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Title: In the Fog
Author: Davis, Richard Harding
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "In the Fog" ***

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IN THE FOG


By Richard Harding Davis


[Illustration: 01 I cannot tell you how much I have to thank you for]


[Illustration: 02 The four strangers at supper were seated together]



IN THE FOG



CHAPTER I


The Grill is the club most difficult of access in the world. To be
placed on its rolls distinguishes the new member as greatly as though he
had received a vacant Garter or had been caricatured in “Vanity Fair.”

Men who belong to the Grill Club never mention that fact. If you were
to ask one of them which clubs he frequents, he will name all save that
particular one. He is afraid if he told you he belonged to the Grill,
that it would sound like boasting.

The Grill Club dates back to the days when Shakespeare’s Theatre stood
on the present site of the “Times” office. It has a golden Grill which
Charles the Second presented to the Club, and the original manuscript
of “Tom and Jerry in London,” which was bequeathed to it by Pierce Egan
himself. The members, when they write letters at the Club, still use
sand to blot the ink.

The Grill enjoys the distinction of having blackballed, without
political prejudice, a Prime Minister of each party. At the same sitting
at which one of these fell, it elected, on account of his brogue and his
bulls, Quiller, Q. C., who was then a penniless barrister.

When Paul Preval, the French artist who came to London by royal command
to paint a portrait of the Prince of Wales, was made an honorary
member--only foreigners may be honorary members--he said, as he signed
his first wine card, “I would rather see my name on that, than on a
picture in the Louvre.”

At which Quiller remarked, “That is a devil of a compliment, because
the only men who can read their names in the Louvre to-day have been
dead fifty years.”

On the night after the great fog of 1897 there were five members in
the Club, four of them busy with supper and one reading in front of the
fireplace. There is only one room to the Club, and one long table. At
the far end of the room the fire of the grill glows red, and, when the
fat falls, blazes into flame, and at the other there is a broad bow
window of diamond panes, which looks down upon the street. The four men
at the table were strangers to each other, but as they picked at the
grilled bones, and sipped their Scotch and soda, they conversed with
such charming animation that a visitor to the Club, which does
not tolerate visitors, would have counted them as friends of long
acquaintance, certainly not as Englishmen who had met for the first
time, and without the form of an introduction. But it is the etiquette
and tradition of the Grill, that whoever enters it must speak with
whomever he finds there. It is to enforce this rule that there is but
one long table, and whether there are twenty men at it or two, the
waiters, supporting the rule, will place them side by side.

For this reason the four strangers at supper were seated together, with
the candles grouped about them, and the long length of the table cutting
a white path through the outer gloom.

“I repeat,” said the gentleman with the black pearl stud, “that the days
for romantic adventure and deeds of foolish daring have passed, and that
the fault lies with ourselves. Voyages to the pole I do not catalogue
as adventures. That African explorer, young Chetney, who turned up
yesterday after he was supposed to have died in Uganda, did nothing
adventurous. He made maps and explored the sources of rivers. He was
in constant danger, but the presence of danger does not constitute
adventure. Were that so, the chemist who studies high explosives, or
who investigates deadly poisons, passes through adventures daily. No,
‘adventures are for the adventurous.’ But one no longer ventures. The
spirit of it has died of inertia. We are grown too practical, too just,
above all, too sensible. In this room, for instance, members of this
Club have, at the sword’s point, disputed the proper scanning of one
of Pope’s couplets. Over so weighty a matter as spilled Burgundy on a
gentleman’s cuff, ten men fought across this table, each with his
rapier in one hand and a candle in the other. All ten were wounded. The
question of the spilled Burgundy concerned but two of them. The eight
others engaged because they were men of ‘spirit.’ They were, indeed, the
first gentlemen of the day. To-night, were you to spill Burgundy on
my cuff, were you even to insult me grossly, these gentlemen would not
consider it incumbent upon them to kill each other. They would separate
us, and to-morrow morning appear as witnesses against us at Bow Street.
We have here to-night, in the persons of Sir Andrew and myself, an
illustration of how the ways have changed.”

The men around the table turned and glanced toward the gentleman in
front of the fireplace. He was an elderly and somewhat portly person,
with a kindly, wrinkled countenance, which wore continually a smile
of almost childish confidence and good-nature. It was a face which the
illustrated prints had made intimately familiar. He held a book from him
at arm’s-length, as if to adjust his eyesight, and his brows were knit
with interest.

