Title: The Red Rat's Daughter
Author: Boothby, Guy Newell, 1867-1905
Language: English
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[Frontispiece: "At last .... he drew her up."]



THE RED RAT'S DAUGHTER



By Guy Boothby


AUTHOR OF "DOCTOR NIKOLA," "THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL,"
  "PHAROS, THE EGYPTIAN," ETC, ETC



ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY AUSTIN



LONDON

WARD, LOCK AND CO LIMITED

NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE

1899



CHAPTER I

If John Grantham Browne had a fault--which, mind you, I am not prepared
to admit--it lay in the fact that he was the possessor of a cynical wit
which he was apt at times to use upon his friends with somewhat
peculiar effect.  Circumstances alter cases, and many people would have
argued that he was perfectly entitled to say what he pleased.  When a
man is worth a hundred and twenty thousand pounds a year--which, worked
out, means ten thousand pounds a month, three hundred and twenty-eight
pounds, fifteen shillings and fourpence a day, and four-and-sixpence
three-farthings, and a fraction over, per minute--he may surely be
excused if he becomes a little sceptical as to other people's motives,
and is apt to be distrustful of the world in general.  Old Brown, his
father, without the "e," as you have doubtless observed, started life
as a bare-legged street arab in one of the big manufacturing
centres--Manchester or Birmingham, I am not quite certain which.  His
head, however, must have been screwed on the right way, for he made few
mistakes, and everything he touched turned to gold.  At thirty his bank
balance stood at fifteen thousand pounds; at forty it had turned the
corner of a hundred thousand; and when he departed this transitory
life, a young man in everything but years, he left his widow, young
John's mother--his second wife, I may remark in passing, and the third
daughter of the late Lord Rushbrooke--upwards of three and a half
million pounds sterling in trust for the boy.

As somebody wittily remarked at the time, young John, at his father's
death and during his minority, was a monetary Mohammed--he hovered
between two worlds: the Rushbrookes, on one side, who had not two
sixpences to rub against each other, and the Brownes, on the other, who
reckoned their wealth in millions and talked of thousands as we humbler
mortals do of half-crowns.  Taken altogether, however, old Brown was
not a bad sort of fellow.  Unlike so many parvenus, he had the good
sense, the "e" always excepted, not to set himself up to be what he
certainly was not.  He was a working-man, he would tell you with a
twinkle in his eye, and he had made his own way in the world.  He had
never in his life owed a halfpenny, nor, to the best of his knowledge,
had he ever defrauded anybody; and, if he _had_ made his fortune out of
soap, well--and here his eyes would glisten--soap was at least a useful
article, and would wash his millions cleaner than a good many other
commodities he might mention.  In his tastes and habits he was
simplicity itself.  Indeed, it was no unusual sight to see the old
fellow, preparatory to setting off for the City, coming down the steps
of his magnificent town house, dressed in a suit of rough tweed, with
the famous bird's-eye neck-cloth loosely twisted round his throat, and
the soft felt hat upon his head--two articles of attire which no
remonstrance on the part of his wife and no amount of ridicule from the
comic journals could ever induce him to discard.  His stables were full
of carriages, and there was a cab-rank within a hundred yards of his
front door, yet no one had ever seen him set foot in either.  The soles
of his boots were thick, and he had been accustomed to walk all his
life, he would say, and he had no intention of being carried till he
was past caring what became of him.  With regard to his son, the apple
of his eye, and the pride of his old age, his views were entirely
different.  Nothing was good enough for the boy.  From the moment he
opened his eyes upon the light, all the luxuries and advantages wealth
could give were showered upon him.  Before he was short-coated, upwards
of a million had been placed to his credit at the bank, not to be
touched until he came of age.  After he had passed from a dame's school
to Eton, he returned after every holiday with sufficient money loose in
his pocket to have treated the whole school.  When, in the proper order
of things, he went on to Christ Church, his rooms were the envy and the
admiration of the university.  As a matter of fact, he never knew what
it was to have to deny himself anything; and it says something for the
lad's nature, and the father's too, I think, that he should have come
out of it the honest, simple Englishman he was.  Then old John died;
his wife followed suit six months later; and on his twenty-fifth
birthday the young man found himself standing alone in the world with
his millions ready to his hand either to make or mar him.  Little
though he thought it at the time, there was a sufficiency of trouble in
store for him.

He had town houses, country seats, moors and salmon-fishings, yachts
(steam and sailing), racehorses, hunters, coach-horses, polo-ponies,
and an army of servants that a man might very well shudder even to
think of.  But he lacked one thing; he had no wife.  Society, however,
was prepared to remedy this defect.  Indeed, it soon showed that it was
abnormally anxious to do so.  Before he was twenty-two it had been
rumoured that he had become engaged to something like a score of girls,
each one lovelier, sweeter, and boasting blood that was bluer than the
last.  A wiser and an older head might well have been forgiven had it
succumbed to the attacks made upon it; but in his veins, mingled with
the aristocratic Rushbrooke blood, young John had an equal portion of
that of the old soap-boiler; and where the one led him to accept
invitations to country houses at Christmas, or to be persuaded into
driving his fair friends, by moonlight, to supper at the Star and
Garter, the other enabled him to take very good care of himself while
he ran such dangerous risks.  In consequence he had attained the
advanced age of twenty-eight when this story opens, a bachelor, and
with every prospect of remaining so.  But the Blind Bow-Boy, as every
one is aware, discharges his bolts from the most unexpected quarters;
and for this reason you are apt to find yourself mortally wounded in
the very place, of all others, where you have hitherto deemed yourself
most invulnerable.

It was the end of the second week in August; Parliament was up; and
Browne's steam-yacht, the _Lotus Blossom_, twelve hundred tons, lay in
the harbour of Merok, on the Gieranger Fjord, perhaps the most
beautiful on the Norwegian coast.  The guests on board had been
admirably chosen, an art which in most instances is not cultivated as
carefully as it might be.  An ill-assorted house party is bad enough;
to bring the wrong men together on the moors is sufficient to spoil an
otherwise enjoyable holiday; but to ask Jones (who doesn't smoke, who
is wrapped up in politics, reads his leader in the _Standard_ every
morning, and who has played whist every afternoon with the same men at
his club for the last ten years) and De Vere Robinson (who never reads
anything save the _Referee_ and the _Sportsman_, who detests whist, and
who smokes the strongest Trichinopolis day and night) to spend three
weeks cooped up on a yacht would be like putting a kitten and a
cat-killing fox-terrier into a corn-bin and expecting them to have a
happy time together.  Browne, however, knew his business, and his
party, in this particular instance, consisted of the Duchess of
Matlock, wife of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and her
two pretty daughters, the Ladies Iseult and Imogen; Miss Verney, the
beauty of the season; the Honourable Silas Dobson, the American
Ambassador; his wife and daughter; George Barrington-Marsh, of the 1st
Life; and little Jimmy Foote, a man of no permanent address, but of
more than usual shrewdness, who managed to make a good income out of
his friends by the exercise of that peculiar talent for pleasing which
rendered him indispensable whenever and wherever his fellow-creatures
were gathered together.  In addition to those I have mentioned there
was a man whose interest in this story is so great that it is necessary
he should be described at somewhat greater length.

Should you deem it worth your while to make inquiries at any of the
Chancelleries in order to ascertain whether they happen to be
acquainted with a certain Monsieur Felix Maas, you would probably be
surprised to learn that he is as well known to them as--well--shall we
say the Sultan of Turkey himself? though it would be difficult to
mention in exactly what capacity.  One thing is quite certain; it would
be no easy task to find a man possessed of such peculiar
characteristics as this retiring individual.  At first glance his name
would appear to settle his nationality once and for all.  He would tell
you, however, that he has no right to be considered a Dutchman.  At the
same time he would probably omit to tell you to which kingdom or empire
he ascribes the honour of his birth.  If you travelled with him you
would discover that he speaks the language of every country west of the
Ural Mountains with equal fluency; and though he would appear to be the
possessor of considerable wealth, he never makes the least parade of
it.  In fact, his one and only idea in life would seem to be always
irreproachably dressed and groomed, never to speak unless spoken to,
and at all times to act as if he took no sort of interest whatever in
any person or thing save that upon which he happened to be engaged at
the moment.  When necessity demands it he can be exceedingly amusing;
he never allows himself to be seen with a man or woman who would be
likely to cause him the least loss of prestige; he gives charming
little dinners _à la fourchette_ at his rooms in town twice or thrice
during the season, and is rumoured to be the author, under a _nom de
plume_, of one of the best works on Continental politics that has seen
the light since Talleyrand's day.  So much for Felix Maas.

At one time or another there have been a number of exquisite yachts
built to satisfy the extravagances of millionaires, but never one so
perfect in every detail, and so replete with every luxury, as Browne's
_Lotus Blossom_.  The state-rooms were large and airy; beds occupied
the places of the usual uncomfortable bunks; the dining-saloon was
situated amidships, where the vibration of the screw was least felt;
the drawing-room was arranged aft; and a dainty boudoir for the ladies
extended across the whole width of the counter.  The smoking-room was
in a convenient position under the bridge, and the bathrooms, four in
number, were luxury and completeness itself.  Add to the other
advantages the presence of Felicien, that prince of _chefs_, and little
Georges, once so intimately connected with the English Embassy in
Paris, and it is unnecessary to say more.

Browne himself was an excellent host; and by the time the Norwegian
coast had been sighted the party had settled down comfortably on board.
They visited Christiania, the Bukn, Hardanger, and Sogne, and
eventually found themselves at anchor in the harbour of Merok, on the
Gieranger Fjord.  It is in this lovely bay, overshadowed by its
precipitous mountains, that my story may be properly said to commence.

It is sometimes asserted by a class of people who talk of the Eiffel
Tower as if it were a bit of natural scenery, and of the Matterhorn as
though it were placed in its present position simply for the
entertainment of Cook's tourists, that when you have seen one Norwegian
fjord you have seen them all.  But this statement is, as are the
majority of such assertions, open to contradiction.  The Ryfylke bears
no sort of resemblance, save that they are both incomparably grand, to
the Hardanger, or the Fjaerlands to the Gieranger.  There is, of
course, the same solemnity and the same overwhelming sense of man's
insignificance about them all.  But in every other essential they
differ as completely as Windermere does from the Bitter Lakes of
Suez--shall we say?--or the Marble Arch from the Bridge of Sighs.

"Knowing what we know, and seeing what we see," Maas remarked
confidentially to the Duchess of Matlock as they sat in their chairs on
deck, gazing up at the snow-capped mountains at the head of the fjord,
"one is tempted to believe that Providence, in designing Europe, laid
it out with the express intention of pleasing the British tourist."

"I detest tourists," replied her Grace, as she disentangled the straps
of her field-glasses.  "They cheapen everything, and think nothing of
discussing their hotel bills in the Temple of the Sphinx, or of
comparing and grumbling at their _dhobie's_ accounts under the façade
of the Taj Mahal."

"The inevitable result of a hothouse education, my dear Duchess," said
Jimmy Foote, who was leaning against the bulwarks.  "Believe a poor man
who knows, it is just those three annas overcharge in a _dhobie's_ bill
that spoil the grandeur of the Sphinx and cast a blight over the Great
Pyramid; as far as I am personally concerned, such an imposition would
spoil even the Moti Masjid itself."

"People who quarrel over a few annas have no right to travel," remarked
Mrs. Dobson, with the authority of a woman who rejoices in the
possession of a large income.

"In that case, one trembles to think what would become of the greater
portion of mankind," continued Miss Verney, who was drawing on her
gloves preparatory to going ashore.

"If that were the law, I am afraid I should never get beyond the white
walls of Old England," said Jimmy Foote, shaking his head; "it is only
by keeping a sharp eye on the three annas of which we have been
speaking that I manage to exist at all.  If I might make a suggestion
to the powers that be, it would be to the effect that a university
should be founded in some convenient centre--Vienna, for instance.  It
would be properly endowed, and students might be sent to it from all
parts of the world.  Competent professors would be engaged, who would
teach the pupils how to comport themselves in railway trains and on
board steamboats; who would tell them how to dress themselves to suit
different countries, in order that they might not spoil choice bits of
scenery by inartistic colouring.  Above all, I would have them
instructed in the proper manner of placing their boots outside their
bedroom doors when they retire to rest in foreign hotels.  I remember a
ruffian in Paris some years ago (truth compels me to put it on record
that he was a countryman of yours, Mr. Dobson) who for three weeks
regularly disturbed my beauty sleep by throwing his boots outside his
door in the fashion to which I am alluding.  It's my belief he used to
stand in the centre of his room and pitch them into the corridor,
taking particular care that they should fall exactly above my head."

"It seems to me that I also have met that man," observed Maas quietly,
lighting another cigarette as he spoke.  "He travels a great deal."

"Surely it could not be the same man?" remarked Mrs. Dobson, with an
incredulous air.  "The coincidence would be too extraordinary."  A
smile went round the group; for an appreciation of humour was not the
lady's strong point.

"To continue my proposal," said Foote, with quiet enjoyment.  "In
addition to imparting instruction on the subjects I have mentioned, I
would have my pupils thoroughly grounded in the languages of the
various countries they intend visiting, so that they should not inquire
the French for Eau de Cologne, or ask what sort of vegetable _pâté de
foie gras_ is when they encountered it upon their menus.  A proper
appreciation of the beautiful in art might follow, in order to permit
of their being able to distinguish between a Sandro Botticelli and a
'Seaport at Sunrise' by Claude Lorraine."

"A professor who could give instruction upon the intricacies of a
Continental wine list might be added with advantage," put in
Barrington-Marsh.

"And the inevitable result," said Browne, who had joined the party
while Marsh was speaking, "would be that you might as well not travel
at all.  Build an enormous restaurant in London, and devote a portion
of it to every country into which modern man takes himself.  Hang the
walls with tricky, theatrical canvases after the fashion of a
cyclorama; dress your waiters in appropriate costumes, let them speak
the language of the country in which you are supposed to be dining, let
the tables be placed in the centre of the hall, have a band to
discourse national airs, and you would be able to bore yourself to
death in comfort, for the simple reason that every one would talk, eat,
drink, and behave just as respectably as his neighbour.  Half the fun
of moving about the world, as I understand it, lies in the studies of
character presented by one's fellow-creatures.  But, see, the boat is
alongside; let us go ashore while it is fine."

Beautiful as Merok undoubtedly is, it must be admitted that its
amusements are, to say the least of it, limited.  You can lunch at the
hotel, explore the curious little octagonal church, and, if you are a
walker, climb the road that crosses the mountains to Grotlid.  The
views, however, are sublime, for the mountains rise on every hand,
giving the little bay the appearance of an amphitheatre.

"What programme have you mapped out for us?" inquired Miss Verney, who,
as was known to her companions, preferred an easy-chair and a
flirtation on the deck of the yacht to any sort of athletic exercise
ashore.

Browne thereupon explained that the Duchess, who was dressed in
appropriate walking costume, had arranged everything.  They were to
visit the church, do the regulation sights, and, finally, make their
way up the hillside to the Storfos Waterfall, which is the principal,
and almost the only, attraction the village has to offer.  The usual
order of march was observed.  The Duchess and the Ambassador, being the
seniors of the party, led the way; the lady's two daughters, escorted
by Barrington-Marsh and Jimmy Foote--who was too obvious a detrimental
to be worth guarding against--came next; Maas, Mrs. and Miss Dobson
followed close behind them; Miss Verney and Browne brought up the rear.

Everything went merrily as a marriage bell.  After those who had
brought their cameras had snap-shotted the church, and made the usual
mistake with regard to the angles, the party climbed the hill in the
direction of the waterfall.  It was only when they reached it that
those in front noticed that Miss Verney had joined the trio next before
her, and that Browne had disappeared.  He had gone back to the boat,
the lady explained, in order to give some instructions that had been
forgotten.  From her silence, however, and from the expression of
annoyance upon her beautiful lace, the others immediately jumped to the
conclusion that something more serious must have happened than her
words implied.  In this case, however, popular opinion was altogether
at fault.  As a matter of fact, Browne's reason for leaving his guests
to pursue their walk alone was an eminently simple one.  He strolled
down to the boat which had brought them ashore, and, having despatched
it with a message to the yacht, resumed his walk, hoping to overtake
his party before they reached the waterfall.  Unfortunately, however, a
thick mist was descending upon the mountain, shutting out the landscape
as completely as if a curtain had been drawn before it.  At first he
was inclined to treat the matter as of small moment; and, leaving the
road, he continued his walk in the belief that it would soon pass off.
Stepping warily--for mountain paths in Norway are not to be treated
with disrespect--he pushed on for upwards of a quarter of an hour,
feeling sure he must be near his destination, and wondering why he did
not hear the voices of his friends or the thunder of the fall.  At last
he stopped.  The mist was thicker than ever, and a fine but penetrating
rain was falling.  Browne was still wondering what Miss Verney's
feelings would be, supposing she were condemned to pass the night on
the hillside, when he heard a little cry proceeding from a spot, as he
supposed, a few yards ahead of him.  The voice was a woman's, and the
ejaculation was one of pain.  Hearing it, Browne moved forward again in
the hope of discovering whence it proceeded and what had occasioned it.
Search how he would, however, he could see nothing of the person who
had given utterance to it.  At last, in despair, he stood still and
called, and in reply a voice answered in English, "Help me; help me,
please."

"Where are you?" Browne inquired in the same language; "and what is the
matter?"

"I am down here," the voice replied; "and I am afraid I have sprained
my ankle.  I have fallen and cannot get up."

Browne has since confessed that it was the voice that did it.  The
accent, however, was scarcely that of an Englishwoman.

"Are you on a path or on the hillside?" he inquired, after he had
vainly endeavoured to locate her position.

"I am on the hillside," she replied.  "The fog was so thick that I
could not see my way, and I slipped on the bank and rolled down,
twisting my foot under me."

"Well, if you will try to guide me, I will do all in my power to help
you," said Browne; and as he said it he moved carefully towards the
spot whence he imagined the voice proceeded.  From the feel of the
ground under his feet he could tell that he had left the path and was
descending the slope.

"Am I near you now?" he asked.

"I think you must be," was the reply.  And then the voice added, with a
little laugh, "How ridiculous it all is, and how sorry I am to trouble
you!"

Had she known to what this extraordinary introduction was destined to
lead, it is very doubtful whether she would have considered it so full
either of humour or regret as her words implied.

Inch by inch Browne continued his advance, until he could just
distinguish, seated on the ground below him, and clinging with both her
arms to a stunted birch-tree, the figure of the girl for whom he was
searching.  At most she was not more than five feet from him.  Then,
with that suddenness which is the peculiar property of Norwegian mists,
the vapour, which had up to that moment so thickly enveloped them,
rolled away, and the whole landscape was revealed to their gaze.  As he
took in the position, Browne uttered a cry of horror.  The girl had
wandered off the path, slipped down the bank, and was now clinging to a
tree only a few feet removed from the brink of one of the most terrible
precipices along the Norwegian coast.

So overwhelmed was he with horror that for a moment Browne found
himself quite unable to say or do anything.  Then, summoning to his
assistance all the presence of mind of which he was master, he
addressed the girl, who, seeing the danger to which she was exposed,
was clinging tighter than ever to the tree, her face as white as the
paper upon which I am now writing.  For a moment the young man scarcely
knew how to act for the best.  To leave her while he went for
assistance was out of the question; while it was very doubtful, active
as he was, whether he would be able, unaided, to get her up in her
injured condition to the path above.  Ridiculous as the situation may
have appeared in the fog, it had resolved itself into one of absolute
danger now, and Browne felt the perspiration start out upon his
forehead as he thought of what would have happened had she missed the
tree and rolled a few feet farther.  One thing was quite
certain--something must be done; so, taking off his coat, he lowered it
by the sleeve to her, inquiring at the same time whether she thought
she could hold on to it while he pulled her up to the path above.  She
replied that she would endeavour to do so, and thereupon the struggle
commenced.  A struggle it certainly was, and an extremely painful one,
for the girl was handicapped by her injured foot.  What if her nerve
should desert her and she should let go, or the sleeve of the coat
should part company with the body?  In either case there could be but
one result--an instant and terrible death for her.

Taken altogether, it was an experience neither of them would ever be
likely to forget.  At last, inch by inch, foot by foot, he drew her up;
and with every advance she made, the stones she dislodged went tinkling
down the bank, and, rolling over the edge, disappeared into the abyss
below.  When at last she was sufficiently close to enable him to place
his arm round her, and to lift her into safety beside himself, the
reaction was almost more than either of them could bear.  For some
minutes the girl sat with her face buried in her hands, too much
overcome with horror at the narrowness of her escape even to thank her
preserver.  When she _did_ lift her face to him, Browne became aware
for the first time of its attractiveness.  Beautiful, as Miss Verney
was beautiful, she certainly could not claim to be; there was, however,
something about her face that was more pleasing than mere personal
loveliness could possibly have been.

"How did you come to be up here alone?" he inquired, after she had
tried to express her gratitude to him for the service he had rendered
her.

"It was foolish, I admit," she answered.  "I had been painting on the
mountain, and was making my way back to the hotel when the fog caught
me.  Suddenly I felt myself falling.  To save myself I clutched at that
tree, and was still clinging to it when you called to me.  Oh! how can
I thank you?  But for you I might now be----"

She paused, and Browne, to fill in the somewhat painful gap, hastened
to say that he had no desire to be thanked at all.  He insisted that he
had only done what was fit and proper under the circumstances.  It was
plain, however, from the look of admiration he cast upon her, that he
was very well satisfied with the part he had been permitted to play in
the affair.

While, however, they were progressing thus favourably in one direction,
it was evident that they were not yet at an end of their difficulties,
for the young lady, pretend as she might to ignore the fact, was
undoubtedly lame; under the circumstances for her to walk was out of
the question, and Merok was fully a mile, and a very steep mile,
distant from where they were now seated.

"How am I to get home?" the girl inquired.  "I am afraid it will be
impossible for me to walk so far, and no pony could come along this
narrow path to fetch me."

Browne puckered his forehead with thought.  A millionaire is apt to
imagine that nothing in this world is impossible, provided he has his
cheque-book in his pocket and a stylographic pen wherewith to write an
order on his banker.  In this case, however, he was compelled to
confess himself beaten.  There was one way out of it, of course, and
both knew it.  But the young man felt his face grow hot as the notion
occurred to him.

"If you would only let me carry you as far as the main road, I could
easily find a conveyance to take you the rest of the distance," he
faltered.

"Do you think you _could_ carry me?" she answered, with a seriousness
that was more than half assumed.  "I am very heavy."

It might be mentioned here, and with advantage to the story, that in
his unregenerate days Browne had won many weight-lifting competitions;
his modesty, however, prevented his mentioning this fact to her.

"If you will trust me, I think I can manage it," he said; and then,
without waiting for her to protest, he picked the girl up, and, holding
her carefully in his arms, carried her along the path in the direction
of the village.  It was scarcely a time for conversation, so that the
greater portion of the journey was conducted in silence.  When at last
they reached the mountain road--that wonderful road which is one of the
glories of Merok--Browne placed the girl upon the bank, and, calling a
boy whom he could see in the distance, despatched him to the hotel for
assistance.  The youth having disappeared, Browne turned to the girl
again.  The pain she had suffered during that short journey had driven
the colour from her face, but she did her best to make light of it.

"I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me," she said, and
a little shudder swept over her as the remembrance of how near she had
been to death returned to her.

"I am very thankful I happened to be there at the time," the other
replied with corresponding seriousness.  "If you will be warned by me,
you will be careful for the future how you venture on the mountains
without a guide at this time of the year.  Fogs, such as we have had
to-day, descend so quickly, and the paths are dangerous at the best of
times."

"You may be sure I will be more careful," she replied humbly.  "But do
not let me keep you now; I have detained you too long already.  I shall
be quite safe here."

"You are not detaining me," he answered.  "I have nothing to do.
Besides, I could not think of leaving you until I have seen you safely
on your way back to your hotel.  Have you been in Merok very long?"

"Scarcely a week," the girl replied.  "We came from Hellesylt."

Browne wondered of whom the _we_ might consist.  Was the girl married?
He tried to discover whether or not she wore a wedding-ring, but her
hand was hidden in the folds her dress.

Five minutes later a cabriole made its appearance, drawn by a shaggy
pony and led by a villager.  Behind it, and considerably out of breath,
toiled a stout and elderly lady, who, as soon as she saw the girl
seated on the bank by the roadside, burst into a torrent of speech.

"Russian," said Brown to himself; "her accent puzzled me, but now I
understand."

Then turning to the young man, who was experiencing some slight
embarrassment at being present at what his instinct told him was a
wigging, administered by a lady who was plainly a past mistress at the
art, the girl said in English:--

"Permit me to introduce you to my guardian, Madame Bernstein."

The couple bowed ceremoniously to each other, and then Browne and the
villager between them lifted the girl into the vehicle, the man took
his place at the pony's head, and the strange cortège proceeded on its
way down the hill towards the hotel.  Once there, Browne prepared to
take leave of them.  He held out his hand to the girl, who took it.

"Good-bye," he said.  "I hope it will not be long before you are able
to get about once more."

"Good-bye," she answered; and then, with great seriousness, "Pray,
believe that I shall always be grateful to you for the service you have
rendered me this afternoon."

There was a little pause.  Then, with a nervousness that was by no
means usual to him, he added:--

"I hope you will not think me rude, but perhaps you would not mind
telling me whom I have had the pleasure of helping?"

"My name is Katherine Petrovitch," she answered, with a smile, and then
as frankly returned his question.  "And yours?"

"My name is Browne," he replied; and also smiling as he said it, he
added: "I am Browne's Mimosa Soap, Fragrant and Antiseptic."



CHAPTER II

When Browne reached the yacht, after bidding good-bye to the girl he
had rescued, he found his friends much exercised in their minds
concerning him.  They had themselves been overtaken by the fog, and
very naturally they had supposed that their host, seeing it coming on,
had returned to the yacht without waiting for them.  Their surprise,
therefore, when they arrived on board and found him still missing was
scarcely to be wondered at.  In consequence, when he descended the
companion ladder and entered the drawing-room, he had to undergo a
cross-examination as to his movements.  Strangely enough, this
solicitude for his welfare was far from being pleasing to him.  He had
made up his mind to say nothing about the adventure of the afternoon,
and yet, as he soon discovered, it was difficult to account for the
time he had spent ashore if he kept silence on the subject.
Accordingly he made the best excuse that occurred to him, and by
disclosing a half-truth induced them to suppose that he had followed
their party towards the waterfall, and had in consequence been lost in
the fog.

"It was scarcely kind of you to cause us so much anxiety," said Miss
Verney in a low voice as he approached the piano at which she was
seated.  "I assure you we have been most concerned about you; and, if
you had not come on board very soon, Captain Marsh and Mr. Foote were
going ashore again in search of you."

"That would have been very kind of them," said Browne, dropping into an
easy-chair; "but there was not the least necessity for it.  I am quite
capable of taking care of myself."

"Nasty things mountains," said Jimmy Foote to the company at large.  "I
don't trust 'em myself.  I remember once on the Rigi going out with old
Simeon Baynes, the American millionaire fellow, you know, and his
daughter, the girl who married that Italian count who fought
Constantovitch and was afterwards killed in Abyssinia.  At one place we
very nearly went over the edge, every man-jack of us, and I vowed I'd
never do such a thing again.  Fancy the irony of the position!  After
having been poverty-stricken all one's life, to drop through the air
thirteen hundred feet in the company of over a million dollars.  I'm
perfectly certain of one thing, however: if it hadn't been for the
girl's presence of mind I should not have been here to-day.  As it was,
she saved my life, and, until she married, I never could be
sufficiently grateful to her."

"Only until she married!" said Lady Imogen, looking up from the novel
she was reading.  "How was it your gratitude did not last longer than
that?"

"Doesn't somebody say that gratitude is akin to love?" answered Foote,
with a chuckle.  "Of course I argued that, since she was foolish enough
to show her bad taste by marrying somebody else, it would scarcely have
become me to be grateful."

Browne glanced at Foote rather sharply.  What did he mean by talking of
life-saving on mountains, on this evening of all others?  Had he heard
anything?  But Jimmy's face was all innocence.

At that moment the dressing gong sounded, and every one rose,
preparatory to departing to their respective cabins.

"Where is Maas?" Browne inquired of Marsh, who was the last to leave.

"He is on deck, I think," replied the other; but as he spoke the
individual in question made his appearance down the companion-ladder,
carrying in his hand a pair of field-glasses.

For some reason or another, dinner that night was scarcely as
successful as usual.  The English mail had come in, and the Duchess had
had a worrying letter from the Duke, who had been commanded to Osborne
among the salt of the earth, when he wanted to be in the Highlands
among the grouse; Miss Verney had not yet recovered from what she
considered Browne's ill-treatment of herself that afternoon; while one
of the many kind friends of the American Ambassador had forwarded him
information concerning a debate in Congress, in order that he might see
in what sort of estimation he was held by a certain portion of his
fellow-countrymen.  Never a very talkative man, Browne this evening was
even more silent than usual.  The recollection of a certain pale face
and a pair of beautiful eyes haunted him continually.  Indeed, had it
not been for Barrington-Marsh and Jimmy Foote, who did their duty
manfully, the meal would have been a distinct failure as far as its
general liveliness was concerned.  As it was, no one was sorry when an
adjournment was made for coffee to the deck above.  Under the influence
of this gentle stimulant, however, and the wonderful quiet of the
fjord, things brightened somewhat.  But the improvement was not
maintained; the pauses gradually grew longer and more frequent, and
soon after ten o'clock the ladies succumbed to the general inertness,
and disappeared below.

According to custom, the majority of the men immediately adjourned to
the smoking-room for cards.  Browne, however, excused himself on the
plea that he was tired and preferred the cool.  Maas followed suit;
and, when the others had taken themselves off, the pair stood leaning
against the bulwarks, smoking and watching the lights of the village
ashore.

"I wonder how you and I would have turned out," said Maas quietly, when
they had been standing at the rails for some minutes, "if we had been
born and bred in this little village, and had never seen any sort of
life outside the Geiranger?"

"Without attempting to moralize, I don't doubt but that we should have
been better in many ways," Browne replied.  "I can assure you there are
times when I get sick to death of the inane existence we lead."

"_Leben heisst träumen; weise sein heisst angenehm träumen_," quoted
Maas, half to himself and half to his cigar.  "Schiller was not so very
far out after all."

"Excellent as far as the sentiment is concerned," said Browne, as he
flicked the ash off his cigar and watched it drop into the water
alongside.  "But, however desirous we may be of dreaming agreeably, our
world will still take good care that we wake up just at the moment when
we are most anxious to go on sleeping."

"In order that we may not be disillusioned, my friend," said Maas.
"The starving man dreams of City banquets, and wakes to the unpleasant
knowledge that it does not do to go to sleep on an empty stomach.  The
debtor imagines himself the possessor of millions, and wakes to find
the man-in-possession seated by his bedside.  But there is one cure;
and you should adopt it, my dear Browne."

"What is that?"

"Marriage, my friend!  Get yourself a wife and you will have no time to
think of such things.  Doesn't your Ben Jonson say that marriage is the
best state for a man in general?"

"Marriage!" retorted Browne scornfully.  "It always comes back to that.
I tell you I have come to hate the very sound of the word.  From the
way people talk you might think marriage is the pivot on which our
lives turn.  They never seem to realise that it is the rock upon which
we most of us go to pieces.  What is a London season but a monstrous
market, in which men and women are sold to the highest bidders,
irrespective of inclination or regard?  I tell you, Maas, the way these
things are managed in what we call English society borders on the
indecent.  Lord A. is rich; consequently a hundred mothers offer him
their daughters.  He may be what he pleases--an honourable man, or the
greatest blackguard at large upon the earth.  In nine cases out of ten
it makes little or no difference, provided, of course, he has a fine
establishment and the settlements are satisfactory.  At the
commencement of the season the girls are brought up to London, to be
tricked out, regardless of expense, by the fashionable dressmakers of
the day.  They are paraded here, there, and everywhere, like horses in
a dealer's yard; are warned off the men who have no money, but who
might very possibly make them happy; while they are ordered by the
'home authorities' to encourage those who have substantial bank
balances and nothing else to recommend them.  As the question of love
makes no sort of difference, it receives no consideration.  After their
friends have sent them expensive presents, which in most cases they
cannot afford to give, but do so in order that they may keep up
appearances with their neighbours and tradesmen, the happy couple stand
side by side before the altar at St. George's and take the most solemn
oath of their lives; that done, they spend their honeymoon in Egypt,
Switzerland, or the Riviera, where they are presented with ample
opportunity of growing tired of one another.  Returning to town, the
man usually goes back to his old life and the woman to hers.  The
result is a period of mutual distrust and deceit; an awakening follows,
and later on we have the _cause célèbre_, and, holding up our hands in
horror, say, 'Dear me, how very shocking!'  In the face of all this, we
have the audacity to curl our lips and to call the French system
unnatural!"

"I am afraid, dear Browne, you are not quite yourself to-night," said
Maas, with a gentle little laugh, at the end of the other's harangue.
"The mistake of believing that a marriage, with money on the side of
the man and beauty on that of the woman, must irretrievably result in
misfortune is a very common one.  For my part, I am singular enough to
believe it may turn out as well if not better than any other."

"I wasn't aware that optimism was your strong point," retorted Browne.
"For my part I feel, after the quiet of this fjord, as if I could turn
my back on London and never go near it again."

He spoke with such earnestness that Maas, for once in his life, was
almost astonished.  He watched his companion as he lit another cigar.

"One thing is quite certain," he said at length, "your walk this
afternoon did you more harm than good.  The fog must have got into your
blood.  And yet, if you will not think me impertinent for saying so,
Miss Verney gave you a welcome such as many men would go through fire
and water to receive."

Browne grunted scornfully.  He was not going to discuss Miss Verney's
opinion of himself with his companion.  Accordingly he changed the
subject abruptly by inquiring whether Maas had made any plans for the
ensuing winter.

"I am a methodical man," replied the latter, with a smile at his
companion's naive handling of the situation, "and all my movements are
arranged some months ahead.  When this charming voyage is at an end,
and I have thanked you for your delightful hospitality, I shall hope to
spend a fortnight with our dear Duchess in the Midlands; after that I
am due in Paris for a week or ten days; then, like the swallow, I fly
south; shall dawdle along the Mediterranean for three or four months,
probably cross to Cairo, and then work my way slowly back to England in
time for the spring.  What do you propose doing?"

"Goodness knows," Browne replied lugubriously.  "At first I thought of
Rajputana; but I seem to have done, and to be tired of doing,
everything.  They tell me tigers are scarce in India.  This morning I
felt almost inclined to take a run out to the Cape and have three
months with the big game."

"You said as much in the smoking-room last night, I remember," Maas
replied.  "Pray, what has occurred since then to make you change your
mind?"

"I do not know, myself," said Browne.  "I feel restless and unsettled
to-night, that is all.  Do you think I should care for Russia?"

"For Russia?" cried his companion in complete surprise.  "What on earth
makes you think of Russia?"

Browne shook his head.

"It's a notion I have," he answered; though, for my own part, I am
certain that, until that moment, he had never thought of it.  "Do you
remember Demetrovitch, that handsome fellow with the enormous moustache
who stayed with me last year at Newmarket?"

"I remember him perfectly," Maas replied; and had Browne been watching
his face, instead of looking at the little hotel ashore, he would in
all probability have noticed that a peculiar smile played round the
corners of his mouth as he said it.  "But what has Demetrovitch to do
with your proposed trip to Russia?  I had an idea that he was ordered
by the Czar to spend two years upon his estates."

"Exactly! so he was.  That accounts for my notion.  He has often asked
me to pay him a visit.  Besides, I have never seen Petersburg in the
winter, and I'm told it's rather good fun."

"You will be bored to death," the other answered.  "If you go, I'll
give you a month in which to be back in England.  Now I think, with
your permission, I'll retire.  It's after eleven, and there's something
about these fjords that never fails to make me sleepy.  Good-night,
_mon cher ami_, and pleasant dreams to you."

Browne bade him good-night, and when the other disappeared into the
companion, returned to his contemplation of the shore.  The night was
so still that the ripple of the wavelets on the beach, half a mile or
so away, could be distinctly heard.  The men had left the smoking-room;
and save the solitary figure of the officer on the bridge, and a hand
forward by the cable range, Browne had the deck to himself.  And yet he
was not altogether alone, for his memory was still haunted by the
recollection of the same sweet face, with the dark, lustrous eyes, that
had been with him all the evening.  Do what he would, he could not
endow the adventure of the afternoon with the common-place air he had
tried to bestow upon it.  Something told him that it was destined to
play a more important part in his life's history than would at first
glance appear to be the case.  And yet he was far from being a
susceptible young man.  The training he had received would have been
sufficient to prevent that.  For upwards of an hour he remained where
he was, thinking and thinking, and yet never coming any nearer a
definite conclusion.  Then, throwing away what remained of his cigar,
he bestowed a final glance upon the shore, and went below to his cabin,
to dream, over and over again, of the adventure that had befallen him
that afternoon.

Whatever else may have been said of it, the weather next morning was
certainly not propitious; the mountains surrounding the bay were hidden
in thick mist, and rain was falling steadily.  After breakfast the male
portion of the party adjourned to the smoking-room, while the ladies
engaged themselves writing letters or with their novels in the
drawing-room below.

Browne alone seemed in good spirits.  While the others were railing at
the fog, and idly speculating as to whether it would clear, he seemed
to derive a considerable amount of satisfaction from it.  About ten
o'clock he announced his intention of going ashore, in order, he said,
that he might confer with a certain local authority regarding their
proposed departure for the south next day.  As a matter of politeness
he inquired whether any of his guests would accompany him, and received
an answer in the negative from all who happened to be in the
smoking-room at the time.  His valet accordingly brought him his
mackintosh, and he had put it on and was moving towards the gangway
when Maas made his appearance from the saloon companion.

"Is it possible you are going ashore?" he inquired in a tone of mild
surprise.  "If so, and you will have me, I will beg leave to accompany
you.  If I stay on board I shall go to sleep, and if I go to sleep I
shall wake up in a bad temper; so that, if you would save your guests
from that annoyance, I should advise you to take me with you."

Though Browne could very well have dispensed with his company, common
politeness prevented him from saying so.  Accordingly he expressed his
pleasure at the arrangement, and when they had descended the gangway
they took their places in the boat together.  For the first time during
the excursion, and also for the first time in the years they had known
each other, Browne felt inclined to quarrel with Maas; and yet there
was nothing in the other's behaviour towards him to which he could take
exception.

Maas could see that Browne was not himself, and he accordingly set
himself to remedy the trouble as far as lay in his power.  So well did
he succeed that by the time the boat reached the tiny landing-stage his
host was almost himself again.

"Now you must do just as you please," said Maas when they had landed.
"Do not consider me in the matter at all, I beg of you; I can amuse
myself very well.  Personally I feel inclined for a walk up the
mountain road."

"Do so, then, by all means," said his host, who was by no means sorry
to hear him arrive at this decision.  "If I were you, however, I should
stick to the road; these mists are not things to be taken lightly."

"I agree with you," said Maas.  Then, bidding the other good-bye, he
set off on his excursion.

Browne, who was conscientiousness itself, walked along the hillside to
the residence of the functionary whom he had professedly come ashore to
see, and when he had consulted him upon the point at issue, made his
way in the direction of the hotel.  Accosting the manager in the hall,
he inquired whether it would be possible to obtain an interview with
Madame Bernstein.

"Most certainly, sir," the man replied.  "If you will follow me I will
conduct you to her."

So saying, he led the way down the long wooden passage towards a room
at the further end.  Into this Browne was ushered, while the man
departed in search of the lady.  What occasioned the delay it is
impossible to say, but fully a quarter of an hour elapsed before madame
made her appearance.  She greeted him with a great appearance of
cordiality.  Taking his hands in hers, she held them while she thanked
him, in fluent French, for what she called his bravery on the preceding
afternoon.

"_Mon Dieu!_" said she.  "What should I have done had you not been
there to help her?  Had she been killed I should never have known
happiness again.  It was such a risk to run.  She is so reckless.  She
fills me with consternation whenever she goes out alone."

This was not at all what Browne had bargained for.  However, under the
circumstances, it would not only have been unwise, but practically
impossible, for him to protest.  You cannot save a young lady's life
and expect to escape her relatives' thanks, however much you may desire
to do so.  After these had been offered to him, however, he managed to
discover an opportunity of inquiring after her.

"The poor child is better this morning," Madame replied, solemnly
wagging her head.  "But, alas! it will be several days before she can
hope to put her foot to the ground.  She begged me, however, to thank
you, monsieur, should you call, for your goodness to her."

Try as he would to conceal it, there could be no sort of doubt that
Browne was pleased that she should have thought about him.  He begged
Madame Bernstein to inform her that he had called to inquire, and then
bade her good-bye.  He had hoped to have discovered something
concerning the girl's history; but as it was plain to him that Madame
was not one who would be easily induced to make disclosures, he
abandoned the attempt.

He had passed down the passage, and was in the act of leaving the
hotel, when a voice reached him from a room on the right which caused
him no little surprise.  At the same instant the door opened, and no
less a person than Maas stood before him.

"Why, my dear Browne, really this is most charming," he cried, with a
somewhat exaggerated enthusiasm.  "I had not the very least idea of
finding you here."

"Nor I of seeing you," Browne retorted.  "I understood that you were
going for a walk up the mountain."

"I did go," the other replied, "but the mist was so thick that I
changed my mind and came in here for a glass of Vermouth prior to going
on board.  Believe me, there is nothing like Vermouth for counteracting
the evil effects of fog.  Will you let me persuade you to try a glass?
What they have given me is excellent."

Browne thanked him, but declined.  He did not like finding the man in
the hotel; but as things were, he could not see that he had any right
to complain.  He only hoped that Maas knew nothing of his reason for
being there.  Conversant, however, as he was with his friend's
peculiarities, he felt certain he would say nothing about it to any
one, even supposing that he had discovered it.

Leaving the hotel together, they made their way down to the boat, and
in something less than a quarter of an hour were on board the yacht
once more.  The fog still continued, nor did it lift for the remainder
of the day.

On the following morning they had arranged to leave Merok for Aalsund,
and thence to turn south on their homeward journey.  Fortunately the
weather had cleared sufficiently by the time day dawned to admit of
their departure, and accordingly at the appointed hour, dipping her
ensign to the village in token of farewell, the yacht swung round and
headed for the pass under the Pulpit Rock.  Browne was on the bridge at
the time, and it was with a sensible feeling of regret that he bade
farewell to the little village nestling at the foot of the snow-capped
mountains.  Never did he remember having experienced such regret in
leaving a place before.  Whether he and Katherine Petrovitch would ever
meet again was more than he could tell; it seemed to him extremely
unlikely, and yet----  But at this juncture he shook his head very
wisely at the receding mountains, and told himself that that was a
question which only Fate could decide.



CHAPTER III

Six months had elapsed since the _Lotus Blossom_ had steamed out of the
Gieranger Fjord and its owner had taken his last look at the little
village of Merok.  During that interval Browne had endeavoured to amuse
himself to the best of his ability.  In spite of Maas's insinuation to
the contrary, he had visited Russia; had shot bears in the company and
on the estates of his friend Demetrovitch; had passed south to the
Crimea, and thence, by way of Constantinople, to Cairo, where, chancing
upon some friends who were wintering in the land of the Pharaohs, he
had been persuaded into engaging a _dahabîyeh_, and had endured the
tedious river journey to Luxor and back in the company of a charming
French countess, an Austrian archduke, a German diplomatist, and an
individual whose accomplishments were as notorious as his tastes were
varied.  A fortnight in Monte Carlo and a week in Paris had succeeded
the Nile trip; and now the first week in March found him, free of
engagements, ensconced in the luxurious smoking-room of the Monolith
Club in Pall Mall, an enormous cigar between his teeth, and a feeling
of regret in his heart that he had been persuaded to leave the warmth
and sunshine of the favoured South for what he was now enduring.  The
morning had been fairly bright, but the afternoon was cold, foggy, and
dreary in the extreme.  Even the most weather-wise among the men
standing at the windows, looking out upon the street, had to admit that
they did not know what to make of it.  It might only mean rain, they
said; it might also mean snow.  But that it was, and was going to be
still more, unpleasant, nobody seemed for an instant to doubt.  Browne
stretched himself in his chair beside the fire, and watched the flames
go roaring up the chimney, with an expression of weariness upon his
usually cheerful countenance.

"What a fool you were, my lad, to come back to this sort of thing!" he
said to himself.  "You might have known the sort of welcome you would
receive.  In Cannes the sun has been shining on the Boulevard de la
Croisette all day.  Here it is all darkness and detestation.  I've a
good mind to be off again to-night; this sort of thing would give the
happiest man the blues."

He was still pursuing this train of thought, when a hand was placed
upon his shoulder, and, turning round, he discovered Jimmy Foote
standing beside him.

"The very man I wanted to see," said Browne, springing to his feet and
holding out his hand.  "I give you my word, old fellow, you couldn't
have come at a more opportune moment.  I was in the act of setting off
to find you."

"My dear old chap," replied his friend, "that is my métier: I always
turn up at opportune moments, like the kind godmother in the fairy
tale.  What is it you want of me?"

