sit down and talk. I have several questions I wish to put to you. If you answer frankly, then I promise that I will not betray you to your comrades.”
“What do you mean by ‘frankly’?”
“I mean that you must tell me the exact truth.”
The man’s face grew dark; his brows contracted; he bit his finger-nails.
“What was the motive of the attempt you made upon the Grand Duke Nicholas and his daughter, and the gentleman here, Mr Trewinnard?”
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“But you yourself committed the outrage?”
“At the orders of others.”
“Whose orders?”
He did not reply. He was standing against the small, cheap chest of drawers, his drawn face full in the light of the hissing gas-jet.
“Come,” said Hartwig firmly. “I wish to know this.”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Then I will tell you,” the detective said in a hard voice. “It was at the orders of your master, General Markoff—the man who, finding that you were a revolutionist, is using you as his tool for the manufacture of bogus plots against the Emperor.”
Danilovitch shrugged his shoulders, but uttered no word.
“And you went again to Brighton last night at his orders. You—”
“I went to Brighton, I admit. But not at the General’s orders,” he interrupted quickly.
“Why did you go? Why did you follow Her Imperial Highness and Mr Trewinnard?”
“I followed them because I had an object in so doing.”
“A sinister object?”
“No. There you are mistaken. My object was not a sinister one. It was to watch and endeavour to make clear a certain point which is a mystery to me.”
“A point concerning what?”
“Concerning Her Imperial Highness,” was his reply.
“How does Her Highness concern you?” I asked. “You tried to kill her once. Therefore your intentions must be evil.”
“I deny that,” he protested quickly. “I tell you that I went to Brighton without thought of any evil intent, and without the orders, or even knowledge, of General Markoff.”
“But he is Her Highness’s enemy.”
“Yes, Excellency—and yours also.”
“Tell me all that you know,” I urged, adopting a more conciliatory tone. “It is outrageous that this oppressor of Russia should conspire to kill an innocent member of the Imperial Family.”
“I know nothing of the circumstances. Excellency,” he said, feigning entire ignorance.
“But he gave you orders to throw that bomb,” I said. “What were your exact orders?”
“I am not likely to betray my employer,” he laughed. “If you do not answer these questions, then I shall carry out my threat of exposure,” Hartwig said in a hard, determined voice.
“Well,” said the informer hesitatingly, “my orders were not to throw the bomb unless the Grand Duchess Natalia was in the carriage.”
“Then the plot was to kill her—but unfortunately her father fell the victim of the dastardly outrage!” I cried.
“Yes,” the man replied. “It was to kill her—and you, Excellency.”
“But why?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and exhibited his palms in a gesture of complete ignorance.
“And your present intention is to effect in Brighton what you failed to do in Petersburg—eh?”
“I have no orders, and it certainly is not my intention,” responded the man, whom I remembered at that moment had deliberately killed the girl Garine in order to preserve his secret.
I turned from him in loathing and disgust.
“But you tell me that General Markoff intends that we both shall come to an untimely end,” I said a few moments later.
“He does, Excellency, and the ingenuity of the plot against you both is certainly one which betrays his devilish cunning,” was the fellow’s reply. “I have, I assure you, no love for a man who holds my life in the hollow of his hand, and whose word I am compelled to obey on pain of exposure and death.”
“You mean Markoff,” I exclaimed. “Tell me something of this plot against me—so that I may be on my guard,” I urged.
“I know nothing concerning it. For that very reason I went to Brighton yesterday, to try and discover something,” he said.
“And what did you discover?”
“A very remarkable fact. At present it is only suspicion. I have yet to substantiate it.”
“Cannot you tell me your suspicion?”
“Not until I have had an opportunity of proving it,” was his quiet reply. “But I assure you that the observation I kept upon Her Imperial Highness and yourself was with no evil intent.”
I smiled incredulously. It was hard indeed to believe a man of his subtle and unscrupulous character. All that Tack had told me crowded through my brain. As the catspaw of Markoff, it was not likely that he would tell me the truth.
Hartwig was leaning easily against the wooden mantelshelf, watching us keenly. Of a sudden an idea occurred to me, and addressing the informer, I said:
“I believe you are acquainted with my friend Madame de Rosen and her daughter. Tell me what you know concerning them.”