"I want your company."

"There's nothing I'd give you more willingly," said Jimmy; "I'm tired
of it myself.  But seriously, what is the matter?"

"Look out of the window," Browne replied.  "Do you see that fog?"

"I've not only seen it, I have swallowed several yards of it," Foote
answered.  "I've been to tea with the Verneys in Arlington Street, and
I've fairly had to eat my way here.  But why should the weather
irritate you?  If you're idiot enough to come back from Cairo to London
in March, I don't see that you've any right to complain.  I only wish
Fate had blessed me with the same chance of getting away."

"If she had, where would you go and what would you do?"

"I'd go anywhere and do anything.  You may take it from me that the
Bard was not very far out when he said that if money goes before, all
ways lie open."

"If that's all you want, we'll very soon send it before.  Look here,
Jimmy; you've nothing to do, and I've less.  What do you say to going
off somewhere?  What's your fancy--Paris, south of France, Egypt,
Algiers?  One place is like another to me."

"I don't want anything better than Algiers," said Jimmy.  "Provided we
go by sea, I am your obedient and humble servant to command."

Then, waving his hand towards the gloom outside, he added: "Fog, Rain,
Sleet, and Snow, my luck triumphs, and I defy ye!"

"That's settled, then," said Browne, rising and standing before the
fire.  "I'll wire to Mason to have the yacht ready at Plymouth
to-morrow evening.  I should advise you to bring something warm with
you, for we are certain to find it cold going down Channel and crossing
the Bay at this time of the year.  In a week, however, we shall be
enjoying warm weather once more.  Now I must be getting along.  You
don't happen to be coming my way, I suppose?"

"My dear fellow," said Jimmy, buttoning up his coat and putting on his
hat as he spoke, "my way is always your way.  Are you going to walk or
will you cab it?"

"Walk," Browne replied.  "This is not the sort of weather to ride in
hansoms.  If you are ready, come along."

The two young men passed out of the club and along Pall Mall together.
Turning up Waterloo Place, they proceeded in the direction of
Piccadilly.  The fog was thicker there than elsewhere, and every shop
window was brilliantly illuminated in order to display the wares within.

"Oh, by the way, Browne, I've got something to show you," said Foote,
as they passed over the crossing of Charles Street.  "It may interest
you."

"What is it?" asked Browne.  "A new cigarette or something more
atrocious than usual in the way of ties?"

"Better than that," returned his companion, and as he spoke he led his
friend towards a picture-shop, in the window of which were displayed a
number of works of art.  Occupying a prominent position in the centre
was a large water-colour, and as Browne glanced at it his heart gave a
leap in his breast.  It was a view of Merok taken from the spot where
he had rescued Katherine Petrovitch from death upwards of seven months
before.  It was a clever bit of work, and treated in an entirely
unconventional fashion.

"It's not by any means bad, is it?" said Foote, after Browne had been
looking at it in silence for more than a minute.  "If I had the
money----  But I say, old chap, what is the matter?  You are as pale as
if you had seen a ghost.  Don't you feel well?"

"Perfectly well," his friend replied; "it's the fog."

He did not say that in the corner of the picture he had seen the
artist's name, and that that name was the one he had cherished so
fondly and for so long a time.

"Just excuse me for a moment, will you?" he said.  "I should like to go
into the shop and ask a question about that picture."

"All right," said Jimmy.  "I'll wait here."

Browne accordingly disappeared inside, leaving Foote on the pavement.
As it happened, it was a shop he often visited, and in consequence he
was well known to the assistants.  When he made his business known to
them, the picture was withdrawn from the window and placed before him.

"An excellent bit of work, as you can see for yourself, sir," said the
shopman, as he pulled down the electric light and turned it upon the
picture.  "The young lady who painted it is fast making a name for
herself.  So far this is the first bit of her work we have had in
London; but the Continental dealers assure me they find a ready market
for it."

"I can quite believe it," said Browne.  "It is an exceedingly pretty
sketch.  You may send it round to me."

"Very good, sir; thank you.  Perhaps you will allow me to show you one
or two others while you are here?  We have several new works since you
paid us a visit last."

"No, thank you," Browne replied.  "I only came in to find out whether
you could tell me the address of the young lady who painted this.  She
and I met in Norway some months ago."

"Indeed, sir, I had no idea when I spoke, that you were acquainted.
Perhaps you know that she is in London at the present moment.  She
honoured me by visiting my shop this morning."

"Indeed," said Browne.  "In that case you might let me know where I can
find her."

"I will do so at once," the man replied.  "If you will excuse me for a
moment I will have it written out for you."

He disappeared forthwith into an office at the end of the shop, leaving
Browne staring at the picture as if he could not take his eyes off it.
So engaged was he with the thoughts it conjured up that he quite forgot
the fact that he was standing in a shop in London with hansoms and
'buses rolling by outside.  In spirit he was on the steep side of a
Norwegian mountain, surrounded by fog and rain, endeavouring to
discover from what direction a certain cry for help proceeded.  Then
the fog rolled away, and, looking up at him, he saw what he now knew to
be the sweetest and most womanly face upon which he had ever gazed.  He
was still wrapped in this day-dream when the shopman returned, and
roused him by placing on the counter before him an envelope upon which
was written:--

  Miss KATHERINE PETROVITCH.
  43, _German Park Road, West._


"That is it, sir," said the man.  "If it would be any convenience to
you, sir, it will give me the greatest pleasure to write to the young
lady, and to tell her that you have purchased her picture and would
like her to call upon you."

"I must beg of you not to do anything of the kind," Browne replied,
with the most impressive earnestness.  "I must make it a condition of
my purchase that you do not mention my name to her in any way."

The shopman looked a little crestfallen.  "Very good, sir; since you do
not wish it, of course I will be sure not to do so," he answered
humbly.  "I thought perhaps, having purchased an example of her work,
and being such a well-known patron of art, you might be anxious to help
the young lady."

"What do you mean by helping her?" inquired Browne.  "Do you think she
needs assistance?"

"Well, sir, between ourselves," returned the other, "I do not fancy she
is very well off.  She was in a great hurry, at any rate, to sell this
picture."

Browne winced; it hurt him to think that the girl had perhaps been
compelled to haggle with this man in order to obtain the mere
necessaries of life.  He, however, thanked the man for his courtesy,
and bidding him send the picture to his residence as soon as possible,
left the shop and joined Foote on the pavement outside.

"Well, I hope you have been long enough," remarked that gentleman in an
injured tone, as they proceeded up the street together.  "Have you
purchased everything in the shop?"

"Don't be nasty, Jimmy," said Browne, with sudden joviality.  "It
doesn't suit you.  You are the jolliest little fellow in the world when
you are in a good temper; but when you are not--well, words fail me."

"Don't walk me off my legs, confound you!" said Jimmy snappishly.  "The
night is but young, and we're not performing pedestrians, whatever you
may think."

Browne was not aware that he was walking faster than usual, but he
slowed down on being remonstrated with.  Then he commenced to whistle
softly to himself.

"Now you are whistling," said Jimmy, "which is a thing, as you are well
aware, that I detest in the street.  What on earth is the matter with
you to-night?  Ten minutes ago you were as glum as they make 'em;
nothing suited you.  Then you went into that shop and bought that
picture, and since you came out you seem bent on making a public
exhibition of yourself."

"So I am," said Browne; and then, suddenly stopping in his walk, he
rapped with the ferrule of his umbrella on the pavement.  "I am going
to give an exhibition, and a dashed good one, too.  I'll take one of
the galleries, and do it in a proper style.  I'll have the critics
there, and all the swells who buy; and if they don't do as I want, and
declare it to be the very finest show of the year, I'll never buy one
of their works again."  Then, taking his friend's arm, he continued his
walk, saying, "What you want, Jimmy, my boy, is a proper appreciation
of art.  There is nothing like it in the world, take my word for it.
Nothing!  Nothing at all!"

"You've said that before," retorted his friend, "and you said it with
sufficient emphasis to amuse the whole street.  If you're going to give
me an exposition of art in Regent Street on a foggy afternoon in March,
I tell you flatly I'm going home.  I am not a millionaire, and my
character won't stand the strain.  What's the matter with you, Browne?
You're as jolly as a sandboy now, and, for the life of me, I don't see
how a chap can be happy in a fog like this and still retain his reason."

"Fog, my boy," continued Browne, still displaying the greatest good
humour.  "I give you my word, there's nothing like a fog in the world.
I adore it!  I revel in it!  Talk about your south of France and
sunshine--what is it to London and a fog?  A fog did me a very good
turn once, and now I'm hanged if another isn't going to do it again.
You're a dear little chap, Jimmy, and I wouldn't wish for a better
companion.  But there's no use shutting your eyes to one fact, and that
is you're not sympathetic.  You want educating, and when I've a week or
two to spare I'll do it.  Now I'm going to leave you to think out what
I've said.  I've just remembered a most important engagement.  Let me
find a decent hansom and I'll be off."

"I thought you said just now this was not the weather for driving in
hansoms?  I thought you said you had nothing to do, and that you were
going to employ yourself entertaining me?  John Grantham Browne, I tell
you what it is, you're going in that hansom to a lunatic asylum."

"Better than that, my boy," said Browne, with a laugh, as the cab drew
up at the pavement and he sprang in.  "Far better than that."  Then,
looking up through the trap in the roof at the driver, he added
solemnly: "Cabby, drive me to 43, German Park Road, as fast as your
horse can go."

"But, hold on," said Foote, holding up his umbrella to detain him.
"Before you do go, what about to-morrow?  What train shall we catch?
And have you sent the wire to your skipper to have the yacht in
readiness?"

"Bother to-morrow," answered Browne.  "There is no to-morrow, there are
no trains, there is no skipper, and most certainly there is no yacht.
I've forgotten them and everything else.  Drive on, cabby.  Bye-bye,
Jimmy."

The cab disappeared in the fog, leaving Mr. Foote standing before the
portico of the Criterion looking after it.

"My friend Browne is either mad or in love," said that astonished
individual as the vehicle disappeared in the traffic.  "I don't know
which to think.  He's quite unnerved me.  I think I'll go in here and
try a glass of dry sherry just to pull myself together.  What an idiot
I was not to find out who painted that picture!  But that's just like
me; I never think of things until too late."

When he had finished his sherry he lit a cigarette, and presently found
himself making his way towards his rooms in Jermyn Street.  As he
walked he shook his head solemnly.  "I don't like the look of things at
all," he said.  "I said a lunatic asylum just now; I should have
mentioned a worse place--'St. George's, Hanover Square.'  One thing,
however, is quite certain.  If I know anything of signs, Algiers will
not have the pleasure of entertaining me."



CHAPTER IV

While Foote was cogitating in this way, Browne's cab was rolling along
westward.  He passed Apsley House and the Park, and dodged his way in
and out of the traffic through Kensington Gore and the High Street.  By
the time they reached the turning into the Melbury Road he was in the
highest state of good humour, not only with himself but the world in
general.

When, however, they had passed the cab-stand, and had turned into the
narrow street which was his destination, all his confidence vanished,
and he became as nervous as a weak-minded school-girl.  At last the
cabman stopped and addressed his fare.

"The fog's so precious thick hereabouts, sir," he said, "that I'm blest
if I can see the houses, much less the numbers.  Forty-three may be
here, or it may be down at the other end.  If you like I'll get down
and look."

"You needn't do that," said Browne.  "I'll find it for myself."

It may have been his nervousness that induced him to do such a
thing--on that point I cannot speak with authority--but it is quite
certain that when he did get down he handed the driver
half-a-sovereign.  With the characteristic honesty of the London
cabman, the man informed him of the fact, at the same time remarking
that he could not give him change.

"Never mind the change," said Browne; adding, with fine cynicism, "Put
it into the first charity-box you come across."

The man laughed, and with a hearty "Thank ye, sir; good-night," turned
his horse and disappeared.

"Now for No. 43," said Browne.

But though he appeared to be so confident of finding it, it soon
transpired that the house was more difficult to discover than he
imagined.  He wandered up one pavement and down the other in search of
it.  When he did come across it, it proved to be a picturesque little
building standing back from the street, and boasted a small garden in
front.  The door was placed at the side.  He approached it and rang the
bell.  A moment later he found himself standing face to face with the
girl he had rescued on the Gieranger Fjord seven months before.  It may
possibly have been due to the fact that when she had last seen him he
had been dressed after the fashion of the average well-to-do tourist,
and that now he wore a top-hat and a great coat; it is quite certain,
however, that for the moment she did not recognise him.

"I am afraid you do not know me," said Browne, with a humility that was
by no means usual with him.  But before he had finished speaking she
had uttered a little exclamation of astonishment, and, as the young man
afterwards flattered himself, of pleasure.

"Mr. Browne!" she cried.  "I beg your pardon, indeed, for not
recognising you.  You must think me very rude; but I had no idea of
seeing you here."

"I only learnt your address an hour ago," the young man replied.  "I
could not resist the opportunity of calling on you."

"But I am so unknown in London," she answered.  "How could you possibly
have heard of me!  I thought myself so insignificant that my presence
in this great city would not be known to any one."

"You are too modest," said Browne, with a solemnity that would not have
discredited a State secret.  Then he made haste to add, "I cannot tell
you how often I have thought of that terrible afternoon."

"As you may suppose, I have never forgotten it," she answered.  "It is
scarcely likely I should."

There was a little pause; then she added, "But I don't know why I
should keep you standing out here like this.  Will you not come in?"

Browne was only too glad to do so.  He accordingly followed her into
the large and luxuriously furnished studio.

"Won't you sit down?" she said, pointing to a chair by the fire.  "It
is so cold and foggy outside that perhaps you would like a cup of tea."

Tea was a beverage in which Browne never indulged, and yet, on this
occasion, so little was he responsible for his actions that he
acquiesced without a second thought.

"How do you prefer it?" she asked.  "Will you have it made in the
English or the Russian way?  Here is a teapot, and here a samovar; here
is milk, and here a slice of lemon.  Which do you prefer?"

Scarcely knowing which he chose, Browne answered that he would take it
_à la Russe_.  She thereupon set to work, and the young man, as he
watched her bending over the table, thought he had never in his life
before seen so beautiful and so desirable a woman.  And yet, had a
female critic been present, it is quite possible--nay, it is almost
probable that more than one hole might have been picked in her
appearance.  Her skirt--in order to show my knowledge of the
technicalities of woman's attire--was of plain merino, and she also
wore a painting blouse that, like Joseph's coat, was of many colours.
To go further, a detractor would probably have observed that her hair
might have been better arranged.  Browne, however, thought her
perfection in every respect, and drank his tea in a whirl of
enchantment.  He found an inexplicable fascination in the mere swish of
her skirts as she moved about the room, and a pleasure that he had
never known before in the movement of her slender hands above the tray.
And when, their tea finished, she brought him a case of cigarettes, and
bade him smoke if he cared to, it might very well have been said that
that studio contained the happiest man in England.  Outside, they could
hear the steady patter of the rain, and the rattle of traffic reached
them from the High Street; but inside there was a silence of a
Norwegian fjord, and the memory of one hour that never could be effaced
from their recollections as long as they both should live.  Under the
influence of the tea, and with the assistance of the cigarette, which
she insisted he should smoke, Browne gradually recovered his presence
of mind.  One thing, however, puzzled him.  He remembered what the
shopman had told him, and for this reason he could not understand how
she came to be the possessor of so comfortable a studio.  This,
however, was soon explained.  The girl informed him that after his
departure from Merok (though I feel sure she was not aware that he was
the owner of the magnificent vessel she had seen in the harbour) she
had been unable to move for upwards of a week.  After that she and her
companion, Madame Bernstein, had left for Christiania, travelling
thence to Copenhagen, and afterwards to Berlin.  In the latter city she
had met an English woman, also an artist.  They had struck up a
friendship, with the result that the lady in question, having made up
her mind to winter in Venice, had offered her the free use of her
London studio for that time, if she cared to cross the Channel and take
possession of it.

"Accordingly, in the daytime, I paint here," said the girl; "but Madame
Bernstein and I have our lodgings in the Warwick Road.  I hope you did
not think this was my studio; I should not like to sail under false
colours."

Browne felt that he would have liked to give her the finest studio that
ever artist had used a brush and pencil in.  He was wise enough,
however, not to say so.  He changed the conversation, therefore, by
informing her that he had wintered in Petersburg, remarking at the same
time that he had hoped to have had the pleasure of meeting her there.

"You will never meet me in Petersburg," she answered, her face changing
colour as she spoke.  "You do not know, perhaps, why I say this.  But I
assure you, you will never meet me or mine within the Czar's dominions."

Browne would have given all he possessed in the world not to have given
utterance to that foolish speech.  He apologised immediately, and with
a sincerity that made her at once take pity on him.

"Please do not feel so sorry for what you said," she replied.  "It was
impossible for you to know that you had transgressed.  The truth is, my
family are supposed to be very dangerous persons.  I do not think, with
one exception, we are more so than our neighbours; but, as the law now
stands, we are prohibited.  Whether it will ever be different I cannot
say.  That is enough, however, about myself.  Let us talk of something
else."

She had seated herself in a low chair opposite him, with her elbows on
her knees and her chin resting on her hand.  Browne glanced at her, and
remembered that he had once carried her in his arms for upwards of a
mile.  At this thought such a thrill went through him that his teacup,
which he had placed on a table beside him, trembled in its saucer.
Unable to trust himself any further in that direction, he talked of
London, of the weather, of anything that occurred to him; curiously
enough, however, he did not mention his proposed departure for the
Mediterranean on the morrow.  In his heart he had an uneasy feeling
that he had no right to be where he was.  But when he thought of the
foggy street outside, and realised how comfortable this room was, with
its easy chairs, its polished floor, on which the firelight danced and
played, to say nothing of the girl seated opposite him, he could not
summon up sufficient courage to say good-bye.

"How strange it seems," she said at last--"does it not?--that you and I
should be sitting here like this!  I had no idea, when we bade each
other good-bye in Norway, that we should ever meet again."

"I felt certain of it," Browne replied, but he failed to add why he was
so sure.  "Is it settled how long you remain in England?"

"I do not think so," she answered.  "We may be here some weeks; we may
be only a few days.  It all depends upon Madame Bernstein."

"Upon Madame Bernstein?" he said, with some surprise.

"Yes," she answered; "she makes our arrangements.  You have no idea how
busy she is."

Browne certainly had no idea upon that point, and up to that moment he
was not sure that he was at all interested; now, however, since it
appeared that madame controlled the girl's movements, she became a
matter of overwhelming importance to him.

For more than an hour they continued to chat; then Browne rose to bid
her good-bye.

"Would you think me intrusive if I were to call upon you again?" he
asked as he took her hand.

"Do so by all means, if you like," she answered, with charming
frankness.  "I shall be very glad to see you."

Then an idea occurred to him--an idea so magnificent, so delightful,
that it almost took his breath away.

"Would you think me impertinent if I inquired how you and Madame
Bernstein amuse yourselves in the evenings?  Have you been to any
theatres or to the opera?"

The girl shook her head.  "I have never been inside a theatre in
London," she replied.

"Then perhaps I might be able to persuade you to let me take you to
one," he answered.  "I might write to Madame Bernstein and arrange an
evening.  Would she care about it, do you think?"

"I am sure she would," she answered.  "And I know that I should enjoy
it immensely.  It is very kind of you to ask us."

"It is very kind of you to promise to come," he said gratefully.  "Then
I will arrange it for to-morrow night if possible.  Good-bye."

"Good-bye," she answered, and held out her little hand to him for the
second time.

When the front door had closed behind him and he was fairly out in the
foggy street once more, Browne set off along the pavement on his return
journey, swinging his umbrella and whistling like a schoolboy.  To a
crusty old bachelor his state of mind would have appeared inexplicable.
There was no sort of doubt about it, however, that he was happy; he
walked as if he were treading on air.  It was a good suggestion, that
one about the theatre, he said to himself, and he would take care that
they enjoyed themselves.  He would endeavour to obtain the best box at
the opera; they were playing _Lohengrin_ at the time, he remembered.
He would send one of his own carriages to meet them, and it should take
them home again.  Then a still more brilliant idea occurred to him.
Why should he not arrange a nice little dinner at some restaurant
first?  Not one of your flash dining-places but a quiet, comfortable
little place--Lallemand's, for instance, where the cooking is
irreproachable, the wine and waiting faultless, and the company who
frequent it beyond suspicion.  And yet another notion, and as it
occurred to him he laughed aloud in the public street.

"There will be three of us," he said, "and the chaperon will need an
escort.  By Jove!  Jimmy called me mad, did he?  Well, I'll be revenged
on him.  _He shall sit beside Madame Bernstein_."



CHAPTER V

If Browne had ever looked forward to anything in his life, he did to
the dinner-party he had arranged for the evening following his visit to
the studio in the German Park Road.  On more than one occasion he had
entertained royalty at his house in Park Lane, and at various times he
had invited London society to functions which, for magnificence and
completeness, had scarcely ever been equalled and never excelled.  Upon
none of these affairs, however, had he bestowed half so much care and
attention as he did upon the dinner which it is now my duty to
describe.  Having written the formal invitation, he posted it himself;
after which he drove to the restaurant which was to be honoured with
Katherine Petrovitch's presence, and interviewed the proprietor in his
own sanctum.

"Remember, Alphonse," he said to that delightful little man, "good as
the others have been, this must be the very best dinner you have ever
arranged for me.  It must not be long, nor must it be in the least
degree heavy.  You know my taste in wine, and I give you _carte
blanche_ to ransack London for what you consider necessary in the way
of rarities.  Reserve 'No. 6' for me, if it is not already engaged; and
make it look as nice as you possibly can.  I will send the flowers from
my house, and my own man shall arrange them."

Alphonse chuckled and rubbed his hands.  This was just the sort of
order he delighted to receive.

"Ver' good; it shall be done, M'sieu Browne," he said, bowing and
spreading his hands apart in his customary fashion when pleased.  "I
have made you many, many dinners before, but I give you the word of
Alphonse that this shall be the best of all.  _Ma foi!_ but I will give
you a dinner zat for its betterment you cannot get in England.  Ze cost
I will----"

"Never mind the cost," answered the reckless young man; "remember, it
must be the best in every way.  Nothing short of that will do."

"I will satisfy you, m'sieu; never fear that.  It is my honour.
Perhaps it is royalty zat you have to come to my house?"

"It is nothing of the sort," Browne replied scornfully.  "I am asking
two ladies and one gentleman."

Alphonse's face expressed his surprise.  It looked as if his beautiful
dinner was likely to be wasted.

Having arranged the hour and certain other minor details, Browne
returned to his cab once more, and drove off in search of Jimmy Foote.
It was some time before he found him, and, when he did, a considerable
period elapsed before he could obtain speech with him.  Jimmy was at
the Welter Club, playing black pool with two or three youths of his own
type.  From the manner in which their silver was changing hands, it
certainly looked as if that accomplished young gentleman was finding
his time very fully taken up, picking half-crowns off the rim of the
table, placing them in his pocket, and paying them out again.

"Hullo, Browne!" said Bellingham of the Blues, after the black ball had
disappeared into the top pocket and while the marker was spotting it
again.  "Are you coming in?"

"Not if I know it," said Browne, shaking his head.  "Judging from the
anxious expression upon Jimmy's face, things are getting a little too
hot with you all."

At the end of the next round, the latter retired from the game, and,
putting his arm through that of his friend, led him to the smoking-room
on the other side of the hall.

"I hope you have calmed down, old fellow," said Jimmy as they seated
themselves near the fire.  "To what do I owe the honour of seeing you
here to-night?"

"I want you to do me a favour," Browne returned, a little nervously,
for he was afraid of what Jimmy would say when he knew everything.

"Anything you like in the world, old man," said the latter.  "You have
only to ask.  There is nothing wrong, I hope?"

"Nothing at all," replied Browne.  "Rather the other way round, I
fancy.  The fact of the matter is, I have asked two ladies to dine with
me to-morrow evening at Lallemand's, and to go to the Opera afterwards.
I want you to make one of the party."

"The young lady is the painter of that charming Norwegian picture,"
said Jimmy, with imperturbable gravity, "and the other is her chaperon."

"How on earth did you know it?" asked Browne, blushing like a
schoolboy, for the simple reason that he thought his secret was
discovered.

"It's very plain that you never knew I was a wizard," returned his
companion, with a laugh.  "You old duffer; put two and two together for
yourself--that is to say, if you have any brains left to do it with.
In the first place, did you not yesterday afternoon invite me to
accompany you on a delightful yachting trip to the Mediterranean?  You
were tired of England, you said, and I gathered from your remarks that
you were counting the hours until you could say 'good-bye' to her.  We
went for a walk, and as we passed up Waterloo Place I happened to show
you a picture.  You turned as white as a sheet at once, and immediately
dived into the shop, bidding me wait outside.  When you reappeared you
acted the part of an amiable lunatic; talked a lot of bosh about
preferring fogs to sunshine; and when I informed you that you were on
the high-road to an asylum, said it was better than that--you were
going to the German Park Road.  Our yachting cruise has been thrown to
the winds; and now, to make up for it, you have the impudence to ask me
to play gooseberry for you, and try to propitiate me with one of
Lallemand's dinners, which invariably upset me for a week, and a dose
of Wagner which will drive me crazy for a month."

"How do you know I want you to play gooseberry?" asked Browne savagely.
"It's like your impudence to say such a thing."

"How do I know anything?" said Jimmy, with delightful calmness.  "Why,
by the exercise of my own common-sense, of course--a commodity you will
never possess if you go on like this.  You are spoons on this girl, I
suppose, and since there's another coming with her, it's pretty plain
to me somebody must be there to keep that other out of the way."

"You grow very coarse," retorted Browne, now thoroughly on his dignity.

"It's a coarse age, they say," Foote replied.  "Don't I know by
experience exactly what that second party will be like!"

"If you do you are very clever," said Browne.

"One has to be clever to keep pace with the times," Jimmy replied.
"But, seriously, old man, if you want me, I shall be only too glad to
come to your dinner; but, mind, I take no responsibility for what
happens.  I am not going to be called to account by every London mother
who possesses a marriageable daughter."

"You needn't be afraid," said Browne.  "I will absolve you from all
responsibility.  At any rate you assure me that I can depend upon you?"

"Of course you can, and anything else you like besides," Foote replied.
Then, laying his hand upon Browne's shoulder, he added: "My dear old
Jack, in spite of our long acquaintance, I don't think you quite know
me yet.  I talk a lot of nonsense, I'm afraid; but as far as you are
concerned you may depend the heart's in the right place.  Now I come to
think of it, I am not quite certain it would not be better for you to
be decently married and out of harm's way.  Of course, one doesn't like
to see one's pals hurried off like that; but in your case it's
different."

"My dear fellow," said Browne, "as you said just now, you certainly do
talk a lot of nonsense.  Whoever said anything about marriage?  Of
course I'm not going to be married.  I have never contemplated such a
thing.  It's always the way; directly a man shows a little extra
courtesy to a woman, talks to her five minutes longer than he is
accustomed to do, perhaps, or dances with her twice running, you
immediately get the idea that everything is settled between them, and
that all you have to do is to wonder what sort of wedding present you
ought to give them."

"When a man gives himself away as completely as you have done in this
particular instance, it is not to be wondered that his friends think
there is something in the air," said Jimmy.  "However, you know your
own business best.  What time is the dinner?"

"Seven o'clock sharp," said Browne.  "You had better meet me there a
few minutes before.  Don't forget we go to the Opera afterwards."

"I am not likely to forget it," said Jimmy, with a doleful face.

"Very well, good-bye until to-morrow evening."

There was a little pause, and then Browne held out his hand.

"Thank you, Jimmy," he said with a sincerity that was quite
inconsistent with the apparent importance of the subject.  "I felt sure
I could rely upon you."

"Rely upon me always," Jimmy replied.  "I don't think you'll find me
wanting."

With that Browne bade him good-bye, and went out into the street.  He
hailed a cab, and bade the man drive him to Park Lane.

Once it had started, he laid himself back on the cushions and gave free
rein to his thoughts.  Though he had to all intents and purposes denied
it a few minutes before, there could be no doubt that he was in
love--head over ears in love.  He had had many passing fancies before,
it is true, but never had he experienced such a strong attack of the
fever as at present.  As the cab passed along the crowded street he
seemed to see that sweet face, with its dark eyes and hair; that
slender figure, and those beautiful white hands, with their long
tapering fingers; and to hear again the soft tones of Katherine's voice
as she had spoken to him in the studio that afternoon.  She was a queen
among women, he told himself, and was worthy to be loved as such.  But
if she were so beautiful and so desirable, could she be induced to have
anything to do with himself?  Could she ever be brought to love him?
It was consistent with the man's character to be so humble, and yet it
was strange that he should have been so.  Ever since he had been
eligible for matrimony he had been the especial prey of mothers with
marriageable daughters.  They had fawned upon him, had petted him, and
in every way had endeavoured to effect his capture.  Whether or not
Katherine Petrovitch knew of his wealth it was impossible for him to
say.  He hoped she did not.  It was his ambition in life to be loved,
and be loved for himself alone.  If she would trust him, he would
devote his whole life to making her happy, and to proving how well
founded was the faith she had reposed in him.  Vitally important as the
question was, I believe he had never for one moment doubted her.  His
nature was too open for that, while she herself, like Cæsar's wife, was
of course above suspicion.  The fact that she had confessed to him that
her family was prohibited in Russia only served to intensify his
admiration for her truthful qualities.  Though he knew nothing of her
history or antecedents, it never for one moment caused him any
uneasiness.  He loved her for herself, not for her family.  When he
went to bed that night he dreamt of her, and when he rose in the
morning he was, if possible, more in love than before.  Fully occupied
as his day usually was, on this occasion he found it more than
difficult to pass the time.  He counted the hours--nay, almost the
minutes--until it should be possible for him to set off to the
restaurant.  By the midday post a charming little note arrived, signed
Katherine Petrovitch.  Browne was in his study when it was brought to
him, and it was with the greatest difficulty he could contain his
impatience until the butler had left the room.  The instant he had done
so, however, he tore open the envelope and drew out the contents.  The
writing was quaint and quite un-English, but its peculiarities only
served to make it the more charming.  It would give Madame Bernstein
and the writer, it said, much pleasure to dine with him that evening.
He read and re-read it, finding a fresh pleasure in it on each
occasion.  It carried with it a faint scent which was as intoxicating
as the perfume of the Lotus Blossom.

Had the beautiful Miss Verney, who, it must be confessed, had more than
once written him letters of the most confidential description, guessed
for a single moment that he preferred the tiny sheet he carried in his
coat-pocket to her own epistles, it is certain her feelings would have
been painful in the extreme.  The fact remains, however, that Browne
preserved the letter, and, if I know anything of human nature, he has
it still.



CHAPTER VI

The dinner that evening must be counted a distinct success.  Browne was
the first to arrive at the rendezvous, and it was not wonderful that he
should have been, considering that he had spent the whole of his day
waiting for that moment.  The owner of the restaurant received him
personally.

"Well, Lallemand," said Browne, with an anxiety that was almost
ludicrous, "how are your preparations?  Is everything ready?"

"Certainly, monsieur," Lallemand replied, spreading his hands apart.
"Everything is ready; Felix himself has done ze cooking, I have chosen
ze wine, and your own gardener has arranged ze flowers.  You have ze
best men-servants in London to wait upon you.  I have procured you four
kinds of fruit that has only a few times been seen in England before;
and now I give you ze word of Lallemand zat you will have ze most
perfect little dinner in ze city of London."

"I am glad to hear it," said Browne.  "I am exceedingly obliged to you
for the trouble you have taken in the matter."

"I beg you will not mention ze trouble, monsieur," replied Lallemand
politely.  "It is ze pleasure of my life to serve you."

He had scarcely spoken before a cab drew up before the door, and Jimmy
Foote made his appearance, clad in immaculate evening-dress.  He
greeted Browne with a somewhat sheepish air, as if he were ashamed of
himself for something, and did not quite know what that something was.

"Well, old man," he said.  "Here I am, you see; up to time, I hope.
How d'ye do, Lallemand?"

"I hope you are most well, Monsieur Foote," replied Lallemand, with one
of his inimitable bows.

"I am better than I shall be after your dinner," Foote replied, with a
smile.  "Human nature is weak.  I am tempted, and I know that I shall
fall."

Browne all this time was showing signs of impatience.  He glanced
repeatedly at his watch, and as seven o'clock drew near he imagined
that every vehicle pulling up outside must contain the two ladies for
whom he was waiting so eagerly.  When at last they did arrive he
hastened to the door to greet them.  Madame Bernstein was the first to
alight, and Katherine Petrovitch followed her a moment later.  She gave
her hand to Browne, and as he took it such a thrill went through him
that it was wonderful the young man did not collapse upon the pavement.

Having conducted them to the room in which they were to take off their
wraps, Browne went in search of Foote, whom he found in the dining-room.

"Pull yourself together, old chap," said Jimmy as he glanced at him;
"you are all on the jump.  What on earth is the matter with you?  Take
my advice and try a pick-me-up."

"I wouldn't touch a drop for worlds," said Browne, with righteous
indignation.  "I wonder you can suggest such a thing."

Instead, he went to the table and moved a flower-vase which was an
eighth of an inch from the centrepiece farther than its companion on
the other side.

"This is as bad a case as I ever remember," said Foote to himself; and
at the same moment Katherine Petrovitch and Madame Bernstein entered
the room.  A somewhat painful surprise was in store for Browne.  There
could be no doubt about one thing: Madame Bernstein had dressed herself
with due regard to the importance of the occasion.  Her gown was of
bright ruby velvet; her arms were entirely bare; and while her bodice
was supported by the most slender of shoulder-straps, it was cut
considerably lower than most people would have considered compatible
with either her age or her somewhat portly appearance.  Round her neck
and studded in her hair were many diamonds, all so palpably false as to
create no suspicion of the means by which she had obtained them.  Her
companion's costume, on the other hand, was simplicity itself.  She was
attired in black, unrelieved by any touch of colour; a plain band of
velvet encircled her throat, and Browne confessed to himself afterwards
that he had never in his life seen anything more becoming.  He
presented Foote to the ladies with due ceremony; and when their places
had been allotted them they sat down to dinner, madame on Browne's
right, Katherine on his left.

Despite the knowledge that the dinner had been prepared by one of the
most admirable _chefs_ in the world, and the fact that Lallemand
himself had given his assurance that everything was satisfactory,
Browne was nevertheless exercised in his mind lest anything should go
wrong.  He might have spared himself the anxiety, however, for the
dinner was perfection itself.  One other thing troubled him, and that
was that the person he was most anxious to please scarcely touched
anything.  But if she did not, Madame Bernstein made ample amends for
her.  She allowed no dish to pass her untasted; the connoisseur was
apparent in her appreciation of the wines, while her praise of the
cooking was volubility itself.  From what he had seen of her, Browne
had been prepared to dislike her intensely; to his surprise, however,
he discovered that she improved on acquaintance.  Seemingly, she had
been everywhere and had seen everything; in her youth she had known
Garibaldi personally, had met Kossuth, and been brought into contact
with many other European liberators.  For this reason alone her
conversation could scarcely have failed to prove interesting.
Katherine, on the other hand, was strangely quiet.

The dinner at an end, the ladies withdrew to put on their cloaks; and
while they were absent Browne ascertained that his carriage was at the
door.  In it they drove to Covent Garden.  The box was on the prompt
side of the house, and was the best that influence and money could
secure.  Madame Bernstein and Katherine Petrovitch took their places in
the front, while Browne managed to manoeuvre his chair into such a
position that he could speak to Katherine without the others
overhearing what he said.

"You are fond of music, are you not?" he inquired as the orchestra took
their places.  He felt as he said it that he need not have asked; with
such a face she could scarcely fail to be.

"I am more than fond of it," she answered, playing with the handle of
her fan.  "Music and painting are my two greatest pleasures."

She uttered a little sigh, which seemed to suggest to Browne that she
had not very much pleasure in her life.  At least, that was the way in
which he interpreted it.

Then the curtain went up, and Browne was forced to be silent.  I think,
if you were to ask him now which was the happiest evening of his life,
he would answer, "That on which I saw Lohengrin with Katherine
Petrovitch."  If the way in which the time slipped by could be taken as
any criterion, it must certainly have been so, for the evening seemed
scarcely to have begun ere it was over and the National Anthem was
being played.  When the curtain descended the two young men escorted
the ladies to the entrance hall, where they waited while the carriage
was being called.  It was at this juncture that Jimmy proved of use.
Feeling certain Browne would be anxious to have a few minutes alone
with Katherine, he managed, with great diplomacy, to draw Madame
Bernstein on one side, on the pretence of telling her an amusing story
concerning a certain Continental military attaché with whom they were
both acquainted.

"How long do you think it will be before I may venture to see you
again?" Browne asked the girl when they were alone together.

"I cannot say," she replied, with an attempt at a smile.  "I do not
know what Madame Bernstein's arrangements are."

"But surely Madame Bernstein does not control all your actions?" he
asked, I fear a little angrily; for he did not like to think she was so
dependent on the elder woman.

"No, she does not altogether control them, of course," Katherine
replied; "but I always have so much to do for her that I do not feel
justified in making any arrangements without first consulting her."

"But you must surely have some leisure," he continued.  "Perhaps you
shop in the High Street, or walk in the Park or Kensington Gardens on
fine mornings.  Might I not chance to find you in one of those places?"

"I fear not," she answered, shaking her head.  "If it is fine I have my
work to do."

"And if it should be wet?" asked Browne, feeling his heart sink within
him as he realised that she was purposely placing obstacles in the way
of their meeting.  "Surely you cannot paint when the days are as gloomy
as they have been lately."

"No," she answered; "that is impossible.  But it gives me no more
leisure than before; for in that case I have letters to write for
Madame Bernstein, and she has an enormous amount of correspondence."

Though Browne wondered what that correspondence could be, he said
nothing to her on the subject, nor had he any desire to thrust his
presence upon the girl when he saw she was not anxious for it.  It was
plain to him that there was something behind it all--some reason to
account for her pallor and her quietness that evening.  What that
reason was, however, he could not for the life of him understand.

They had arrived at this point when the carriage reached the door.
Madame Bernstein and Foote accordingly approached them, and the
quartette walked together towards the entrance.

"I thank you many times for your kindness to-night," said Katherine,
looking shyly up at Browne.

"Please, don't thank me," he replied.  "It is I who should thank you.
I hope you have enjoyed yourself."

"Very much indeed," she answered.  "I could see _Lohengrin_ a hundred
times without growing in the least tired of it."

As she said this they reached the carriage.  Browne placed the ladies
in it, and shook hands with them as he bade them good-night.  He gave
the footman his instructions, and presently the carriage rolled away,
leaving the two young men standing on the pavement, looking after it.
It was a beautiful starlight night, with a touch of frost in the air.

"Are we going to take a cab, or shall we walk?" said Foote.

"Let us walk, that is if you don't mind," Browne replied.  "I feel as
if I could enjoy a ten-mile tramp to-night after the heat of that
theatre."

"I'm afraid I do not," Foote replied.  "My idea is the 'Périgord' for a
little supper, and then to bed.  Browne, old man, I have been through a
good deal for you to-night.  I like the young lady very much, but
Madame Bernstein is--well, she is Madame Bernstein.  I can say no more."

"Never mind, old chap," said Browne, patting his companion on the
shoulder.  "You have the satisfaction of knowing that your martyrdom is
appreciated; the time may come when you will want me to do the same
thing for you.  One good turn deserves another, you know."

"When I want a turn of that description done for me, I will be sure to
let you know," Foote continued; "but if I have any sort of luck, it
will be many years before I come to you with such a request.  When I
remember that, but for my folly in showing you that picture in Waterloo
Place, we should by this time be on the other side of the Eddystone,
_en route_ for the Mediterranean and sunshine, I feel as if I could sit
down and weep.  However, it is _kismet_, I suppose?"

Browne offered no reply.

"Are you coming in?" said Foote as they reached the doorstep of the
Périgord Club.

"No, thank you, old man," said Browne.  "I think, if you will excuse
me, I will get home."

"Good-night, then," said Foote; "I shall probably see you in the
morning."

Having bidden him good-night, Browne proceeded on his way.

Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he betook himself to
Kensington Gardens, where he wandered about for upwards of an hour, but
saw no sign of the girl he hoped to meet.  Leaving the Gardens, he made
his way to the High Street, with an equally futile result.  Regardless
of the time he was wasting, and of everything else, he passed on in the
direction of Addison Road.  As disappointment still pursued him, he
made up his mind to attempt a forlorn hope.  Turning into the Melbury
Road, he made for German Park Road, and reaching the studio, rang the
bell.  When the door was opened he found himself confronted with an
elderly person, wearing a sack for an apron, and holding a bar of
yellow soap in her hand.

"I have called to see Miss Petrovitch," he said.

"She is not at home, sir," the woman replied.  "She has not been here
this morning.  Can I give her any message?"

"I am afraid not," Browne replied.  "I wanted to see her personally;
but you might tell her that Mr. Browne called."

"Mr. Browne," she repeated.  "Very good, sir.  You may be sure I will
tell her."

Browne thanked her, and, to make assurance doubly sure, slipped five
shillings into her hand.  Then, passing out of the garden, he made his
way back to the High Street.  He had not proceeded more than a hundred
yards down that interesting thoroughfare, however, before he saw no
less a person than Katherine herself approaching him.

They were scarcely a dozen paces apart when she recognised him.

"Good-morning, Miss Petrovitch," he said, raising his hat and speaking
a little nervously.  "I have just called at your studio in the hope
that I might see you.  The woman told me that she did not know when you
would return.  I thought I might possibly meet you here."

It was a poor enough excuse, but the only one he could think of at the
moment.

"You wanted to see me?" she said in a tone of surprise.

"Are you angry with me for that?" he asked.  "I did not think you would
be; but if you are I will go away again.  By this time you should know
that I have no desire save to make you happy."

This was the first time he had spoken so plainly.  Her face paled a
little.

"I did not know that you were so anxious to see me," she said, "or I
would have made a point of being at home."

All this time they had been standing on the spot where they had first
met.

"Perhaps you will permit me to walk a little way with you?" said
Browne, half afraid that she would refuse.

"I shall be very pleased," she answered promptly.

Thereupon they walked back in the direction of the studio.

At the gate they stopped.  She turned and faced him, and as she did so
she held out her hand; it was plain that she had arrived at a decision
on some important point.

"Good-bye, Mr. Browne," she said, and as she said it Browne noticed
that her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears.  He could bear
it no longer.

"Miss Petrovitch," he began, "you must forgive my rudeness; but I feel
sure that you are not happy.  Will you not trust me and let me help
you?  You know how gladly I would do so."

"There is no way in which you can help me," she answered, and then she
bade him good-bye, and, with what Browne felt sure was a little sob,
vanished into the studio.  For some moments he stood waiting where he
was, overwhelmed by the suddenness of her exit, and hoping she might
come out again; then, realising that she did not intend doing so, he
turned on his heel and made his way back to the High Street, and so to
Park Lane.  His afternoon was a broken and restless one; he could not
rid himself of the recollection of the girl's face, and he felt as sure
as a man could well be that something was amiss.  But how was he to
help her?  At any rate he was going to try.

The clocks in the neighbourhood were striking eleven next morning as he
alighted from his hansom and approached the door of the studio.  He
rang the bell, but no answer rewarded him.  He rang again, but with the
same result.

Not being able to make any one hear, he returned to his cab and set off
for the Warwick Road.  Reaching the house, the number of which
Katherine had given him, he ascended the steps and rang the bell.  When
the maid-servant answered his summons, he inquired for Miss Petrovitch.

"Miss Petrovitch?" said the girl, as if she were surprised.  "She is
not here, sir.  She and Madame Bernstein left for Paris this morning."



CHAPTER VII

When Browne heard the maid's news, his heart sank like lead.  He could
scarcely believe his ill-fortune.  Only a moment before he had been
comforting himself with the thought that he would soon be standing face
to face with Katherine, ready to ask her a question which should decide
the happiness of his life.  Now his world seemed suddenly to have
turned as black as midnight.  Why had she left England so suddenly?
What had taken her away?  Could it have been something in connection
with that mysterious business of Madame Bernstein's of which he had
heard so much of late?  Then another idea struck him.  Perhaps it was
the knowledge that she was leaving that had occasioned her unhappiness
on the previous afternoon.  The maid who had opened the door to him,
and whose information had caused him such disappointment, was a typical
specimen of the London boarding-house servant, and yet there was
sufficient of the woman left in her to enable her to see that her news
had proved a crushing blow to the man standing before her.

"Can you tell me at what hour they left?" Browne inquired.  "I was
hoping to have seen Miss Petrovitch this morning."

"I can tell you what the time was exactly," the girl replied.  "It was
on the stroke of nine when they got into the cab."

"Are you quite certain upon that point?" he asked.

"Quite certain, sir," she answered.  "I know it was nine o'clock,
because I had just carried in the first floor's breakfast; and a
precious noise, sir, he always makes if it is not on the table punctual
to the minute.  There were some letters for Madame Bernstein by the
post, which the other girl took up to her bedroom.  As soon as she read
them she sent down for Mrs. Jimson and called for her bill.  'I leave
for Paris in an hour's time, Mrs. Jimson,' says she, sort of
short-like, for I heard her myself; 'so make me out my bill and let me
have it quickly.'"

"And did Miss Petrovitch appear at all surprised or put out at having
to leave London at such short notice?" Browne asked, not without a
little trepidation.

"Well, sir, that was exactly what I was a-going to tell you," the girl
replied, dropping her voice a little, and glancing back over her
shoulder into the house, as if she were afraid of being overheard.
"She did seem precious put out about it; at least so the other girl
says.  Jane tells me she feels certain Miss Petrovitch had been crying,
her eyes were that red, and when she went into the room she and madame
were at it hammer and tongs.

"I suppose they left no message for any one?" Browne inquired, refusing
to comment on what the girl had just told him.

"Not as I know of, sir," the young woman replied.  "But if you will
just wait a minute I'll go in and ask Mrs. Jimson.  She will be sure to
know."

Browne contained his patience as best he could for some five or six
minutes.  Then the girl returned and shook her head.

"There's no message of any sort, sir," she said; "at least not as Mrs.
Jimson knows of."

"Thank you," said Browne simply.  "I am much obliged to you."

As he said it he slipped half a sovereign into the girl's hand.  The
bribe completed the effect the touch of romance, combined with his
pleasing personality, to say nothing of his smart cab drawn up beside
the pavement, had already produced.  Not only would she have told him
all she knew, but, had she dared, she would have gone so far as to have
expressed her sympathy with him.

Browne was about to descend the steps, when another idea occurred to
him, and he turned to the girl again.

"You do not happen to be aware of their address in Paris, I suppose?"
he inquired.  "I have a particular reason for asking the question."

"Hush, sir!" she whispered.  "If you really want to know it, I believe
I can find out for you.  Madame Bernstein wrote it down for Mrs.
Jimson, so that she could send on any letters that came for her.  I
know where Mrs. Jimson put the piece of paper, and if you'll just wait
a minute longer, I'll see if I can find it for you and copy it out.  I
won't be a minute longer than I can help."

Feeling very much as if he were being guilty of a dishonourable action,
Browne allowed her to depart upon her errand.  This time she was
somewhat longer away, but when she returned she carried, concealed in
her hand, a small slip of paper.  He took it from her, and, once more
thanking her for her kindness, returned to his cab.

"Home, Williams," he cried to his coachman, "and as quickly as
possible.  I have no time to spare."

As the vehicle sped along in the direction of the High Street, Browne
unfolded and glanced at the paper the girl had given him.  Upon it,
written in a clumsy hand, was the address he wanted, and which he would
have fought the world to obtain.

"Madame Bernstein," so it ran, "35, Rue Jacquarie, Paris."

"Very good," said Browne to himself triumphantly.  "Now I know where to
find them.  Let me see!  They were to leave London in an hour from nine
o'clock; that means that they started from Victoria and are travelling
_viâ_ Newhaven and Dieppe.  Now, there's a train from Charing Cross,
_viâ_ Dover and Calais, at eleven.  If I can catch that I shall be in
Paris an hour and a half after them."

He consulted his watch anxiously, to find that he had barely an hour in
which to pack his bag and to get to the station.  However, if it could
be done, he was determined to do it; accordingly he bade his man drive
faster.  Reaching Park Lane, he rang for his valet, and when that
somewhat stolid individual put in an appearance, bade him pack a few
necessaries and be ready to start for the Continent at once.  Being a
well-drilled servant, and accustomed, by long usage, to his master's
rapid flittings from place to place, the man offered no comment, but
merely saying, "Very good, sir," departed to carry out his instructions.

Two minutes to eleven found Browne standing upon the platform at
Charing Cross Station.  It was not until he was comfortably installed
in the carriage and the train was rolling out of the station, that the
full meaning of what he was doing struck him.  Why was he leaving
England?  To follow this girl.  And why?  For one very good
reason--_because he loved her_!  But why _should_ he have loved her,
when, with his wealth, he could have married the daughter of almost any
peer in England; when, had he so desired, he could have chosen his wife
from among the most beautiful or most talented women in Europe?
Katherine Petrovitch, attractive and charming as she was, was neither
as beautiful, rich, or clever as a hundred women he had met.  And yet
she was the one in the world he desired for his wife.

So concerned was he about her that, when they reached Dover, his first
thought was to examine the sea in order to convince himself that she
had had a good crossing.  He boarded the steamer, the lines were cast
off, and presently the vessel's head was pointing for the Continent.
Little by little the English coast dropped behind them and the shores
of France loomed larger.  Never before had the coast struck him as
being so beautiful.  He entered the train at Calais with a fresh
satisfaction as he remembered that every revolution of the wheels was
bringing him closer to the woman he loved.  The lights were lit in the
cafés and upon the boulevards, when he reached Paris, and as he drove
through the crowded streets in the direction of the hotel he usually
affected the city seemed all glitter, gaiety, and life.

Familiar as he was with the city, it seemed altogether different to him
to-night.  The loungers in the courtyard of the hotel, the bustling
waiters, the very chambermaids, served to remind him that, while in the
flesh he was still the same John Grantham Browne, in the spirit he was
an altogether separate and distinct individual from the man they had
previously known.  On reaching his own room he opened the window, leant
out, and looked upon Paris by night.  The voice of the great city spoke
to him, and greeted him as with the sweetest music.  Once more he was
sharing the same city with Katherine Petrovitch, breathing the same
air, and hearing the same language.

Shutting the window at last, he washed off the stains of travel,
changed his attire, and descended to the dining-hall.

Having no desire to lose time, he resolved to institute inquiries at
once about the Rue Jacquarie, and to seek, and if possible to obtain,
an interview with Katherine before she could possibly depart from Paris
again.  How was he to know that Madame Bernstein's plans might not
necessitate another removal to Rome, Berlin, or St. Petersburg?--in
which case he might very easily lose sight of her altogether.  He had
never trusted madame, and since her departure from England he was even
less disposed to do so than before.  There was something about her that
he did not altogether appreciate.  He had told himself that he did not
like her the first day he had met her at Merok, and he was even more
convinced of the fact now.  What the link was between the two women he
could not think, and he was almost afraid to attempt to solve the
mystery.

Dinner at an end, he rose and went to his room to put on a cloak.  In
love though he was, he had still sufficient of his father's prudence
left to be careful of his health.

Descending to the courtyard once more, he called a fiacre, and, when
the man had driven up, inquired whether he knew where the Rue Jacquarie
was.  The man looked at him with some show of surprise.

"Oui, m'sieu," he replied, "I know the Rue Jacquarie, of course;
but----"

"Never mind any buts," Browne replied, as he jumped into the cab.  "I
have business in the Rue Jacquarie, so drive me there at once."

"To what number?" the man inquired, in a tone that implied that he was
not over-anxious for the job.

"Never mind the number," said Browne; "drive me to the corner and set
me down there."

The man whipped up his horse, and they started _viâ_ the Rue Tronchet.
Turning into the Rue St. Honoré, and thence into the Place de la
Madeleine, they proceeded in the direction of Montmartre.  For some
time Browne endeavoured to keep tally of the route; eventually,
however, he was obliged to relinquish the attempt in despair.  From one
street they passed into another, and to Browne it seemed that every one
was alike.  At last the driver stopped his horse.

"This is the Rue Jacquarie," he said, pointing with his whip down a
long and somewhat dingy thoroughfare.

Browne bade him wait for him, and then proceeded down the street on
foot in search of No. 35.  After the magnificent quarter of the city in
which he had installed himself, the Rue Jacquarie seemed mean and
contemptible in the extreme.  The houses were small and dingy, and it
was plain that they were occupied by people who were not the possessors
of any conspicuous degree of wealth.  He walked the whole length of the
street in search of No. 35, and, not finding it, returned upon the
other side.  At last he discovered the house he wanted.  He thereupon
crossed the road, and, standing on the opposite pavement, regarded it
steadfastly.

Lights shone from three of the windows, and Browne's pulses beat more
quickly as he reflected that it was just possible one of them might
emanate from Katherine's room.

It was now close upon ten o'clock, and if all had gone well with them
the girl should now have been in Paris some three hours.  It was
extremely unlikely that, after such a journey, she would have gone out,
so that he had every reason for feeling certain she must be in the
house before him.  In spite of the thin rain that was falling, he stood
and watched the building for some minutes.  Once a woman's shadow
passed across a blind upon the second floor, and Browne felt his heart
leap as he saw it.  A few moments later a man and a woman passed the
concierge.  They paused upon the doorstep to wish some one within
"good-night"; then, descending the steps, they set off in the same
direction in which Browne himself had come.  Before doing so, however,
they turned and looked up and down the street, as if they were afraid
they might be observed.  Seeing Browne watching the house, they
hastened their steps, and presently disappeared down a side
thoroughfare.  For an ordinary observer this small event might have had
little or no significance; but to Browne, in whose mind indefinable
suspicions were already shaping themselves, it seemed more than a
little disquieting.  That they had noticed him, and that they were
alarmed by the knowledge that he was watching the house, was as plain
as the lights in the windows opposite.  But why they should have been
so frightened was what puzzled him.  What was going on in the house, or
rather what had they been doing that they should fear being overlooked?
He asked himself these questions as he paced down the street in the
direction of his cab.  But he could not answer them to his satisfaction.

"Drive me to the Amphitryon Club," he said, as he took his place in the
vehicle once more; and then continued to himself, "I'd give something
to understand what it all means."



CHAPTER VIII

Now the Amphitryon Club is situated in the Avenue de l'Opéra, as all
the world knows, and is one of the most exclusive and distinguished
clubs in Europe.  Browne had been a member for many years, and during
his stays in Paris was usually to be found there.

It was a fine building, in which everything was done in the most
sumptuous and luxurious fashion.  You might lunch there on bread and
cheese or a Porter-house steak; but the bread, the cheese, and the
steak, while unpretentious in themselves, would be the very best
obtainable of their kind.  What led him there on that particular
evening Browne did not quite know.  It was Destiny!  Blind Fate had him
in hand, and was luring him on to what was to be the most momentous
half-hour of his life.  He knew he was pretty certain of finding some
one there with whom he was acquainted; but he was certainly not
prepared for the surprise, which greeted him, when he pushed open the
swing-doors and passed into the smoking-room.  Seated in a chair by the
fire, and looking into it in the meditative fashion of a man, who has
dined well and feels disinclined for much exertion, was no less a
person than Maas.

"Mon cher ami," he cried, springing to his feet and holding out his
hand, "this is a delightful surprise.  I had no notion you were in
Paris."

"I only arrived this evening," Browne replied.  "But I might return the
compliment, for I thought you were in St. Petersburg."

"No such thing," said Maas, shaking his head.  "Petersburg at this time
of the year does not agree with my constitution.  To be able to
appreciate it one must have Slav blood in one's veins, which I am
discourteous enough to be glad to say I have not.  But what brings you
to the gay city?  Is it on business or pleasure?  But there, I need not
ask.  I should have remembered that business does not enter into your
life."

"A false conclusion on your part," said Browne as he lit a cigar.  "For
a man who has nothing to do, I have less leisure than many people who
declare they are overworked."

"By the way," Maas continued, "they tell me we have to congratulate you
at last."

"Upon what?" Browne inquired.  "What have I done now that the world
should desire to wish me well?"

"I refer to your approaching marriage," said Maas.  "Deauville was in
here the other day, _en route_ to Cannes, and he told us that it was
stated in a London paper that you were about to be married.  I told him
I felt sure he must be mistaken.  If you had been I should probably
have known it."

"It's not true," said Browne angrily.  "Deauville should know better
than to attach any credence to such a story."

"Exactly what I told him," said Maas, with his usual imperturbability.
"I said that, at his age, he should know better than to believe every
silly rumour he sees in the press.  I assured him that you were worth a
good many married men yet."

As he said this Maas watched Browne's face carefully.  What he saw
there must have satisfied him on certain points upon which he was
anxious for information, for he smiled a trifle sardonically, and
immediately changed the conversation by inquiring what Browne intended
doing that night.

"Going home to bed," said Browne promptly.  "I have had a long day's
travelling, and I've a lot to do to-morrow.  I think, if you'll excuse
me, old chap, I'll wish you good-night now."

"Good-night," said Maas, taking his hand.  "When shall I see you again?
By the way, I hope, if it's any convenience to you, you'll let me put
my rooms at your disposal.  But there, I forgot you have your own
magnificent palace to go to.  To offer you hospitality would be
superfluous."

"You talk of my house as if I should be likely to go there," said
Browne scornfully.  "You know as well as I do that I never enter the
doors.  What should I do in a caravanserai like that?  No; I am staying
at the usual place in the Place Vendôme.  Now, good-night once more."

"Good-night," said Maas, and Browne accordingly left the room.  When
the swingdoors had closed behind him Maas went back to his chair and
lit another cigarette.

"Our friend Browne is bent upon making a fool of himself," he said to
his cigarette; "and, what is worse, he will put me to a lot of trouble
and inconvenience.  At this stage of the proceedings, however, it would
be worse than useless to endeavour to check him.  He has got the bit
between his teeth, and would bolt right out if I were to try to bring
him to a standstill.  The only thing that can be done, as far as I can
see, is to sit still and watch the comedy, and step in like the god out
of the machine, when all is ready."

Having thus expressed himself, he lit another cigarette, and went off
in search of the supper Browne had declined.

Browne's first night in Paris was destined to prove a restless one.
Whether it was the journey or his visit to the Rue Jacquarie that was
responsible for it, I cannot say; one thing, however, is quite certain:
do what he would, he could not sleep.  He tried all the proverbial
recipes in vain.  He walked about his room, drank a glass of cold
water, tried to picture sheep jumping over a hedge; but in vain.  Do
what he would, the drowsy god would not listen to his appeal.  Indeed,
the first beams of the morning sun were stealing into his room before
his eyelids closed.  When his man came in to dress him he felt as
drowsy as if he had not closed his eyes all night.  He was not going to
lie in bed, however.  During breakfast he debated with himself what he
should do with regard to the Rue Jacquarie.  Should he loiter about the
streets in the hope of intercepting Katherine when she went abroad?  Or
should he take the bull by the horns and march boldly up to the house
and ask for an interview?  Anxious as he was to see her, he had no
desire to thrust his presence upon her if it was not wanted.  He knew
that she would be the first to resent that, and yet he felt he _must_
see her, happen what might.  As soon as breakfast was finished he put
on his hat and set out for a stroll.  The clouds of the previous night
had departed, the sky was blue, and the breeze fresh and invigorating.
Many a bright eye and captivating glance was thrown at the healthy,
stalwart young Englishman, who carried himself as if fatigue were a
thing unknown to him.  Then, suddenly, he found himself face to face
with Katherine Petrovitch!

He lifted his hat mechanically, but for a moment he stood rooted to the
spot with surprise, not knowing what to say or do.  Great as was his
astonishment, however, hers was infinitely greater.  She stood before
him, her colour coming and going, and with a frightened look in her
eyes.

"Mr. Browne, what does this mean?" she asked, with a little catch of
the breath.  "You are the last person I expected to see in Paris."

"I was called over here on important business," he replied, with
unblushing mendacity; and as he said it he watched her face, and found
it more troubled than he had ever yet seen it.  "But why, even if we
are surprised to see each other, should we remain standing here?" he
continued, for want of something better to say.  "May I not walk a
short distance with you?"

"If you wish it," she replied, but with no great display of
graciousness.  It was very plain that she did not attach very much
credence to his excuse, and it was equally certain that she was
inclined to resent it.  Nothing was said on the latter point, however,
and they strolled along the pavement together, he wondering how he
could best set himself right with her, and she combating a feeling of
impending calamity, and at the same time trying to convince herself
that she was extremely angry with him, not only for meeting her, but
for being in Paris at all.  It was not until they reached the Rue des
Tuileries that Browne spoke.

"May we not go into the Gardens?" he asked a little nervously.  "I
always think that the children one sees there are the sweetest in
Europe."

"If you wish," Katherine replied coldly.  "I shall not be able to stay
very long, however, as Madame Bernstein will be expecting me."

Browne felt inclined to anathematise Madame Bernstein, as he had done
several times before; but he wisely kept his thoughts to himself.  They
accordingly crossed the road and entered the Gardens by the Broad Walk.
Passing the Omphale by Eude and the statue of Æneas bearing Anchises
through the flames of Troy, they entered one of the small groves on the
right, and seated themselves upon two chairs they found there.  An
awkward silence followed, during which Katherine looked away in the
direction they had come, while Browne, his elbows on his knees, dug
viciously into the path with the point of his umbrella, as if he would
probe his way down to the nether regions before he would let her get an
inkling of his embarrassment.  Three children with their attendant
_bonnes_ passed them while they were so occupied, and one small toddler
of four or five stopped and regarded the silent couple before him.
Katherine smiled at the child's chubby, earnest face, and Browne took
this as a sign that the ice was breaking, though not so quickly as he
could have wished.

"I am afraid you are angry with me," he said, after the child had
passed on his way again and they were left to each other's company.
"How have I been unfortunate enough to offend you?"

"I do not know that you have offended me at all," the girl replied,
still looking away from him.  "After all your kindness to me, I should
be very ungrateful if I were to treat you so."

"But there can be no doubt you _are_ offended," Browne replied.  "I
could see from the expression on your face, when I met you on the
boulevard just now, that you were annoyed with me for being there."

"I must confess I was surprised," she answered; "still, I certainly did
not wish you to think I was annoyed."

Browne thereupon took fresh heart, and resolved upon a bold plunge.
"But you were not pleased?" he said, and as he said it he watched her
to see what effect his words produced.  She still kept her face turned
away.  "Don't you think it was a little unkind of you to leave London
so suddenly without either saying good-bye or giving the least warning
of your intentions?" he continued, his spirits rising with every word
he uttered.

"I was not certain that we were to leave so soon," the girl replied.
"It was not until yesterday morning that we found it would be necessary
for us to set off at once.  But how did you know that we _had_ left?"

Browne fell into the trap unheedingly.

"Because I called at your lodgings an hour after you had left, in the
hope of seeing you," he answered promptly.  "The servant who opened the
door to me informed me that you and Madame Bernstein had departed for
Paris.  You may imagine my surprise."

"But if you were there within an hour of our leaving, what train did
you catch?" she inquired, with a simplicity that could scarcely have
failed to entrap him.

"The eleven o'clock express from Charing Cross _viâ_ Dover and Calais,"
he replied.

"You admit, then, that your important business in Paris was to follow
us?" she answered, and as she said it Browne realised what a mistake he
had made.  She rose without another word, and made as if she would
leave the Gardens.  Browne also sprang to his feet, and laid his hand
upon her arm as if to detain her.

"Again I fear I have offended you," he said; "but believe me, I had not
the least intention of doing so.  I think at least you should know me
well enough for that."

"But you should not have followed me at all," she said, her womanly wit
showing her that if she wished to escape she must beg the question and
attack the side issue.  "It was not kind of you."

"Not kind?" he cried.  "But why should it not be?  I cannot see that I
have done anything wrong; and, even if I have, will you not be
merciful?"

Large tears had risen in her eyes; her manner was firm, nevertheless.
It seemed to Browne later on, when he recalled all that had happened on
that memorable morning, as if two emotions, pride and love, were
struggling in her breast for the mastery.

"Will you not forgive me?" he asked, more humbly than he had probably
ever spoken to a human being in his life before.

"If you will promise not to repeat the offence," she replied, with a
feeble attempt at a smile.  "Remember, if I _do_ forgive you, I shall
expect you to adhere to your word."

"You do not know how hard it is for me to promise," said Browne; "but
since you wish it, I will do as you desire.  I promise you I will not
follow you again."

"I thank you," she answered, and held out her hand.  "I must go now, or
madame will be wondering what has become of me.  Good-bye, Mr. Browne."

"But do you mean that I am never to see you again?" he inquired in
consternation.

"For the moment that is a question I cannot answer," she replied.  "I
have told you before that my time is not my own; nor do I know how long
we shall remain in Paris."

"But if I am to promise this, will you not promise _me_ something in
return?" he asked, with a tremble in his voice that he could not
control.

"What is it you wish me to promise?" she inquired suspiciously.  "You
must tell me first."

"It is that you will not leave Paris without first informing me," he
answered.  "I will not ask you to tell me where you are going, or ask
for an interview.  All I desire is that you should let me know that you
are leaving the city."

She was silent for a moment.

"If you will give me your address, I will promise to write and let you
know," she said at last.

"I thank you," he answered.  Then, refusing to allow him to accompany
her any farther, she held out her hand and bade him good-bye.  Having
done so, she passed up the Broad Walk in the direction they had come,
and presently was lost to his view.

"Well, I am a fool if ever there was one," said Browne to himself when
he was alone.  "If only I had kept a silent tongue in my head about
that visit to the Warwick Road, I should not be in the hole I am now.
I've scored one point, however; she has promised to let me know when
she leaves Paris.  I will stay here until that time arrives, on the
chance of meeting her again, and then----.  Well, what matters what
happens then?  How sweet she is!"

The young man heaved a heavy sigh, and returned to his hotel by the Rue
de Rivoli.

From that moment, and for upwards of a week, he neither saw nor heard
anything further of her.  Although he paraded the streets with untiring
energy, and even went so far as to pay periodical visits on foot to the
Rue Jacquarie, he was always disappointed.  Then assistance came to
him, and from a totally unexpected quarter.

Upon returning to his hotel, after one of his interminable
peregrinations, he found upon the table in his sitting-room a note,
written on pale-pink paper and so highly scented that he became aware
of its presence there almost before he entered the room.  Wondering
from whom it could have come, for the writing was quite unknown to him,
he opened it and scanned the contents.  It was written in French, and,
to his surprise, proved to be from Madame Bernstein.

"My dear Monsieur Browne," it ran, "if you could spare a friend a few
moments of your valuable time, I should be so grateful if you could let
me see you.  The matter upon which I desire to consult you, as my
letter would lead you to suppose, is an exceedingly important one.
Should you chance to be disengaged to-morrow (Thursday) afternoon, I
will remain in, in the hope of seeing you.--  Always your friend, and
never more than now,

"SOPHIE BERNSTEIN."


Browne read this curious epistle three times, and each time was farther
from being able to understand it.  What was this matter upon which
Madame Bernstein desired to consult him?  Could it have any connection
with Katherine?  If not, what else could it possibly be?  And why did
she call herself his friend, and wind up with "and never more than
now"?  It had one good point, however; it would, in all probability,
furnish him with another opportunity of seeing the girl he loved.  And
yet there were twenty hours to be disposed of before he could possibly
keep the appointment.  Never in his life had time seemed so long.

Punctually to the minute he arrived at the door of the commonplace
building in the Rue Jacquarie.  The _concierge_ looked out from her
cubby-hole at him, and inquired his business.  In reply he asked the
number of Madame Bernstein's rooms, and, having been informed, went
upstairs in search of them.  He had not very far to go, however, for he
encountered madame herself on the landing half-way up.

"Ah, monsieur!" she cried, holding out her hand with an impetuous
gesture, that was as theatrical as her usual behaviour, "this is most
kind of you to come to see me so promptly.  I know that I am
trespassing both upon your good nature and your time."

"I hope you will not mention that," said Browne politely.  "If I can be
of any use to you, I think you know you may command me."

"It is not for myself that I have asked you to come," she answered.
"But do not let us talk here.  Will you not accompany me to my rooms?"

She accordingly led the way up the next flight of stairs and along a
corridor to a room that was half drawing-room half boudoir.  Madame
carefully closed the door, and then bade him be seated.  Browne took
possession of an easy-chair, wondering what was going to happen next.



CHAPTER IX

"Now, Monsieur Browne," said Madame Bernstein, as she seated herself
with her back to the window, "we can talk in comfort, and, what is
better still, without fear of being disturbed.  It is indeed kind of
you to come and see me, for I expect you were considerably surprised at
receiving my poor little note yesterday.  What you must have thought of
it I dare not think; but I must console myself with the reflection,
that it was written in the interests of another person, whose happiness
is dearer to me than I can make you understand.  To tell you the truth,
it is a most delicate matter.  I think you will admit as much when you
have heard what I have to say."

Browne accordingly reserved his judgment.  His distrust of the woman,
however, was rapidly coming back upon him, and he could not help
feeling that, plausible as her words were, and desirous as she appeared
to be of helping a third person, she was in some way attempting to
deceive himself.

"I beg that you will not consider me at all in the matter," he said,
seeing that he was expected to say something.  "I am, as you know, only
too glad to do anything I can to help you.  Perhaps it is regarding
Mademoiselle Petrovitch that you desire to speak to me?"

"You have guessed correctly," said madame.  "It is about Katherine.
The poor child, as I have reason to know, is in terrible trouble just
now."

"I am indeed sorry to hear that," said Browne, a fear of he knew not
what taking possession of him.  "But I hope the trouble is one that can
be easily set right."

"It is possible it may," madame replied.  "But I think it depends, if
you will permit me to say so, in a very great measure upon yourself."

"Upon me?" cried the young man, this time with real surprise.  "How can
that be?  I should never forgive myself if I thought I had made Miss
Petrovitch unhappy."

"Not perhaps exactly in the sense you mean," said madame, moving a
little nearer him, and speaking in a tone that was low and
confidential; "but still you have done so in another way, Monsieur
Browne.  Before I go any further, however, it is necessary that I
should remind you that I am an old woman."  Here she smiled a little
coquettishly, as if to remind him that her words, in this particular
instance, must not be taken too literally.  "I am an old woman," she
continued--"old enough to be your mother, perhaps; at any rate, old
enough to be able to say what I am going to say, without fear of giving
offence, or of having my motives misconstrued.  Monsieur Browne, as you
are well aware, Katherine is only a young girl, and, like other young
girls, she has her dreams.  Into those dreams you have come, and what
is the result?  I will leave it to your common-sense, and perhaps a
little to your vanity, to read between the lines.  Had you been
differently situated it would not have mattered.  At the time that you
rendered her that great service on the mountains above Merok, she had
no idea who you were.  But later on, when you were so kind to us in
London, though you did your best to prevent it, we discovered all about
you.  Immediately, as is often the way with young girls, a change came.
She is simplicity itself.  She is also the soul of honour.  She feared
to let her true soul be seen, lest you might think that we were
cultivating your acquaintance for the sake of your wealth."

"I never dreamt of such a thing," Browne replied indignantly.  "That is
the worst part of being a rich man, Madame Bernstein.  One-half of the
world preys upon you for your money, while a large number will not be
friendly to you lest they may be supposed to be doing the same.  I
should be a cad of the first water if I had ever thought for a moment,
that Miss Petrovitch was capable of such a thing."

From the way he spoke Madame Bernstein saw that she had overshot her
mark, and she was quick to make up for her mistake.

"I do not think I said that we thought so, Monsieur Brown," she said.
"I only remarked that I feared my ward was afraid lest you might do so."

"She might have known me better than that," said Browne a little
reproachfully.  "But perhaps you will tell me what it is you wish me to
do?"

"Ah!  In asking that question you bring me to the most difficult point
in our interview," she replied.  "I will show you why.  Before I do so,
however, I want you to give me your promise that you will not be
offended at what I am about to say to you."

"I will certainly promise that," Browne answered.

"I am going to put your friendship to a severe test," Madame continued.
She paused for a moment as if to collect her thoughts.  When she spoke
again it was with an abruptness that was most disconcerting.  "You must
be blind indeed," she said, "if you cannot see, Monsieur Browne, that
Katherine loves you."

The revulsion of feeling caused by her announcement of this fact was so
strong that, though Browne tried to speak, he found he was incapable of
uttering a word.  And yet, though she seemed so certain of what she
said, there was something in the way she said it that did not ring
quite true.

"Monsieur Browne," she went on, leaning a little forward and speaking
with still greater earnestness, "I feel sure you will understand how
much all this means, not only to her but to me.  Since my poor
husband's death she has been all I have had to live for, and it cuts my
heart in pieces to see her so unhappy."

"But what would you have me do?" inquired Browne.

"That is the very subject I wished to speak to you about," Madame
replied.  Then, shaking her head sadly, she continued: "Ah, Monsieur
Browne, you do not know what it is to love, and to love in vain.  The
favour I am going to ask of you is that you should go away; that you
should not let Katherine see you again."

"But, madame," said Browne, "why should I go away?  What if I love her
as you say she loves me?"

The lady uttered a little cry as if of astonishment.

"If you loved her all would be different," she cried, clasping her
hands together--"so very, very different."

"Then let it be as different as you please," cried Browne, springing to
his feet.  "For I do love her, and with my whole heart and soul, as I
should have told her, had she not left London so suddenly the other
day."

Looking back on it now, Browne is obliged to confess that the whole
scene was theatrical in the extreme.  Madame Bernstein, on hearing the
news, behaved with a most amiable eccentricity; she sprang from her
chair, and, taking his hand in hers, pressed it to her heart.  If her
behaviour counted for anything, this would seem to have been the
happiest moment of her life.  In the middle of it all the sound of a
light footstep reached them from the corridor outside.

"Hush!" said Madame Bernstein, holding up her finger in warning.  "It
is Katherine!  I implore you not to tell her that I have said this to
you."

"You may depend upon my not doing so," Browne answered.

An instant later the girl, whose happiness they appeared to be so
anxious to promote, entered the room.  Her surprise and confusion at
finding Browne there may be better imagined than described.  But if the
position were embarrassing for her, how much more so was it for Browne!
He stood before her like a schoolboy detected in a fault, and who waits
to be told what his punishment will be.

"Monsieur Browne was kind enough to take pity on my loneliness," said
Madame Bernstein, by way of explanation, but with a slight falter in
her voice which told the young man that, although she wished him to
think otherwise, she really stood in some awe of her companion.  "We
have had a most interesting discussion on modern French art.  I had no
idea that Monsieur Browne was so well acquainted with the subject."

"It is the one thing of all others in which I take the greatest
possible interest," replied Browne, with corresponding gravity.  But he
dared not look at Katherine's face, for he knew she was regarding him
with a perplexed and somewhat disappointed look, as if she were not
quite certain whether he was telling the truth.  She did not know how
to account for his presence there, and in some vague way it frightened
her.  It was plain, at any rate, that she placed no sort of reliance in
her guardian's somewhat far-fetched explanation.

Seeing that she was likely to be _de trop_, that lady made an excuse
and left the room.  After she had gone, and the door had closed behind
her, things passed from bad to worse with the couple she had left
behind.  Browne knew exactly what he wanted to say, but he did not know
how to say it.  Katherine said nothing at all; she was waiting for him
to make the first move.

At last Browne could bear the silence no longer.  Advancing towards the
girl, he managed to obtain possession of her hands before she became
aware of his intention.

Holding them in his, he looked into her face and spoke.

"Katherine," he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "cannot
you guess why I am here?"

"I understood that you came to see Madame Bernstein," she faltered, not
daring to look up into his face.

"You know as well as I do that, while I made that the excuse, it was
not my real reason," he answered.  "Katherine, I came to see you
because I have something to say to you, which must be said at once,
which cannot be delayed any longer.  I would have spoken to you in
London, had you vouchsafed me an opportunity, but you left so suddenly
that I never had the chance of opening my lips.  What I want to tell
you, Katherine, is, that I love you with my whole heart and soul; God
knows I love you better than my life, and I shall love you to the day
of my death."

She uttered a little cry, and endeavoured to withdraw her hands from
his grasp, but he would not let them go.

"Surely you must have known all this long since," he continued with
relentless persistence.  "You believe, don't you, that I mean what I
say?"

"I must not hear you," she answered.  "I cannot bear it.  You do not
know what you are saying."

"I know all I want to know," said Browne; "and I think, Katherine, you
on your part know how deeply in earnest I am.  Try to remember, before
you speak, that the whole happiness of my life is at stake."

"That is exactly why I say that I cannot listen to you," she answered,
still looking away.

"Is my love so distasteful to you, then, that you cannot bear to hear
me speak of it?" he said, a little reproachfully.

"No, no," she answered; "it is not that at all.  It is that----  But
there, I cannot, I must not hear you any further.  Please do not say
any more about it; I beg of you to forget that you have ever told me of
it."

"But I _must_ say more," cried Browne.  "I love you, and I cannot and
will not live without you.  I believe that you love me, Katherine; upon
my honour I do.  If so, why should you be so cruel to me?  Will you
answer me one question, honestly and straight-forwardly?"

"What is it?"

"Will you be my wife?"

"I cannot.  It is impossible," she cried, this time as if her heart
were breaking.  "It is useless to say more.  Such a thing could never
be."

"But if you love me, it both can and shall be," replied Browne.  "If
you love me, there is nothing that can separate us."

"There is everything.  You do not know how impossible it is."

"If there is a difficulty I will remove it.  It shall cease to exist.
Come, Katherine, tell me that you love me."

She did not reply.

"Will you not confess it?" he repeated.  "You know what your answer
means to me.  Say that you do, and nothing shall part us; I swear it.
If you do not, then I give you my word I will go away, and never let
you see my face again."

This time she looked up at him with her beautiful eyes full of tears.

"I _do_ love you," she whispered; and then added, in a louder voice,
"but what is the use of my saying so, when it can make no difference?"

"It makes all the difference in the world, darling," cried Browne, with
a triumph in his voice that had not been there a moment before.  "Now
that I know you love me, I can act.  I am not afraid of anything."
Before she could protest he had taken her in his arms and covered her
face with kisses.  She struggled to escape, but he was too strong for
her.  At last he let her go.

"Oh! you do not know what you are doing," she cried.  "Why will you not
listen to me and go away before it is too late?  I tell you again and
again that you are deluding yourself with false hopes.  Come what may,
I can never be your wife.  It is impossible."

"Since you have confessed that you love me, we will see about that,"
said Browne quietly but determinedly.  "In the meantime, remember that
I am your affianced lover.  Nothing can alter that.  But, hark! if I am
not mistaken, I hear Madame Bernstein."

A moment later the lady in question entered the room.  She glanced from
one to the other as if to find out whether they had arrived at an
understanding.  Then Browne advanced and took her hand.

"Madame," he said, "I have the honour to inform you that mademoiselle
has decided to be my wife."

"No, no," cried Katherine, as if in a last entreaty.  "You must not say
that.  I cannot let you say it."

Madame Bernstein took in the situation, and adapted herself to it
immediately.  In her usual manner, she expressed her delight at the
arrangement they had come to.  There was nothing like love, she
averred, in the world.

"I always hoped and prayed that it would be so," she went on to say.
"It has been my wish for years to see you happily married, Katherine.
Now I can feel that my work in life is done, and that I can go down to
my grave in peace, knowing that, whatever happens, you will be well
protected."

Could one have looked into her brain, I am inclined to believe it would
have been found that, while she gave expression to these beautiful
ideas, they were far from being a true record of her feelings.  Such
sentiments, however, were the proper ones to use at that particular
moment, and, having given utterance to them, she felt that she had done
all that could reasonably be expected of her.

"With your permission, madame," said Browne, to whom the idea had only
that moment occurred, "Katherine and I will spend the whole of
to-morrow in the country together.  I should like to take her to
Fontainebleau.  As you are aware, there are a number of pictures there,
which, according to your own argument, it is only fit and proper I
should study in order to perfect myself on the subject of modern French
art."

After this Parthian shot, Madame, although she knew that such a
proposal was far from being in accordance with the notions of propriety
entertained by the parents and guardians of the country in which they
were at present domiciled, had no objection to raise.  On the contrary,
she had her own reasons for not desiring to thwart Browne at the
commencement of his engagement, and just when he was likely to prove
most useful to her.  Accordingly she expressed great delight at the
arrangement, and hoped that they would spend a happy day together.
Having said this, she wiped away an imaginary tear and heaved a sigh,
which, taken in conjunction, were doubtless intended to convey to the
young people the impression that she was dwelling on the recollection
of similar excursions in which she and the late lamented Bernstein had
indulged at a similar period.

"To-night we must all dine together to celebrate the event," said
Browne enthusiastically, taking no notice whatsoever of the good lady's
expression of woe.  "Where shall it be?"

Katherine was about to protest, but she caught Madame's eye in time,
and desisted.

"I am sure we shall be charmed," returned Madame.  "If you will make
the arrangements, we will meet you wherever you please."

"Shall we say the Maison Dorée, then, at eight?  Or would you prefer
the Café Anglais, or Au Lion d'Or?"

"The Maison Dorée by all means," said Madame, "and at eight.  We will
make a point of being there in good time."

Seeing that it was impossible for him to stay any longer, Browne bade
Madame good-bye, and went across the room to where Katherine was
standing by the window.

"Good-bye," he said, and as he did so he took her hand.

Looking into her eyes, which were filled with as much love as even he
could desire, he put the following question to her, so softly that
Madame, standing at the other end of the room, could not hear: "Are you
happy, Katherine?"

"Very happy," she answered in a similar tone.  "But I cannot help
feeling that I am doing very wrong."

"You are doing nothing of the sort," the young man answered
dogmatically.  "You are doing just the very best and wisest thing a
woman could do.  You must never say such a thing again.  Now, _au
revoir_, until we meet at eight.  I shall count the minutes till then."



CHAPTER X

How Browne got back to his hotel is a mystery to this day.  He had an
insane desire to tell every one he met of his good fortune.  He wanted
to do something to make other people as happy as himself, and, for the
reason that he could find no one else at the moment, had to be content
with overtipping his cabman, and emptying all his spare change into the
hands of a beggar in the Place Vendôme.  The afternoon was gray and
cold; but never had the world seemed so fair to him, or so full of
sunshine.  He told himself over and over again that he was the luckiest
man on earth.  He had already built himself several castles in the air,
from the battlements of which the banner of Love was waving gaily.
What a difference he would make in Katherine's life!  She had been poor
hitherto; now his wealth, the proper use of which he had never before
realised, should be devoted to giving her everything that a woman could
dream of or desire.  In his satisfaction with himself and the world in
general, he even forgot his usual dislike for Madame Bernstein.  Was it
not due to her action, he asked himself, that the present happy state
of affairs had been brought about?  In return he would show her that he
was grateful.  As for the morrow, and the excursion to Fontainebleau,
he would send his man at once to arrange for a special train, in order
that they might run no risk of being disturbed or inconvenienced by
other tourists.  On second thoughts, however, he changed his mind.  He
would not do anything so absurd.  He might be a _parvenu_, in a certain
sense, but he did not want to prove himself one to her.  No; they would
go down quietly, sensibly, and unostentatiously like other people.
They would enjoy the outing all the more if they did not attract
unnecessary attention.  Then another idea struck him, and he acted upon
it immediately.  Putting on his hat once more, he left the hotel, and
proceeded in the direction of a certain jeweller's shop.  Having
entered it, he approached the counter, and asked for a plain gold ring
of heavy pattern.  He had at first been tempted to buy her one set with
diamonds and a bracelet to correspond--two articles that should be so
perfect that even millionaires' wives should envy.  That time, however,
would come later on.  At present all that was wanted was something
good, plain, and in perfect taste.  He felt sure she would understand
his action, and think the better of him for it.

Anticipating a large order from the wealthy young Englishman, whom he
recognised immediately, the shopkeeper was a little disappointed.  But
he tried not to show it.  With his precious purchase in his pocket, the
happy young man returned to his hotel to dress for the evening's
entertainment.  Needless to say, he was the first to arrive at the
rendezvous, but it was not very long before Madame Bernstein and
Katherine put in an appearance.  Browne met them at the door and
conducted them upstairs to the room he had reserved.  If the dinner he
had given them in London had proved a success, this one was destined to
prove much more so.  Madame and Browne were in the highest spirits,
while Katharine, though a little shy and reserved, had improved
considerably since the afternoon.  Before they separated, arrangements
were completed for the morning's excursion.  Browne, it was settled,
was to call for Katherine in time to catch the early train, and, in
return for the trust reposed in him, he pledged himself to return her
safely to her guardian before nine in the evening.  Before he retired
to rest that night he opened the window of his bedroom and studied the
heavens with an anxious face.  A few clouds were to be seen away to the
north-west, but elsewhere the stars were shining brightly.  Taken
altogether, there seemed to be every reasonable chance of their having
a fine day for the excursion.

But, alas! how futile are human hopes, for when he woke next morning a
grievous disappointment was in store for him.  Clouds covered the sky,
and a thick drizzle was falling.  A more miserable and dispiriting
prelude to the day could scarcely be imagined.  His disappointment was
intense; and yet, in a life that seemed as dead to him now as the
Neolithic Period, he remembered that he had gone cub-hunting in
England, had fished in Norway, and shot over his deer-forest in the
Highlands in equally bad weather, and without a grumble or a protest.
On the present occasion, however, everything was different; it seemed
to him as if he had a personal grievance to settle with Dame Nature;
and in this spirit he dressed, ate his breakfast, and finally set off
in a cab for the Rue Jacquarie.  Whether Katherine would go out or not
he could not say, but he half-expected she would decline.  Having
passed the _concierge_, he made his way upstairs to Madame Bernstein's
sitting-room.  Neither of the ladies was there, but, after he had
waited for a few minutes, Katherine put in an appearance, dressed in a
tight-fitting costume of some dark material which displayed her slender
figure to perfection.

"What a terrible day!" she said, as she glanced out of the window.  "Do
you think we can go?"

"I will leave it for you to decide," he answered.  "If you consider it
too wet we can easily put it off for another day."

Something in his face must have told her how disappointed he would be
if she refused.  She accordingly took pity on him.

"Let us go," she said.  "I have no doubt it will clear up later on.
Must we start at once?"

"If we wish to catch the train we should leave here in about ten
minutes at latest," he answered.

She thereupon left the room, to return presently with a cup of steaming
chocolate.

"I made this for you myself," she said.  "It will keep you warm.  While
you are drinking it, if you will excuse me, I will go and get ready."

When she returned they made their way to the cab, and in it set off for
the railway station.  Rain was still falling as the train made its way
along the beautiful valley of the Yerès, and it had not ceased when
they had reached Melun.  After that Dame Nature changed her mind, and,
before they reached their destination, the clouds were drawing off, and
long streaks of blue sky were to be plainly observed all round the
horizon.  They left the station in a flood of sunshine; and by the time
they had crossed the gravelled courtyard and approached the main
entrance to the palace, the sun was as warm and pleasant as on a spring
day.

It would be difficult to over-estimate the pleasure Browne derived from
that simple excursion.  He had visited Fontainebleau many times before,
but never had he thought it so beautiful or half so interesting as he
did on the present occasion.  When she had overcome the first novelty
of her position, Katherine adapted herself to it with marvellous
celerity.  Side by side they wandered through those rooms of many
memories, in the wake of the custodian, whom they could not persuade to
allow them to pass through alone, even under the stimulus of a large
gratuity.  Passing through the apartments of Napoleon, of Marie
Antoinette, of Francis the First, they speculated and mused over the
cradle of the infant king of Rome, and the equally historic table upon
which Napoleon signed his abdication.

The wonders of the palace exhausted, they proceeded into the gardens,
visited and fed the famous carp, tested the merits of the labyrinth,
and marvelled at the vineries.  Finally they returned to the village in
search of luncheon.  The afternoon was devoted to exploring the forest,
and when dusk had descended they dined at the Hôtel de France et
d'Angleterre, and afterwards returned to Paris.  It was during the
homeward journey, that Browne found occasion to carry out a little
scheme, of which he had been thinking all day.  Taking from his pocket
the ring he had purchased on the previous evening, he secured
Katherine's hand and slipped it on her slender finger.

"The symbol of my love, darling," he said softly.  "As this little
circlet of gold surrounds your finger, so my love will encompass you on
every side throughout your life.  Wear it in remembrance of my words."

Her heart being too full to answer him, she could only press his hand,
and leave it to him to understand.

Faithful to his promise, he delivered Katherine into the keeping of her
guardian before nine o'clock.  Both declared that they had had a
delightful day, and Madame Bernstein expressed her joy at hearing it.
It seemed to Browne, however, that there was an air of suppressed
excitement about her on this particular evening which he could not
understand.  When he bade them good-bye he returned to his hotel,
feeling that he had come to the end of the happiest day of all his life.

Next morning he was standing in the hall preparatory to going out, when
his servant approached him and handed him a note.  One glance at the
address was sufficient to tell him from whom it came.  He had only seen
the handwriting once before, but every letter had been engraved upon
his heart.  He tore it open, delighted at receiving it, yet wondering
at her reason for communicating with him.

"Dear love," it began, "when you asked me the other day to be your
wife, I tried so hard to make you see that what you wished was quite
impossible.  Yesterday we were so happy together; and now I have had
some news which makes me see, even more clearly than I did then, that I
have no right to let you link your life with mine.  Hard as it is for
me to have to say it, I have no choice left but to do so.  You must
forget me; and, if you can, forgive me.  But remember always this
promise that I give you: if I cannot marry you, no other man shall ever
call me wife.--KATHERINE PETROVITCH."

Browne stood for some moments, like a man dazed, in the hall among the
crowd of happy tourists, holding the letter in his hand, and staring
straight before him.  His whole being seemed numbed and dead.  He could
not understand it; he could not even realise that she was attempting to
put herself out of his life for ever.

"There must be some mistake," he whispered to himself; and then added:
"She admits that she loves me, and yet she wants to give me up.  I will
not allow myself to think that it can be true.  I must go to her at
once, and see her, and hear it from her own lips before I will believe."