“They were arrested and exiled to Siberia for the attempt in the Nevski on the return of the Emperor from the south,” he said promptly.
Hartwig interrupted, saying gravely:
“And that attempt, Danilo Danilovitch, was conceived by you—conceived in order to strike terror into the Emperor’s heart. You formed the plot and handed over the list of the conspirators to your employer, Markoff—you, the person known to the Party of the People’s Will as ‘The One.’”
“I knew of the plot,” he admitted. “And though I gave certain names to the police, I certainly did not include the names of Madame de Rosen or of Mademoiselle.”
“Why was she arrested?”
He was silent for a few moments.
“Because her presence in Petersburg was dangerous to the General,” he said at last sullenly.
“You know this—eh? You are certain of it—you have evidence, I mean?” asked Hartwig.
“You ask me for the truth,” the informer said, “and I tell you. I was extremely sorry for Madame and the young lady, for I knew them when I carried on my trade as bootmaker. An hour after their arrest, at about four o’clock in the morning, the General ordered me to go and search their house for certain letters which he described to me—letters which he was extremely anxious to obtain. I went alone, as he did not wish to alarm the neighbourhood by a domiciliary visit of the police. I searched the house for nearly nine hours, but failed to discover them. While still engaged in the investigation I was recalled to the house where it is my habit to meet the General in secret, when he told me that by a false promise of release he had extracted from Madame a statement that the letters were no longer in her possession, and that Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Natalia held them in safe-keeping. Madame, perfectly innocent as she was of any connection with the conspirators, expected to be released after telling the truth; but the General said that he had only laughed in her face and ordered her and her daughter to be sent off with the next convoy of prisoners—who were leaving for Siberia that same night. By this time the ladies are, I expect, already in the great forwarding-prison at Tomsk.”
“And the letters?” I demanded, my blood boiling at hearing his story.
“I was ordered to search for them.” Danilovitch replied. “The General gave me instructions how to enter the palace of the Grand Duke Nicholas and there to investigate the apartments of the Grand Duchess Natalia. I refused at first, knowing that if I were detected as an intruder I should be shot at sight by the sentries. But he insisted,” the man added. “He told me that if I persisted in my refusal he would expose me as a spy. So I was compelled to make the attempt, well knowing that discovery meant certain death. The sentries have orders to shoot any intruder in the Grand Ducal palace. On four occasions I went there at imminent risk, and on the fourth I was successful. I found the letters concealed in a room which had once been used as Her Highness’s nursery.”
“And what did you do with them?”
“I met the General at our usual meeting-place and handed them to him. He was at first delighted. But a moment later, finding that the seal of the envelope in which were the letters had been broken, he charged me with reading them. I denied it, and—”
“Then you did not read them? You do not know what they contained, or who they were from?”
“They were from General Markoff himself. I looked at the signatures, but, alas! I had no time to read them. I drove straight to the meeting-place, where the General was awaiting me.”
“They were from the General!” I echoed. “To whom?”
“They bore his signature—one a long letter, closely written,” was the informer’s reply. “Seeing that the seal had been broken, the General flew into a sudden rage and declared that the Grand Duchess Natalia had learned what they contained. The words he used to me were: ‘The girl must be silenced—silenced at once, Danilovitch. And you must silence her. She knows the truth!’”
“Well?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, his mouth drawn and hard, “under compulsion and more threats of exposure, I launched the bomb, which, alas! killed her father, while the young lady escaped unhurt.”
“Then he still intends that Her Highness shall die? His warning the other day was no idle attempt to terrorise me?”
“No, Excellency. Take every precaution. The General means mischief, for he is in hourly fear lest Her Highness should expose certain facts contained in those fateful letters which have already cost two ladies their liberty and a Grand Duke and several Cossacks their lives.”
“Is this the actual truth?” asked Hartwig in a changed voice, looking the informer full in the face.
“Yes,” he answered solemnly. “I have told you the truth; therefore I believe your solemn word that you will make no exposure to the Party.”
“If you will disassociate yourself from these dastardly actions,” he said.
“Ah!” sighed the other in despair, “that is impossible. The General holds me always to the compact I made with him. But I beg of you to be warned,” he added. “Her Highness is daily in gravest peril!”