He thereupon went out into the street, called a cab, and set off for
the Rue Jacquarie.



CHAPTER XI

When Browne reached the Rue Jacquarie, after his receipt of the letter
which had caused him so much pain and consternation, it was to learn
that Katherine was not at home, and to find Madame Bernstein in her
sitting-room, sniffing vigorously at a bottle of smelling-salts, and on
the verge of hysterics.  Seeing Browne, she sprang to her feet with a
cry that was half one of relief, and half of fear.

"Oh, Monsieur Browne," said she, "Heaven be praised that you have come!
I have had such terrible trouble this morning, and have passed through
such a scene with Katherine that my nerves are quite unstrung."

"Where is Katherine?" Browne inquired almost angrily, and quite
ignoring the description of her woes; "and what is the meaning of the
letter she wrote me this morning?"

"You must not be angry with her," said Madame, approaching and laying
her hand gently upon his arm, while she looked up into his face, with
what was intended to be a piteous expression.  "The poor child is only
doing what she deems to be right.  You would not have her act
otherwise, I know."

"You understand my feelings, I think," Browne replied bluntly.  "At the
same time, I know how over-conscientious she is apt to be in such
matters.  Cannot I see her?  Where is she?"

"She has gone out," said Madame, with a sigh.  "She and I, I am sorry
to say, had a little disagreement this morning over her treatment of
you.  I know it was very wrong of me, and that you will hate me for it;
but I could not help it.  I could not let her spoil her own life and
yours without uttering a protest.  As a result, she did what she always
does--that is to say, she put on her hat and cape, and went for a walk."

"But have you no notion where I could find her?" asked Browne, who was
beginning to feel that everything and everybody were conspiring against
him.  "Has she any usual haunts, where I should run a moderate chance
of coming across her?"

"On that point I am afraid I can say nothing," answered Madame.  "She
seldom takes me into her confidence.  Yet, stay; I _do_ remember having
heard her once say that, when she was put out by anything, the only
thing that could soothe her, and set her right again, was a visit to
the picture galleries at the Louvre."

"You are sure you know of no other place?"

"None whatever," replied the lady.  "The pictures at the Louvre are the
only things in Paris in which she seems to take any interest.  She is
insane on the subject."

"In that case I'll try the Louvre at once," said Browne, picking up his
hat.

"But let me first explain to you the reason of all that has happened,"
said Madame, stretching out her hand as if to detain him.

"Thank you," Browne returned, with greater coldness than he had ever
yet spoken to her; "but, if you do not mind, I would rather hear that
from her own lips."

With that he bade Madame good-bye, and made his way down to the street
once more.  From the Rue Jacquarie to the Louvre is not more than a ten
minutes' drive at most--that is to say, if you proceed by the Avenue de
l'Opéra,--and yet to Browne it seemed as if he were hours in the cab.
On entering the museum he made his way direct to the picture galleries.
The building had not been long open, and for this reason only a few
people were to be seen in the corridors, a circumstance for which
Browne was devoutly thankful.  It was not until he reached Room IV.
that he knew he was not to have his journey in vain.  Standing before
Titian's "Entombment of Christ," her hands clasped before her, was
Katherine.  Her whole being seemed absorbed in enjoyment of the
picture, and it was not until he was close to her that she turned and
saw him.  When she did, he noticed that her face was very white and
haggard, and that she looked as if she had not slept for many nights.

"Oh, why have you followed me?" she asked piteously.

"I have come to acknowledge in person the letter you sent me this
morning," he answered.  "Surely, Katherine, you did not think I should
do as you asked me, and go away without even bidding you good-bye?"

"I hoped you would," she answered, and her lips trembled as she uttered
the words.

"Then you do not know me," he replied, "nor do you know yourself.  No,
darling; you are my affianced wife, and I refuse to go.  What is more,
I will not give you up, come what may.  Surely you do not think that
mine is such a fair-weather love that it must be destroyed by the first
adverse wind?  Try it and see."

"But I cannot and must not," she answered; and then she added, with
such a weight of sorrow in her voice, that it was as much as he could
do to prevent himself from taking her in his arms and comforting her,
"Oh, you can have no idea how unhappy I am!"

"The more reason that I should be with you to comfort you, darling," he
declared.  "What am I here for, if not to help you?  You do not seem to
have realised my proper position in the world.  If you are not very
careful, I shall pick you up and carry you off to the nearest parson,
and marry you, willy-nilly; and after that you'll be obliged to put the
management of your affairs in my hands, whether you want to or not."

She looked at him a little reproachfully.

"Please don't joke about it," she said.  "I assure you it is by no
means a laughing matter to me."

"Nor is it to me," answered Browne.  "I should have liked you to have
seen my face when I read your letter.  I firmly believe I was the most
miserable man in Europe."

She offered no reply to this speech, and perhaps that was why a little
old gentleman, the same old man in the threadbare black cloak and
old-fashioned hat who haunts the galleries, and who entered at that
moment, imagined that they were quarrelling.

"Come," said the young man at last, "let us find a place where we can
sit down and talk unobserved.  Then we'll thrash the matter out
properly."

"But it will be no use," replied Katherine.  "Believe me, I have
thought it out most carefully, and have quite made up my mind what I
must do.  Please do not ask me to break the resolutions I have made."

"I will not ask you to do anything but love me, dear," returned Browne.
"The unfortunate part of it is, you see, I also have made resolutions
that you, on your side, must not ask me to break.  In that case it
seems that we have come to a deadlock, and the only way out of it is
for us to start afresh, to discuss the matter thoroughly, and so arrive
at an understanding.  Come along; I know an excellent corner, where we
can talk without fear of being disturbed.  Let us find it."

Seeing that to protest would be useless, and deriving a feeling of
safety from his masterfulness, she allowed him to lead her along the
galleries until they reached the corner to which he had referred.  No
one was in sight, not even the little old man in the cloak, who was
probably gloating, according to custom, over the "Venus del Pardo" in
Room VI.

"Now let us sit down," said Browne, pointing to the seat, "and you must
tell me everything.  Remember, I have a right to know; and reflect also
that, if there is any person in this wide world who can help you, it is
I, your husband in the sight of God, if not by the law of man."

He took her hand, and found that it was trembling.  He pressed it
within his own as if to give her courage.

"Tell me everything, darling," he said--"everything from the very
beginning to the end.  Then I shall know how to help you.  I can see
that you have been worrying yourself about it more than is good for
your health.  Let me share the responsibility with you."

She had to admit to herself that, after all, it was good to have a man
to lean upon, to feel that such a pillar of strength was behind her.
For this reason she unconsciously drew a little closer to him, as
though she would seek shelter in his arms and defy the world from that
place of security.

"Now let me have your story," said Browne.  "Hide nothing from me; for
only when I know all, shall I be in a position to say how I am to help
you."

He felt a shudder sweep over her as he said this, and a considerable
interval elapsed before she replied.  When she did her voice was harsh
and strained, as if she were nerving herself to make an admission,
which she would rather not have allowed to pass her lips.

"You cannot imagine," she said, "how it pains me to have to tell you my
pitiful tale.  And yet I feel that I should be doing you a far greater
wrong if I were to keep silence.  It is not for myself that I feel
this, but for you.  Whatever may be my fate, whatever may come later, I
want you always to remember that."

"I will remember," her lover replied softly.  "But you must not think
of me at all, dear.  I am content to serve you.  Now tell me
everything."

Once more she was silent for a few moments, as though she were
collecting her thoughts; then she commenced her tale.



CHAPTER XII

"To begin with, I must tell you that my name is not Petrovitch at all:
it is Polowski; Petrovitch was my mother's maiden name.  Why I adopted
it, instead of bearing my father's, you will understand directly.  I
was born in Warsaw, where my parents at the time had a temporary home.
Though she died when I was only seven years old, I can distinctly
remember my mother as a tall, beautiful Hungarian woman, who used to
sing me the sweetest songs I have ever heard in my life every evening
when I went to bed.  Oh, how well I can recall those songs!"  Her eyes
filled with tears at the recollection.  "Then there came a time when
she did not put me to bed, and when I was not allowed to see her.
Night after night I cried for her, I remember, until one evening an old
woman, in whose charge I had often been left, when my father and mother
were absent from the city, told me that I should never see her again,
for she was dead.  I did not know the meaning of death then; but I have
learnt since that there are things which are worse, infinitely worse,
than merely ceasing to live.  My recollections of that period are not
very distinct; but I can recall the fact that my poor mother lay in a
room at the back of the house, and that old Maritza wept for her
continually.  There was much mystery also; and once an old gray-haired
man said to some one in my presence, '_Do you think he will be fool
enough to come when they are watching for him at every turn?_'  To
which the other replied, '_I am sure he will come, for he loved her._'
Then came the funeral, a dark and dreary day, which, when I look back
upon it all now, seems like the beginning of a new life to me.  I was
only a little child, and when they brought me home from the cemetery I
fell asleep almost before my head touched the pillow.  In the middle of
the night I was awakened by a loud cry, a trampling on the stairs, and
a moment later the noise of men fighting in the corridor outside my
room.  Terrified almost out of my senses, I crouched in my little bed
and listened.  Then an order was given by some one, followed by the
sound of more trampling on the stairs, and after that all was silence.
Though, of course, I did not know it then, my father had been arrested
by the police as a dangerous Nihilist, and, a month later, was on his
way to Siberia.  It was not until I was old enough to understand, that
I heard that he had been concerned in an attempt upon the life of the
Czar.  From what was told me then, and from what I have since learnt,
there seems to have been little or no doubt but that he was connected
with a dangerous band of Nihilists, and that he was not only mixed up
in the affair for which he was condemned to penal servitude for life,
but that he was one of the originators of the plot itself.  And yet the
only recollection I have of him is of a kind and loving father who,
when he was at home, used to tell me fairy stories, and who declared
his wife to be the sweetest woman in the world."

"Poor little girl," said Browne, pressing the hand he held, "you had
indeed an unhappy childhood; but you have not yet told me how you came
to be placed under the guardianship of Madame Bernstein."

"She was an old friend of my father's," Katherine replied; "and when my
mother died, and he was sent to Siberia, she adopted me.  I owe her a
debt of gratitude that I can never repay; for, though she is perhaps a
little peculiar in some things, she has been a very good and kind
friend to me."

"And have you always been--well, shall we say--dependent on her?" asked
Browne, with a little diffidence, for it was a delicate matter for a
young man to touch upon with a proud and high-spirited girl.

"Oh no," Katherine replied.  "You see, soon after my mother's death it
was discovered by some one--I cannot remember who--that one of her
brothers was dead, and that by his will I, as his sole heiress,
inherited his money.  From your point of view it would be nothing, but
to me it meant a great deal.  It was carefully invested, and it brings
me in, in English money, just three hundred pounds a year.  Of course
we cannot do much with such a sum; but, as we have no expensive tastes,
Madame Bernstein and I find that with it, and the sum I make by my
painting, we are just able to make both ends meet."

On hearing this Browne pricked up his ears.  This was putting a new
complexion on the affair.

"Do you mean to say that Madame Bernstein has no income of her own, and
that all these years she has been living upon you?"

"Yes.  And why not?  You cannot realise what a wonderful manager she
is.  I should not be able to do half as much with it if I had the sole
control of my money."

"This is a matter which will have to be attended to in the near
future," said Browne to himself.  Then, aloud, he added, "Never mind,
little woman; when you are my wife Madame shall retire in luxury.  She
shall not find us ungrateful, believe me.  But continue your story.
Or, I fancy, you had better let me finish it for you.  You have told me
that you have lived with Madame Bernstein, or rather, to be correct,
that she has lived with you, for many years.  You have travelled from
place to place about Europe; for some reason or another you have had no
fixed home; then you began to paint, and during the whole time you have
denied yourself all sorts of things in order that Madame should live in
the lap of luxury.  Oh, don't dispute it, for I know what has happened
as well as if I had been there to see.  In the course of your
peregrinations you went to Norway.  There we met.  Six months later you
came to London, during which time I had been wondering whether I should
ever see you again.  Fate arranged that we should meet.  I found you
even more adorable than before, followed you to Paris, proposed and was
accepted, and, like all pretty stories, ours must, and shall end with
the music of wedding bells."

"Impossible," she answered.  "From what I have already shown you, you
must see that it could not be.  Had my life been differently situated I
should have been proud--you do not know how proud--to be your wife;
but, as it is, it is quite out of the question.  Some day you will see
that yourself, and will thank me for having prevented you from spoiling
your life by a foolish marriage."

Browne saw that she was in deadly earnest.  He was about to argue the
question with her, but the look upon her face stopped him.  For the
moment he was frightened in spite of himself, and could only stammer
out, "I shall never see it."

"You _must_ see it," she answered.  "There is a task I have set for
myself, which I must finish, come what may."

"Then, whatever it may be, I will share it with you," said Browne.
"You must doubt my love, Katherine, if you refuse to let me help you."

"I do not doubt your love," she answered, "but it is quite out of the
question that I could avail myself of your assistance in this matter."

"I will not believe it," he continued.  "You are only saying it because
you do not wish to inculpate me.  But I _will_ be inculpated, come what
may.  Tell me what it is you have to do, and I will help you to carry
it through to the best of my ability; helping you where help is needed,
and counselling you where you stand in need of advice.  In other words,
I place myself and all I have in the world at your disposal, darling,
to do with as you will."

"You are too noble," she answered; "too good and true.  What other man
would do as much?"

"Any man," he answered, "who loves a woman as I love you."

"There can be but few who love so well," she replied softly, for her
heart was touched more than she could say; "and yet, good as you are, I
cannot accept your help.  You do not know what I am about to attempt."

"I do not care what it is," he answered; "it makes no sort of
difference to my promise."

"But it would afterwards," she said.  "Why, do you not remember that I
am the daughter of a convict; that my father was sent to Siberia to
live in chains to the end of his days?  He remained there for many
years.  Afterwards he was despatched to the island of Saghalien, where
he now is.  News has reached us within the last few days that he is
ill, and that unless he leaves the island he will not live another
year."

"How did you hear that?" Browne inquired.

"Through Madame Bernstein," Katherine replied.  "Ever since my father
was first arrested she has managed somehow or other to obtain news of
him."

"And what is it you intend to do?"

"To help him to escape," the girl replied.

"But it would be impossible," said Browne, horrified at her
declaration.  "You must not dream of such a thing."

"But I do more than dream of it," she replied.  "Remember, he is my
father, my own flesh and blood, who is ill and suffering.  You say you
love me?"

"I think you know by this time that I do," said Browne.

"Then what would you do if I were seized and carried away to a terrible
island, where my life would be one long torture?  Would you not do your
best to rescue me?"

"Of course I would," said Browne indignantly.  "You need not ask that."

"Very well, then, you can see now how I feel.  I do not say that he was
right in his beliefs or in what he did; on the contrary, I think that
he was distinctly wrong.  The fact, however, remains that he is my
father; and, however great his faults may have been, he has at least
been punished for them.  Can you picture what his existence must have
been these many years?  But of course you cannot.  You do not know
anything of Russian prisons.  They have been described to me, however,
by one who has seen them, and the account has filled me with such
terror as I have never known in my life before."

"But it would be sheer madness for you to attempt to rescue him," said
Browne.  "You could not possibly succeed.  Your effort would be
foredoomed to failure."

"It is very probable," she answered; "but would you have me for that
reason draw back?  It is my duty to make the attempt, even if I fail.
You would have done the same for your own father, I know, had he been
in the same position.  Why should I not therefore do it for mine?"

"Because--why, because it is too preposterous," said Browne, at loss
for a better reason.  "I never heard of such a thing.  You have not the
least idea of the magnitude of the danger of what you are attempting."

"Perhaps not," she said.  "But if all those who make an attempt could
foresee the result, I fancy only a very small percentage would continue
to strive.  No; if you love me, you will not try to make a coward of
me, just at the time when I am trying to do what I consider right."

Browne took counsel with himself.  The position was the most
extraordinary he had ever faced.  In his life he had met with many
peculiar people, but never had he been brought in contact with a young
girl who was willing to give up love, wealth, comfort, every prospect
of happiness, even life itself, in order to attempt what was neither
more nor less than a hopeless and impossible undertaking.  And yet,
short as his acquaintance with Katharine had been, he felt that he knew
her well enough to be convinced that she would not abandon her purpose
without a struggle.  "Loyalty before all" was his motto where she was
concerned.  He loved her, and if it was her desire to assist a by no
means respectable father to escape from the prison in which he was very
rightly confined, he must help her to the best of his abilities,
without considering the cost to himself.  It would be a terrible
business; but, at any rate, he would then be able to assure himself
that she did not come to any harm.

"And you are determined to carry out this foolish scheme?" he asked.
"Is there nothing I can say or do that will be at all likely to
dissuade you from your purpose?"

"Nothing at all," she answered slowly, looking him steadily in the
face.  "My mind is quite made up."

"Very good, then," he continued; "in that case I will not oppose you
further.  Tell me how you propose to set about it."

She shook her head.  "I do not know yet," she answered.  "But you may
be sure I will do it somehow.  There must be a way, if I can only find
it.  At any rate, I am not afraid to look for it."

Browne glanced at the pale yet determined face before him, and noted
the strength of the mouth and chin.  There was sufficient strength of
mind there to carry the matter through, provided the needful
opportunities were supplied.  But would they be forthcoming?  One thing
was quite certain, she could not possibly manage with the limited means
at her disposal.  There at least she would be compelled to apply to him.

"Katherine," he said at last, "I have told you repeatedly that I love
you, and now I am going to try to prove it to you.  You say you are
desirous of rescuing your father.  Very good; then I am going to help
you to do so.  It will at least demonstrate the sincerity of my love
for you, and will show you that all the assertions I have made are not
merely so much idle chatter, but what I really feel."

"You would help me?" she gasped, staggered for the moment at the
magnitude of his proposal.  "Surely you do not know what you are
saying?"

"I mean what I say," he answered.  "If you are bent on rescuing your
father I will help you.  But I only offer my services on one condition."

"And what is that?"

"That as soon as this business is finished you become my wife."

"But I cannot let you do it," she answered.  "Why should I draw you
into it?"

"I do it because I love you, and because you love me," he answered.
"Surely that is sufficient reason."

"But----"

"We'll have no more _buts_, if you please," said Browne.  "If it is a
bargain, say so.  This is going to be a genuine business contract, of
which the terms are, that I am to do my best to assist your father to
escape, and in return you are to be my wife as soon as the work is
completed."

She looked at him almost tearfully.  Though she felt it was her duty as
a daughter to help her father, she nevertheless could not reconcile it
to her conscience to draw the man she loved into danger.  By this time
they had risen from the seat, and were standing facing each other.

"Is it to be a bargain, Katherine?"

She did not answer, but, drawing his face down to hers, she kissed him
on the lips.

"I understand," he said; "then we'll count it settled.  I'll commence
work to-day, and let you know what arrangements I am able to make.  You
trust me, Katherine, do you not?"

"With my whole heart and soul," she answered.  "Who has ever been so
good to me as you have been?"

"That has nothing at all to do with it," he said.  "Now I'll take you
down to the street, put you in a cab, and send you home to Madame to
tell, or not to tell her, as you think best, the arrangement we have
come to."

"She will thank you as I have done," said Katherine.

"I hope not," said Browne, and, as he said it, he laughed.

She saw his playful meaning, and followed his example.  Then Browne
conducted her to the street, and, having placed her in a cab, sent her
home, promising to call later on in the day to report progress.  When
she was safely on her way he glanced at his watch, and, finding it was
not yet twelve o'clock, turned into the Amphitryon Club.  He found Maas
in the hall putting on his fur coat preparatory to leaving.

"My dear Browne," he said, "where on earth have you hidden yourself
since your arrival in Paris?  We have seen nothing of you here."

"I have been too busy," Browne replied, with an air of great
responsibility.  "If you only knew all that I have gone through this
morning you would be very much surprised."

"My dear fellow," said Maas, "I believe I should be nothing of the
kind.  Vellencourt was married yesterday, and since I heard that news I
am past being surprised at anything.  I leave for London to-night.
When do you return?"

"I scarcely know," Browne replied.  "It may be to-day, and it may not
be for a week.  I am sick of Europe, and am half-thinking of arranging
a yachting trip to the Farther East."

"The deuce you are!" said Maas.  "What on earth has put that notion
into your head?"

"What puts notions into anybody's head?" Browne inquired.  "I have
often wanted to have a look at the Japanese Sea and the islands to the
north of it.  How do you know that I don't aspire to the honour of
reading a paper on the subject before the Geographical Society--eh?"

"Geographical fiddlesticks!" replied the other; and, when he had shaken
Browne by the hand, he bade him "good-bye," and went down the steps,
saying to himself as he did so, "Madame Bernstein, her adopted
daughter, and the islands to the north of Japan.  It seems to me, my
dear Browne, that when you start upon this wonderful cruise your old
friend Maas will have to accompany you."



CHAPTER XIII

It may very safely be taken for granted, I think, that the happiness or
unhappiness, success or non-success, of one's life is brought about not
so much by deliberate education or design, if I may so express it, as
by some small event, the proper importance of which is far from being
recognisable at the time.  For instance, had Browne not undertaken that
yachting cruise to Norway when he did, it is scarcely probable he would
ever have met Katherine Petrovitch.  In that case he would very
possibly have married the daughter of some impecunious peer, have
bolstered up a falling house with his wealth, have gone into
Parliament, received a title in due course, and would eventually have
descended to the family vault, in most respects a mediocre man.  But,
as Fate willed, he _did_ go to Norway--met Katherine, fell in love with
her, and now----  But there, with such a long story before me, it will
scarcely do for me to risk an anti-climax by anticipating.  Let it
suffice that, after he had said "good-bye" to Maas, he lunched at the
club, deriving a certain amount of pleasure meanwhile from the
knowledge that he was engaged in a business which, should it become
known, would undoubtedly plunge him into a considerable amount of hot
water!  And when you come to think of it, how strange is the pleasure
the human mind finds in the possession of a secret!  In our childhood
it is a joy second only to the delight of a new toy.  Anarchism,
Nihilism, Fenianism, and indeed the fundamental principle of every
order of secret society, is the same thing, only on a larger and more
dangerous scale, carried out by perverted imaginations and in the wrong
direction.  The fact, however, remains, that Browne, as I have said,
derived a considerable amount of satisfaction from the feeling that he
was, in a certain sense, a conspirator.  Plainly as he had expressed
himself to Katherine, however, it is extremely doubtful whether he
himself realised how difficult and dangerous the task he had taken upon
himself was likely to prove.  The Russian Government, at the best of
times, is like dynamite, a thing to be handled carefully; and one
minute's consideration was sufficient to show him that the work he had
pledged himself to undertake was not one that, in the event of things
going wrong, would entitle him to the sympathy of his own Government.
He thought of the Duke of Matlock, and wondered what he would say if it
should ever become known that he, John Grantham Browne, had assisted in
the escape of a Russian Nihilist from the island of Saghalien.  He
could very well imagine the pious horror of the Duchess when the
various rumours, which would be certain to go the round of the clubs,
should reach her ears.  And this suggested a still more unpleasant
reflection.  What if he should fail in his attempt to rescue the man,
and should find himself in the clutches of the Russian Bear?  What
would his fate be then?  His own country could scarcely demand his
release, seeing that he would, in all probability, be caught
red-handed.  He put the thought away from him, however, as having
nothing to do with the case.  It was Katherine's father who stood in
need of assistance, and it was Katherine's happiness which was at
stake.  That was enough for him.  With the remembrance of her
gratitude, and of the look he had seen in her face, when he had
promised to help her, still fresh in his mind, such a thing as counting
the cost was not to be thought of.  Having finished his lunch, he
returned to his hotel, to find a note upon his sitting-room table.  It
was from Katherine.  He opened it, with a feeling that was half
eagerness and half fear in his heart, and read as follows:

"DEAR LOVE,--How can I make you see how good I think you are, and how
little I deserve such treatment at your hands!  There is no one else in
the world who would do what you have done, and I shall thank God always
for sending you to my assistance.  Believe me, I know how much you are
risking, and how much you are giving up, and are willing to forfeit,
for my sake.  Oh, if I could only repay you as you deserve!  But, come
what may, you will always have my love, and my life-long gratitude.
To-night an old friend will be with us, who in happier days knew my
father.  Will you not come and let me introduce you to him?"

The letter was signed, "Your loving Katherine," and to Browne this
seemed to be the pith and essence of its contents.  How different it
was from the note he had received that morning!  They were as different
as light and darkness, as black and white, as any simile that could be
employed.  In one she had declared that it was impossible for her ever
to become his wife, and in the other she signed herself, "Your loving
Katherine."  Of course he would go that evening, not because the old
man had been acquainted with her father, for he would have gone just as
willingly if he had had a bowing acquaintance with her grandmother.
All he wanted was the opportunity of seeing Katherine, of being in the
same house and room with her, of watching the woman he loved, and who
had promised to be his wife.

Accordingly, that evening after dinner, he hailed a cab and drove to
the Rue Jacquarie.  As he passed along the crowded thoroughfares, he
could not help contrasting the different occasions on which he had
visited that street.  The first time had been on the night of his
arrival in Paris, when he had gone there in order to locate the house;
the next was that on which he had repaired there in response to the
note from Madame Bernstein; then, again, on the morning of that happy
day they had spent together at Fontainebleau; while the last was after
that miserable letter he had received from Katherine, in which she bade
him give up the idea that she could ever become his wife.

On this occasion it was indeed a happy young man who jumped out of the
vehicle and nodded to the _concierge_ as he passed her and ran up the
stairs.  When he knocked at the door of Madame's sitting-room, a voice
from within told him to enter.  He did so, to find Katherine, Madame,
and an old gentleman, whom he had never seen before, seated there.
Katherine hastened forward to greet him.  If he had not already been
rewarded for all the anxiety and pain he had experienced during the
last few days, and for the promise he had given that morning, the look
upon her face now would have fully compensated him.

"I thought you would come," she said; and then, dropping her voice a
little, she added, "I have been watching the hands of the clock, and
waiting for you."

But, even if Katherine were so kind in her welcome to him, she was not
destined to have the whole ceremony in her hands, for by this time
Madame Bernstein had risen from her chair and was approaching him.
Browne glanced at her, and his instinct told him what was coming.
Knowing the lady so well, he felt convinced she would not permit such
an opportunity to pass without making the most of it.

"Ah, Monsieur Browne," she began, her voice trembling with emotion and
the ready tear rising in her eye, "you cannot understand how we feel
towards you.  Katherine has told me of your act of self-sacrifice.  It
is noble of you; it is grand!  But Heaven will reward you for your
goodness to an orphan child."

"My dear Madame Bernstein," said Browne, who by this time was covered
with confusion, "you really must not thank me like this.  I do not
deserve it.  I am not doing much after all; and besides, it is for
Katherine's sake, and that makes the difference.  If we succeed, as I
hope and trust we shall, it will be an adventure that we shall remember
all our lives long."  He stopped suddenly, remembering that there was a
third person present who might not be in the secret.  Being an
ingenuous youth, the thought of his indiscretion caused him to blush
furiously.  Katherine, however, was quick to undeceive him.

"You need have no fear," she said; "we are all friends here.  Let me
introduce you to Herr Otto Sauber, who, as I told you in my letter, is
an old friend of my father's."

The old man, sitting at the farther end of the room, rose and hobbled
forward to take Browne's hand.  He was a strange-looking little fellow.
His face was small and round, his skin was wrinkled into a thousand
furrows, while his hair was snow-white, and fell upon his shoulders in
wavy curls.  His age could scarcely have been less than seventy.
Trouble had plainly marked him for her own; and if his threadbare
garments could be taken as any criterion, he was on the verge of actual
poverty.  Whatever his nationality may have been, he spoke French,
which was certainly not his mother-tongue, with considerable fluency.

"My dear young friend," he said, as he took Browne's hand, "allow me,
as an old man and a patriot, to thank you for what you are about to do.
I sum up my feelings when I say that it is an action I do not think you
will ever regret."  Then, placing his hand on the girl's shoulder, he
continued: "I am, as I understand Katherine has told you, an old friend
of her father's.  I remember him first as a strong, high-spirited lad,
who had not a base thought in his nature.  I remember him later as a
man of more mature years, whose whole being was saddened by the
afflictions and wrongs his fellow-countrymen were suffering; and still
later on I wished him God-speed upon his weary march, with his brother
exiles, to Siberia.  In God's good time, and through your agency, I
look forward to welcoming him among us once more.  Madame Bernstein
tells me you love the little Katherine here.  If so, I can only say
that I think you are going the right way to prove it.  I pray that you
may know long life and happiness together."

The old gentleman was genuinely affected.  Large tears trickled down
his weather-beaten cheeks, and his voice became thick and husky.
Browne's tender heart was touched by this unexpected display of
emotion, and he felt a lump rising in his throat, that for a few
seconds threatened to choke him.  And yet, what was there to account
for it?  Only a young man, a pretty girl, a stout middle-aged lady in a
puce gown, and a seedy old foreigner, who, in days long gone by, had
known the young girl's father.  After this little episode they quieted
down somewhat, and Madame Bernstein proposed that they should discuss
the question they had so much at heart.  They did so accordingly, with
the exception of the old gentleman, who sat almost silent.  It was not
until he heard her expound the subject, that Browne became aware of the
extent and thoroughness of Madame's knowledge concerning Russia and her
criminal administration.  She was familiar with every detail, even to
the names and family histories of the various governors and officers;
she knew who might be considered venal, and whom it would be dangerous
to attempt to bribe; who were lenient with their charges, and who lost
no opportunity of tyrannizing over the unfortunates whom Fate had
placed in their power.  Listening to her one might very well have
supposed that she had herself travelled every verst of that weary road.
Plan after plan she propounded, until Browne felt his brain reel under
the strain of it.  A little before midnight he rose to leave, and Herr
Sauber followed his example.

"If Monsieur Browne is walking in the direction of the Rue de l'Opéra,
I should be glad of his company," he said.  "That is to say, if he has
no objection to being hindered by a poor old cripple, who can scarcely
draw one foot after the other."

Browne expressed the pleasure such a walk would afford him; and, when
they had bidden the ladies good-night, they set off together.



CHAPTER XIV

Once in the street the old man slipped his arm through that of his
companion, and hobbled along beside him.  "My dear young friend," he
said, when they had been walking for some few minutes, "we are out of
the house now, and able to talk sensibly together without fear of
making fools of ourselves or of being overheard.  First and foremost,
tell me this: have you any notion of what you are doing?"

[Illustration: "'Have you any notion of what you are doing?'"]

"Of course I am not very well up in it," Browne replied modestly; "but
I think I know pretty well."

"Then, let me tell you this, as one who is probably more conversant
with the subject than any man living: you know absolutely nothing at
all!"

After this facer Browne did not know quite what to say.  Herr Sauber
stopped and looked at him.

"Has it struck you yet," he said, "that you, a young Englishman,
without the least experience in such things, are pitting yourself
against all the organization and cunning of the Great Russian Bear?"

"That point has certainly struck me," Browne replied.

"And do you mean to say that, knowing the strength of the enemy you are
about to fight, you are not afraid to go on?  Well, I must admit I
admire your bravery; but I fear it is nearer foolhardiness than pluck.
However, since you are determined to go on with it, let me give you a
little bit of advice that may be of service to you.  I understand you
have not long enjoyed the honour of Madame Bernstein's acquaintance?"

Browne stated that this was so, and wondered what was coming next.  He
was beginning to grow interested in this queer old man, with the sharp
eyes, who spoke with such an air of authority.

"Before I go any farther," continued the old gentleman, "permit me to
remark that I yield to no one in my admiration for the lady's talent.
She is an exceedingly clever woman, whose grasp of European politics
is, to say the least of it, remarkable.  At the same time, were I in
your position, I would be as circumspect as possible in my behaviour
towards her.  Madame is a charming companion; she is philosophic, and
can adapt herself to the most unpleasant circumstances with the
readiness of an old campaigner.  In matters like the present, however,
I regret to say, her tongue runs riot with her, and for that reason
alone I consider her little short of dangerous."

This may or may not have been the exact thought Browne had in his own
mind.  But the woman was Katherine's friend; and, however imprudent she
might be, that circumstance alone was sufficient, in a certain sense,
to make him loyal to her.  Herr Sauber probably read what was passing
in his mind, for he threw a glance up at him in his queer sparrow-like
way, and, when he had eyed him steadfastly for a few seconds, continued
what he had to say with even greater emphasis than before.

"I do not want you to mistake my meaning," he said.  "At the same time,
I have no desire to see the mission you have taken in hand turn out a
failure.  I have been acquainted with Madame Bernstein for more years
than either she or I would probably care to remember, and it is far
from my intention or desire to prejudice your mind against her.  At the
same time, I have known Katherine's family for a much longer period,
and I must study them and their interests before all."

"But what is it of which you desire to warn me?" Browne inquired.  "It
seems to me that Madame Bernstein is as anxious to assist Katherine's
father to escape as any of us."

"I sincerely believe she is," the old man replied.  "In spite of the
life she has led these twenty years, she still remains a woman, and
impetuous.  You must see for yourself that, in a matter like the
present, you cannot be too careful.  Let one little hint reach the
Russian Government, and farewell to any chance you may stand of
effecting the man's escape."

"But what am I to do to prevent her from giving them a hint?" asked
Browne.  "She knows as much as I do, and I cannot gag her!"

"But you need not tell her of all your plans," he answered.  "Tell
Katherine what you please; she has the rare gift of being able to hold
her tongue, and wild horses would not drag the secret from her."

"Then, to sum up what you say, I am to take care that, while Katherine
and I know everything, Madame Bernstein shall know nothing?"

"I do not say anything of the kind," said Herr Sauber.  "I simply tell
you what I think, and I leave it to your good sense to act as you think
best.  You English have a proverb to the effect that the least said is
the soonest mended.  When the object of your expedition is
accomplished, and you are back in safety once more, you will, I hope,
be able to come to me and say, 'Herr Sauber, there was no necessity to
act upon the advice you gave me'; then I shall be perfectly satisfied."

"I must confess that you have made me a little uneasy," Browne replied.
"I have no doubt you are right, however.  At any rate, I will be most
careful of what I say, and how I act, in her presence.  Now, perhaps,
you can help me still further, since you declare you are better
acquainted with the subject than most people.  Being so ignorant, I
should be very grateful for a few hints as to how I should set to
work."  In spite of the old man's boast, Browne thought he had rather
got the better of him now.  He was soon to be undeceived, however.

"You intend to carry this through yourself, I suppose?" asked his
companion.  "If I mistake not, I heard you say this evening that you
proposed to set sail at once for the Farther East.  Is that so?"

"It is quite true," Browne replied.  "I leave for London to-morrow
afternoon, and immediately upon my arrival there I shall commence my
preparations.  You will see for yourself, if the man is so ill, there
is no time to waste."

"In that case I think I can introduce you to a person who will prove of
the utmost assistance to you; a man without whom, indeed, it would be
quite impossible for you to succeed in your undertaking."

"That is really very kind of you," said Browne; "and, pray, who is this
interesting person, and where shall I find him?"

"His name is Johann Schmidt," said Sauber, "and for some years past he
has taken up his residence in Hong-kong.  Since we are alone, I may as
well inform you that he makes a speciality of these little affairs,
though I am not aware that he has done very much in that particular
locality in which you are at present most interested.  New Caledonia is
more in his line.  However, I feel sure that that will make little or
no difference to him, and I do not think you can do better than pay him
a visit when you reach Eastern waters."

"But how am I to broach the subject to him?  And how am I to know that
he will help me?  I cannot very well go to him and say straight out
that I am anxious to help a Russian convict to escape from Saghalien."

"I will give you a letter to him," replied Herr Sauber, "and after he
has read it you will find that you will have no difficulty in the
matter whatsoever.  For a sum to be agreed upon between you, he will
take the whole matter off your hands, and all you will have to do will
be to meet the exile at a spot which will be arranged, and convey him
to a place of safety."

"I am sure I am exceedingly obliged to you," said Browne.  "But will
you answer me one more question?"

"I will answer a hundred if they will help you," the other replied.
"But what is this particular one?"

"I want to know why you did not tell us all this, when we were
discussing the matter at the house just now."

"Because in these matters the safest course is to speak into one ear
only.  If you will be guided by me you will follow my example.  When no
one knows what you are going to do, save yourself, it is impossible for
any one to forestall or betray you."

By this time they had reached the corner of the Rue Auber.  Here the
old gentleman stopped and held out his hand.

"At this point our paths separate, I think," he said, "and I have the
honour to wish you good-night."

"But what about that address in Hong-kong?" Browne inquired.  "As I
leave for England to-morrow, it is just possible that I may not see you
before I go."

"I will send it to your hotel," Herr Sauber replied.  "I know where you
are staying.  Good-night, my friend, and may you be as successful in
the work you are undertaking as you deserve to be."

Browne thanked him for his good wishes, and bade him good-night.
Having done so, he resumed his walk alone, with plenty to think about.
Why it should have been so he could not tell, but it seemed to him
that, since his interview with the old man, from whom he had just
parted, the whole aspect of the affair to which he had pledged himself
had changed.  It is true that he had had his own suspicions of Madame
Bernstein from the beginning, but they had been only the vaguest
surmises and nothing more.  Now they seemed to have increased, not only
in number, but in weight; yet, when he came to analyse it all, the
whole fabric tumbled to pieces like a house of cards.  No charge had
been definitely brought against her, and all that was insinuated was
that she might possibly be somewhat indiscreet.  That she was as
anxious as they were to arrange the escape of Katherine's father from
the island, upon which he was imprisoned, was a point which admitted of
no doubt.  Seeing that Katherine was her best friend in the world, it
could scarcely have been otherwise.  And yet there was a nameless
something behind it all that made Browne uneasy and continually
distrustful.  Try how he would, he could not drive it from his mind;
and when he retired to rest, two hours later, it was only to carry it
to bed with him, and to lie awake hour after hour endeavouring to fit
the pieces of the puzzle together.

Immediately after breakfast next morning he made his way to the gardens
of the Tuileries.  He had arranged on the previous evening to meet
Katherine there, and on this occasion she was first at the rendezvous.
As soon as she saw him she hastened along the path to meet him.  Browne
thought he had never seen her more becomingly dressed; her face had a
bright colour, and her eyes sparkled like twin diamonds.

"You have good news for me, I can see," she said, when their first
greetings were over and they were walking back along the path together.
"What have you done?"

"We have advanced one step," he answered.  "I have discovered the
address of a man who will possibly be of immense assistance to us."

"That is good news indeed," she said.  "And where does he live?"

"In Hong-kong," Browne replied, and as he said it he noticed a look of
disappointment upon her face.

"Hong-kong?" she replied.  "That is such a long way off.  I had hoped
he would prove to be in London."

"I don't think there is any one in London who would be of much use to
us," said Browne, "while there are a good many there who could hinder
us.  That reminds me, dear, I have something rather important to say to
you."

"What is it?" she inquired.

"I want to warn you to be very careful to whom you speak about the work
we have in hand, and to be particularly careful of one person."

"Who is that?" she inquired; but there was a subtle intonation in her
voice that told Browne that, while she could not, of course, know with
any degree of certainty whom he meant, she at least could hazard a very
good guess.  They had seated themselves by this time on the same seat
they had occupied a few days before; and a feeling, that was almost one
of shame, came over him when he reflected that, in a certain measure,
he owed his present happiness to the woman he was about to decry.

"You must not be offended at what I am going to say to you," he began,
meanwhile prodding the turf before him with the point of his umbrella.
"The fact of the matter is, I want to warn you to be very careful how
much of our plans you reveal to Madame Bernstein.  It is just possible
you may think I am unjust in saying such a thing.  I only hope I am."

"I really think you are," she said.  "I don't know why you should have
done so, but from the very first you have entertained a dislike for
Madame.  And yet, I think you must admit she has been a very good
friend to both of us."

She seemed so hurt at what he had said that Browne hastened to set
himself right with her.

"Believe me, I am not doubting her friendship," he said, "only her
discretion.  I should never forgive myself if I thought I had put any
unjust thoughts against her in your mind.  But the fact remains that,
not only for your father's safety, but also for our own, it is most
essential that no suspicion as to what we are about to do should get
abroad."

"You surely do not think that Madame Bernstein would talk about the
matter to strangers?" said Katherine, a little indignantly.  "You have
not been acquainted with her very long, but I think, at least, you
ought to know her well enough to feel sure she would not do that."

Browne tried to reassure her on this point, but it was some time before
she was mollified.  To change the subject, he spoke of Herr Sauber and
of the interest he was taking in the matter.

"I see it all," she said; "it was he who instilled these suspicions
into your mind.  It was unkind of him to do so; and not only that, but
unjust.  Like yourself, he has never been altogether friendly to her."

Browne found himself placed in somewhat of a dilemma.  It was certainly
true that the old man _had_ added fresh fuel to his suspicions; yet he
had to remember that his dislike for the lady extended farther back,
even as far as his first meeting with her at Merok.  Therefore, while
in justice to himself he had the right to incriminate the old man, he
had no desire to confess that he had himself been a doubter from the
first.  Whether she could read what was passing in his mind or not I
cannot say, but she was silent for a few minutes.  Then, looking up at
him with troubled eyes, she said, "Forgive me; I would not for all the
world have you think that I have the least doubt of you.  You have been
so good to me that I should be worse than ungrateful if I were to do
that.  Will you make a bargain with me?"

"Before I promise I must know what that bargain is," he said, with a
smile.  "You have tried to make bargains with me before to which I
could not agree."

"This is a very simple one," she said.  "I want you to promise me, that
you will never tell me anything of what you are going to do in this
matter, that I cannot tell Madame Bernstein.  Cannot you see, dear,
what I mean when I ask that?  She is my friend, and she has taken care
of me for so many, many years, that I should be indeed a traitor to
her, if, while she was so anxious to help me in the work I have
undertaken, I were to keep from her even the smallest detail of our
plans.  If she is to be ignorant, let me be ignorant also."  The
simple, straightforward nature of the girl was apparent in what she
said.

"And yet you wish to know everything of what I do?" he said.

"It is only natural that I should," she answered.  "I also wish to be
honest with Madame.  You will give that promise, will you not, Jack?"

Browne considered for a moment.  Embarrassing as the position had been
a few moments before, it seemed even more so now.  At last he made up
his mind.

"Yes," he said very slowly; "since you wish it, I will give you that
promise, and I believe I am doing right.  You love me, Katherine?"

"Ah, you know that," she replied.  "I love and trust you as I could
never do another man."

"And you believe that I will do everything that a man can do to bring
about the result you desire?"

"I do believe that," she said.

"Then let it all remain in my hands.  Let me be responsible for the
whole matter, and you shall see what the result will be.  As I told you
yesterday, dear, if any man can get your father out of the terrible
place in which he now is, I will do so."

She tried to answer, but words failed her.  Her heart was too full to
speak.  She could only press his hand in silence.

"When shall I see you again?" Browne inquired, after the short silence
which had ensued.  "I leave for London this afternoon."

"For London?" she repeated, with a startled look upon her face.  "I did
not know that you were going so soon."

"There is no time to lose," he answered.  "All our arrangements must be
made at once.  I have as much to do next week as I can possibly manage.
I suppose you and Madame have set your hearts on going to the East?"

"I could not let you go alone," she answered; "and not only that, but
if you succeed in getting my father away, I must be there to welcome
him to freedom."

"In that case you and Madame had better hold yourselves in readiness to
start as soon as I give the word."

"We will be ready whenever you wish us to set off," she replied.  "You
need have no fear of that."

Half an hour later Browne bade her good-bye, and, in less than three
hours, he was flying across France as fast as the express could carry
him.  Reaching Calais, he boarded the boat.  It was growing dusk, and
for that reason the faces of the passengers were barely
distinguishable.  Suddenly Browne felt a hand upon his shoulder, and a
voice greeted him with, "My dear Browne, this is indeed a pleasurable
surprise.  I never expected to see you here."

_It was Maas._



CHAPTER XV

Why he should have been so surprised at meeting Maas on board the
steamer that evening Browne has never been able to understand.  The
fact, however, remains that he was surprised, and unpleasantly so.  The
truth of the matter was, he wanted to be alone, to think of Katherine
and of the work he had pledged himself to accomplish.  Even when one is
head over ears in love, however, the common usages of society may claim
some moderate share of attention; and, all things considered, civility
to one's friends is perhaps the first of these.  For this reason Browne
paced the deck with Maas, watching the lights of Calais growing smaller
each time they turned their faces towards the stern of the vessel.
Every turn of the paddle-wheels seemed to be taking Katherine farther
and farther from him; and yet, was he not travelling to England on her
errand, was he not wearing a ring she had given him upon his finger,
and was not the memory of her face continually with him?  Maas noticed
that he was unusually quiet and preoccupied, and attempted to rally him
upon the subject.  He was the possessor of a peculiarly ingratiating
manner; and, much to his own surprise, Browne found himself, before
they had been very long on board, telling him the news, that was
destined sorely to trouble the hearts of mothers with marriageable
daughters before the next few weeks were out.  "I am sure I
congratulate you most heartily, my dear fellow," said Maas, with a fine
show of enthusiasm.  "I have had my suspicions that something of the
kind was in the air for some considerable time past; but I did not know
that it was quite so near at hand.  I trust we shall soon be permitted
the honour of making the young lady's acquaintance."

"I am afraid that will not be for some considerable time to come,"
Browne replied.

"How so?" asked Maas.  "What are you going to do?"

"As I told you the other day, I am thinking of leaving England on a
rather extended yachting cruise to the Farther East."

"Ah, I remember you did say something about it," Maas continued.  "Your
_fiancée_ will accompany you, of course?"

Browne scarcely knew what reply to offer to this speech.  He had no
desire to allow Maas to suspect his secret, and at the same time his
conscience would not permit him to tell a deliberate untruth.  Suddenly
he saw a way out of his difficulty.

"We shall meet in Japan, in all probability," he answered; "but she
will not go out with me."

"What a pity!" said Maas, who had suddenly become very interested in
what his companion was saying to him.  "There is no place like a yacht,
I think, at such a time.  I do not, of course, speak from experience; I
should imagine, however, that the rippling of the water alongside, and
the quiet of the deck at night, would be eminently conducive to
love-making."

To this speech Browne offered no reply.  The train of thought it
conjured up was too pleasant, and at the same time too sacred, to be
shared with any one else.  He was picturing the yacht making her way
across a phosphorescent sea, with the brilliant tropical stars shining
overhead, and Katherine by his side, the only sound to be heard being
the steady pulsation of the screw and the gentle lapping of the water
alongside.

At last the lights of Dover were to be distinctly seen ahead.  The
passage had not been altogether a smooth one, and for this reason the
decks did not contain as many passengers as usual.  Now, however, the
latter were beginning to appear again, getting their luggage together
and preparing for going ashore, with that bustle that usually
characterises the last ten minutes on board a Channel steamer.  Always
an amusing and interesting companion, Maas, on this particular
occasion, exerted himself to the utmost to please.  By the time they
reached Charing Cross, Browne had to admit to himself that he had never
had a more enjoyable journey.  The time had slipped by so quickly and
so pleasantly that he had been permitted no opportunity of feeling
lonely.

"I hope I shall see you again before you go," said Maas, as they stood
together in the courtyard of the station on the look-out for Browne's
hansom, which was awaiting its turn to pull up at the steps.  "When do
you think you will be starting?"

"That is more than I can tell you," said Browne.  "I have a great many
arrangements to make before I can think about going.  However, I am
certain to drop across you somewhere.  In the meantime, can I give you
a lift?"

"No, thank you," said Maas.  "I shall take a cab and look in at the
club before I go home.  I could not sleep until I have heard the news
of the town; who has married who, and who has run away with somebody
else.  Now, here is your cab; so let me wish you good-night.  Many
thanks for your society."

Before Browne went to bed that night, he ascended to his magnificent
picture gallery, the same which had been the pride and glory of his
father's heart, and, turning up the electric light, examined a picture
which had lately been hung at the farther end.  It was a Norwegian
subject, and represented the mountains overlooking the little
landlocked harbour of Merok.  How much had happened since he had last
looked upon that scene, and what a vital change that chance meeting had
brought about in his life!  It seemed scarcely believable, and yet how
true it all was!  And some day, if all went well, Katherine would stand
in the self-same hall looking upon the same picture, mistress of the
beautiful house and all it contained.  Before that consummation could
be brought about, however, they had a difficult piece of work to do.
And what would happen supposing he should never return?  What if he
should fall into the hands of the Russian Government?  That such a fate
might befall him was far from being unlikely, and it would behove him
to take all precautions in case it should occur.  In his own mind he
knew exactly what those precautions would be.  Waking from the
day-dream into which he had fallen, he glanced once more at the
picture, and then, with a little sigh for he knew not what, made his
way to his bedroom and retired to rest.  Next morning he was up
betimes, and by nine o'clock had telegraphed to Southampton for the
captain of his yacht.  At ten o'clock he ordered his hansom and drove
to his lawyers' office in Chancery Lane.  The senior partner had that
moment arrived, so the clerk informed him.

"If you will be kind enough to step this way, sir," the youth
continued, "I will conduct you to him."

Browne did as he was requested, and followed him down a passage to a
room at the farther end.  Browne's visits were red-letter days in the
calendar of the firm.  When the lad returned to his high stool in the
office, it was to wonder how he would spend his time if he were the
possessor of such enormous wealth.  It is questionable whether he would
have considered Browne so fortunate had he been made acquainted with
all the circumstances of the case.  He was an irreproachable youth in
every way, who during the week wore a respectable black coat and
top-hat, and lived at Blackheath; while on Sundays he rode a tandem
bicycle with the girl of his heart, and dreamt of the cottage they were
to share together, directly the firm could be persuaded to make the
salary, on which it was to be supported, a little more elastic.

"How do you do, my dear Mr. Browne?" inquired the lawyer, rising from
his chair as Browne entered, and extending his hand.  "I understood you
were in Paris."

"I returned last night," said Browne.  "I came up early because I want
to see you on rather important business."

"I am always at your service," replied the lawyer, bringing forward a
chair for Browne's use.  "I hope you are not very much worried."

"As a matter of fact, Bretherton, I have come to see you, because at
last I am going to follow your advice, and--well, the long and the
short of it is, I am going to be married!"

The lawyer almost jumped from his chair in surprise.  "I am delighted
to hear it," he answered.  "As I have so often said, I feel sure you
could not do a wiser thing.  I have not the pleasure of knowing Miss
Verney; nevertheless----"

Browne held up his hand in expostulation.  "My dear fellow," he said,
with a laugh, "you are on the wrong scent altogether.  What on earth
makes you think I am going to marry Miss Verney?  I never had any such
notion."

The lawyer's face was a study in bewilderment.  "But I certainly
understood," he began, "that----"

"So have a great many other people," said Browne.  "But I can assure
you it is not the case.  The lady I am going to marry is a Russian."

"Ah, to be sure," continued the lawyer.  "Now I come to think of it, I
remember that my wife pointed out to me in some ladies' paper, that the
Princess Volgourouki was one of your yachting party at Cowes last
summer."

"Not the Princess either," said Browne.  "You seem bent upon getting
upon the wrong tack.  My _fiancée_ is not a millionairess; her name is
Petrovitch.  She is an orphan, an artist, and has an income of about
three hundred pounds a year."

The lawyer was unmistakably shocked and disappointed.  He had hoped to
be able to go home that night and inform his wife, that he was the
first to hear of the approaching marriage of his great client with some
well-known beautiful aristocrat or heiress.  Now to find that he was
going to espouse a girl, who was not only unknown to the great world,
but was quite lacking in wealth, was a disappointment almost too great
to be borne.  It almost seemed as if Browne had offered him a personal
affront; for, although his client was, in most respects, an easy-going
young man, still the lawyer was very well aware that there were times
when he could be as obstinate as any other man.  For this reason he
held his tongue, and contented himself with bowing and drawing a sheet
of note paper towards him.  Then, taking up a pen, he inquired in what
way he could be of service.

"The fact of the matter is, Bretherton," the other began, "I have a
communication to make to you which I scarcely know how to enter upon.
The worst of it is that, for very many reasons, I cannot tell you
anything definite.  You must fill in the blanks according to your own
taste and fancy; and, according to how much you can understand, you can
advise me as to the best course for me to pursue."

He paused for a moment, and during the interval the lawyer withdrew his
glasses from his nose, polished them, and replaced them.  Having done
so, he placed his finger-tips together, and, looking at Browne over
them, waited for him to proceed.

"The fact of the matter is," said the latter, "before I marry I have
pledged myself to the accomplishment of a certain work, the nature of
which I cannot explain--I have given my word that I will reveal
nothing.  However, the fact remains that it will take me into some
rather strange quarters for a time; and for this reason it is just
possible that I--well, that you may never see me again."

"My dear Mr. Browne," said the lawyer, aghast with surprise, "you
astonish me more than I can say.  Can it be that you are running such
risk of your own free-will?  I cannot believe that you are serious."

"But I am," Browne replied; "perfectly serious."

"But have you considered everything?  Think what this may mean, not
only to the young lady you are about to marry, but to all your friends."

"I have thought of everything," said Browne.

The lawyer was, however, by no means satisfied.  "But, my dear sir," he
continued, "is there no way in which you can get out of it?"

"Not one," said Browne.  "I have given the matter my earnest attention,
and have pledged myself to carry it out.  No argument will move me.
What I want you to do is to make my will to suit the exigencies of the
case."

"Perhaps it would not be troubling you too much to let me know of what
they consist," said the lawyer, whose professional ideas were
altogether shocked by such unusual--he almost thought insane--behaviour.

"Well, to put it in a few words," said Browne, "I want you to arrange
that, in the event of anything happening to me, all of which I am
possessed, with the exception of such specific bequests as those of
which you are aware, shall pass to the lady whom I would have made my
wife had I not died.  Do you understand?"

"I understand," said the lawyer; "and if you will furnish me with the
particulars I will have a fresh will drawn up.  But I confess to you I
do not approve of the step you are taking."

"I am sorry for that," Browne replied.  "But if you were in my place I
fancy you would act as I am doing."  Having said this, he gave the
lawyer the particulars he required; and, when he left the office a
quarter of an hour or so later, he had made Katherine Petrovitch the
inheritor of the greater part of his enormous wealth.  Whatever should
happen to him within the next few months she would at least be provided
for.  From his lawyer's office he drove to his bank to deposit certain
papers; then to his tailor; and finally back to his own house in Park
Lane, where he hoped and expected to find the captain of his yacht
awaiting him.  He was not disappointed.  Captain Mason had just
arrived, and was in the library at that moment.  The latter was not of
the usual yachting type.  He was short and stout, possessed an
unusually red face, which was still further ornamented by a fringe of
beard below his chin; he had been at sea, man and boy, all his life,
and had no sympathy with his brother-skippers who had picked up their
business in the Channel, and whose longest cruise had been to the
Mediterranean and back.  He had been in old Browne's employ for ten
years, and in that of his son after him.  What was more, he had earned
the trust and esteem of all with whom he was brought in contact; and
when Browne opened the door and found that smiling, cheerful face
confronting him, he derived a feeling of greater satisfaction than he
had done from anything for some considerable time past.



CHAPTER XVI

"Good-morning, Mason," Browne said, as he shook hands.  "I am glad that
you were able to come up at once, for I want to consult you on most
important business.  Sit down, and let us get to work.  You were not
long in getting under way."

"I started directly I received your message, sir," the man replied.
"Perhaps you would not mind telling me what it is I have to do."

"I'll very soon do that," Browne replied; "and, if I know anything of
you, you will be glad to hear my needs.  I want to see you with regard
to a cruise in Eastern waters.  I am tired of the English winter, and,
as you are aware, I have never yet visited Japan, I've suddenly made up
my mind to go out there.  How soon do you think you could be ready to
start?"

"For Japan, sir?" the captain replied.  "Well, that's a goodish step.
Might I ask, sir, how long you can give me?  Are you in a very great
hurry?"

"A very great hurry indeed," Browne said.  "I want to get away at the
shortest possible notice; in fact, the sooner you can get away, the
better I shall be pleased.  I know you will do all you can."

"You may be very sure of that, sir," said the captain.  "If it is
really necessary, I fancy I could be ready--well, shall we say?--on
Monday next.  Would that suit you, sir?"

"It would do admirably," said Browne.  "I may count, then, on being
able to sail on that day?"

"Certainly, sir," said the captain.  "I will catch the next train back,
and get to work without loss of time.  Your own steward, I suppose,
will accompany you?"

"Yes," said Browne, for he was convinced that the man was one in whose
honesty and courage he could place implicit reliance, which was just
what would be wanted on such a voyage.

"And how many guests will you be likely to have, sir?" inquired the
captain.  "I suppose you will fill all the cabins as usual?"

This was a question to which Browne had not yet given any proper
consideration, though he had practically decided on one person.  The
voyage from England to Japan, as all the world knows, is a long one,
and he felt that if he went alone he would stand a very fair chance of
boring himself to death with his own company.

"I am not able to say yet who will accompany me; but in any case you
had better be prepared for one or two.  It is more than possible,
however, that we shall pick up a few others in Japan."

"Very good, sir," said Mason.  "I will see that all the necessary
arrangements are made.  Now I suppose I had better see about getting
back to Southampton."

Having consulted his watch, he rose from his chair, and was about to
bid his employer good-bye, when Brown stopped him.

"One moment more, Mason," he said.  "Before you go I have something to
say to you, that is of the utmost importance to both of us."  He paused
for a moment, and from the gravity of his face the captain argued that
something more serious was about to follow.  "I wanted to ask you
whether you had any sort of acquaintance with the seas to the northward
of Japan, say in the vicinity of the island of Yesso and the Gulf of
Tartary?"

"I cannot say that I have any at all, sir," the other replied.  "But I
could easily make inquiries from men who have sailed in them, and
procure some charts from Potter, if you consider it necessary."

"I should do so if I were you," said Browne; "it is always as well to
be prepared.  In the meantime, Mason, I want you to keep what I have
said to yourself.  I have the most imperative reasons for making this
request to you.  A little mistake in this direction may do me an
incalculable amount of harm."

Though he did not in the least understand what prompted the request,
the captain willingly gave his promise.  It was easy for Browne,
however, to see that it had caused him considerable bewilderment.

"And there is one other point," Browne continued.  "I want you to be
more than ordinarily careful that the crew you take with you are the
best men procurable.  I am not going to say any more to you, but leave
you to draw your own conclusions, and to bear in mind that this voyage
is likely to be one of the most, if not _the_ most, important I have
ever undertaken.  You have been with me a good many years now, and you
were with my father before me--it is not necessary for me to say not
only as captain, but also as a man who is an old and well-tried friend."

"I thank you, sir, for what you have said," said the captain.  "In
reply, I can only ask you to believe that, happen what may, you will
not find me wanting."

"I am quite sure of that," said Browne, holding out his hand.

The captain took it, and, when he had shaken it as if he would
dislocate it at the shoulder, bade his employer good-bye and left the
room.

"So much for breaking the news to Mason," said Browne to himself, when
the door had closed behind the skipper.  "Now I must see Jimmy Foote,
and arrange it with him."

He glanced at his watch, and found that it wanted only a few minutes to
twelve o'clock.  Ringing the bell, he bade the footman telephone to the
Monolith Club, and inquire whether Mr. Foote were there; and if he were
not, whether they could tell him where it would be possible to find
him.  The man disappeared upon his errand, to return in a few moments
with the information that Mr. Foote had just arrived at the club in
question.

"In that case," said Browne, "beg the servants to tell him that I will
be there in ten minutes, and that I want to see him on most important
business.  Ask him not to leave until I come down."

The appointment having been duly made, he ordered his cab and set off
in it for the rendezvous in question.  On reaching the club--the same
in which he had seen Jimmy on that eventful night, when he had
discovered that Katherine was in London--Browne found his friend
engaged in the billiard-room, playing a hundred up with a young
gentleman, whose only claim to notoriety existed in the fact, that at
the time he was dissipating his second enormous fortune at the rate of
more than a thousand a week.

"Glad indeed to see you, old man," said Jimmy, as Browne entered the
room.  "I thought you were going to remain in Paris for some time
longer.  When did you get back?"

"Last night," said Browne.  "I came over with Maas."

"With Maas?" cried Jimmy, in surprise.  "Somebody said yesterday that
he was not due to return for another month or more.  But you telephoned
that you wanted to see me, did you not?  If it is anything important, I
am sure Billy here won't mind my throwing up the game.  He hasn't a
ghost of a chance of winning, so it will be a new experience for him
not to have to pay up."

Browne, however, protested that he could very well wait until they had
finished their game.  In the meantime he would smoke a cigar and watch
them.  This he did, and as soon as the competition was at an end and
Jimmy had put on his coat, he drew him from the room.

"If you've nothing you want to do for half an hour or so, I wish you
would walk a little way with me, old chap," he said.  "I have got
something to say to you that I must settle at once.  This place has as
long ears as the proverbial pitcher."

"All right," said Jimmy.  "Come along; I'm your man, whatever you want."

They accordingly left the club together, and made their way down Pall
Mall and across Waterloo Place into the Green Park.  It was not until
they had reached the comparative privacy of the latter place that
Browne opened his mind to his friend.

"Look here, Jimmy," he said, "when all is said and done, you and I have
known each other a good many years.  Isn't that so?"

"Of course it is," said Jimmy, who noticed his friend's serious
countenance, and was idly wondering what had occasioned it.  "What is
it you want to say to me?  If I did not know you I should think you
were hard up, and wanted to borrow five pounds.  You look as grave as a
judge."

"By Jove! so would you," said Browne, "if you'd got on your mind what I
have on mine.  It seems to me I've got to find some jolly good friend
who'll see me through as delicate a bit of business as ever I heard of
in my life.  That's why I telephoned to you."

"Very complimentary of you, I'm sure," said Jimmy.  "But I think you
know you can rely on me.  Come, out with it!  What is the matter?  Is
it a breach of promise case, or divorce, or what is it?"

"Look here, old man, before we go any farther," said Browne, with great
impressiveness, "I want to ask you not to joke on it.  It may seem
humorous to other people, but I assure you it's life and death to me."

There was a little silence that might have lasted a minute; then Jimmy
took his friend's arm.  "I'm sorry," said he; "only give me a decent
chance and I'm sure to make a fool of myself.  I had no idea it was
such a serious matter with you.  Now then, what is it?  Tell me
everything from beginning to end."

"I will," said Browne.  "But I ought to tell you first that I am not
supposed to say anything about it.  The secret, while it is mine in a
sense, concerns another person more vitally.  If I were the only one in
it I shouldn't care a bit; but I have to think of others before myself.
You may remember that one night--it seems as if it were years ago,
though in reality it is only a few weeks--you and I were walking down
Regent Street together.  You told me you had seen a picture in a shop
window that you wanted to show me."

"I remember the incident perfectly," said Jimmy, but this time without
a smile.  "It was a very foggy night, and you first kept me waiting
half an hour outside the shop, and then acted like a lunatic
afterwards."

"Well," said Browne, without replying to his friend's comments upon his
behaviour on that occasion, "you may remember that the night following
you dined with me at Lallemand's, and met two ladies."

"Madame Bernstein and Miss Petrovitch," said Jimmy.  "I remember.  What
next?"

Browne paused and looked a trifle sheepish before he replied, "Well,
look here, old man; that girl, Miss Petrovitch, is going to be my
wife."  He looked nervously at Jimmy as if he expected an explosion.

"I could have told you that long ago," said Jimmy, with imperturbable
gravity.  "And, by Jove!  I'll go further and say that I don't think
you could do better.  As far as I could tell, she seemed an awfully
nice girl, and I should think she would make you just the sort of wife
you want."

"Thank you," said Browne, more pleased with Jimmy than he had ever been
before.

"But that only brings me to the beginning of what I have to say," he
continued.  "Now I want you, before we go any further, to give me your
word as a friend that, whatever I may say to you, you will not reveal
to any one else.  You cannot think how important it is, both to her and
to me."

"I will give you that promise willingly," said Jimmy.  "You can tell me
whatever you like, without any fear that I shall divulge it."

"Your promise is all I want," said Browne.  Then, speaking very slowly,
and as earnestly as he knew how, he continued: "The truth of the matter
is that that girl is by birth a Russian.  Her father had the misfortune
to get into trouble over an attempt upon the Czar's life."

"A Nihilist, I suppose?" said Jimmy.

Browne nodded.  "Well, the attempt was discovered, and Katherine's
father was arrested and sent to Siberia, condemned to imprisonment for
life.  He was there for many years, but later on he was drafted to the
island of Saghalien, on the eastern coast of Siberia, where he now is."

Jimmy nodded.  "After that?"

"Well, on the morning of the second day after that dinner at
Lallemand's, Miss Petrovitch and Madame Bernstein left for Paris, on
some important business, which I now believe to have been connected
with the man who was exiled.  I followed her, met her, and eventually
proposed to her.  Like the trump she is, she did her best to make me
see that for me to love her was out of the question.  Thinking only of
me, she tried to put me off by telling me how impossible it all was.
But instead of doing what she hoped, it only served to show me what a
noble nature the girl possessed."

"She is not rich, I suppose?" asked Jimmy.

"She has not a halfpenny more than three hundred a year assured to
her," the other replied; "and she shares that with Madame Bernstein."

"And yet she was willing to give up a hundred and twenty thousand a
year, and the position she would have in English society as your wife?"

"She was," said Browne.

"Then all I can say, is," said Jimmy, with considerable conviction,
"she must be one in a million.  But I interrupted you; I'm sorry.  Go
on."

"Well," continued Browne, "to make a long story short, she finished by
telling me the sad story of her life.  Of course she said that she
could not possibly marry me, being the daughter of a convict.  Then she
went on to add that news had lately come to her--how I cannot say--that
her father is dying.  It seems that he has been in failing health for
some years; and at last the terrible climate, the roughness of the
living, and the knowledge that he was hopelessly cut off for the rest
of his existence from all he held dear in the world, has resulted in a
complete collapse.  To hope to obtain a pardon from the Russian
Government would be worse than futile.  All that remains is to get him
away."

"But, surely, my dear old Browne," said Jimmy, who had listened aghast,
"it cannot be possible that you dream of assisting in the escape of a
Russian convict from Saghalien?"

"That is exactly what I _do_ think," replied Browne, with unusual
earnestness.  "Come what may, if it costs me all I am worth in the
world, I am going to get the man out of that hell on earth.  Try to
think, my dear fellow, how you would feel if you were in that girl's
place.  Her father, the man whom she has been brought up to believe has
been sacrificed for his country's good, is dying.  She declares it is
her duty to be with him.  How can I let her do that?"

"I admit it is impossible."

"Well, what remains?  Either she must go to him, or he must come to
her."

"In plain words, she wants you to risk your good name, all you have in
the world, your happiness, your very life indeed, in order to get a
fanatic out of the trouble he has brought upon himself."

"You can put it how you like," said Browne; "but that is practically
what it means.  But remember she is the woman who is to be my wife.  If
I lose her, what would life be worth to me?"

This was the crucial part of the interview.  For the first time it
struck Browne that he was figuring before his friend in rather a
selfish light.

"I wanted to see you," he began, "in order to find out whether you
would care to accompany me to the Farther East.  Remember, I don't want
you to pledge anything.  All that I ask of you is to say straight out
whether you would care to come or not.  I shall sail in the yacht on
Monday next for Japan.  We shall touch at Hong-kong _en route_, where I
am to have an interview with a man who, I believe, has brought off one
or two of these little affairs before.  He will tell me what I am to
do, and may possibly do it for me.  After that we proceed to Japan,
where we are to pick up Madame Bernstein and Miss Petrovitch.  From
that moment we shall act as circumstances dictate."

"And now I want you to tell me one thing," said Jimmy; "what is your
reason for wanting me to accompany you?"

"I will tell you," said Browne.  "I want you to come with me, because I
am anxious to have one man on board, a friend, in whom I can place
implicit confidence.  Of course Mason will be there; but, as he will
have charge of the boat, he would be comparatively useless to me.  To
tell the truth, Jimmy, it will make me easier to know that there is
some one else on board the boat, who will take care of Miss Petrovitch,
in the event of anything happening to me."

"And how long do you propose to be away from England?" his friend
inquired.

"Well, that is a very difficult question to answer," said Browne.  "We
may be away three months, possibly we may be six.  But you may rest
assured of one thing; we shall not be absent longer from England than
is absolutely necessary."

"And when do you want an answer from me," said Jimmy.

"As soon as you can let me have one," Browne replied.  "Surely it
should not take you long to make up your mind?"

"You don't know my family," he answered.  "They say I can never make up
my mind at all.  Will it do if I let you know by seven o'clock
to-night?  I could arrange it by then."

"That would suit me admirably," said Browne.  "You don't think any the
worse of me, old chap, for asking so much of you, do you?"

"Angry with you?" answered the other.  "Why should I be?  You're
offering me a jolly good holiday, in excellent company; and what's
more, you are adding a spice of danger too, which will make it doubly
enjoyable.  The only question is whether I can get away."

"At any rate, I'll give you until to-night to make up your mind.  I
shall expect to hear from you before seven o'clock."

"You shall hear from me without fail," said Jimmy; "and, if by any
chance I can't manage it, you will understand--won't you?--that it is
not for any want of feeling for yourself."

"I know that, of course," said Browne; and thereupon the two young men
shook hands.

A few moments later Browne bade him good-bye, and, calling a hansom,
drove back to his own house.  As soon as he had lunched he wrote to
Katherine to tell her how things were proceeding.  The afternoon was
spent in the purchase of various articles which he intended to take
with him.  For this reason it was not until after six o'clock that he
returned to his own house.  When he did, the butler brought him a note
upon a salver.  He opened it, and found, as he expected, that it was
from Jimmy.

"Dear old man," it ran, "I am coming with you, happen what may.--Always
your friend, J. FOOTE."

"That is another step upon the ladder," said Browne.



CHAPTER XVII

In the morning following the receipt of the letter from Foote, as
described in the previous chapter, Browne was walking from his house in
Park Lane in the direction of Piccadilly, when he saw Maas coming
towards him.

"This is a fortunate meeting, my dear Browne," said the latter, after
they had greeted each other; "for I was on my way to call upon you.  If
you are walking towards Piccadilly perhaps you will permit me to save
time by accompanying you."

Browne was not feeling particularly happy that morning, and this may
have been the reason that he was glad of Maas's company.  He stood in
need of cheerful society.  But though he wanted it, he was not destined
to have it.  It was a bleak, dreary morning, and once or twice during
the walk the other coughed asthmatically.  Browne noticed this, and he
noticed also that Maas's face was even paler than usual.

"I am afraid you are not very well, old man," he said.

"What makes you say that?" asked Maas.

Browne gave him his reasons, and when he heard them the other laughed a
little uneasily.  "I am afraid you've hit it, my friend," he said.  "I
am not well.  I've been to see my doctor this morning, and he has given
me some rather unpleasant news."

"I am sorry indeed to hear that," said Browne.  "What does he say is
the matter with you?"

"Why, he says that it is impossible for me to stay in England any
longer.  He declares that I must go away for a long sea voyage, and at
once.  To tell the truth, I do not come of a very strong family; and,
by way of making me feel better satisfied with myself, he tells me
that, unless I take care of myself, I may follow in their footsteps.
Of course it's all very well to say, 'Take care of yourself'; but the
difficulty is to do so.  In a life like ours, what chance have we of
guarding against catching cold?  We dance in heated rooms, and sit in
cold balconies between whiles: we travel in draughty railway carriages
and damp cabs, and invariably eat and drink more than is good for us.
The wonder to me is that we last as long as we do."

"I've no doubt we are awfully foolish," said Browne.  "But our fathers
were so before us."

"A small satisfaction, look at it how you will," returned Maas.

"And so you're going to clear out of England, are you?" said Browne
very slowly, after the pause that had followed his companion's speech.
"Where are you thinking of going?"

"Now, that was just what I was coming to see you about," replied his
friend.  "You may remember that in Paris the other day, you spoke of
undertaking a trip to the Farther East.  I laughed at it at the time,
for I thought I should never move out of Europe; since then, however,
or rather since the doctor gave me his unwholesome news this morning, I
have been thinking over it.  I dined last night with the Rocktowers,
who, as you know, are just back from Japan, and found that they could
talk of nothing else.  Japan was this, Japan was that, possessed the
most beautiful scenery in the world, the most charming people, and the
most perfect climate.  So fascinated was I by their description that I
went home and dreamt about it; and I've got a sort of notion now that,
if I could only get as far as Japan, all would be well with me."

Now, from the very first moment that Maas had spoken of leaving
England, Browne had had an uneasy suspicion that something of the kind
was coming.  In his inmost heart he knew very well what his companion
wanted; but, unfortunately for him, he did not see his way to get out
of it.  When he had told Maas in Paris that he intended taking a
yachting cruise to the Farther East, and had laughingly suggested that
the latter should accompany him, he had felt quite certain in his own
mind that his invitation would be refused.  To find him now asking to
be allowed to accept after all was almost too much for his equanimity.
Pleasant companion as Maas undoubtedly was, he was far from being the
sort of man Browne would have taken with him on such an excursion, had
he had the choice.  Besides, he had already arranged that Jimmy should
go with him.  Therefore, like the ingenuous youth he was, he took the
first way of getting out of his difficulty, and in consequence found
himself floundering in a still greater quagmire immediately.

"You have not booked your passage yet?" he inquired, as if the matter
of the other's going with him had never for a moment crossed his mind.

Maas threw a searching glance at him.  He had a bold stroke to play,
and he did not quite know how to play it.  Though he had known Browne
for some considerable time, and was well aware that he was far from
being an exceptionally clever young man, yet, for a reason which I
cannot explain, he stood somewhat in awe of him.

"Well, to tell the truth," he said, "that was just what I was coming to
see you about.  I wanted to find out, whether you would permit me to
withdraw my refusal of your kind invitation, in favour of an
acceptance.  I know it is not quite the thing to do; but still our
friendship is old enough to permit of such a strain being placed upon
it.  If, however, you have filled your cabins, do not for a moment
consider me.  It is just possible I may be able to secure a berth on
one of the outgoing mail-boats.  Get away, however, I must, and
immediately."

Browne scarcely knew what to say in reply.  He knew that every person
he added to the party meant an additional danger to all concerned; and
he felt that, in common justice to Maas, he could not take him without
giving him some hint of what he was about to do.  Maas noticed his
hesitation; and, thinking it betokened acquiescence to his plan, was
quick to take advantage of it.

"My dear fellow," he said, "if I am causing you the least
inconvenience, I beg of you not to give it a second thought.  I should
not have spoken to you at all on the subject had you not said what you
did to me in Paris."

After this speech Browne felt that he had no opening left, save to
declare that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to have the
other's society upon the voyage.

"And you are quite sure that I shall not be in the way?" Maas inquired.

"In the way?" Browne replied.  "Not at all; I have only Jimmy Foote
going with me.  We shall be a snug little party."

"It's awfully good of you," said Maas; "and I'm sure I don't know how
to thank you.  When do you propose to sail?"

"On Monday next from Southampton," answered Browne.  "I will see that
you have a proper notice, and I will also let you know by what train we
shall go down.  Your heavier baggage had better go on ahead."

"You are kindness itself," said Maas.  "By the way, since we have come
to this arrangement, why should we not have a little dinner to-night at
my rooms as a send off?  I'll find Foote and get him to come, and we'll
drink a toast to the Land of the Rising Sun."

"Many thanks," said Browne, "but I'm very much afraid it's quite out of
the question.  I leave for Paris this afternoon, and shall not be back
until Saturday at earliest."

"What a pity!" said Maas.  "Never mind; if we can't celebrate the
occasion on this side of the world, we will do so on the other.  You
are turning off here?  Well, good-bye, and many, many thanks to you.
You cannot imagine how grateful I feel to you, and what a weight you
have taken off my mind."

"I am glad to hear it," said Browne; and then, shaking him by the hand,
he crossed the road and made his way down St. James's Street.
"Confound it all!" he said to himself, as he walked along, "this is
just the sort of scrape my absurd mania for issuing invitations gets me
into.  I like Maas well enough as an acquaintance, but I don't know
that he is altogether the sort of fellow I should have chosen to
accompany me on an expedition like this.  However, what's done cannot
be undone; and it is just possible, as his health is giving way, that
he will decide to leave us in Japan; then we shall be all right.  If he
doesn't, and elects to go on with us--well, I suppose we must make the
best of it."

As he came to this philosophical conclusion, he turned the corner from
St. James's Street into Pall Mall, and ran into the arms of the very
man for whom he was in search.  Foote was evidently in as great a hurry
as himself, and, such was the violence of the shock, that it was a
wonderful thing that they did not both fall to the ground.

"Hang it, man, why don't you look where you're going?" Foote cried
angrily, as he put his hand to his head to hold on his hat.  As he did
so he recognised Browne.

"Hullo, old chap, it's you, is it?" he cried.  "By Jove! do you know
you nearly knocked me down?"

"It's your own fault," Browne answered snappishly.  "What do you mean
by charging round the corner like that?  You might have known what
would happen."

They stood and looked at one another for a moment, and then Foote burst
out laughing.  "My dear old fellow," he said, "what on earth's wrong
with you?  You don't seem to be yourself this morning."

"I'm not," said Browne.  "Nothing seems to go right with me, do what I
will.  I tell you, Jimmy, I'm the biggest ass that walks the earth."

Jimmy whistled softly to himself.  "This is plainly a case which
demands the most careful treatment," he said aloud.  "From what I can
see of it, it will be necessary for me to prescribe for him.  My
treatment will be a good luncheon and a pint of the Widow to wash it
down.  Come along."  So saying, he slipped his arm through that of his
companion, and led him back in the direction of the Monolith Club.
"Now, Master Browne," he said, as they walked along, "you will just
tell me everything,--hiding nothing, remember, and setting down naught
in malice.  For the time being you must look upon me as your
father-confessor."

"In point of fact, Jimmy," Browne began, "I have just seen our friend
Maas."

"Well, what of that?" replied the other.  "How has that upset you?
From what I know of him, Maas is usually amusing, except when he gets
on the topic of his ailments."

"That's exactly it," said Browne.  "He got on the subject of his
ailments with me.  The upshot of it all was that he reminded me of an
invitation I had given him in Paris, half in jest, mind you, to visit
the East with me."

"The deuce!" said Jimmy.  "Do you mean to say that he has decided to
accompany us, now?"

"That's just it," said Browne.  "That's why I'm so annoyed; and yet I
don't know exactly why I should be, for, all things considered, he is
not a bad sort of a fellow."

"Nevertheless, I wish he were not coming with us," said Jimmy, with
unwonted emphasis.  "Did you tell him anything of what you are going to
do?"

"Of course not," said Browne.  "I did not even hint at it.  As far as
he knows, I am simply visiting Japan in the ordinary way, for pleasure."

"Well, if I were you," said Jimmy, "I should let him remain in that
belief.  I should not say anything about the real reason at all, and
even then not until we are on the high seas.  Of course I don't mean to
imply, for an instant, that he would be likely to say anything, or to
give you away in any possible sort of fashion; but still it would be
safer, I should think, to keep silence on the subject.  You know what
we are going to do, I know it, Miss Petrovitch knows it, and Madame
Bernstein also.  Who else is there you have told?"

"No one," said Browne.  "But I dropped a hint to Mason that the errand,
that was taking us out, was a peculiar one.  I thought he ought to know
as much as that for more reasons than one."

"Quite right," said Jimmy; "and what's more, you can trust Mason.
Nevertheless, say nothing to Maas."

"You may depend upon it I will not do so," said Browne.

"Now here's the club," said Jimmy, as they reached the building in
question.  "Let us go in and have some luncheon.  After that what are
you going to do?"

"I am off to Paris this afternoon," the other replied.  "Madame
Bernstein and Miss Petrovitch leave for Japan in one of the French
boats the day after to-morrow, and I want to see them before they go."

After luncheon with Foote, Browne returned to his house, wrote a letter
containing the most minute instructions to Captain Mason, and later on
caught the afternoon express for Paris.  The clocks of the French
capital were striking eleven as he reached his hotel that night.  He
was worn out, and retired almost immediately to bed, though it would
have required but little persuasion to have taken him off to the Rue
Jacquarie.  As it was, however, he had to content himself with the
reflection, that he was to see her the very first thing in the morning.



CHAPTER XVIII

Nine o'clock on the following day, punctual almost to the minute, found
Browne exchanging greetings with the _concierge_ at the foot of the
stairs, who, by this time, had come to know his face intimately.  The
latter informed him that Mademoiselle Petrovitch was at home, but that
Madame Bernstein had gone out some few minutes before.  Browne
congratulated himself upon the latter fact, and ran upstairs three
steps at a time.  Within four minutes from entering the building
Katherine was in his arms.

"Are you pleased to see me again, darling?" he inquired, after the
first excitement of their meeting had passed away.

"More pleased than I can tell you," she answered; and as she spoke
Browne could see the love-light in her eyes.  "Ever since your telegram
arrived yesterday, I have been counting the minutes until I should see
you.  It seems like years since you went away, and such long years too!"

What Browne said in reply to this pretty speech, it does not behove me
to set down here.  Whatever it was, however, it seemed to give great
satisfaction to the person to whom it was addressed.  At length they
sat down together upon the sofa, and Browne told her of the
arrangements he had made.  "I did not write to you about them, dear,"
he said, "for the reason that, in a case like this, the less that is
put on paper the better for all parties concerned.  Letters may go
astray, and there is no knowing what may happen to them.  Therefore I
thought I would keep all my news until I could tell it to you face to
face.  Are you ready for your long journey?"

"Yes, we are quite ready," said Katherine.  "We are only waiting for
you.  Madame has been very busy for the last few days, and so have I."
She mentioned Madame's name with some little trepidation, for she
feared lest the old subject, which had caused them both so much pain on
the last occasion that they had met, might be revived.  Browne,
however, was careful, as she was, not to broach it.

"And when will your yacht leave England?" she inquired, after he had
detailed his arrangements to her.

"On Monday next at latest," he answered.  "We shall not be very far
behind you."

"Nevertheless it will be a long, long time before I shall see you
again," she continued in a sad tone.  "Oh, Jack, Jack, I cannot tell
you how wicked I feel in allowing you to do so much for me.  Even now,
at this late hour, I feel I have no right to accept such a sacrifice at
your hands."

"Stop," he replied, holding up his finger in warning.  "I thought we
had agreed that nothing more should be said about it."

At this juncture there was the sound of a footstep in the passage
outside, and a few seconds later Madame Bernstein entered the room.  On
seeing Browne she hastened forward, and greeted him with all the
effusiveness of which she was mistress.  "Ah, Monsieur Browne," she
said, "now that I see you my courage returns.  As Katherine has
doubtless told you, everything is prepared, and we are ready to start
for Marseilles as soon as you give the order.  Katherine is looking
forward to the voyage; but as for me----  Ah!  I do hate the sea more
than anything in the world.  That nasty little strip of salt water
which divides England from France is a continual nightmare to me, and I
never cross it without hoping it may be the last time."

Browne tried to comfort her by telling her of the size of the vessel in
which they were to travel, and assured her that, even if she should be
ill, by the time they were out of the Mediterranean she would have
recovered.  Seeing that no other consolation was forthcoming, Madame
was compelled to be content with this poor comfort.

Though Browne had already breakfasted in the solid, substantial English
fashion, he was only too glad to persuade Madame Bernstein and his
sweetheart to partake of _déjeuner_ at one of the famous cafés on the
Boulevards.  After the meal Madame returned to the Rue Jacquarie in
order to finish a little packing, which she had left to the last
moment; while Browne, who had been looking forward to this opportunity,
assumed possession of Katharine, and carried her to one of the large
shops in the Rue de la Paix, where he purchased for her the best
dressing-bag ever obtained for love or money; to which he added a set
of sables that would have turned even Russian Royalty green with envy.
Never had his money seemed so useful to Browne.  These commissions
executed, they returned to the Rue Jacquarie, where they found Madame
Bernstein ready for the journey.  The express was due to leave Paris
for Marseilles at 2.15 p.m.  Twenty minutes before that hour a cab
drove up to the door, and in it Browne placed Madame Bernstein and
Katherine, following them himself.  Wonderful is the power of a gift!
Browne carried the bag, he had given Katherine that morning, down to
the cab with his own hands, and without being asked to do so, placed it
on the seat beside her.  He noticed that her right hand went out to
take it, and held it lovingly until they reached the station, where she
surrendered it to him again.

When they made their appearance on the platform an official hurried
forward to meet them, and conducted them forthwith to the special
saloon carriage Browne had bespoken for their use that morning.  As she
stepped into it Katherine gave a little grateful glance at her lover to
show that she appreciated his generosity.  Poor as she had always been,
she found it hard to realize what his wealth meant.  And yet there were
many little signs to give her evidence of the fact--the obsequious
railway officials; his own majestic English servant, who brought them a
sheaf of papers without being instructed to do so; and last, but by no
means least, the very railway carriage itself, which was of the most
luxurious description.  On Madame Bernstein entering the compartment
she placed herself in a corner, arranged her travelling-rug, her
smelling-salts, her papers, and her fan to her satisfaction; and by the
time she had settled down the journey had commenced.  The train was an
express, and did not stop until it reached Laroche at 4.40.  Here
afternoon tea was procured for the ladies; while on reaching Dijon, two
hours and a half later, it was discovered that an unusually luxurious
dinner had been ordered by telegraph, and was served in the second
compartment of the carriage.  Having done justice to it, they
afterwards settled themselves down for the night.  It is a very
significant fact that when Browne looks back upon that journey now, the
one most important fact, that strikes his memory, is that Madame
Bernstein fell asleep a little after eight o'clock, and remained so
until they had passed Pontanevaux.  During the time she slept, Browne
was able to have a little private conversation with Katherine; and
whatever trouble he had taken to ensure the journey being a successful
one, he was amply compensated for it.  At ten o'clock the polite
conductor begged permission to inform mesdames and monsieur that their
sleeping apartments were prepared for them.  Browne accordingly bade
the ladies good-night.

As the young man lay in his sleeping compartment that night, and the
train made its way across France towards its most important sea-port,
Browne's dreams were of many things.  At one moment he was back in the
Opera House at Covent Garden, listening to _Lohengrin_, and watching
Katherine's face as each successive singer appeared upon the stage.
Then, as if by magic, the scene changed, and he was on the windy
mountain-side at Merok, and Katherine was looking up at him from her
place of deadly peril a few feet below.  He reached down and tried to
save her, but it appeared to be a question of length of arm, and his
was a foot too short.  "Pray allow me to help you," said Maas; and
being only too grateful for any assistance, Browne permitted him to do
so.  They accordingly caught her by the hands and began to pull.  Then
suddenly, without any warning, Maas struck him a terrible blow upon the
head; both holds were instantly loosed, and Katherine was in the act of
falling over the precipice when Browne awoke.  Great beads of
perspiration stood upon his forehead, and, under the influence of this
fright, he trembled as he did not remember ever to have done in his
life before.  For upwards of an hour he lay awake, listening to the
rhythm of the wheels and the thousand and one noises that a train makes
at night.  Then once more he fell asleep, and, as before, dreamt of
Katherine.  Equally strange was it that on this occasion also Maas was
destined to prove his adversary.  They were in Japan now, and the scene
was a garden in which the Wistaria bloomed luxuriously.  Katherine was
standing on a rustic bridge, looking down into the water below, and
Maas was beside her.  Suddenly the bridge gave way, and the girl was
precipitated into the water.  Though she was drowning, he noticed that
Maas did nothing to help her, but stood upon what remained of the
bridge and taunted her with the knowledge that, if she were drowned,
her mission to the East would be useless.  After this no further sleep
was possible.  At break of day he accordingly rose and dressed himself.
They were passing through the little town of Saint-Chamas at the time.
It was a lovely morning; not a cloud in the sky, and all the air and
country redolent of life and beauty.  It was a day upon which a man
might be thankful for the right to live and love.  Yet Browne was sad
at heart.  Was he not about to part from the woman he loved for nearly
two whole months?  Brave though he was in most things, it must be
confessed he feared that separation, as a confirmed coward fears a
blow.  But still the train flew remorselessly on, bringing them every
moment nearer and nearer their destination.

When they reached it they drove direct to an hotel.  Here they
breakfasted, and afterwards made their way to the steamer.  Browne's
heart was sinking lower and lower, for never before had Katherine
seemed so sweet and so desirable.  Once on board the vessel they called
a steward to their assistance, and the two ladies were shown to their
cabins.  As they afterwards found out, they were the best that Browne
could secure, were situated amidships, and were really intended each to
accommodate four passengers.  While they were examining them Browne
hunted out the chief steward, and the stewards who would be likely to
wait upon his friends.  These he rewarded in such a way that, if the
men only acted up to their protestations, the remainder of the
passengers would have very good cause to complain.  Having finished
this work of bribery and corruption, he went in search of the ladies,
only to be informed by the stewardess that they had left their cabins
and had gone on deck.  He accordingly made his way up the
companion-ladder, and found them standing beside the smoking-room
entrance.

"I hope you found your cabins comfortable," he said.  "I have just seen
the chief steward, and he has promised that everything possible shall
be done to make you enjoy your voyage."

"How good you are!" said Katherine in a low voice, and with a little
squeeze of his hand; while Madame protested that, if it were possible
for anything to reconcile her to the sea, it would be Monsieur Browne's
kindness.  Then the warning whistle sounded for non-passengers to leave
the ship.  Madame Bernstein took the hint, and, having bade him
good-bye, made her way along the deck towards the companion-ladder,
leaving the lovers together.  Katherine's eyes had filled with tears
and she had grown visibly paler.  Now that the time had come for
parting with the man she loved, she had discovered how much he was to
her.

"Katherine," said Browne, in a voice that was hoarse with suppressed
emotion, "do you know now how much I love you?"

"You love me more than I deserve," she said.  "I shall never be able to
repay you for all you have done for me."

"I want no repayment but your love," he answered.

"Si vous n'êtes pas un voyageur, m'sieu, ayez l'obligeance de
débarquer," said a gruff voice in his ear.

Seeing that there was nothing left but to say good-bye, Browne kissed
Katherine, and, unable to bear any more, made for the gangway.  Five
minutes later the great ship was under way, and Katherine had embarked
upon her voyage to the East.



CHAPTER XIX

As soon as the mail-boat, which was carrying Katherine and Madame
Bernstein to the East, was out of sight, Browne turned to his man, who
was waiting beside him, and said: "Now, Davis, a cab, and quickly too.
We must not miss that train for London whatever happens."

As it was, they were only just in time.  He had scarcely taken his seat
before the train began to move out of the station.  Placing himself in
a corner of the carriage, he endeavoured to interest himself in a book;
but it was of no use.  Though his material body was seated in the
carriage being whirled away across the green plains of Southern France,
his actual self was on board the great mail-boat, which was cutting its
way through the blue waters, carrying Katherine mile by mile farther
out of his reach.  Dreary indeed did Europe seem to him now.  It was a
little before twelve o'clock when the train left Marseilles; it was
nearly four next afternoon when he sighted the waters of the Channel at
Calais.  Much to his astonishment and delight, Jimmy Foote met him at
Dover, and travelled back to town with him.  During his absence Browne
had entrusted their arrangements to his care; and in consequence Jimmy
carried about with him an air of business, which at other times was
quite unusual to him.

"I have been down to Southampton," he reported, "and have seen Mason.
He was hard at work getting the stores aboard, and asked me to tell you
he will be able to sail without fail early on Monday morning.  When do
you think we had better go down?"

"On Sunday," said Browne.  "We may as well get on board as soon as we
can."

Though he spoke in this casual way, he knew that in his heart he was
waiting the hour of departure with an impatience, that bordered almost
on desperation.  He longed to see the yacht's head pointed down
Channel, and to know that at last she was really in pursuit of the
other boat, which had been granted such a lengthy start.  On reaching
London they drove together to Browne's house.  It was Saturday evening,
and there were still a hundred and one things to be settled.  Upon his
study table Browne discovered upwards of fifty invitations from all
sorts and conditions of people.  He smiled cynically as he opened them,
and, when the last one had been examined, turned to Jimmy.

"Thank Heaven, I can decline these with a clear conscience," he said.
"By the time the dates come round we shall be on the high seas, far
beyond the reach of dinners, dances, and kettledrums.  I wonder how
many of these folk," he continued, picking up one from the heap and
flicking it across the table to his friend, "would have me in their
houses again if they knew what I am about to do?"

"Every one of them, my boy," the other replied; "from the Duchess of
Matlock downwards.  You might help a thousand Russian convicts to
escape from Saghalien, and they will pardon you; but you are doing one
other thing for which you must never hope to be forgiven."

"And what may that be?" Browne inquired.

"Why, you are marrying Miss Petrovitch," answered Jimmy.  "If she were
a famous beauty, a great heiress, or even the daughter of a peer, all
would be well; but you must remember that no one knows her; that,
however much you may love her, and however worthy she may be, she is
nevertheless not chronicled in the _Court Guide_.  To marry out of your
own circle is a sin seldom forgiven, particularly when a man is a
millionaire, and has been the desire of every match-making mother for
as long as you have."

"They had better treat my wife as I wish them to, or beware of me,"
said Browne angrily.  "If they treat her badly they'll find I've got
claws."

"But, my dear fellow, you are running your head against the wall," said
Jimmy.  "I never said they _would_ treat her badly.  On the contrary,
they will treat her wonderfully well; for, remember, she is your wife.
They will accept all her invitations for dances in London, will stay
with her in the country; they will yacht, hunt, fish, and shoot with
you; but the mothers, who, after all is said and done, are the leaders
of society, will never forget or forgive you.  My dear fellow," he
continued, with the air of a man who knew his world thoroughly, which,
to do him justice, he certainly did, "you surely do not imagine for an
instant that Miss Verney has forgotten that----"

"We'll leave Miss Verney out of the question, Jimmy, if you don't
mind," replied Browne, with rather a different intonation.

"I thought that would make him wince," murmured Jimmy to himself; and
then added aloud, "Never mind, old man; we won't pursue the subject any
further.  It's not a nice one, and we've plenty else to think about,
have we not?  Let me tell you, I am looking forward to this little
business more than I have ever done to anything.  The only regret I
have about it is that there does not appear to be any probability of
our having some fighting.  I must confess I should like to have a brush
with the enemy, if possible."

"In that case we should be lost men," Browne replied.  "No; whatever we
do, we must avoid coming into actual conflict with the Authorities.  By
the way, what about Maas?"

"I saw him this morning," Foote replied.  "I told him what arrangements
we had made, and he will meet us whenever and wherever we wish.  He
seemed quite elated over the prospect of the voyage, and told me he
thought it awfully good of you to take him.  After all, he's not a bad
sort of fellow.  There is only one thing I don't like about him, and
that is his predilection for wishing people to think he is in a
delicate state of health."

"And you don't think he is?" said Browne.

"Of course I don't," Jimmy replied.  "Why, only this morning I was with
him more than an hour, and he didn't cough once; and yet he was
continually pointing out to me that it was so necessary for his
health--for his lungs, in fact---that he should go out of England at
once.  It is my idea that he is hypochondriacal."

"Whatever he is, I wish to goodness he had chosen any other time for
wanting to accompany us.  I have a sort of notion that his presence on
board will bring us bad luck."

"Nonsense," said his matter-of-fact friend.  "Why should it?  Maas
could do us no harm, even supposing he wanted to.  And he's certain not
to have any desire that way."

"Well," answered Browne, "that is what I feel, and yet I can't make out
why I should do so."  As he said this he pressed the ring Katharine had
given him, and remembered that that was his talisman, and that she had
told him that, while he wore it, he could come to no harm.  With that
on his finger, and his love for her in his heart, it would be wonderful
indeed if he could not fulfil the task he had set himself to do.

It is strange how ignorant we are of the doings, and indeed of the very
lives, of our fellow-men.  I do not mean the actions which, in the
broad light of day, lie in the ordinary routine of life, but those more
important circumstances which are not seen, but make up, and help to
weave the skein of each man's destiny.  For instance, had a certain
well-known official in the office of the Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs, who stood upon the platform of Waterloo station, waiting for
the train that was to carry him to the residence of a friend at Woking,
dreamt for an instant that the three gentlemen he nodded so affably to,
and who were standing at the door of a saloon carriage in the same
train, were leaving England next day, in order to cause considerable
trouble to a Power that, at the moment had shown signs of being
friendly, what would his feelings have been?  He did not know it,
however; so he seated himself in his comfortable smoking-carriage, lit
a cigar, and read his Sunday paper, quite unconscious of the
circumstances.

It was nearly eight o'clock before they readied Southampton.  When they
did they made their way to the harbour, where a steam-launch from the
yacht was awaiting them.  The _Lotus Blossom_ herself lay off the Royal
Pier; and when they reached her, Captain Mason received them at the
gangway.

"Well, Mason," said Browne, "is everything ready for the start
to-morrow?"

"Everything is ready, sir," Mason replied.  "You have only to say when
you desire to get off, and we'll up anchor."

Browne thought that he would like to get under way at once; but it
could not be.  He looked along the snow-white decks and upon the
polished brasswork, and thought of the day that he had left the boat
when she was anchored in the harbour of Merok, to accompany his guests
on their walk to the falls, and of the wonderful things that had
happened since then.  Before many weeks had passed over their heads he
hoped that Katherine herself would be standing on these self-same
decks.  He pictured the delight he would feel in showing her over his
trim and beautiful vessel, and thought of the long conversations they
would have on deck at night, and of the happiness they would feel when
they were speeding towards safety once more, with the rescued man on
board.  What they were to do with her father, when they had got him,
was one thing he wanted to leave to Katherine to decide.  He was
awakened from these dreams by Foote, who inquired whether he intended
to allow his guests to remain on deck all night, or whether he was
going to take them below.

"I beg your pardon," said Browne.  "It's awfully rude of me to keep you
standing here like this.  Come along."

They accordingly made their way down the companion-ladder to the saloon
below.  Everything had been prepared for their reception, and the
stewards were already laying dinner as they entered.  Having finished
that important meal, and drunk the toast of a pleasant voyage, they
ascended to the deck once more, when Foote and Maas made their way to
the smoking-room, while Browne went up to the bridge to have a talk
with the captain.  When he descended again, he announced to his guests
that the yacht would be got under way as soon as it was light in the
morning, and that the first coaling-place would be Gibraltar.

"Bravo!" said Jimmy, rapping the table with his pipe.  "Thank goodness,
by midday we shall be well out in the Channel."

At the same moment Maas's cigar slipped from between his fingers and
dropped on the floor.  He bent down to pick it up, but at first could
not find it.  By the time he had done so the conversation had changed,
and Browne had drawn his watch from his pocket.  A cry of astonishment
escaped him: "Have you any idea what the time is?"

They confessed that they had not.

"Well, it's nearly twelve o'clock," he said.  "If you won't either of
you take anything else, I think the best thing we can do is to get to
bed as soon as possible."

So tired was Browne that night that he slept without waking until well
on in the following morning.  Indeed, it was past nine o'clock when
Davis, his man-servant, entered and woke him; he sat up, and rubbed his
eyes, as if he could very well have gone on sleeping for another hour
or two.

"By Jove! we're under way," he said, as if he were surprised to find
the yacht moving.  "Where are we, Davis?"

"Off Swanage, sir," the man replied.  "Captain Mason couldn't get away
quite as early as he hoped to do; but he's making up for lost time now,
sir."

"What sort of a day is it?" Browne inquired.

"Beautiful, sir; it couldn't be no better if you'd ordered it special,"
said Davis, who was a bit of a wag in his way, and was privileged as
such.  "There's just a nice bit of swell running, but no more.  Not
enough to shake the curls of a schoolmistress, in a manner of speaking."

This Browne discovered to be the case, when he ascended to the deck.
The yacht was bathed in sunshine, and she sat as softly as a duck upon
a large green swell, that was as easy as the motion of a rocking-horse.
Far away to starboard the pinewood cliffs of Bournemouth could be
descried; while a point on the starboard-bow was Poole Harbour and
Swanage headland, with Old Harry peering up out of the sunlit waves.
Browne ascended to the bridge, to find Foote and Captain Mason there.
The latter touched his cap, while Foote came forward and held out his
hand.

"Good-morning," said Jimmy.  "What do you think of this, my boy?  Isn't
it better than London?  Doesn't it make you feel it's worth something
to be alive?  I wouldn't change places this morning with any man in
England."

"And you may be very sure I would not," said Browne; then, turning to
the skipper, he inquired what the yacht was doing.

"Thirteen knots good, sir," the latter replied.  "We shall do better,
however, when we've put Portland Bill behind us."

As he spoke the breakfast-bell sounded, and simultaneously with it Maas
appeared on deck.  Browne and Foote descended from the bridge to greet
him, and found him in excellent spirits.

"I feel better already," he said, as they went down the
companion-ladder and took their places at the table.  "How beautiful
the air is on deck!  Alchemists may say what they please, but this is
the Elixir of Life.  What a pity it is we cannot bottle it, and
introduce it into the crowded ballrooms and dining-rooms during the
London season!"

"That's rather an original notion," retorted Jimmy.  "Fancy, after a
waltz with a heavy partner, taking her off to a room set apart for the
purpose, seating her in a chair, and, instead of asking her the usual
insipid question, whether she would have an ice, or coffee, or claret
cup, inquiring what brand of air she preferred--whether she would have
a gallon of Bournemouth, which is relaxing, or Margate, which is
bracing, or Folkestone--shall we say?--which is midway between the two.
It could be laid on in town and country houses, and, combined with the
phonograph, which would repeat the nigger minstrel melodies of the
sands, and the biograph, which would show the surrounding scenery,
would be a tremendous attraction.  Having purchased one of these
machines, paterfamilias need not trouble his head about taking his
family away for the annual trip to the seaside.  Rents would not affect
him; he would be free from landladies' overcharges.  All he would have
to do would be to take his wife and bairns into a room, turn on the
various machines, and science would do the rest."

"Perhaps, when you have done talking nonsense," said Browne, "you will
be kind enough to hand me the _pâté de foie gras_.  I remember so many
of your wonderful schemes, Jimmy, that I begin to think I know them all
by heart."

"In that case you must admit that the majority of them were based upon
very sound principles," replied Jimmy.  "I remember there was one that
might have made a fortune for anybody.  It was to be a matrimonial
registry for the upper ten, where intending Benedicts could apply for
particulars respecting their future wives.  For instance, the Duke of
A----, being very desirous of marrying, and being also notoriously
impecunious, would call at the office and ask for a choice of American
heiresses possessing between five and ten millions.  Photographs having
been submitted to him, and a guarantee as to the money given to him,
meetings between the parties could be arranged by the company, and a
small commission charged when the marriage was duly solemnized.  Then
there was another scheme for educating the sons of millionaires in the
brands of cigars they should give their friends.  For a small
commission, Viscount B----, who has smoked himself into the bankruptcy
court, would call at their residences three times a week, when he would
not only show them how to discriminate between a Trichinopoli and a
Burma Pwé, which is difficult to the uninitiated, but also between La
Intimidad Excelsos of '94 and Henry Clay Soberanos, which is much more
so."

"I remember yet another scheme," said Maas quietly, as he helped
himself to some caviare from a dish before him.  "You told me once of a
scheme you were perfecting for forming a company to help long-sentenced
burglars of proved ability to escape from penal servitude, in order
that they should work for the society on the co-operative principle.
If my memory serves me, it was to be a most remunerative speculation.
The only flaw in it that I could see was the difficulty in arranging
the convict's escape, and the danger, that would accrue to those
helping him, in case they were discovered."



CHAPTER XX

Had a bombshell fallen through the skylight of the saloon and settled
itself in the centre of the table, it could scarcely have caused
greater consternation than did Maas's simple remark.  Browne felt that
his face was visibly paling, and that guilt must be written on every
inch of it.  As for Jimmy, his mouth opened and shut like that of an
expiring fish.  He could scarcely believe he had heard aright.  He had
certainly once in an idle moment joked in the fashion Maas had
attributed to him; but what had induced the latter to remember and to
bring it up now, of all times, when their nerves were so tightly
stretched?  Maas's face, however, was all innocence.  He seemed not to
have noticed the amazement he had caused, but ate his caviare with the
air of a man who had said something worthy, the point of which had
fallen a trifle flat.  It was not until the meal was over, and they had
ascended to the deck once more, that Browne found an opportunity of
having a few words with Jimmy.

"What on earth did he mean by that?" he asked.  "Do you think he can
have heard anything?  Or do you think he only suspects?"

"Neither," said Jimmy.  "I'll tell you what I think it was; it was a
perfectly simple remark, which by sheer ill-luck just happened to touch
us in the wrong place.  It was, as the shooters say, an unintentional
bull's-eye.  But, by Jove!  I must confess that it made me feel pretty
bad at the moment."

"Then you think we need not attach any importance to it?"

"I'm quite sure we need not," his friend replied.  "Look at it in this
way: if the man had known anything he most certainly would not have
said anything about it.  If we had suspected him of knowing our secret,
and had put ourselves out in order to bring him to the point, and he
had kept silence, then we might have thought otherwise; as it is, I am
positive we need not be afraid."

As if to reassure them, Maas said nothing further on the subject.  He
was full of good-humour, absorbed the sunshine like a Neapolitan, and
seemed to enjoy every hour he lived.  He also did his best to make the
others do likewise.  He talked upon every conceivable subject, and did
not feel in the least annoyed when the others appeared occupied.  They
passed Plymouth soon after twelve next day, and said good-bye to Old
England shortly afterwards.  How little those on board guessed what was
to happen before they could see her shores again?  Five days later they
were at Gibraltar, anchored in the harbour beneath the shadow of the
batteries.  Though he grudged every minute, and though he had seen the
Rock a dozen times before, Browne accompanied them ashore, explored the
Galleries, and lunched at the Officers' Mess.

"What rum beggars we are, to be sure!" said young Bramthwaite, of the
43rd Midlandshire, to Browne, as they lit their cigars afterwards.
"Here are you, posting off for the East, and as anxious as you can be
to turn your back on Old England; while I, poor beggar, am quartered
here, and am longing to get home with all my might and main.  Do you
think, if I had your chance, I would go abroad?  Not I."

"Circumstances alter cases," returned Browne.  "If you were in my place
you would want to be out of England.  You should just have seen London
as we left.  Fogs, sleet, snow, drizzle, day after day, while here you
are wrapped in continual sunshine.  I don't see that you have much to
grumble at."

"Don't you?" said his friend.  "Well, I do.  Let us take my own case
again.  I am just up from a baddish attack of Rock-fever.  I feel as
weak as a cat--not fit for anything.  And what good does it do me?  I
don't even have the luck to be properly ill, so that I could compel
them to invalid me.  And, to make matters worse, my brother writes that
they are having the most ripping hunting in the shires; from his
letters I gather that the pheasants have never been better; and, with
it all, here I am, like the Johnny in the heathen mythology, chained to
this rock, and unable to get away."

Browne consoled him to the best of his ability, and shortly afterwards
collected his party and returned to the yacht.  The work of coaling was
completed, and Captain Mason, who resembled a badly blacked Christy
Minstrel, was ready to start as soon as his owner desired.  Browne,
nothing loath, gave the order, and accordingly they steamed out of the
harbour, past the Rock, and were in blue seas once more.  They would
not touch anywhere again until they reached Port Said.

That night on deck Browne was lamenting the fact that the yacht did not
travel faster than she did.

"My dear fellow," said Maas, "what a hurry you are in, to be sure!
Why, this is simply delightful.  What more could you wish for?  You
have a beautiful vessel, your cook is a genius, and your wines are
perfect.  If I had your money, do you know what I would do?  I would
sail up and down the Mediterranean at this time of the year for months
on end."

"I don't think you would," replied Browne.  "In the meantime, what I
want is to get to Japan."

"I presume your _fiancée_ is to meet you there?" said Maas.  "I can
quite understand your haste now."

There was a silence for a few moments, and then Maas added, as if the
idea had just struck him: "By the way, you have never told me her name."

"Her name is Petrovitch," answered Browne softly, as if the name were
too precious to be breathed aloud.  "I do not think you have ever met
her."

"Now I come to think of it, I believe I have," Maas responded.  "At
least, I am not acquainted with her personally, but I have met some one
who knows her fairly well."

"Indeed!" said Browne, in some astonishment.  "And who might that some
one be?"

"You need not be jealous, my dear fellow," Maas continued.  "My friend
was a lady, a Miss Corniquet, a French artist.  Miss Petrovitch, I
believe, exhibited in the Salon last year, and they met shortly
afterwards.  I remember that she informed me that the young lady in
question showed remarkable talent.  I am sure, Browne, I congratulate
you heartily."

"Many thanks," remarked the other; and so the matter dropped for the
time being.

Port Said and the work of coaling being things of the past, they
proceeded through the Suez Canal and down the Red Sea; coaled once more
at Aden, and later on at Colombo.  By the time they reached Singapore,
Browne's impatience could scarcely be controlled.  With every day an
increased nervousness came over him.  At last they were only a few
hours' steam from Hong-kong.  It was there that Browne was to interview
the famous Johann Schmidt, of whom Herr Sauber had spoken to him in
Paris.  What the result of that interview would be he could only
conjecture.  He wanted to get it over in order that he might have his
plans cut and dried by the time they reached Japan, where Katharine and
Madame Bernstein must now be.  If all went well, he would soon join
them there.

At ten o'clock on a lovely morning they entered the Ly-ee-moon Pass,
steamed past Green Island, and at length they came in sight of the
crowded harbour of Victoria.  Once at anchor, the steam-launch was
slung overboard and brought alongside, Browne and his friends took
their places in her, and she forthwith made her way to the shore.  None
of the men had seen the wonderful city, they were now visiting, before,
so that all its marvels, its wealth, and its extraordinary mixture of
races were new to them.  Though they had encountered him in his
American hybrid condition, it was the first time they had been brought
into actual contact with their marvellous Yellow Brother, who in
Hong-kong may be seen in all the glory of his dirt and sumptuousness.
Reaching the Praya, they disembarked, and ascended the steps.
Accosting an English inspector of police whom they met, they inquired
in what direction they should proceed in order to reach the Club.  He
pointed out the way, and they accordingly set off in search of it.
Turning into the Queen's Road, they made their way along it until they
reached the place in question.  Browne had a letter of introduction to
one of the members, given to him in London, and he was anxious to
present it to him in order to learn something, if possible, of Johann
Schmidt before going in search of him.  Leaving his two friends
outside, he entered the Club and inquired for the gentleman in
question.  The servant who received him informed him that the member
was not at the time in the building.

"Can you tell me his address?" said Browne.  "It's just possible I may
find him at his office."

The man furnished him with what he wanted, and showed him how he could
reach it.  Rejoining his companions, Browne proceeded down the street,
passed the Law Courts, and went in the direction of the Barracks.  At
last he reached the block of buildings of which he was in search.  The
name of the man he wanted was to be seen on a brass plate upon the
door.  He entered, and accosting a white-clad Englishman in an enormous
solar topee, whom he found there, inquired if he could tell whether his
friend was at home.

"I believe he is," the man replied.  "At any rate, if you will wait a
moment I'll soon find out."  Leaving them, he departed down the
passage, to return presently with the information that the person they
wanted to see was in his office.

Foote and Maas remained in the street, while Browne entered a cool and
airy room at the farther end of the passage.  Here, seated at an
office-table, was another white-clad Englishman.  He had a cigar in his
mouth, and possessed a handsome face and a close-cropped beard.

"Mr. ----?" said Browne, after he had thanked his conductor for his
courtesy.

"That is my name," the gentleman replied.  "What can I have the
pleasure of doing for you?"

"I have a letter of introduction to you," said Browne, producing the
document in question from his pocket, and handing it across the table.
"I believe we are common friends of George Pellister?"

"George Pellister!" cried the man.  "I should rather think so; when I
was home three years ago he was awfully kind to me.  So you are a
friend of his?  Pray forgive my not having come out to greet you.  Come
and sit down.  How long have you been in the island?"

"Only an hour and a half," Browne replied.

"An hour and a half!" the other repeated.  "I had no idea there was an
English mail-boat in.  The P. & O. only left yesterday."

"I didn't come in a mail-boat," said Browne.  "I've got my own tub.  We
left London on the 7th of last month."

The man behind the table opened his eyes in surprise.  Gentlemen who
travelled as far as Hong-kong in their own steam-yachts, were few and
far between, and had to be treated with proper respect.  He accordingly
found an opportunity of opening the letter of introduction.  Had Browne
been watching his face, he would have seen the expression of
astonishment that spread over it, as he realized that his visitor was
no less a person than the fabulously wealthy John Grantham Browne, of
whose doings in the social and sporting world he had so often read.

"I am very glad indeed that you have called on me," he said, after he
had somewhat recovered from his astonishment.  "While you are here you
must let me do the honours of Hong-kong, such as they are.  Of course I
can put you up at the Club, if that's any use to you, and show you all
there is to be seen, though I fear it will bore you fearfully after
London.  How long are you staying?"

"Well," answered Browne, "I'm afraid I shall not be able to remain very
long on the outward voyage.  I should not have called here at all, but
that I had some rather important business to transact.  I'm on my way
to Japan."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the other.  "Well, I shall be only too happy if you
will let me help you in any way I can."

"It's not a very big matter," replied Browne.  "All I want to know is
the address of a certain person living in Hong-kong whose name is
Schmidt--Johann Schmidt."

"Johann Schmidt?" asked the other.  "I am not quite certain that I know
this particular one; there are so many of that name here, and I dare
say a large proportion of them are Johanns.  However, I will send some
one to find out; and if you will take tiffin with me at the Club, my
clerks shall make inquiries while we are doing so."

Browne thereupon explained that he had two friends travelling with him,
with the result that the other replied that he would only be too happy
if they would join the party.  They accordingly adjourned, and, picking
up Maas and Foote in the street, proceeded to the Club.  Tiffin was
almost at an end, when a servant entered and placed a card beside their
host's plate.  He glanced at it, and, turning to Browne, he pushed it
towards him.

"If I'm not mistaken, that is the man you want," he remarked.  "I think
it only fair to tell you that I know the fellow, and he is rather an
extraordinary character.  Between ourselves, he does not bear any too
good a reputation."

"Oh, that doesn't matter to me in the least," responded Browne.  "My
business with him is purely of a commercial nature."

After that no more was said on the subject, and, when they rose from
the table, Browne proposed that he should go in search of the man in
question.  "I am anxious, if possible, to leave Hong-kong at daybreak
to-morrow morning," he said; and then added, by way of explanation, "I
am due in Japan, and have no time to spare."

"I am sorry to hear that," returned the other.  "I had hoped you would
have stayed longer.  However, while you are away, your friends had
better remain with me.  I will do my best to amuse them."

Browne thereupon rose to take leave.  His host accompanied him to the
street, and, having put him in a _rickshá_, told the coolie where he
was to take him.

"I am exceedingly obliged to you for your kindness," said Browne, as he
shook hands.  "Will you not let me return it by asking you to dine with
us on board my boat to-night?  She is the _Lotus Blossom_.  I don't
suppose you will have much difficulty in finding her."

"I shall be delighted," replied the other.  "At what time do you dine?"

"At half-past seven," answered Browne.

"_Au revoir_, then, until half-past seven."

They waved hands to each other, and Browne laid himself back in the
_rickshá_, mumbling as he did so, "Now for our friend Johann Schmidt."



CHAPTER XXI

Leaving the Club, the _rickshá_ coolie proceeded in the opposite
direction to that which Browne had followed, when in search of the
gentleman to whom he had presented the letter of introduction.  At
first, and while he remained in the Queen's Road, there was but little
difference to be observed; the thoroughfare was a fine one, broad and
commodious.  After one or two turnings, however, matters changed
somewhat, and he found himself in a labyrinth of narrow, tortuous
streets, the shops on either side of which were small and mean, the
names over the doors being for the most part in the Celestial
characters.  The confusion that existed in the streets was
indescribable.  Here the Mongolian was to be seen in all his glory.
But, in addition to the Chinamen, almost every nationality known to the
Asiatic world was represented; while through it all, towering head and
shoulders above the crowd, stalked the stately Sikhs on patrol duty.
At last, after a drive that had occupied perhaps a quarter of an hour,
the coolie drew up, before what was probably the largest shop Browne
had yet seen in the neighbourhood.  It was built in the Chinese
fashion, and, in order that West and East may meet on an equal footing,
had two names over the door, one in Chinese writing, the other plainly
printed in English characters: "Johann Schmidt."  Browne alighted, and,
having told his coolie to wait, entered the shop.  He was greeted on
the threshold by a stout Chinaman, who was plainly in charge.

"What for you piecee look see?" inquired the latter.

Browne, not being adept at pidgin-English, replied to the effect that
he desired to see and speak with Herr Schmidt.  Whether the man
comprehended or not he could not tell; at any rate he left him alone in
the shop, while he disappeared behind a curtain at the farther end.
When he returned, a few seconds later, he was accompanied by a portly
individual, whose nationality the veriest tyro could not mistake.  As
if to make it doubly sure, he carried in his hand an enormous pipe
fashioned after the pattern of the Fatherland.  His face was large and
almost spherical; his hair was close-cropped, as was his beard; he was
attired in white trousers, a flannel shirt, which would have been none
the worse for a wash, and a black alpaca coat.  The Teutonic stolidity
was certainly well developed in him.  On seeing Browne he stopped and
sucked contentedly at his pipe, but said nothing.  The younger man was
the first to speak.

"You are Herr Schmidt, I believe?" said Browne, in English.  The other
nodded his head, but still did not venture upon speech.  "I bring a
letter of introduction to you," said Browne, dropping his voice a
little, as though he were afraid of being overheard.  "It is from a
certain Herr Otto Sauber, whom I met in Paris about two months ago.  He
told me that you would do all you could for me in a certain matter."

"Herr Sauber?" inquired the German.  "I cannot dink that I am mit him
acquainted."

Browne's disappointment was plainly discernible on his face.  He had
fully expected that, immediately he presented the letter Sauber had
given him, this mysterious Johann Schmidt would understand and arrange
everything.  This, however, did not appear to be the case.  The man
before him sucked stolidly at his pipe, and watched him with eyes that
had no expression in them.  The position was embarrassing, to say the
least of it.  Was it possible that his mission was going to prove
futile after all, and that, for the good he was to get out of it, he
might just as well not have wasted his time by calling at Hong-kong at
all?  For upwards of thirty most uncomfortable seconds the two men
stood watching each other.  Then Browne spoke.

"You are quite sure, I suppose," he asked, "that you do not know the
gentleman in question?  I certainly understood from him that you had
been acquainted with each other for many years."

The German shook his head.  Then he said slowly, "Perhaps, mein frien,
if you would mit me come, I will talk mit you ubon the madder.  So many
men do say dot they know Johann Schmidt.  But Johann do not know dem.
If you to mine office would come, we will talk mit each other dere."

Browne accordingly followed him behind the curtain to which I have
alluded.  There he found, to his surprise, a most comfortable and, I
might almost add, luxurious apartment.  The walls were hung with
pictures of considerable merit, interspersed with innumerable curios,
collected from almost every country in the Farther East.  In any other
place the room might have ranked as a fairly noteworthy apartment; but
here, surrounded by so much that was sordid--nay, almost barbaric--it
was little short of unique.  Pointing to a long bamboo chair which
fitted a corner beneath an enormous Cantonese dragon, used for burning
pastilles, the German bade Browne seat himself.  Before the latter did
so, however, he handed the German the letter with which Herr Sauber had
furnished him.  The other took it, cut the flap of the envelope with a
jade paper-knife, and, drawing forth the contents, placed an enormous
pair of spectacles upon his nose, and read them thoroughly.  Upwards of
five minutes had elapsed between the time Browne had given him the
letter until he spoke again.  These long delays were having a bad
effect upon the young man's temper; they strained his nerves to
breaking-pitch.  He felt that this phlegmatic individual would not
hurry himself, even if another's existence depended upon it.  To all
intents and purposes he had united in his person the apathy of the
Asiatic with the stolidity of the Teuton.

"Now dat I look ubon it, I do remember Herr Sauber," the other replied.
"It was once dat we very good friends were, but it is many years dat I
heard of him."  The old fellow wagged his head solemnly until his
glasses shook upon his nose.  The recollection of the incident,
whatever it was, seemed to afford him considerable satisfaction, though
why it should have done so was by no means apparent to Browne.

"But with regard to what he says in the letter?" the young man at last
exclaimed in desperation.  "Will you be able to help me, do you think?"

"Ah!  I know noddings about dat," answered Schmidt.  "I do not
understand what dis business is.  If it is Chinese silk, or curios, or
gondiments of any kind, den I know what you want.  Dere is no one on
dis island can subbly you so goot as Johann Schmidt."

Browne did not know what to say.  For his own sake he knew that it
would not be safe to broach such a delicate subject to a man, like the
one seated before him, whose only idea in life seemed to be to cross
one fat leg over the other and to fill and smoke his pipe until the
room was one large tobacco-cloud, unless he was quite certain of that
person's identity with the individual, to whom he had been directed to
apply.

"To put the matter in a nutshell," said Browne, lowering his voice a
little in order that it should not carry farther than the man seated
before him, "I understood from Herr Sauber that if any one happened to
have a friend, who had the misfortune to be compelled to stay rather
longer in a certain place, than was quite conducive to his health or
peace of mind, by applying to you an arrangement might possibly be
made, whereby his release might be effected."

Herr Schmidt for the first time took the pipe out of his mouth and
looked at him.  "Bardon, mein frien, but I do not understand what is
meant by dat speech," he replied.  "If de place, where dat frien of
yours is living, is not to his health suited, why does not he elsewhere
go?"

Though Browne felt morally certain that the man understood what he
meant, he did not feel justified in speaking more plainly at the
moment.  He had to feel his way before he definitely committed himself.
However, a little reflection was sufficient to show him, that it would
be impossible to make any progress at all unless he spoke out, and that
even in the event of his doing so, he would not be placing himself in
any way in the other's power.  He accordingly resolved upon a line of
action.

"The truth of the matter is, Herr Schmidt," he began, leaning a little
forward, and speaking with all the emphasis of which he was master, "I
happen to have a friend who is at the present time confined on a
certain island.  He is in delicate health, and his friends are anxious
to get him away.  Now, I have been informed that, if suitable terms can
be arranged, it would be possible for you to effect this escape.  Is
this so?"

"Mine goot frien," returned the German, "let me tell you dat you speak
too plain.  The words dat you talk mit me would make trouble mit my
friens de police.  Besides, dere is no esgaping from der jail ubon dis
island."

"I did not say anything about the jail upon this island," retorted
Browne; "the place I mean is a very long way from here."

"Well then, Noumea, perhaps?"

"No, not Noumea," answered Browne.  "If I am to enter into more
explanations, I might say that my friend is a Russian, and that he is
also a political prisoner."  He stopped and watched Herr Schmidt's face
anxiously.  The latter was sitting bolt upright in his chair, with a
fat hand resting on either knee; his spectacles were pushed on to the
top of his head, and his long pipe was still in his mouth.  Not a sign
escaped him to show that he understood.

"I dink dat mein old comrade, Herr Sauber, must have been drunken mit
too much schnapps when he talk mit you.  What should Johann Schmidt
have to do mit Russian bolitical brisoners?  His piziness is mit de
curios of China, mit silk, rice, ginger, but not mit de tings you do
speak to him about."

"Then I am to understand that you can do nothing to help me?" said
Browne, rising from his chair as if to take leave.

"For mineself it is not possible," returned the other, with great
deliberation.  "But since you are a frien of mein old comrade Sauber,
den I tink over tings and gause inquiries to be made.  Dis a very
strange work is, and dere are many men in it.  I do not tell you dat it
gannot be done, but it will be difficult.  Perhaps dere may be a man to
be found who will gommunicate mit your friend."

The meaning of this speech was perfectly clear to him.  In plain
English, it, of course, meant that, while Herr Schmidt was not going to
commit himself, he would find some one else who would.

"I should be under a life-long obligation if you would do so," answered
Browne.  "And what is more, I may as well say now I am not afraid to
pay handsomely for the service rendered."

This time there was a twinkle to be seen in the German's eye.  "I know
noddings at all about what you speak; you will remember dot," continued
he.  "But I will do de best I can.  If you write me now on a paper de
name of your frien, and de place where he is--what shall we say?--now
staying, I will let you know what de price would be, and when der work
can be done.  It will be--how you call it?--a ready-money transaction."

"I desire it to be so," replied Browne a little shortly.

There was silence between them for a few moments.  Then Schmidt
inquired where Browne's yacht was anchored.  Browne informed him; and
as he did so, it struck him that this was a rather curious remark upon
his companion's part, if, as he had led him to believe at the beginning
of the interview, he knew nothing whatever about his coming to
Hong-kong.  However, he did not comment upon it.

"Dat is goot, den," said Schmidt.  "If I find a man who will run de
risk, den I will gommunicate mit you before den o'clock to-night."

Browne thanked him; and, feeling that they had reached the end of the
interview, bade him good-bye and passed through the shop out into the
street once more.  His coolie was still seated on the shafts of his
_rickshá_; and, when Browne had mounted, they returned at a smart trot,
by the way they had come, to the Club.  Here he found his friends
awaiting him.  They had done the sights of the city, and were now eager
to get back to the yacht once more.



CHAPTER XXII

"Did you find your friend Schmidt?" inquired their host of Browne as he
seated himself in a chair and lit a cigar.

"Yes," the latter answered, "I found him, and a curious character he
is.  He has some wonderful curios in his shop, and I could have spent a
day there overhauling them."

"I should be very careful, if I were you, what sort of dealings you
have with him," said the other, with what struck Browne as a peculiar
meaning.  "He does not bear any too good a reputation in these parts.
I have heard some funny stories about him at one time and another."

"Oh, you need not be afraid on my account," replied Browne.  "As I told
you in your office, my dealings with him are of a purely commercial
character, and I don't think he has robbed me of very much so far.
Now, what would you say if we were to make our way to the yacht?"

They accordingly adjourned to the boat.  Perhaps, as the result of his
interview that afternoon, Browne was in the highest of spirits.  He did
the honours of his table royally, and the new-comer, ever since that
day, has been wont to declare that it was the jolliest dinner of which
he has ever partaken in his life.  How little he guessed the tragedy
that was overhanging it all!  Of the quartette, Maas was the only one
in any way silent.  For some reason or another _he_ seemed strangely
preoccupied.  It was not until some months later that Browne heard from
Jimmy Foote that that afternoon, during their perambulations of the
city, he had excused himself, and having discovered the direction of
the telegraph station, had left them for upwards of three-quarters of
an hour.

"I am not quite myself to-night," he remarked, in reply to a remark
from Browne.  "But I have no doubt I shall be all right again
to-morrow."

Dinner being at an end, they adjourned to the deck, where they settled
down to coffee and cigars.  The myriad lights of the city ashore
flashed out, and were reflected like countless diamonds in the still
waters of the bay.  Browne was irresistibly reminded of another
harbour-scene.  At another momentous epoch of his life, he had sat on
this self-same deck, and looked across the water at the lights ashore.
And what a different man he had been then to the man he was now!  So
much had happened that it seemed scarcely possible it could be the same.

Their friend of the afternoon proved a most interesting companion.  He
had spent the greater portion of his life in the Farthest East, and was
full of anecdotes of strange men he had met, and still stranger things
he had seen.  They reclined in their deck-chairs and smoked until close
upon ten o'clock.  Then the new-comer thought it was time for him to
see about getting ashore.  He accordingly rose from his chair, and was
commencing the usual preparatory speeches, when a hail from alongside
reached their ears.  A quartermaster went to the bulwark and inquired
who was calling, and what he wanted.  A voice answered him in educated
English:--

"Can you tell me if this is the _Lotus Blossom_?" it said.

"Yes," answered the quartermaster.  "What do you want?"

"I want to see Mr. Browne, if he is aboard," the other answered.

"He is aboard," returned the quartermaster.  "But I don't know whether
he can see you.  I will inquire."

"Who is he?" asked Browne.  "Tell him to give you his name."

The quartermaster hailed the sampan again.  "He says his name is
MacAndrew, sir," he replied after a short pause, "and if you will see
him, he says he will not detain you many minutes."

"Let him come aboard, then," said Browne.  "Just tell him to look
sharp."  Then, turning to his guests, he continued, "I wonder who the
fellow is, and what he wants with me at this hour of the night."  In
his own heart he thought he knew pretty well.

"By the way," remarked his guest, "I should advise you to keep your
eyes open while you are in this port.  You can have no idea what queer
sort of people you will have to do with; but when I tell you that it is
the favourite meeting-place for half the villains of the East, you will
have some very good notion."

"Thanks for the warning," returned Browne.  "I'll bear it in mind."

He had scarcely finished speaking, before the figure of a man appeared
at the top of the gangway and came towards them.  He was tall and
slimly built, was dressed entirely in white, and wore a helmet of the
same colour upon his head.  From an indescribable something about
him--it may possibly have been his graceful carriage or the drawl in
his voice when he spoke--he might very well have passed for a gentleman.

"Mr. Browne?" he began, lifting his hat, and, as he did so, looking
from one to another of the group.

"My name is Browne," said the young man, stepping forward.  "What can I
do for you?"

"I should be glad if you would favour me with a few minutes' private
conversation," answered the other.  "My business is important, but it
will not detain you very long."

"I can easily do that," replied Browne, and as he said it his guest of
the evening came forward to bid him good-bye.

"Must you really go?" Browne inquired.

"I am afraid I must," the other responded; "the boat has been alongside
for some considerable time, and to-morrow the homeward mail goes out,
and I have my letters to finish.  I must thank you for a very jolly
evening.  My only regret is that you are not staying longer in
Hong-kong.  However, I hope we shall see you on the return voyage, when
you must let us entertain you, in a somewhat better fashion, than we
have been able to do to-day."

"I shall be delighted," said Browne as he shook hands; but in his own
heart he was reflecting that, when he did return that way, there would,
in all probability, be some one with him, who would exercise such
control over his time and amusements, that bachelor pleasures would be
out of the question.  The man having taken his departure, Browne begged
his friends to excuse him for a few moments, and then passed down the
deck towards the tall individual, whom he could see waiting for him at
the saloon entrance.  "Now, sir," he began, "if you wish to see me, I
am at your disposal."

"In that case, let us walk a little farther aft," replied the tall man.
"Let us find a place where we shall run no risks of being disturbed."

"This way, then," said Browne, and led him along the deck towards the
taffrail.  He climbed up on to the rail, while his companion seated
himself on the stern grating.  The light from the after-skylight fell
upon his face, and Browne saw that it was a countenance cast in a
singularly handsome mould.  The features were sharp and clear cut, the
forehead broad, and the mouth and chin showing signs of considerable
determination.  Taken altogether, it was the face of a man who, having
embarked upon a certain enterprise, would carry it through, or perish
in the attempt.  Having lit a cigarette and thrown the match overboard,
he began to speak.

"It has been brought to my knowledge," he began, "that you are anxious
to carry out a certain delicate piece of business connected with an
island, a short distance to the north of Japan.  Is that so?"

"Before you go any farther," continued Browne, "perhaps it would be as
well for you to say whether or not you come from Johann Schmidt."

"Johann Schmidt!" replied the other, with some little astonishment.
"Who the devil is he?  I don't know that I ever heard of him."

It was Browne's turn this time to feel surprised.  "I asked because I
understood that he was going to send some one to me this evening."

"That is very possible," MacAndrew answered; "but let me make it clear
to you that I know nothing whatsoever of him; in matters like this, Mr.
Browne, you will find it best to know nothing of anybody."

After this plain speech, Browne thought he had grasped the situation.
"We will presume, then, that you know nothing of our friend Johann," he
said.  "Perhaps you have a plan worked out, and can tell me exactly
what I ought to do to effect the object I have in view."

"It is for that reason that I am here," resumed MacAndrew, with
business-like celerity, as he flicked the ash from his cigarette.
"I've got the plan fixed up, and I think I can tell you exactly how the
matter in question is going to be arranged.  To begin with, I may as
well inform you that it is going to be an expensive business."

"Expense is no difficulty to me," replied Browne.  "I am, of course,
quite prepared to pay a large sum, provided it is in reason, and I am
assured in my own mind, that the work will be carried out in a proper
manner.  How much do you think it will cost me?"

"Five thousand pounds in good, solid English gold," answered MacAndrew;
"and what is more, the money must be paid down before I put my hand to
the job."

[Illustration: "Five thousand pounds in good, solid English gold."]

"But, pardon my alluding to it, what sort of a check am I going to have
upon you?" Browne next inquired.  "How am I to know that you won't take
the money and clear out?"

"You've got to risk that," said MacAndrew calmly.  "I see no other way
out of it.  You must trust me absolutely; if you don't think you can,
say so, and I'll have nothing whatever to do with it.  I won't make you
any promises, because that's not my way; but I fancy when the business
is finished you'll be satisfied."

"I hope so," returned Browne, with a smile.  "But can you give me no
sort of guarantee at all?"

"I don't see that I can," muttered MacAndrew.  "In cases like this a
guarantee is a thing which would be a very unmarketable commodity.  In
other words, we don't keep them in stock."

"It's to be a case of my putting my money in the slot, then, and you do
the rest?"

"As the Yankees say," said the other, "I reckon that is so.  No, Mr.
Browne, I'm very much afraid you must rest content with my bare word.
If you think I'm straight enough to pull you through, try me; if not,
as I said just now, have nothing more to do with me.  I cannot speak
fairer than that, I think, and I shall now leave it to you to decide."

"Well, I must see your plan," continued Browne.  "When I have done that
it is just possible that I may see my way to undertaking the business."

"The plan, then, by all means," replied the other, and, as he did so,
he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out an envelope, which he
handed to Browne.  "Here it is.  I have roughly sketched it all out for
you.  You had better read it when you are alone in your cabin, and
after you have got it by heart be sure to burn it carefully.  I wrote
it down in case I should not be able to see you, and also fearing, even
if I did have speech with you, I might not be able to say what I wanted
to, without being overheard.  I will come off at daybreak to-morrow
morning for your answer.  In the meantime you can think it over.  Will
that suit you?"

"Admirably," said Browne.  "I will let you know my decision then
without fail."

"In that case, good-night."

"Good-night.  I shall expect you in the morning."

"In the morning."

A quarter of an hour later Browne was alone in his own cabin.  Having
locked his door, he took the letter, the other had given him, from his
pocket and opened it.  A half-sheet of note-paper, upon which scarcely
five hundred words were written, was all he found.  But these words, he
knew, meant all the world to him.  He read and re-read them, and, as
soon as he had got them by heart, lit a match and set fire to the
paper, which was reduced to ashes.  Then he returned to the deck, where
Maas and Foote were still seated, and settled himself down for a chat.
They had not been there many minutes before Maas found, that he had
smoked the last cigar of a particular brand he affected, and rose to go
to his cabin in search of another.  He had not been very long absent
before Browne remembered that he had left the envelope of MacAndrew's
letter on his dressing-table.  Accordingly he set off in search of it,
intending to destroy it as he had done its contents.  Having reached
the companion, he was descending to the saloon below, when a sound
resembling the careful, though hurried, closing of a door attracted his
attention.  A moment later he stepped into the saloon, to find Maas
there, who, for once in his life, appeared to be flurried and put out
by something.

"I have lost my cigar-case, my dear Browne," he said, as if in
explanation.  "Is it not annoying?"

Browne felt sure that this was not the truth.  However, he did not say
so, but when he had condoled with him, entered his own cabin, where a
surprise was in store for him.  The envelope he had come down to burn,
and which he distinctly remembered having placed upon the table less
than half an hour before, was missing.  Some one had taken it!



CHAPTER XXIII

Taking one thing with another, Browne's night after the incident
described at the end of the previous chapter was far from being a good
one.  He could not, try how he would, solve the mystery as to what had
become of that envelope.  He had hunted the cabin through and through,
and searched his pockets times without number, but always with the same
lack of success.  As he lay turning the matter over and over in his
mind, he remembered that he had heard the soft shutting of a door as he
descended the companion-ladder, and also that Maas had betrayed
considerable embarrassment when he entered the saloon.  It was absurd,
however, to suppose that he could have had any hand in its
disappearance.  But the fact remained that the envelope was gone.  He
rang for his valet, and questioned him; but the man declared that, not
only did he know nothing at all about it, but that he had not entered
the cabin between dinner-time and when he had prepared his master for
the night.  It was a singular thing altogether.  At last, being unable
to remain where he was any longer, he rose and dressed himself and went
up to the deck.  Day was just breaking.  A cloudless sky was overhead,
and in the gray light the Peak looked unusually picturesque; the water
alongside was as smooth as a sheet of glass; the only signs of life
were a few gulls wheeling with discordant cries around a patch of
seaweed floating astern.

Browne had been pacing the deck for upwards of a quarter of an hour,
when he noticed a _sampan_ pull off from the shore towards the yacht.
From where he stood he could plainly distinguish the tall figure of
MacAndrew.  He accordingly went to the gangway to receive him.
Presently one of the women pulling brought her up at the foot of the
accommodation-ladder, when the passenger ran up the steps, and
gracefully saluted Browne.

"Good-morning," he said.  "In spite of the earliness of the hour, I
think I am up to time."

"Yes, you are very punctual," answered Browne.  "Now, shall we get to
business?"

They accordingly walked together in the direction of the smoking-room.

"You mastered the contents of my note, I suppose?" asked MacAndrew, by
way of breaking the ice.

"Perfectly," replied Browne; "and I was careful to burn it afterwards."

"Well, now that you have perused it, what do you think of it?" inquired
the other.  "Do you consider the scheme feasible?"

"Very feasible indeed," Browne replied.  "With a decent amount of luck,
I think it should stand a very good chance of succeeding.

"I'm very glad to hear that," returned MacAndrew.  "I thought you would
like it.  Now, when the other preliminaries are settled, I can get to
work, head down."

"By the other preliminaries I suppose you mean the money?" queried
Browne.

MacAndrew looked and laughed.

"Yes; the money," he admitted.  "I'm sorry to have to be so mercenary;
but I'm afraid it can't be helped.  We must grease the machinery with
gold, otherwise we shan't be able to set it in motion."

"Very well," rejoined Browne; "that difficulty is easily overcome.  I
have it all ready for you.  If you will accompany me to my cabin we may
procure it."

They accordingly made their way to the cabin.  Once there, Browne
opened his safe, and dragged out a plain wooden box, which he placed
upon the floor.  MacAndrew observed that there was another of similar
size behind it.  Browne noticed the expression upon his face, and
smiled.

"You're wondering what made me bring so much," he remarked.  How well
he remembered going to his bank to procure it!  He seemed to see the
dignified, portly manager seated on his leather chair, and could recall
that worthy gentleman's surprise at the curious request Browne made to
him.

"But how do you propose to get it ashore?" said the latter to
MacAndrew.  "It's a heavy box; and what about the Customs authorities?"

"Oh, they won't trouble me," answered MacAndrew coolly.  "I shall find
a way of getting it in without putting them to the inconvenience of
opening it."

"Do you want to count it?  There may not be five thousand pounds there."

"I shall have to risk that," MacAndrew replied.  "I haven't the time to
waste in counting it.  I expect it's all right."  So saying, he took up
the box, and followed Browne to the deck above.

"You quite understand what you've got to do, I suppose?" he asked when
they once more stood at the gangway.

"Perfectly," said Browne.  "You need not be afraid lest I shall forget.
When do you think you will leave?"

"This morning, if possible," MacAndrew replied.  "There is no time to
be lost.  I've got a boat in my eye, and as soon as they can have her
ready I shall embark.  By the way, if I were in your place I should be
extremely careful as to what I said or did in Japan.  Excite only one
little bit of suspicion, and you will never be able to rectify the
error."

"You need have no fear on that score," rejoined Browne.  "I will take
every possible precaution to prevent any one suspecting."

"I'm glad to hear it," MacAndrew returned.  "Now, good-bye until we
meet on the 13th."

"Good-bye," said Browne; "and good luck go with you!"

They shook hands, and then MacAndrew, picking up his precious box, went
down the ladder, and, when he had taken his place in the well, the
_sampan_ pushed off for the shore.

"A nice sort of position I shall be in if he should prove to be a
swindler," reflected the young man, as he watched the retreating boat.
"But it's too late to think of that now.  I have gone into the
business, and must carry it through, whatever happens."

When Jimmy Foote put in an appearance on deck that morning he found
that the city of Victoria had disappeared, and that the yacht was
making her way through the Ly-ee-Moon Pass out into the open sea once
more.

It was daybreak on the morning of the Thursday following when they
obtained their first glimpse of Japan.  Like a pin's head upon the
horizon was a tiny gray dot, which gradually grew larger and larger
until the sacred mountain of Fujiyama, clear-cut against the sky-line,
rose from the waves, as if to welcome them to the Land of the
Chrysanthemum.  Making their way up Yeddo Bay, they at length cast
anchor in the harbour of Yokohama.  Beautiful as it must appear to any
one, to Browne it seemed like the loveliest and happiest corner of
Fairyland.  He could scarcely believe, after the long time they had
been separated, that, in less than half an hour, he would really be
holding Katherine in his arms once more.  During breakfast he could
with difficulty contain his impatience, and he felt as if the excellent
appetites which Foote and Maas brought to their meal were personal
insults to himself.  At length they rose, and he was at liberty to go.
At the same moment the captain announced that the steam-launch was
alongside.

"Good luck to you, old fellow," said Jimmy, as Browne put on his hat
and prepared to be off.  "Though love-making is not much in my line, I
must say I envy you your happiness.  I only wish I were going to see a
sweetheart too."

"Madame Bernstein is a widow," remarked Browne, and, ducking his head
to avoid the stump of a cigar which Jimmy threw at him, he ran down the
accommodation-ladder, jumped into the launch, and was soon steaming
ashore.

Reaching the Bund, he inquired in which direction the Club Hotel was
situated, and, having been informed, made his way in that direction.
He had reached the steps, and was about to ascend them to enter the
verandah, when he saw, coming down the passage before him, no less a
person than Katherine herself.  For weeks past he had been looking
forward to this interview, wondering where, how, and under what
circumstances it would take place.  Again and again he had framed his
first speech to her, and had wondered what she would say to him in
return.  Now that he was confronted with her, however, he found his
presence of mind deserting him, and he stood before her, not knowing
what to say.  On her side she was not so shy.  Directly she realized
who it was, she ran forward with outstretched hands to greet him.

"Jack, Jack," she cried, her voice trembling with delight, "I had no
idea that you had arrived.  How long have you been in Japan?"

"We dropped our anchor scarcely an hour ago," he answered.  "I came
ashore the instant the launch was ready for me."

"How glad I am to see you!" she exclaimed.  "It seems years since we
said good-bye to each other that miserable day at Marseilles."

"Years!" he cried.  "It seems like an eternity to me."  Then, looking
up at her, as she stood on the steps above him, he continued:
"Katherine, you are more beautiful than ever."

A rosy blush spread over her face.  "It is because of my delight at
seeing you," she whispered.  This pretty speech was followed by a
little pause, during which he came up the steps and led her along the
verandah towards two empty chairs at the farther end.  They seated
themselves, and, after their more immediate affairs had received
attention, he inquired after Madame Bernstein.

"And now tell me what you have arranged to do?" she said, when she had
satisfied him that the lady in question was enjoying the best of
health.  "I received your cablegram from Hong-kong, saying that
everything was progressing satisfactorily.  You do not know how
anxiously I have been waiting to see you."

"And only to hear that?" he asked, with a smile.

"Of course not," she answered.  "Still, I think you can easily
understand my impatience."

"Of course I understand it, dear," he replied; "and it is only right
you should know all I have arranged."

He thereupon narrated to her his interview with MacAndrew, speaking in
a low voice, and taking care that no one should overhear him.  When he
had finished he sat silent for a few moments; then, leaning a little
nearer her, he continued, "I want to remind you, dear, to be
particularly careful to say nothing at all on the subject to any one,
not even to Madame Bernstein.  I was warned myself not to say anything;
but in your case, of course, it is different."

"You can trust me," she returned; "I shall say nothing.  And so you
really think it is likely we shall be able to save him?"

"I feel sure it is," said Browne; "though, of course, I, like you, am
somewhat in the dark.  Every one who is in the business is so chary of
being discovered, that they take particular care not to divulge
anything, however small, that may give a hint or clue as to their
complicity."

For some time they continued to discuss the question; then Katherine,
thinking that it behoved her to acquaint Madame Bernstein with the fact
of her lover's arrival, departed into the house.  A few moments later
she returned, accompanied by the lady in question, who greeted Brown
with her usual enthusiasm.

"Ah, monsieur," she cried, "you do not know how _triste_ this poor
child has been without you.  She has counted every day, almost every
minute, until she should see you."

On hearing this Browne found an opportunity of stroking his
sweetheart's hand.  Madame Bernstein's remark was just the one of all
others that would be calculated to cause him the greatest pleasure.

"And now, monsieur, that you are here, what is it you desire we should
do?" inquired Madame, when they had exhausted the topics to which I
have just referred.

"We must be content to remain here for at least another fortnight,"
said Browne.  "The arrangements I have made cannot possibly be
completed until the end of that time."

"Another fortnight?" exclaimed Madame, in some astonishment, and with
considerable dismay.  "Do you mean that we are to remain idle all that
time?"

"I mean that we must enjoy ourselves here for a fortnight," Browne
replied.  Then, looking out into the street at the queer characters he
saw there--the picturesque dresses, the _jinrickshas_, and the thousand
and one signs of Japanese life--he added: "Surely that should not be
such a very difficult matter?"

"It would not be difficult," said Madame, as if she were debating the
matter with herself, "if one had all one's time at one's disposal, and
were only travelling for pleasure; but under the present circumstances
how different it is!"  She was about to say something further, but she
checked herself; and, making the excuse that she had left something in
her room, retired to the house.

"Do not be impatient with her, dear," said Katherine softly, when they
were alone together.  "Remember that her anxiety is all upon my
account."

Browne admitted this, and when he had done so the matter was allowed to
drop.



CHAPTER XXIV

That afternoon they boarded the yacht, and Katherine renewed her
acquaintance with Jimmy Foote.  Maas was also introduced to her, and
paid her the usual compliments upon her engagement.  Later she explored
the yacht from stem to stern, expressing her delight at the
completeness of every detail.  The pleasure she derived from it,
however, was as nothing compared with that of her lover, who never for
one instant left her side.

"Some day," he said, as they stood together upon the bridge, looking at
the harbour and watching the variety of shipping around them, "this
vessel will be your own property.  You will have to invite whoever you
like to stay on board her with you.  Do you think you will ever let me
come?"  He looked into her face, expecting to find a smile there; but,
to his astonishment, he discovered that her eyes were filled with
tears.  "Why, my darling," he cried, "what does this mean?  What is the
reason of these tears?"

She brushed them hastily away, and tried to appear unconcerned.  "I was
thinking of all your goodness to me," she replied.  "Oh, Jack!  I don't
know how I can ever repay it."

"I don't want you to repay it," he retorted.  "You have done enough
already.  Have you not honoured me, dear, above all living men?  Are
you not going to be my wife?"

"That is no return," she answered, shaking her head.  "If you give a
starving man food, do you think it kind of him to eat it?  I had
nothing, and you are giving me all.  Does the fact that I take it help
me to repay it?"

What he said in reply to this does not come within the scope of a
chronicler's duty to record.  Let it suffice that, when he went below
with her, he might very well have been described as the happiest man in
Japan.  The history of the following fortnight could be easily written
in two words, "love and pleasure."  From morning till night they were
together, seeing everything, exploring the temples, the country
tea-houses, spending small fortunes with the curio dealers, and
learning to love each other more and more every day.  In fact, there
was only one cloud in their sky, and that was the question of what was
to be done with Maas.  Up to that time, that gentleman had shown no
sort of inclination to separate himself from the party.  Browne could
not very well ask him to leave, and yet he had the best of reasons for
not wanting him to go on with them.  What was to be done?  He worried
himself almost into a fever to know what he should do.  Then, almost at
the last minute, Maas settled the question for them, not in an
altogether unexpected fashion.  Finding his host alone in the verandah
of the hotel one evening, he asked outright, without pretence of
beating about the bush, whether he might, as an old friend, continue to
burden them with his society.  Browne found himself placed in a most
awkward position.  Though he did not want him, he had known Maas for so
many years, and they had always been on such a footing of intimacy
together, that he felt he could do nothing but consent.  He accordingly
did so, though with scarcely the same amount of grace, that usually
characterized his hospitality.  Jimmy Foote, however, expressed himself
more freely.

"Look here, Jack, old man," said the latter to Browne, when he was
informed what had taken place, "you know as well as I do that Maas and
I were never the greatest of friends.  I tell you this because I don't
want you to think I am saying, behind his back, what I would not say to
his face.  At the same time, I _do_ think that you ought to have told
him straight out that he couldn't come."

"How on earth could I do that?" asked Browne.  "Besides being
exceedingly rude, it would have given the whole show away.  What
possible sort of excuse could I have made for not wanting him on board?"

"I don't know what sort of excuse you could have made," replied Jimmy;
"all I know is that you ought to have made it.  You have other people
besides yourself to consider in the matter."

The deed was done, however, and could not be undone.  For this reason,
when the yacht said good-bye to the lovely harbour of Yokohama, and
Treaty Point was astern, Maas stood upon the deck watching it fade away
and drop below the sea-line.

"And now that we are on our way again, my dear Browne," said Maas when
the others had gone below, "what is our destination?"

"Of our ultimate destination I am not yet quite certain," answered
Browne, who was anxious to gain time to think before he committed
himself.  "But at first we are going north to have a look at the Sea of
Okhotsk.  My _fiancée's_ father has been residing on an island there
for many years, and it is our intention to pick him up and to bring him
home, in order that he may be present at our wedding."

"In other words," put in Maas, "you are conniving at the escape of a
Russian convict from Saghalien.  Is that so?"

Browne uttered a cry that was partly one of astonishment, and partly
one of terror.  He could scarcely believe he had heard aright.  This
was the second time, since they had been on board the yacht, that Maas
had played him this sort of trick, and he did not want to be taken in
again.  Was the other really aware of what they were going to do, or
was this, as on the previous occasion, a shot fired at random?

"My dear fellow," he began, as unconcernedly as his excitement would
permit, "what on earth do you mean?  Help a Russian convict to escape?
Surely you must have taken leave of your senses."

"Look here," said Maas with unusual emphasis, "what is the use of your
attempting to keep a secret?  Nature never intended you for a
conspirator.  You may not have guessed it, but I have seen for some
considerable time past, long before we left Europe in fact, that there
was trouble in the wind.  Otherwise, why do you think I should have
accompanied you to the East, so many thousand weary miles from Paris
and civilization?"

"Because your health was bad," Browne replied.  "At least, that is what
you said yourself.  Was that not so?"

"My health is as good as your own," the other answered.  "No, Browne, I
invented that excuse because I wanted to come with you; because I had
some sort of notion of what you were about to do."

"But, even supposing it should be so, how could you have known it?"

"I will tell you.  Do you remember the night at the Amphitryon Club
when you told me that you were thinking of taking a trip to the Farther
East?"

Browne admitted that he did remember it.

"Well, I happened to know who the lady was to whom you were paying such
marked attention.  I happened to mention her name one day to an old
friend, who immediately replied, 'I know the young lady in question;
she is the daughter of the famous Polowski, the Nihilist, who was sent
to Siberia, and who is now confined upon the island of Saghalien.'
Then you spoke of your yachting voyage to the Farther East, and I put
two and two together, and resolved that, happen what might, I would see
you through the business.  You see how candid I am with you."

"And do you mean to say that you knew all the time what I was going to
do?"

"All the time," said Maas.  "Did not I give you a hint at breakfast on
the morning following our joining the yacht at Southampton?  I am your
friend, Browne; and, as your friend, I want to be allowed to stand by
you in your hour of danger.  For it is dangerous work you are engaged
upon, as I suppose you know."

"And do you really mean that you are going to help me to get this man
out of his place of captivity?" inquired Browne, putting on one side
the other's reference to their friendship.

"If you are going to do it, I'm certainly going to stand by you," Maas
replied.  "That's why I am here."

"And all the time I was wishing you at Hanover, because I thought, that
if you knew, you would disapprove."

"It only goes to show how little we know our true friends," continued
Maas.  "If you feel that you can trust me now, do not let us have any
more half-measures.  Let me be with you hand and glove, or put me
ashore somewhere, and get me out of the way.  I don't want to push
myself in where I am not wanted."

Browne was genuinely touched.  "My dear old fellow," he answered,
putting his hand on Maas's shoulder, "I must confess I feel as if I had
treated you very badly.  If you are really disposed to help me, I shall
be only too glad of your assistance.  It's a big job, and a hideously
risky one.  I don't know what on earth I shall do if we fail."

Then, in the innocence of his heart, Browne told him as much of their
arrangements as he had revealed to Jimmy Foote.  Maas expressed his
sympathy, and forthwith propounded several schemes for getting the
unhappy man to a place of safety, when they had got him on board the
yacht.  He went so far as to offer to land on the island, and to make
his way into the interior in the hope of being able to render some
assistance should it be necessary.

"Well, you know your own business best," said Jimmy Foote to Browne,
when the latter had informed him of the discovery he had made.  "But I
can't say that I altogether like the arrangement.  If he had guessed
our secret, why didn't he let us know that he knew it?  It seems to me
that there is a little bit of underhand work somewhere."

"I think you are misjudging him," returned Browne; "upon my word I do.
Of one thing there can be no sort of doubt, and that is, that whatever
he may have known, he is most anxious to help."

"Is he?" exclaimed Jimmy, in a tone that showed that he was still more
than a little sceptical concerning Maas's good intentions.  "I don't
set up to be much of a prophet; but I am willing to go so far as to
offer to lay a hundred pounds to a halfpenny, that we shall find he has
been hoodwinking us somewhere before we've done."

Jimmy spoke with such unusual gravity that Browne looked at him in
surprise.  "Oh, you may look," answered Jimmy; "but you won't stare
away what I think.  Browne, old man," he continued, "you and I were at
school together; we have been pals for a very long time; and I'm not
going to see you, just when you're booked to settle down happily with
your wife, and become a respectable member of society, upset and spoil
everything by a foolish action."

"Thank you, Jimmy," said Browne.  "I know you mean well by me; but, at
the same time, you must not let your liking for me make you unjust to
other people.  Maas has proved himself my friend, and I should be mean
indeed if I ventured to doubt him."

"All right," replied Jimmy; "go your way.  I'll say no more."

That evening Browne realized his long-felt wish.  He and Katherine
promenaded the deck together, as the yacht sped on its way, across the
seas, towards their goal, and talked for hours together of their hopes
and aspirations.  When at last she and Madame Bernstein bade the
gentlemen good-night, the latter adjourned to the smoking-room to
discuss their plan of action.  Maas had been evidently thinking the
matter over, for he was prepared with one or two new suggestions, which
struck the company as being eminently satisfactory.  So sincere was he,
and so anxious to be of service, that when at last they bade each other
good-night, and he had retired below, Jimmy turned to Browne, who was
standing beside the bulwark, and said:--

"Jack, old boy, I believe, after all, that I've done that man an
injustice.  I _do_ think now that he is really anxious to do what he
can."

"I'm glad indeed to hear you say so," Browne rejoined; "for I'm sure he
is most anxious to be of use.  Forgive me if I was a bit sharp to you
this afternoon.  I cannot tell you how grateful I feel to you for all
your kindness."

"Fiddlesticks!" muttered Jimmy.  "There's no talk of kindness between
us."

Fourteen days after leaving Yokohama, and a little before sunset, those
on board the yacht caught their first glimpse of the Russian island, of
which they had come in search.  At first it was scarcely discernible;
then, little by little, it grew larger, until its steep and abrupt
rocks could be distinctly seen, with a far-away line of distant
mountain-peaks, stretching to the northward.

Katharine, Madame Bernstein, and the three young men were upon the
bridge at the time.  Browne, who held his sweetheart's hand, could feel
her trembling.  Madame Bernstein appeared by far the most excited of
the group.  Advanced though the time of year was, the air was bitterly
cold.  But, for once in a way, the Yezo Strait, usually so foggy, was
now devoid even of a vestige of vapour.  The season was a late one, and
for some hours they had been passing packs of drift ice; but as they
closed up on the land it could be seen lying in thick stacks along the
shore.

"That is Cape Siretoko," said Browne.  "It is the most southerly point
of Saghalien."



CHAPTER XXV

Three weeks had elapsed since that memorable afternoon, when the party
on board the yacht, had obtained their first glimpse of the island of
Saghalien.  In pursuance of the plan MacAndrew had revealed to him in
Hong-kong, Browne had left his companions upon the vessel, and for
upwards of forty-eight hours had domiciled himself in a small log-hut
on the northern side of the Bay of Kroptskoi, awaiting news of the man
whom they had come so far, and undertaken so much, to rescue.  It was
the night of full moon, and the scene which Browne had before him, as
he stood, wrapped up in his furs, outside the door of the hut, was as
miserable as a man could well desire to become acquainted with.  The
settlement, as I have said, was located at the northern end of a small
bay, and had once consisted of upwards of six huts, built upon a slight
eminence, having at its foot a river still ice-bound.  At the back rose
a still more precipitous hill, densely clothed with _taiga_, or forest.
So impenetrable, indeed, was it, that even the wolf and bear found a
difficulty in making their way through it.  To the right, and almost
unobservable from the huts, was a track that once connected with the
coal-mines of Dui, but was now overgrown and scarcely to be
distinguished from the virgin forest on either side.

On this particular evening, Browne was the reverse of easy in his mind.
He had left the yacht buoyed up by the knowledge that in so doing he
was best serving the woman he loved.  It had been arranged with
MacAndrew that they should meet at this hut, not later than the
thirteenth day of that particular month.  This, however, was the
evening of the fifteenth, and still neither MacAndrew, nor the man they
were endeavouring to rescue, had put in an appearance.  Apart from
every consideration of danger, it was far from being the sort of place
a man would choose in which to spend his leisure.  The hut was draughty
and bitterly cold; the scenery was entirely uninviting; he had no one
to speak to; he had to do everything--even his cooking--for himself;
while, away out in the bay, the ice chinked and rattled together
continually, as if to remind him of his miserable position.  It was
nearly nine o'clock, and he could very well guess what they were doing
on board the yacht.  His guests would be in the drawing-room.
Katharine would be playing one of those soft German folk-songs, of
which she was so fond, and most probably thinking of himself; Madame
Bernstein would be knitting in an easy-chair beside the stove; while
the gentlemen would be listening to the music, and wondering how long
it would be, before they would be at liberty to retire to the
smoking-room and their cigars.  He could picture the soft electric
light falling on a certain plain gold ring on Katherine's finger, and
upon the stones of a bracelet upon her slender wrist.  Taken
altogether, he did not remember to have felt so home-sick in his life
before.  As if to add to his sensation of melancholy, while he was
pursuing this miserable train of thought, a wolf commenced to howl
dismally in the forest behind him.  This was the climax.  Unable to
bear any more, he retired into the hut, bolted the door, and, wrapping
himself up in his blanket, laid himself down upon his bed and was soon
asleep.  When he looked out upon the world next morning he found
himself confronted with a dense fog, which obscured everything--the
forest behind him, the ice-girdled shore in front, and, indeed, all his
world.  It is, of course, possible that, in this world of ours, there
may be places with more unpleasant climates than Saghalien, but it
would be difficult to find them.  On the west coast the foggy and rainy
days average two hundred and fifty-three out of every three hundred and
sixty-five, and even then the inhabitants are afraid to complain, lest
it might be worse with them.  As Browne reflected upon these things, he
understood something of what the life of Katherine's father in this
dreadful place must be.  Seeing that it was hopeless to venture out,
and believing that it was impossible the men he expected could put in
an appearance on such a day, Browne retired into his hut, and, having
closed the door carefully, stirred up the fire, and, seating himself
before it, lit a cigar.  He had another day's weary waiting before him.
Fortunately, when his boat had brought him ashore from the yacht, it
had also brought him an ample supply of provisions and such other
things, as would help to make life bearable in such a place.  On the
rough table in the centre of the hut were arranged a collection of
books of travel and adventure, and, since he did not pretend to be a
blue-stocking, a good half-dozen novels, yellow-back and otherwise.
One of the latter, a story by Miss Braddon, he remembered purchasing at
the Dover bookstall the day he had returned from Paris with Maas.  As
he recalled the circumstances he could see again the eager, bustling
crowd upon the platform, the porters in their dingy uniforms, the
bright lamps around the bookstalls, and the cheery clerk who had handed
the novel to him, with a remark about the weather.  How different was
his position now!  He opened the book and tried to interest himself in
it; the effort, however, was in vain.  Do what he would, he could not
rivet his attention upon the story.  The perilous adventures of the
hero in the forests of Upper Canada only served to remind him of his
own unenviable position.  Little by little the sentences ran into each
other; at length his cigar dropped from his fingers, his head fell
forward, and he was fast asleep.  How long he slept it would be
impossible to tell, but when he rose again and went to the door the fog
had drawn off, darkness had fallen, and the brilliant northern stars
were shining in the firmament above.  Once more his hopes had proved
futile.  Another day had passed, and still he had received no news of
the fugitives.  How long was this to go on?  Feeling hungry, he shut
the door and set about preparing his evening meal.  Taking a large
piece of drift-wood from the heap in the corner, he placed it upon the
fire, and soon the flame went roaring merrily up the chimney.  He had
made his tea, and was in the act of opening one of his cans of
preserved meat, when a sound reached him from outside, and caused him
to stop suddenly and glance round, as if in expectation of hearing
something further.  It certainly sounded like the step of some one who
was carefully approaching the hut.  Who could it be?  The nearest
civilization was the township of Dui, which was upwards of a hundred
versts away.  He had been warned, also, that the forest was in many
places tenanted by outlaws, whose presence would be far from desirable
at any time.  Before he went to the door to draw the bolts he was
careful to feel in the pocket of his coat for his revolver.  He
examined it and satisfied himself that it was fully loaded and ready
for use.  Then, turning up the lamp, he approached the door, and called
out in English, "Who is there?"

"The powers be thanked, it's you!" said a voice, which he plainly
recognised as that of MacAndrew.  "Open the door and let us in, for
we're more dead than alive."

"Thank God you're come at last," exclaimed Browne, as he did as the
other requested.  A curious picture was revealed by the light which
issued from the open door.

Standing before the hut was a tall man with a long gray beard, clad in
a heavy cloak of the same colour, who held in his arms what looked more
like a bundle of furs than a human being.

"Who are you?" cried Browne in astonishment, for this tall, gaunt
individual of seventy was certainly not MacAndrew; "and what have you
got there?"

"I'll tell you everything in good time," replied the other in English.
"In the meantime just catch hold of this chap's feet, and help me to
carry him into the hut.  I am not quite certain that he isn't done for."

Without asking any further questions, though he was dying to do so,
Browne complied with the other's request, and between them the two men
carried the bundle into the hut and placed it in a chair before the
fire.

"Brandy!" said MacAndrew laconically; and Browne immediately produced a
flask from a bag and unscrewed the lid.  He poured a quantity of the
spirit into a cup, and then placed it to the sick man's lips, while
MacAndrew chafed his hands and removed his heavy boots.

"I have been expecting you for the last two days," Browne began, as
soon as they had time to speak to each other.

"It couldn't be managed," returned MacAndrew.  "As it was I got away
sooner than I expected.  The pursuit was so hot that we were compelled
to take to the woods, where, as ill-luck had it, we lost ourselves, and
have been wandering about for the last four days.  It was quite by
chance that we reached here at all.  I believe another day would have
seen the end of this fellow.  He knocked up completely this morning."

As he spoke the individual in the chair opened his eyes and gazed about
him in a dazed fashion.  Browne looked at him more carefully than he
had yet done, and found a short man with a small bullet head, half of
which was shaven, the remainder being covered with a ferocious crop of
red hair.  Though he would probably not have confessed so much, he was
conscious of a feeling of intense disappointment, for, from what he had
heard from Katherine and Madame Bernstein, he had expected to see a
tall, aristocratic individual, who had suffered for a cause he believed
to be just, and whom sorrow had marked for her own.  This man was
altogether different.

"Monsieur Petrovitch," said Browne in a tone, that might very well have
suggested that he was anxious to assure himself as to the other's
identity; "or rather, I should say, Monsieur----"

"Petrovitch will do very well for the present," the other replied in a
querulous voice, as if he were tired, and did not want to be bothered
by such minor details.  "You are Monsieur Browne, I presume--my
Katherine's affianced husband?"

"Yes, that is my name," the young man answered.  "I cannot tell you how
thankful your daughter will be to have you back with her once more."

To this the man offered no reply, but sat staring into the fire with
half-closed eyes.  His behaviour struck Browne unpleasantly.  Could the
man have lost his former affection for his daughter?  If not, why was
it he refrained from making further inquiries about the girl, who had
risked so much to save him?  MacAndrew, however, stepped into the
breach.

"You will have to be a bit easy with him at first, Mr. Browne," he
said.  "They are always like this when they first get free.  You must
remember that, for a good many years, he has never been asked to act or
think for himself.  I have seen many like this before.  Once get him on
board your yacht, away from every thought and association of his old
life, and you will find that he will soon pick up again."

"And Madame Bernstein?" asked the man in the chair, as if he were
continuing a train of thoughts suggested by their previous conversation.

"She is very well," said Browne, "and is also anxiously awaiting your
coming.  She has taken the greatest possible interest in your escape."

"Ah!" said the man, and then fell to musing again.

By this time Browne had placed before him a large bowl of smoking
beef-extract, which had been prepared by a merchant in England, who had
little dreamt the use it would be put to in the Farthest East.  As soon
as the old man had satisfied his hunger, Browne led him to his own
sleeping-place, and placed him upon it, covering him with the fur rugs.
Then he returned to the table, and, seating himself at it, questioned
MacAndrew, while the other stowed away an enormous meal, as if to make
up for the privations he had lately endured.  From him Browne learnt
all the incidents of their journey.  Disguised as a Russian fur
merchant, MacAndrew had made his way to the town of Dui, where he had
made inquiries, and located the man he wanted.  At first it was
difficult to get communication with him; but once that was done the
rest was comparatively easy.  They reached the forest and made for the
coast, with the result that has already been narrated.

"Between ourselves," said MacAndrew, "our friend yonder is scarcely the
sort of man to travel with.  He hasn't the heart of a louse, and is as
suspicious as a rat."

Browne said nothing; he was thinking of Katherine, and what her
feelings would be, when he should present this man to her as the father
she had so long revered.  He began to think that it would have been
better, not only for the man himself, but for all parties concerned, if
they had left him to meet his fate on the island.



CHAPTER XXVI

"Now, what about the yacht?" inquired MacAndrew.  "We mustn't be caught
here.  It is impossible to say how soon the troops may be after us.
There is a guard-house in Aniwa Bay; and they are certain to know
before long, that a man has escaped from Dui and is heading this way."

"The yacht will be within signalling distance of this hut to-night at
midnight," said Browne.  "And you can see for yourself there are some
rockets in that corner which I can fire.  Then, within half an hour,
she will send a boat ashore."

"Good," he remarked in a tone of approval.  "Very good.  You are the
sort of man I like to do business with.  For my part, I shall not be
sorry to get out of this."  He pointed to his disguise.

"I dare say you will not," answered Browne.  "You have succeeded
wonderfully well.  I cannot tell you how much obliged I am to you."

"I am equally obliged to you," said MacAndrew, "so we can cry quits.  I
flatter myself that, all things considered, it has been a pretty good
escape; but I could tell you of one or two which have been better.  We
mustn't shout too soon, however; we are not out of the wood yet."  As
he spoke he mixed himself another glass of grog and lit a cigar, the
smoke of which he puffed through his nose with the enjoyment of a man,
to whom such a luxury had been forbidden for some time past.  Browne
followed his example, and the two men smoked in silence, while the
ex-Nihilist snored on the bed in the corner.  Hour after hour they
talked on.  As Browne had suspected, MacAndrew proved the most
interesting companion in the world.  His life had been one long series
of hairbreadth escapes; he had fought both for civilization and against
it; had sold his services to native sultans and rajahs, had penetrated
into the most dangerous places, and had met the most extraordinary
people.  Strange to relate, with it all, he had still preserved the air
of a gentleman.

"Oxford man?" asked Browne after a moment's pause, without taking his
eyes off the fire, and still speaking in the same commonplace tone.
The other mentioned the name of a certain well-known college.  Both
felt that there was no more to be said, and they accordingly relapsed
into silence.

"Rum thing this world of ours, isn't it?" said MacAndrew after a little
while.  "Look at me.  I started with everything in my favour; eldest
son, fine old place in the country, best of society; for all I know I
might have ended my days as a J.P. and member for my county.  The
Fates, however, were against it; in consequence I am sitting here
to-night, disguised as a Russian fur-trader.  It's a bit of a
transformation scene--isn't it?  I wonder what my family would say if
they could see me?"

"I wonder what some of my friends would say if they could see me?"
continued Browne.  "If I'd been told a year ago that I should be doing
this sort of thing, I should never have believed it.  We never know
what's in store for us, do we?  By the way, what's the time?"  He
consulted his watch, and discovered that it only wanted ten minutes of
twelve o'clock.  "In ten minutes we'll fire the first rocket," he said.
"It's to be hoped it's clear weather.  Let us pray that there's not
another vessel outside, who, seeing our signal, may put in and send a
boat to discover what is the matter."

"You're quite sure that the yacht will be there, I suppose?" asked
MacAndrew.

"As sure as I can be," replied Browne.  "I told my captain to hang
about at night, and to look round this coast at midnight, so that if we
did signal he might be ready.  Of course, there's no saying what may
have turned up; but we must hope for the best.  How is our friend
yonder?"

MacAndrew crossed the hut and bent over the man lying on the bed.  He
was still sleeping.

"Poor beggar! he is quite played out," said the other.  "It will be a
long time before he will forget his tramp with me.  I had to carry him
the last three miles on my back, like a kiddy; and in that thick scrub
it's no joke, I can assure you."

Though Browne was quite able to agree with him, he did not give the
matter much consideration.  He was thinking of Katherine and of the
meeting, that was shortly to take place between the father and
daughter.  At last, after what seemed an infinity of waiting, the hands
of his watch stood at midnight.  Having acquainted MacAndrew with his
intention, he took up a rocket, opened the door of the hut, and went
outside.  To his intense relief, the fog had drawn off, and the stars
were shining brightly.  Not a sound was to be heard, save the sighing
of the wind in the trees behind the hut, and the clinking of the ice on
the northern side of the bay.  To the southward it was all clear water,
and it was there that Mason had arranged to send the boat.

"To be or not to be?" murmured Browne, as he struck the match and
applied it to the rocket.  There was an instant's pause, and then a
tongue of fire flashed into the darkness, soaring up and up, until it
broke in a myriad of coloured lights overhead.  It seemed to Browne,
while he waited and watched, as if the beating of his heart might be
heard at least a mile away.  Then suddenly, from far out at sea, came a
flash of light, which told him that his signal had been observed.

"They see us," he cried in a tone of delight.  "They are getting the
boat under way by this time, I expect, and in less than an hour we
shall be on board.  We had better get ready as soon as possible."  With
that they turned into the hut once more, and MacAndrew shook the
sleeping man upon the bed.

"Wake up, little father," he cried in Russian.  "It's time for you to
say good-bye to Saghalien."

The instantaneous obedience, which had so long been a habit with him,
brought the man to his feet immediately.  Browne, however, could see
that he scarcely realized what was required of him.

"Come," said Browne, "it is time for us to be off.  Your daughter is
anxiously awaiting you."

"Ah, to be sure--to be sure," replied the other in French.  "My dear
daughter.  Forgive me if I do not seem to realize that I shall see her
so soon.  Is it possible she will know me after all these long years?
When last I saw her she was but a little child."

"Her heart, however, is the same," answered Browne.  "I can assure you
that she has treasured your memory as few daughters would have done.
Indeed, it is to her, more than any one else, that you owe your escape.
But for her endeavours you would be in Dui now.  But let us be off; we
are wasting our time talking here when we should be making ourselves
scarce."

"But what about these things?" asked MacAndrew, pointing to the books
on the table, the crockery on the shelf, and the hundred and one other
things in the hut.  "What do you intend doing with them?"

"I scarcely know," replied Browne.  "The better plan would be for us to
take with us what we can carry and leave the rest.  If they are of no
other use, they will at least give whoever finds them something to
think about."

"I wish him joy of his guesses," rejoined MacAndrew, as he led the old
man out of the hut.

Browne remained behind to put out the lamp.  As he did so a smile
passed over his face.  How foolish it seemed to be taking precautions,
when he would, in all human probability, never see the place again!
The fire upon the hearth was burning merrily.  Little by little it
would grow smaller, the flames would die down, a mass of glowing embers
would follow, then it would gradually grow black, and connection with
the place would be done with for ever and a day.  Outside it was
brilliant starlight, and for this reason they were able easily to pick
their way down the path towards the place where Captain Mason had
promised to have the boat.

So weak was the old man, however, that it took something like half an
hour to overcome even the short distance they had to go.  He could
scarcely have done as much had not MacAndrew and Browne lent him their
support.  At last they reached the water's edge, where, to their joy,
they found the boat awaiting them.

"Is that you, Phillips?" inquired Browne.

"Yes, sir, it's me," the third mate replied.  "Captain Mason sent us
away directly your signal was sighted."

"That's right," said Browne.  "Now, just keep your boat steady while we
help this gentleman aboard."

The boat's crew did their best to keep her in position while MacAndrew
and Browne lifted Monsieur Petrovitch in.  It was a difficult business,
but at last they succeeded; then, pushing her off, they started for the
yacht.  For some time not a word was spoken.  MacAndrew had evidently
his own thoughts to occupy him; Katherine's father sat in a huddled-up
condition; while Browne was filled with a nervousness that he could
neither explain nor dispel.

At last they reached the yacht and drew up at the foot of the
accommodation-ladder.  Looking up the side, Browne could see Captain
Mason, Jimmy Foote, and Maas leaning over watching them.  It had been
previously arranged that the meeting between the father and daughter
should take place in the deckhouse, not on the deck itself.

"Is he strong enough to walk up?" the captain inquired of Browne.  "If
not, shall I send a couple of hands down to carry him?"

"I think we can manage it between us," said Browne; and accordingly he
and MacAndrew, assisted by the mate, lifted the sick man on to the
ladder, and half-dragged, half-carried him up to the deck above.

"Where is Miss Petrovitch?" Browne asked, when they reached the deck.

"In the house, sir," the captain replied.  "We thought she would prefer
to be alone there.  She knows that you have arrived."

"In that case I will take you to her at once," said Browne to the old
man, and slipping his arm through his, he led him towards the place in
question.  When he pushed open the door he assisted the old man to
enter; and, having done so, found himself face to face with Katherine.
She was deadly pale, and was trembling violently.  Madame Bernstein was
also present; and, if such a thing were possible, the latter was
perhaps the more agitated of the two.  Indeed, Browne found his own
voice failing him as he said, "Katherine, I have brought you your
father!"

There was a moment's hesitation, though what occasioned it is difficult
to say.  Then Katherine advanced and kissed her father.  She had often
pictured this moment, and thought of the joy she would feel in
welcoming him back to freedom.  Now, however, that the moment had
arrived it seemed as if she could say nothing.

"Father," she faltered at last, "thank Heaven you have escaped."  She
looked at him, and, as she did so, Browne noticed the change that came
over her face.  It was as if she had found herself confronted with some
one she did not expect to see.  And yet she tried hard not to let the
others see her surprise.

"Katherine, my daughter," replied the old man, "do you remember me?"

"Should I be likely to forget?" answered Katherine.  "Though I was such
a little child when you went away, I can remember that terrible night
perfectly."

Here Madame Bernstein interposed, with tears streaming down her face.
"Stefan," she sobbed, "Heaven be thanked you have at last come back to
us!"

Thinking it would be as well if he left them to themselves for a short
time, Browne stepped out of the house on to the deck, and closed the
door behind him.  He found MacAndrew, Maas, and Jimmy Foote standing
together near the saloon companion-ladder.

"Welcome back again," began Jimmy, advancing with outstretched hand.
"By Jove! old man, you must have had a hard time of it.  But you have
succeeded in your undertaking, and that's the great thing, after
all--is it not?"

"Yes, I have succeeded," returned Browne, in the tone of a man who is
not quite certain whether he has or not.  "Now, the question for our
consideration is, what we ought to do.  What do you say, MacAndrew; and
you, Maas?"

"If I were in your place I would get away as soon as possible,"
answered the former.

"I agree with you," put in Jimmy.  "By Jove!  I do."

"I cannot say that I do," added Maas.  "In the first place, you must
remember where you are.  This is an extremely dangerous coast about
here, and if anything goes wrong and your boat runs ashore, the man you
have come to rescue will be no better off than he was before.  If I
were in your place, Browne--and I'm sure Captain Mason will agree with
me--I should postpone your departure until to-morrow morning.  There's
nothing like having plenty of daylight in matters of this sort."

Browne scarcely knew what to say.  He was naturally very anxious to get
away; at the same time he was quite aware of the dangers of the seas in
which his boat was, just at that time.  He accordingly went forward and
argued it out with Mason, whom he found of very much the same opinion
as Maas.

"We have not much to risk, sir, by waiting," said that gentleman; "and,
as far as I can see, we've everything to gain.  A very strong current
sets from the northward; and, as you can see for yourself, a fog is
coming up.  I don't mind telling you, sir, I've no fancy for
manoeuvring about here in the dark."

"Then you think it would be wiser for us to remain at anchor until
daylight?" asked Browne.

"If you ask me to be candid with you," the skipper replied, "I must say
I do, sir."

"Very good, then," answered Browne.  "In that case we will remain."
Without further discussion, he made his way to the smoking-room, where
he announced to those assembled there, that the yacht would not get
under way till morning.

"'Pon my word, Browne, I think you're right," continued Maas.  "You
don't want to run any risks, do you?  You'll be just as safe here, if
not safer, than you would be outside."

"I'm not so sure of that," retorted Jimmy; and then, for some reason
not specified, a sudden silence fell upon the party.

A quarter of an hour later Browne made his way to the deck-house again.
He found Katherine and her father alone together, the man fast asleep
and the girl kneeling by his side.

"Dearest," said Katherine softly, as she rose and crossed the cabin to
meet her lover, "I have not thanked you yet for all you have done
for--for him and for me."

She paused towards the end of her speech, as if she scarcely knew how
to express herself; and Browne, for whom her every action had some
significance, was quick to notice it.

"What is the matter, dear?" he asked.  "Why do you look so sadly at me?"

She was about to answer, but she changed her mind.

"Sad?" she murmured, as if surprised.  "Why should I be sad?  I should
surely be the happiest girl in the world to-night."

"But you are not," he answered.  "I can see you're unhappy.  Come,
dear, tell me everything.  You are grieved, I suppose, at finding your
father so changed?  Is not that so?"

"Partly," she answered in a whisper; and then, for some reason of her
own, she added quietly, "but Madame recognised him at once, though she
had not seen him for so many years.  My poor father, how much he has
suffered!"

Browne condoled with her, and ultimately succeeded in inducing her to
retire to her cabin, assuring her that MacAndrew and himself would in
turns watch by her father's side until morning.

"How good you are!" she said, and kissed him softly.  Then, with
another glance at the huddled-up figure in the easy-chair, but without
kissing him, as Browne had quite expected she would do, she turned and
left the cabin.

It was just two o'clock, and a bitterly cold morning.  Though Browne
had declared that MacAndrew would share his vigil with him, he was not
telling the truth, knowing that the other must be worn out after his
travels of the last few days.  For this reason he persuaded Jimmy to
take him below, and to get him to bed at once.  Then he himself
returned to the deck-house, and set to work to make Katherine's father
as comfortable as possible for the night.

Just after daylight Browne was awakened by a knocking at the door.  He
crossed and opened it.  It proved to be the captain.  He was plainly
under the influence of intense excitement.

"I don't know how to tell you, sir," he said.  "I assure you I would
not have had it happened for worlds.  I have never been so upset in my
life by anything."

"But what has happened?" inquired Browne, with a sudden sinking at his
heart.  "Something has gone wrong in the engine-room," replied the
captain, "and until it has been repaired it will be impossible for us
to get under way."

At that instant the second officer appeared, and touched the captain on
the shoulder, saying something in an undertone.

"What is it?" asked Browne.  "What else is wrong?"

"He reports that a man-o'-war can be just descried upon the horizon,
and he thinks she is a Russian!"



CHAPTER XXVII

The horror which greeted the announcement that a man-o'-war had made
its appearance upon the horizon may be better imagined than described.

"By heaven, we have been trapped!" cried MacAndrew, as he ran out of
the smoking-room in Browne's wake, and gazed out to sea.

They formed a small group in front of the door: Browne, MacAndrew,
Maas, Jimmy Foote, the captain, and the chief-engineer.  Day was
scarcely born, yet the small black spot upon the horizon could be
plainly descried by every one of the party, and was momentarily growing
larger.  Without doubt it was a man-o'-war.  What was more to the
point, she was coming up at a good rate of speed.  The position was an
eminently serious one, and what those on board the yacht had to decide
was what should be done.

"If she's a Russian, we're in no end of a hole," said MacAndrew; "and,
when you come to think of it, she's scarcely likely to belong to any
other nationality."

"Let us come into the smoking-room and talk it over," replied Browne;
and as he spoke he led the way into the room he mentioned.  Once
inside, they seated themselves, and fell to discussing the situation.

"We'll presume, for the sake of argument, that she is Russian," began
Browne.  "Now what is to be done?  Mr. M'Cartney," he added, turning to
the chief-engineer, "what was the cause of the breakdown in your
department?"

"A bit of foul play, if I know anything about such things," replied the
other.  "Early this morning, or last night, somebody removed the main
crosshead-pin of the high-pressure engine."

"With what result?" inquired Browne.

"That we're as helpless as a log, sir," answered the chief-engineer.
"Until it has been replaced it would be useless for us to attempt to
get any steam out of her."

"But surely you have some duplicate pins," said Browne a little
testily.  "Why not put one in, and then let us get ahead again without
further loss of time?"

"For the simple reason, sir, that all the duplicates have been taken
too," the old man returned.  "Whoever worked the plot must have the run
of the ship at his fingers'-ends.  I only wish I could lay my hands
upon him, that's all.  I'd make him smart, or my name's not M'Cartney."

"Surely such an important point can easily be ascertained," remarked
Maas.  "Will you leave it to me to make inquiries?"

"Oh, don't you trouble," responded Browne.  "I shall sift the matter
myself later on."  As he said this he noticed that Jimmy Foote had not
entered the smoking-room with them.  In an idle sort of a way he
wondered at his absence.

"How long will it take you to repair the damage, do you think?" Browne
inquired of the chief-engineer.

"Well, sir, it all depends upon circumstances," said that officer.  "If
we find the duplicate pins we can do it in less than an hour; if we
cannot, it may take us twelve hours, and it may take us twenty-four."

"And how long do you think it will be before that boat comes up?" asked
Browne, turning to the captain.

"Oh, a good hour at least, sir," the captain replied.  "She has seen
us; and I'm afraid it would be of no use our even thinking of trying to
get away from her."

"But how do you know that she wants us?" Maas inquired.  "Being aware
of our own guilt, we naturally presume she knows it too.  As
Shakespeare says, 'Conscience doth make cowards of us all.'"

"I don't think there can be very much doubt, but that she's after us,"
said Browne lugubriously.  "Her appearance at such a time is rather too
much of a coincidence.  Well, Mr. M'Cartney, you'd better get to work
as soon as possible.  In the meantime, Captain Mason, keep your eye on
yonder vessel, and let me know how she progresses.  We," he continued,
turning to MacAndrew and Maas, "must endeavour to find some place in
which to hide Monsieur Petrovitch, should the commanding officer take
it into his head to send a boat to search the ship."

The captain and the engineer rose and left the room; and, when the door
had closed behind them, the others sat down to the consideration of the
problem, which Browne had placed before them.  It was knotty in more
points than one.  If, as Browne had the best of reasons for supposing,
the warship was in search of them, they would hunt the yacht from stem
to stern, from truck to keelson, before they would be satisfied that
the man they wanted was not on board.  To allow him to be found would
be the most disastrous thing that could possibly happen to all of them.
But the question that had to be settled was, where he could be hidden
with any reasonable chance of safety.  They had barely an hour in which
to make up their minds on this point, and to stow the fugitive away
before the man-o'-war's boat would arrive.  In vain they ransacked
their brains.  Every hiding-place they hit upon seemed to have some
disadvantage.

"The only place I can think of," said Maas, who was lolling in a corner
smoking a cigarette, "would be in one of these lockers.  He might
manage to crouch in it, and they would scarcely think of looking for
him there."

"It would be one of the first they would try," retorted MacAndrew
scornfully.  "No, Mr. Browne; the only spot I can think of is in the
tunnel of the tail shaft.  We might squeeze him in there, and I could
go with him to take care that he makes no noise."

"The very idea," Browne replied.  "There's plenty of room, and no one
would ever suspect his presence there.  If you will take charge of him,
and get him down there at once, I will go off and see Miss Petrovitch,
and tell her what has happened, and what we intend to do."

"And is there nothing I can do to help?" Maas inquired, raising himself
to a sitting posture.

"Oh yes," continued Browne.  "You can keep your eye on the warship, and
warn us when she gets too close to be pleasant.  By the way, I must
confess I should like to know where Jimmy Foote is.  It's not like him
to be out of the way, when there's trouble in the wind."

Without waiting for a reply, he ran down the companion-ladder and made
his way along the saloon in the direction of Katherine's cabin.  On
reaching it he rapped upon the panel of the door, and bade Katherine
dress as quickly as possible, and come to him in the saloon.  The girl
must have gathered from his voice that something very serious had
occurred, for it was not long before she made her appearance with a
scared look upon her face.

"What has happened?" she asked.  "I can see something is the matter.
Please tell me everything."

"Something very unpleasant," Browne replied.  "In the first place, some
evilly-disposed person has tampered with the engines so that we cannot
go ahead for the present; but, worse than that, a
man-o'-war--presumably a Russian--has come up over the horizon, and is
steaming towards us."

"A Russian man-o'-war?" she exclaimed, with a look of terror in her
eyes.  "Do you mean that she has come after us?"

"I cannot speak positively, of course," said Browne, "but since she is
here, it looks very much like it."

"Oh, Jack, Jack," she cried excitedly, "what did I tell you at the
beginning?  This is all my fault.  I told you I should bring trouble
and disgrace upon you.  Now my words have come true."

"You have done nothing of the kind," Browne answered.  "There is
treachery aboard, otherwise this would never have happened."

Afterwards, when he came to think it all over, it struck Browne as a
remarkable fact that on this occasion her first thought was not for her
father, as was her usual custom, but for himself.  What did this mean?
Had she been disappointed in her parent, as he had half-expected she
would be?  Her quick womanly intuition must have told her what was
passing in his mind, for her face suddenly flushed scarlet, and,
clenching her hands together, she said slowly and deliberately, as if
the question were being wrung from her, and she were repeating
something she had no desire to say:--

"But if it is a Russian man-o'-war, what will become of my poor father?"

"We are going to hide him," returned Browne.  "MacAndrew has taken him
below to a certain place where he will be quite safe.  He will remain
there, while the ship is in sight, and rejoin us when she has
disappeared again.  Believe me, dear, they shall not get him, whatever
happens."

There was a little pause, and then Katherine said, as if she were
following up the conversation:--

"It would be too cruel if he were to be captured, just as he has got
away."

"He shall not be captured; never fear," continued Browne.  "And now,
dear, you had better go and tell Madame Bernstein all that has
happened.  I think you had better both remain in your cabins for the
present.  When the Russian officer arrives, if all turns out as I am
very much afraid it will, I will ask you to dress and come on deck, for
they will ask to be allowed to search your cabins for a certainty."

"I will go to Madame at once," she answered; "but I think----"

She was about to say more when a footstep sounded upon the
companion-ladder, and a moment later Jimmy Foote, his face surcharged
with excitement, looked down upon them.

"For heaven's sake, Browne," he cried, as he held on to the brass
hand-rail, "come up to the smoking-room at once!  There is not a moment
to lose."

"What on earth has happened?" Browne inquired, as he left Katherine's
side and bounded up the ladder.

"Just what I suspected," said Jimmy.  "I never could have believed such
villainy could be possible."

Having reached the deck, they hastened towards the smoking-room.  As he
did so, Browne glanced out to sea, and noticed that the man-o'-war was
now so close that her hull could plainly be distinguished.  At most she
could not be more than eight or nine miles away.



CHAPTER XXVIII

It was a curious sight that met Browne's gaze, when he entered the snug
little cabin, in which he and his friends had spent so many happy hours
together.  The skipper was standing near the door, M'Cartney was next
to him, the second engineer in the corner opposite, and half-seated,
half-forced down on the cushioned locker under the starboard port-hole
was Maas, with MacAndrew, revolver in hand, leaning over him.  Browne
glanced from one to another of the group, but failed to take in the
situation.

"What does this mean?" he cried, and, as he did so, he looked at Jimmy
Foote, as if for explanation.

"It's a bad business, Browne, old chap," Jimmy replied; "a very bad
business.  I wish to goodness I had not to say anything to you about
it.  But it must be done, and there is very little time in which to do
it.  While you were away on shore a small incident occurred which
aroused my suspicions.  I determined to watch, and did so, with the
result that they were confirmed.  I saw that our friend Maas was a good
deal more familiar with your officers and crew than I thought was good,
either for them or for himself.  I did not know he was the traitorous
cur he is."

By this time Maas's usual sallow face was ashen pale.  His lips seemed
to be framing words which were never spoken.

"For heaven's sake, Foote," cried Browne, in an agony of impatience,
"get on with what you have to say!  What have you discovered?"

Jimmy turned to the second engineer, who was almost as pale as Maas.
"Tell him everything," he said; "and see that you speak the truth."

"I scarcely know how to tell you, sir," the young fellow answered.  "I
only wish I'd never lived to see this day.  What made me do it I don't
know; but he, Mr. Maas there, got round me, sir, and--well, the long
and short of it is, I gave in to him, and did what you know."

"You mean, I suppose, that you and he between you are responsible for
this break-down in the engine-room this morning?  Is this so?"

"Yes, sir," the man admitted.

"And, pray, what reason did Mr. Maas give you for desiring you to do
this?"

"He told me, sir," the young man continued, "that he had your interests
at heart.  He said he happened to know that, if you had started for
Japan at once, as you proposed, you would be running the yacht into a
certain trap.  He said that, though he had pleaded and argued with you
in vain, you would not listen to him.  You were bent on going on.  The
only way, he said, that he could stop you, was for me to do what I did."

"Surely, my dear Browne," interposed Maas, speaking for the first time,
"you are not going to believe this cock-and-bull story, which is quite
without corroboration.  Your own common-sense should show you how
absurd it is.  What can have induced this man to trump up this charge
against me I cannot say.  Our friendship, however, should be proof
against it.  Knowing the amount of worry you have upon your shoulders
at the present time, I have no desire to add to it; at the same time, I
cannot permit your servant here to insult me before your face."

Browne took no notice of what he said.  Turning to the engineer, he
continued:--

"How much did Mr. Maas offer you, or what inducement did he bring to
bear, to get you to do what you did?"

"He offered me five hundred pounds, sir," the other returned.  "I told
him, however, that I wouldn't take his money.  You have been very good
to me, sir, and I did not want to be paid for doing, what I thought was
a kindness to you.  It wasn't until Mr. M'Cartney told me about that
cruiser having put in an appearance, that I saw what I had been led
into doing.  Then I went straight to him and made a clean breast of
everything."

"It was the best course you could have pursued," said Browne, "and I
shall remember it, when I come to deal with your case later on.  In the
meantime, gentlemen, what are we to do?"

As he spoke the second officer descended from the bridge and made his
appearance at the cabin door.

"The cruiser, sir, has signalled that she intends sending a boat," he
reported, touching his cap.

"Very good," answered Browne; and when the officer had taken his
departure he turned to Maas.

"So it is as we suspected," he began, very slowly and deliberately.
"While we have been trusting you with our secret, you have been playing
the traitor all round.  Maas, I can scarcely believe it.  I did not
think a man could fall so low.  However, there is no time to talk of
that now.  Come, gentlemen, what are we to do?"

Ever since the second officer had announced that the man-o'-war was
about to send a boat, Maas had undergone a complete change.  Though he
had been found out, he still felt himself to be master of the
situation; and with every minute's grace his pluck returned to him.
Springing to his feet, he cried:--

"You ask what you should do, do you?  Then I will tell you.  You can do
nothing at all.  You are in my power, one and all.  Remember that I
represent the Russian Government, and, if you attempt anything against
my safety, I shall place myself in the hands of the commander of the
cruiser you can see over there.  You must surely see that the game is
hopeless, and that further resistance would be as foolish as it would
be futile."

"Well, if anybody had told me----" Browne heard Jimmy remark; then
MacAndrew struck in:--

"I think I take in the position," he said.  "I have met with a similar
case once before.  Perhaps you would not mind leaving it in my hands,
Mr. Browne?"

"What do you mean to do?" inquired Browne.

"I will very soon show you," replied MacAndrew.  "Perhaps Mr. Foote
will assist us?"

"I will do anything you like to be even with him," returned Jimmy
vindictively.

"That's the sort of talk," answered MacAndrew.  "Now let us make our
way to his cabin.  Mr. Maas, I shall have to trouble you to accompany
us."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," responded Maas.  "I decline to be left
alone with you."

"I'm very much afraid you've no option," remarked MacAndrew calmly; and
as he spoke he gave a little significant twist to the revolver he held
in his hand.  "Come, sir," he continued more sternly than he had yet
spoken.  "On to your feet, if you please.  Remember you are playing
with desperate men.  If by hesitating you get into trouble, you will
have only yourself to thank.  Your friend, the cruiser, is still a
couple of miles away, as you must be aware, and a revolver-shot would
scarcely be heard as far."

Seeing that there was nothing for it but to obey, Maas rose to his feet
and passed out of the smoking-room, along the deck, and down the saloon
companion-ladder to his own cabin.  Once there, MacAndrew handed his
revolver to Jimmy, with the request that he would be good enough to
watch the prisoner during his absence, and to put a bullet through his
skull if he should attempt to escape or give the alarm.

"For my part," resumed MacAndrew, "I'm going to test the resources of
Mr. Browne's medicine-chest."

Five minutes later he returned with an ounce or so of some dark fluid
in a graduating-glass.

"Good heavens!  You're surely not going to poison him," exclaimed
Browne; while Maas stared at the glass with frightened eyes.

"Poison him?" answered MacAndrew coolly.  "My dear fellow, is it likely
I should do anything so absurd?  No; I am simply going to place him in
a position of safety, so that he cannot harm us during the time the
warship is in sight.  Now, Mr. Maas, I shall have to trouble you to
swallow this."

"I'll do nothing of the kind," asserted Maas sturdily.  "You shall not
persuade me to put my lips to it."

"In that case, I'm afraid there will very probably be trouble," replied
MacAndrew.  "If I were you, sir, I should make up my mind to the
inevitable.  Remember there are unpleasant arguments we could bring to
bear, should you still remain obdurate."

Maas gasped for breath.  He looked right and left, as if for some
loophole of escape, but could find none.  He was surrounded on every
side by inexorable faces, which gazed upon him without pity or remorse,
while on the table before him stood the small glass half-full of the
dark-coloured liquid.

"Come, sir," said MacAndrew, "I shall be glad if you would toast us.
Let me remind you that there is no time to lose.  It always pains me,
in cases like the present, to have to apply physical argument when
moral might produce the same result.  In the event of your not
drinking, as I request, perhaps Mr. Browne will be kind enough to
permit us the use of his galley fire.  The method, I admit, is
barbarous; nevertheless it is occasionally effective."

The perspiration rolled down Maas's cheeks.  Bantering as MacAndrew's
tones were, he could still see that he was in deadly earnest.

Browne glanced out of the port-hole, and noticed that the man-o'-war's
boat had left its own vessel.  In less than a quarter of an hour it
would be alongside, and then----  But he did not like to think of what
would happen then.

"I will give you one more minute in which to drink it," rejoined
MacAndrew, taking his watch from his pocket.  "If you do not do so then
you must be prepared to take the consequences."

Silence fell upon the group for a space, during which a man might
perhaps have counted twenty.

"Half a minute," murmured MacAndrew, and Browne's heart beat so
violently that it almost choked him.

"Three-quarters of a minute," continued MacAndrew.  "Mr. Foote, would
you mind giving me the revolver and standing by that door?  I am afraid
that we shall be driven into a tussle."

Jimmy did as he was requested, and another pause ensued.

"Time's up," said MacAndrew, shutting his watch with a click.  "Now we
must act.  Mr. Browne, take his legs if you please."

They moved towards their victim, who shrank into a corner.

"I give in!" he cried at last, affecting a calmness he was far from
feeling.  "Since there is no other way out of it, I will do as you
desire, provided you will give me your assurance that the stuff is
harmless."

"It is quite harmless," replied MacAndrew; and then, with an air of
braggadocio that could be easily seen was assumed, Maas tossed off the
decoction, and, having done so, seated himself on the settee.  A
quarter of an hour later he was in his bunk, fast asleep, and Jimmy was
sitting by his side in the capacity of sick-nurse.

"You had better bear in mind the fact that he has been ill for the past
week," MacAndrew remarked, before he left the cabin.  "He caught a
chill through falling asleep on deck, and pneumonia has set in.  Now I
shall retire to join my friend in the tunnel, and leave you to your own
devices.  Don't forget to let me know, Mr. Browne, as soon as the
Russian has bidden you farewell."

"You may depend on me," Browne answered; and, as he spoke, the captain
hailed him from the deck above, to inform him that the boat was coming
alongside.



CHAPTER XXIX

It would be idle to say that Browne will never forget his feelings,
when the hail reached him from the deck, announcing the fact that a
boat from the Russian man-o'-war was coming alongside.  It was the most
desperate moment of his life; and there are times, even now, when only
to dream of it is sufficient to bring him wide awake with a cold sweat
upon his forehead.  As he heard it, he turned to Jimmy, who was leaning
over the bunk in which Maas lay, and said anxiously:--

"I suppose I may leave him to you, Jimmy?  You will take care that they
don't get any information out of him?"

"You may trust me for that," Jimmy replied, and there was a look of
determination in his face as he said it, that boded ill for any attempt
Maas might make to communicate with the enemy.  "I hope for his own
sake that he won't wake while they are here.  Jack, my son, this is
going to be a big deal for all of us.  Keep your head while they're
aboard, or you'll be in Queer Street."

Thereupon they shook hands solemnly.

"Thank Heaven, I've got you with me, old chap," continued Browne
fervently.  "You don't know what a relief it is to me to know that.
Now I must go and warn Miss Petrovitch and Madame Bernstein."

"Good-bye, old fellow," said Foote.  "Good luck go with you."

Browne glanced again at Maas, then he went out, closing the door behind
him, and made his way through the saloon in the direction of
Katherine's cabin.  He had scarcely knocked at the door before she
opened it.  From the pallor of her face he guessed that she knew
something of what was happening.  This proved to be so; for Browne
afterwards discovered that the cruiser had all the time been plainly
visible from her port-hole.

"I have just seen a boat pass," she said.  "Have they come to search
the yacht?"

"Yes," answered Browne.  "You need not be afraid, however; they will
not find him.  He is hidden in a place where they would never think of
looking; and, to make assurance doubly sure, MacAndrew is with him."

"But what was that noise I heard just now?  It sounded as if you were
struggling with some one, and trying to drag him down into the saloon."

Browne informed her in a few brief words of what had occurred, and bade
her, in case she should be questioned, keep up the fiction that Maas
was seriously ill.  Then, bidding her inform Madame Bernstein of what
was going on, he left her and returned to the deck.  Simultaneously
with his arrival the Russian officer made his appearance at the
gangway.  He was a tall, handsome man of about thirty years of age.
Having reached the deck, he looked about him as if he scarcely knew
whom to address; then, seeing that the captain looked to Browne as if
for instructions, he saluted him, and said in French:--

"Your pardon, monsieur, but this is the yacht _Lotus Blossom_, is it
not?"

"It is," replied Browne, "and I am the owner.  What can I have the
pleasure of doing for you?  You find us in rather a fix.  We have had a
break-down in the engine-room, and, as you can see for yourself, it has
left us in a by no means pleasant position."

"I have to present the compliments of my captain to you, and to request
that you will permit me to overhaul your vessel."

"To overhaul my vessel!" cried Browne.  "Surely that is a very curious
request For what reason do you wish to inspect her?"

"I regret to say that we have heard that an attempt is being made to
rescue an escaped convict from the island yonder.  From information
received, it is believed he is on board your vessel."

"A runaway convict on board my yacht?" exclaimed Browne in a tone that
suggested complete surprise.  "You must excuse me if I do not
understand you.  You surely do not suppose that I make it my business
to go about the world, assisting convicts to escape from captivity?"

"That is no business of mine," answered the officer.  "All I have to do
is to obey my instructions.  I should, therefore, be glad if you would
permit me to inspect your vessel."

"You may do so with pleasure," said Browne.  "But let it be understood,
before you commence, that I resent the intrusion, and shall,
immediately on my return to civilization, place the matter before my
Government to act as they think best.  You have, of course, considered
what the consequences of your action will be?"

"It is not my business to think of the consequences," responded the
other.  "All I have to do is to obey the orders I receive.  May I
therefore trouble you to permit me to carry them out?  I should be
loath to have to signal to my ship for assistance."

"Such a course will not be necessary," rejoined Browne, with all the
dignity of which he was master.  "If you persist in your absurd demand,
I shall raise no further objection.  Only, I should be glad if you
could do so with as little delay as possible.  I have a friend below
who is seriously ill, and I am anxious to return to him."

"In that case, it would be as well for us to proceed without further
loss of time," continued the officer.

Turning to Captain Mason, who was standing beside him, Browne gave the
necessary orders.  The Russian officer immediately called up a couple
of hands from his boat alongside, and then, escorted by Browne, set off
on his tour of inspection.  Commencing with the men's quarters forward,
he searched every nook and cranny, but without success.  Then, little
by little, they worked their way aft, exploring the officers' and
engineers' quarters as they proceeded.  The engine-room and stoke-hole
followed next, and it was then that Browne's anxiety commenced.  The
convict, as he had good reason to know, was the possessor of a hacking
cough, and should he give proof of its existence now they were ruined
indeed.

"I presume you do not wish to look into the furnaces," ironically
remarked the chief-engineer, who had accompanied them during their
visit to his own particular portion of the vessel.  "Should you desire
to do so, I shall be pleased to have them opened for you."

"I have no desire to look into them," answered the officer, who by this
time was beginning to feel that he had been sent on a wild-goose chase.

"In that case let us finish our inspection, and be done with it," said
Browne.  "It is not pleasant for me, and I am sure it cannot be for
you."  As he spoke he turned to the officer, and signed him to make his
way up the steel ladder to the deck above.  Just as he himself was
about to set foot on it, the sound of a smothered cough came from the
spot where the men lay hidden, and at the same instant the officer
stopped and looked round.  Browne felt his whole body grow cold with
terror.  Fortunately, however, even if he had heard it, the other
failed to place the proper construction upon it, and they left the
engine-room without further comment.  Then, having explored the
smoking-room and deck-house, they made their way aft to the
drawing-room by way of the main companion-ladder.

"I have two ladies on board, monsieur," said Browne as they reached the
drawing-room and stood for a moment looking about them, "also the sick
friend of whom I spoke to you just now.  Perhaps you would not mind
waiving your right to inspect their cabins."

"Monsieur," returned the officer, "I must see every cabin.  There must
be no exceptions."

"In that case," replied Browne, "there is no more to be said.  Will you
be kind enough to accompany me?"

So saying, he led him forward a few paces, and, having shown him the
pantry and stewards' quarters, the storerooms, bathrooms, and other
domestic offices, took him to the cabin in which Maas was undergoing
his involuntary confinement.  Browne knocked softly upon the door, and
a moment later Jimmy Foote opened it, with his finger on his lips as if
to warn them to be silent.

"Hush!" he whispered.  "Don't wake him; he has been asleep for nearly
half an hour, and it will do him a world of good."

Browne translated this speech to the officer, and, when he had done so,
they entered and approached the bedside.  The representative of
Imperial Russia looked down upon Maas, who was sleeping as placidly as
a little child; at the same time his eyes took in the rows of medicine
bottles on the table and all the usual paraphernalia of a sick-room.
It was plain not only, that he imagined Jimmy Foote to be the doctor in
charge, but also that he knew nothing of the identity of the man before
him.

"What is the matter with him?" he asked a little suspiciously of Browne.

"Pneumonia, following a severe chill," the other replied.  "We want to
get him down to Yokohama as quickly as possible in order that we may
place him in the hospital there.  I presume you are satisfied that he
is not the man you want?"

The officer nodded his head.  "Quite satisfied," he answered
emphatically.  "The man I want is a little, old fellow with red hair.
He is thirty years this gentleman's senior."

Thereupon they passed out of the cabin again, and made their way along
the alley-way towards the drawing-room once more.

When they reached it they found Katherine and Madame Bernstein awaiting
them there.  Browne, in a tone of apology, explained the reason of the
officer's visit.

"However, I hope soon to be able to convince him that his suspicions
are unfounded," he said in conclusion.  "We have searched every portion
of the yacht, and he has not so far discovered the man he wants."

"Do you say that the person you are looking for is a Russian convict?"
continued Madame Bernstein, who felt that she must say something in
order to cover the look of fear, that was spreading over Katherine's
face.

"Yes, Madame," the officer replied.  "He is a most dangerous person,
who in his time has caused the police an infinity of trouble."

"A Nihilist, I suppose?" remarked Browne, as if he thought that that
point might be taken for granted.

"Indeed, no," continued the officer.  "His name is Kleinkopf, and he
is, or rather was, the most noted diamond-thief in Europe."

"What?" cried Browne, startled out of himself by what the other said.
"What do you mean?  A diamond----"

What he was about to add must for ever remain a mystery, for at that
moment Madame Bernstein uttered a little cry and fell forward against
the table in a dead faint.  With a face as ashen as a cere-cloth,
Katherine ran to her assistance, and Browne followed her example.
Together they raised her and carried her to a seat.

[Illustration: "Katherine ran to her assistance."]

"You see, sir, what mischief you have done," said Browne, addressing
the Russian officer, who stood looking from one to another of them, as
if he scarcely knew what to say or how to act.  "You have frightened
her into a faint."

Picking her up in his arms, he carried her to her cabin, and laid her
in her bunk.  Then, resigning her to the care of Katharine and the
stewardess, whom he had summoned to his assistance, he rejoined the
officer outside.

"If you will come with me, sir," he began, "I will show you the
remainder of the vessel, and then I think you will be able to return to
your ship and inform your commander that, on this occasion, at least,
he has committed an egregious blunder, of which he will hear more anon."

"I am at monsieur's disposal," replied the officer; and together they
entered Katherine's cabin.  Needless to say there was no sign of any
fugitive there.  Browne's own cabin followed next, with the same
result.  At last they reached the deck once more.

"You are satisfied, I presume, sir, that the man you want is not on
board my yacht?" asked Browne, with considerable hauteur.

"Quite satisfied," replied the other.  "And yet I can assure you,
monsieur, that we had the best reasons for believing that you were
conniving at his escape."

"I am very much obliged to you, I am sure," retorted Browne.  "I fancy,
however, that, even presuming I contemplated anything of the sort, I
have convinced you that I have not carried it out yet.  And now I have
the honour to wish you a very good morning.  My engineer informs me
that the break-down in the engine-room has been repaired; and, if you
have any suspicions left, you will have the satisfaction of seeing us
get under way without further delay.  I tell you this in case you
should imagine, that I intend hanging about here, in the hope of
picking up the man to whom you allude.  By the way, did you say that
his name is Kleinkopf, and that he was originally a diamond-thief?"

"He was the most expert diamond-thief in Europe, monsieur," the officer
replied.  "Now, permit me to offer my apologies for the trouble to
which I have put you, and to bid you farewell.  At the same time, if
you will allow me to do so, I will give you a little advice.  If I were
in your place I should leave this coast as soon as possible."

"I shall do so within a quarter of an hour, at latest," Browne answered.

With that the officer saluted once more and disappeared down the
companion-ladder.  A few moments later his boat was to be seen making
her way in the direction of the man-of-war.  Browne stood and watched
her, scarcely able to realize that all danger was now passed and clone
with.  Then he turned to go in search of his friends, and as he did so
a thought came into his mind, and brought him to a standstill once
more.  What could the officer have meant when he had said that the
escaped convict's name was Kleinkopf, and that he was not a Nihilist,
as they had been informed, but a diamond-thief; not a man who plotted
and risked his life for the welfare of his country, but a common felon,
who lived by defrauding the general public?  Was it possible that
Katherine's father could have been such a man?  No; a thousand times
no!  He would never believe such a thing.  But if it were not so, what
did it all mean?  Madame Bernstein had recognised the fugitive as
Katherine's father, and the man himself had rejoiced at being with his
daughter again after so long a separation.  There was a mystery
somewhere, upon which he would have to be enlightened before very long.

As he arrived at this conclusion Captain Mason approached him.

"The chief-engineer reports that all is ready, sir," he said.  "If you
wish it we can get under way at once."

"The sooner the better, Mason," Browne replied.  "I shall not be happy
until we have put the horizon between ourselves and that gentleman over
there."

He nodded in the direction of the cruiser, which the boat had just
reached.

"I agree with you, sir," answered the captain.  "I will get the anchor
away at once."

"Before you do so, Mason," said Browne, "just get those two men out of
the tunnel and send them aft.  Don't let them come on deck whatever you
do.  They're certain to have their glasses on us over yonder."

"Very good, sir," Mason returned, and went forward to execute his
errand.

Anxious as he was to go below, Browne did not leave the deck until the
screw had commenced to revolve.  When he did, it was with a great fear
in his heart--one that he would have found it extremely difficult
either to describe or to account for.  As he argued with himself, it
was extremely unlikely that the Russian Authorities would make a
mistake; and yet, if they did not, why had Madame Bernstein always been
so anxious to assure Katherine that the man, he had saved, was her
father?  And, what was still more important, why had she fainted that
morning when the officer had given his information concerning the
fugitive?  When he entered the drawing-room, to his surprise, he found
Katherine alone there.  Her face was still very white, and it struck
Browne that she had been crying.

"What is the matter, dear?" he inquired, as he placed his arm round her
and drew her towards him.  "Why do you look so troubled?"

"I do not know," she answered, burying her face in his shoulder, "but I
am very, very unhappy."

He did his best to soothe her, but without success.  A weight was
pressing upon her mind, and until it was removed relief would be
impossible.  For some reason Browne made no inquiry after Madame's
condition.  It seemed, for the moment, as if he had forgotten her very
existence.  At last he bade Katherine put on her hat and accompany him
to the deck.  The fresh air would revive her, he said.  She accordingly
departed to her cabin, and in five minutes rejoined him.  In the
meanwhile Browne had visited the cabin on the starboard side, and had
informed Foote of all that had transpired.  Maas was still sleeping
quietly in his bunk.

"Thank goodness they've cleared out," said Jimmy.  "Now our friend here
can wake up as soon as he pleases."

"The sooner the better," Browne replied.  "In the meantime, Jimmy, I've
something awfully important to say to you."

In a few words Browne told him what he had discovered, and what he
suspected.  Foote listened with attention, and when he had finished,
scratched his chin and regarded his own face in the mirror opposite,
looking the very figure and picture of perplexity.

"What did I always tell you?" he remarked at last.  "I was as certain
then, as I am now, that the woman was playing some underhand game,
though what it is I cannot say.  However, I'll find out somehow or
another.  Upon my word, when we return to civilization, I think I shall
embark upon the career of a private inquiry agent."

Feeling that there was nothing more to be said upon the subject just
then, Browne left him, and returned to the drawing-room in search of
Katherine.  He found her ready to accompany him to the deck above.

"The fresh air will soon bring the roses back to your cheeks," he
whispered, as they made their way along the drawing-room in the
direction of the companion-ladder.

She was about to reply, when the sound of footsteps reached them from
the port alley-way, and, before they had set foot upon the first step,
MacAndrew and the fugitive stood before them.  Browne noticed that
Katherine instinctively shrank away from the latter.  He accordingly
slipped his arm round her, and, telling MacAndrew that he would like to
speak to him in a few minutes, led her to the deck above.



CHAPTER XXX

Their first business when they reached the deck was to glance in the
direction whence they had last seen the cruiser.  Then she had been a
living and very present reality to them; now she was only a tiny speck
upon the horizon, and in a quarter of an hour, or even less, she would
have vanished altogether.  They made their way aft to the taffrail, and
stood there leaning on the rail, looking at her.  Both felt that it was
a crisis in their lives, that had to be tided over, and knew that, if
ever they desired to be happy together, they must fight the next ten
minutes on their merits.  For this reason, perhaps, they began by being
unusually silent.  It was Katherine who spoke first.

"Dearest," she commenced very slowly, "I want you to listen to me and
not to speak until I have finished.  I have something to say to you,
and I don't quite know how to say it.  I don't want you to think that I
am capricious, or that I think only of myself.  In this I am thinking
of you, and of your happiness only."

"I can quite believe that," Browne replied, trying to force down the
lump that was rising in his throat.  "But I must hear you out before I
can say more.  What is it you have to say to me?"

"I want you"--here she paused as if she were fighting for breath--"I
want you to give up any idea of marrying me, and to put me ashore at
the first port at which you call.  Will you do this?"

Nearly a minute elapsed before Browne answered.  When he did his voice
was curiously husky.

"Katherine," he said, "this is just like you.  It is like your noble
nature to try and make my path smoother, when your own is so difficult
that you can scarcely climb it.  But you don't, surely, suppose that I
should do what you ask--that I should give you up and allow you to go
out of my life altogether, just because you have been tricked as I have
been?"

She glanced up at him with a face as white as the foam upon which they
looked.  What she would have replied I cannot say; but at that moment
MacAndrew, accompanied by Jimmy Foote, appeared on deck.  The latter
approached them and asked Browne if he could spare him a few minutes.
Not being averse to any proposal, that would tend to mitigate the
severity of the ordeal he was then passing through, Browne consented.

"What is it you want with me?" he asked, as savagely as if he were
being deliberately wronged.  "For Heaven's sake, Jimmy, be easy with
me!  You can have no idea what the strain of the last few minutes has
been."

"I know everything, my son," rejoined Jimmy quietly.  "Do you think I
haven't been watching you of late?  That is exactly what I am here for.
Poor old boy, you've been on the rack a shade too long lately; but I
think I can put that right if you'll only let me.  I've great news for
you."

"I don't know what sort of news you can have that will be acceptable to
me," replied Browne lugubriously.  "I'm carrying about as much just now
as I can possibly manage.  What is it?"

"Do you think you're altogether fit to hear it?" he asked.  "And what
about Miss Petrovitch?  Can you leave her for a few moments?"

"I will speak to her," Browne answered, and accordingly went back to
Katherine.  A moment later he rejoined Foote.

"Now then, what is it?" he cried almost fiercely.  "What fresh
treachery am I to discover?"

"Come to the smoking-room," Jimmy began.  "I can't tell you here on
deck, with all the world trying to overhear what I have to say."

When they reached the cabin in question Browne discovered MacAndrew
there, sitting on one of the marble tables and smoking a cigarette.

"I don't know what you think about it, Mr. Browne," remarked the
latter; "but it strikes me now, that we have come very well out of that
little encounter with our Muscovite friend over yonder.  The idea
they've got in their heads is that the runaway and myself are not on
board; and if I know anything of their tactics, they will patrol the
coast for the next week or ten days in the expectation of your coming
back to pick us up."

"I wish them joy of their stay," Browne replied.  "By the time they're
tired of it we shall be safely out of reach.  But what is it you have
to say to me, Jimmy?  You didn't bring me here to talk about the
cruiser, I suppose?"

"I did not," said Jimmy, with a great show of importance.  "I brought
you to talk about something far more interesting.  Look here, old man,
I don't, of course, know what your feelings may be; but I've got a sort
of a notion that--well, to put it in plain words--that you're none too
pleased with your prospective father-in-law.  He doesn't quite come up
to your idea of the man whom you had been told suffered martyrdom for
his country's good--eh?"

"I have never said that I disapproved of him," Browne retorted.  "I
don't know why you should have got this notion into your head."

"You're very loyal, I must say, old man," continued Jimmy; "but that
cat won't fight--not for an instant.  Any one could see that.  No, no;
I know as well as if you had told me, that you're as miserable as a man
can well be, and so is Miss Petrovitch.  I don't wonder at it.  I
expect I should be as bad if I were likely to be blessed with such a
papa.  I should be inclined to wish him back again in the wilds of
Saghalien."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, get on with what you've got to say!" cried
Browne.  "Why do you keep me on the rack like this?"

Jimmy, however, was not to be hurried.  He had never had such a hand to
play before, and he was determined to make the most of it.

"It was MacAndrew there who made the discovery," he replied.  "I only
came in at the end, like the Greek Chorus, to explain things.  The fact
of the matter is, Browne, when our friend here and the little
red-haired gentleman were shut up together in the tunnel, the former
elicited the information (how he managed it I am not prepared to say)
that the name of the ex-convict is not Polowski or Petrovitch, but
Kleinkopf; that he is not a Nihilist, as we have been led to believe,
but a diamond-thief of the first water."

He paused to hear what Browne would say, and, if the truth must be
confessed, he was mortified to find that the other betrayed no sort of
surprise.

"I know all that," answered his friend.  "Have you discovered nothing
else?"

"A heap more," continued Jimmy; "but perhaps you know that, too.  Are
you aware that the convict is the famous Red Rat, who once defied the
united police of Europe?  Well, he is!  He is also--and, mark you, this
is the greatest point of all--he is no less a person than _Madame
Bernstein's husband_!"

"Madame Bernstein's husband?" cried Browne, in stupefied surprise.
"What on earth do you mean by that?  I warn you not to joke with me.
I'm not in the humour for it."

"I'm not joking," Jimmy returned, with all gravity.  "I'm telling you
this in deadly earnest.  The Red Rat is Madame Bernstein's husband.  He
was sentenced to transportation for life in St. Petersburg, was sent to
Siberia, and later on was drafted to Saghalien."

"Is this true, MacAndrew?" inquired Browne.  "You should know."

"It is quite true," said MacAndrew.  "For my part, I always thought he
was the man you were trying to rescue.  If you will look at it you will
find that he tallies exactly with Madame's description of the man we
wanted."

"Oh heavens! how we have been deceived!" groaned Browne.  Then, as
another thought struck him, he added, "But if this is so, then Miss
Petrovitch's father is still in captivity."

"No," said MacAndrew; "he has escaped."

"What do you mean?  When did he escape?"

"He is dead.  He died early last year."

A silence that lasted upwards of five minutes fell upon the trio.

"The more I think of it the farther I am from understanding it," Browne
said at last.  "Why should I have been singled out for the task of
rescuing this man, in whom I don't take the least bit of interest?"

"Because you are rich," muttered Jimmy.  "Why, my dear fellow, it's all
as plain as daylight, now that we've got the key to the puzzle.  Madame
was aware that Miss Petrovitch would do anything to rescue her father,
and so would the man she loved.  Therefore, when you, with your money,
your influence, and, above all, your yacht, came upon the scene, she
took advantage of the opportunity Providence had sent her, and laid her
plans accordingly.  You know the result."

"And while Miss Petrovitch has been wearing her heart out with anxiety
to save her father, this heartless woman has been deceiving her--to
whom she owes everything--and adapting our means to secure her own
ends."

"It looks like it--does it not?" said Jimmy.  "Now, what do you intend
doing?  Remember, you have two traitors to deal with--Madame Bernstein
and Mr. Maas."

"I don't know what to do," replied poor Browne, "It is sufficiently
vexatious.  I shall have to tell Miss Petrovitch, and it will break her
heart.  As for Maas, we must consider what is best to be done with him.
I'll have no mercy on the brute."

"Oh yes, you will," argued Jimmy.  "Whatever you are, you are not
vindictive, Jack.  Don't try to make me believe you are."

Leaving the two men together, Browne went in search of his sweetheart.
When he found her, he summoned up all the courage he possessed and told
her everything from the beginning to the end.  She was braver than he
had expected, and heard him out without comment.  Only when he had
finished, she rose from her seat, and asked him to excuse her, saying
that she would go to her cabin for a little while.

A little before sunset that afternoon a small brig was sighted, five
miles or so away to the south-west.  A course was immediately shaped to
intercept her.  Her attention having been attracted, she hove to and
waited for the boat, that Mason warned her he was sending.  When she
put off the third officer was in charge, and MacAndrew was sitting
beside him in the stern sheets.  They returned in something under an
hour, and immediately on his arrival on board MacAndrew made his way to
the smoking-room, where he was closeted with Browne for upwards of an
hour.  After that he went below with Jimmy Foote.

The orb of day lay like a ball of fire upon the horizon when they
reappeared.  This time they escorted no less a person than Maas
himself, who looked as if he were scarcely awake.  Without inquiring
for them or asking leave to bid his host and hostess farewell, he
disappeared down the accommodation-ladder, and took his place in the
boat alongside, and his traps were bundled in after him.  Half an hour
later the boat returned, but this time Maas was not in her.  MacAndrew
ascended to the deck, and once more made his way to the smoking-room.
He found Browne and Jimmy there as before.

"They will land him at Tomari in the Kuriles in three months' time," he
reported, with what appeared to be considerable satisfaction.

"Tomari is the capital of Kunashiri Island," said Jimmy, who had turned
up a copy of the _China Sea Directory_ during the short silence that
followed.  "It has a permanent population of about one thousand five
hundred souls, which is largely increased in summer time by fishermen."

"You are sure he will be quite safe," asked Browne.  "Scoundrel and
traitor though he is, I shouldn't like to think that any harm would
befall him."

"You need not be afraid," replied MacAndrew.  "He is quite able to look
after himself.  Besides, the skipper is an old friend of mine, and a
most respectable person.  He will take every care of him, you may be
sure.  You have paid him well enough to make it worth his while."

After that, for the remainder of the voyage, the name of Maas was never
mentioned by any of the party.  Even to this day Browne scarcely likes
to hear it spoken.  Nor does he permit himself to dwell very often upon
what happened a few days later, when, after a most uncomfortable
interval, the yacht rounded Hakodate Headland and came to an anchor in
the harbour.

"Leave everything to me," said MacAndrew, when he went into the
smoking-room to bid Browne farewell.  "I know how painful an interview
would be for you all, and I think you can very well dispense with it.
I believe they are ready to go ashore."

"In that case, let them go.  I never wish to see their faces again."

"I can quite understand it; and now I must bid you farewell myself.  I
am sorry our adventure has not turned out more successfully; but at any
rate you have had a run for your money, and you have seen something of
life in the Far East."

"I have, indeed," said Browne.  "Now, tell me of the arrangements you
have made concerning these two miserable people.  What will happen to
them eventually?"

"They can do as they think best," replied MacAndrew.  "They can either
stay here or go wherever they please.  The Nippon Yusen Kwaisha Line
call here thrice weekly; and from Yokohama you can reach any part of
the known world."

"But they are practically penniless," said Browne.  Then, taking an
envelope from his pocket, he handed it to MacAndrew.  "If you can find
an opportunity of delivering it, will you contrive to let them have
this?  There is something inside that will keep the wolf from the door,
for a time at least."

MacAndrew looked at him a little curiously.  He was about to say
something, but he checked himself, and, stowing the envelope away in
his pocket, held out his hand.

"You were not inclined to trust me when first we met; but I hope you
are satisfied now that I have done my best for you."

"I am more than satisfied," replied Browne.  "I am very grateful.  I
wish you would let me do something to help you in return."

"You _have_ helped me," MacAndrew answered.  "You have helped me
amazingly; more perhaps than you think.  Now, good-bye, and may good
luck and every happiness go with you."

"Good-bye," said Browne; and then the tall, graceful figure passed
along the deck in the direction of the main companion-ladder.  A few
moments later the sound of oars reached his ears; and when they could
no longer be heard Browne went in search of Katherine and Jimmy Foote.

"Well, old man," asked the latter when the screw had begun to revolve
once more, "what now?  What is the next thing?"

"The next thing," Browne replied, seating himself beside Katherine as
he spoke, and taking her hand, "is Yokohama, and a wedding, at which
you shall assist in the capacity of best man."

That night the lovers stood on deck, leaning against the bulwarks
watching the moon rise from behind a bank of cloud.

"Of what are you thinking, sweetheart?" Browne inquired, looking at the
sweet face beside him.  "I wonder if I could guess."

"I very much doubt it," she answered, with a sad little smile.  "You
had better try."

"You were thinking of a tiny land-locked harbour, surrounded by
snow-capped mountains, were you not?"

"Yes," she replied; "I certainly was.  I was thinking of our first
meeting in Merok.  Oh, Jack!  Jack! how much has happened since then!"

"Yes," he continued slowly.  "A great deal has happened; but at least
there are two things for which we should be thankful."

"And what are they?"

"The first is that we are together, and the second is that you are not
THE RED RAT'S DAUGHTER!"



THE END.



Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.





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