[Illustration: 03 The men around the table turned]

“Now, were this the eighteenth century,” continued the gentleman with
the black pearl, “when Sir Andrew left the Club to-night I would have
him bound and gagged and thrown into a sedan chair. The watch would not
interfere, the passers-by would take to their heels, my hired bullies
and ruffians would convey him to some lonely spot where we would guard
him until morning. Nothing would come of it, except added reputation to
myself as a gentleman of adventurous spirit, and possibly an essay in
the ‘Tatler,’ with stars for names, entitled, let us say, ‘The Budget
and the Baronet.’”

“But to what end, sir?” inquired the youngest of the members. “And
why Sir Andrew, of all persons--why should you select him for this
adventure?”

The gentleman with the black pearl shrugged his shoulders.

“It would prevent him speaking in the House to-night. The Navy Increase
Bill,” he added gloomily. “It is a Government measure, and Sir Andrew
speaks for it. And so great is his influence and so large his following
that if he does”--the gentleman laughed ruefully--“if he does, it will
go through. Now, had I the spirit of our ancestors,” he exclaimed, “I
would bring chloroform from the nearest chemist’s and drug him in that
chair. I would tumble his unconscious form into a hansom cab, and hold
him prisoner until daylight. If I did, I would save the British taxpayer
the cost of five more battleships, many millions of pounds.”

[Illustration: 04 I would tumble his unconscious form into a hansom cab]

The gentlemen again turned, and surveyed the baronet with freshened
interest. The honorary member of the Grill, whose accent already had
betrayed him as an American, laughed softly.

“To look at him now,” he said, “one would not guess he was deeply
concerned with the affairs of state.”

The others nodded silently.

“He has not lifted his eyes from that book since we first entered,”
 added the youngest member. “He surely cannot mean to speak to-night.”

“Oh, yes, he will speak,” muttered the one with the black pearl moodily.
“During these last hours of the session the House sits late, but when
the Navy bill comes up on its third reading he will be in his place--and
he will pass it.”

The fourth member, a stout and florid gentleman of a somewhat sporting
appearance, in a short smoking-jacket and black tie, sighed enviously.

“Fancy one of us being as cool as that, if he knew he had to stand up
within an hour and rattle off a speech in Parliament. I ‘d be in a devil
of a funk myself. And yet he is as keen over that book he’s reading as
though he had nothing before him until bedtime.”

“Yes, see how eager he is,” whispered the youngest member. “He does
not lift his eyes even now when he cuts the pages. It is probably an
Admiralty Report, or some other weighty work of statistics which bears
upon his speech.”

The gentleman with the black pearl laughed morosely.

“The weighty work in which the eminent statesman is so deeply
engrossed,” he said, “is called ‘The Great Rand Robbery.’ It is a
detective novel, for sale at all bookstalls.”

The American raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“‘The Great Rand Robbery’?” he repeated incredulously. “What an odd
taste!”

“It is not a taste, it is his vice,” returned the gentleman with the
pearl stud. “It is his one dissipation. He is noted for it. You, as a
stranger, could hardly be expected to know of this idiosyncrasy. Mr.
Gladstone sought relaxation in the Greek poets, Sir Andrew finds his in
Gaboriau. Since I have been a member of Parliament I have never seen him
in the library without a shilling shocker in his hands. He brings them
even into the sacred precincts of the House, and from the Government
benches reads them concealed inside his hat. Once started on a tale of
murder, robbery, and sudden death, nothing can tear him from it, not
even the call of the division bell, nor of hunger, nor the prayers of
the party Whip. He gave up his country house because when he journeyed
to it in the train he would become so absorbed in his detective
stories that he was invariably carried past his station.” The member of
Parliament twisted his pearl stud nervously, and bit at the edge of his
mustache. “If it only were the first pages of ‘The Rand Robbery’ that
he were reading,” he murmured bitterly, “instead of the last! With such
another book as that, I swear I could hold him here until morning. There
would be no need of chloroform to keep him from the House.”

The eyes of all were fastened upon Sir Andrew, and each saw with
fascination that with his forefinger he was now separating the last two
pages of the book. The member of Parliament struck the table softly with
his open palm.

“I would give a hundred pounds,” he whispered, “if I could place in his
hands at this moment a new story of Sherlock Holmes--a thousand pounds,”
 he added wildly--“five thousand pounds!”

The American observed the speaker sharply, as though the words bore to
him some special application, and then at an idea which apparently had
but just come to him, smiled in great embarrassment.

Sir Andrew ceased reading, but, as though still under the influence of
the book, sat looking blankly into the open fire. For a brief space no
one moved until the baronet withdrew his eyes and, with a sudden start
of recollection, felt anxiously for his watch. He scanned its face
eagerly, and scrambled to his feet.

The voice of the American instantly broke the silence in a high, nervous
accent.

“And yet Sherlock Holmes himself,” he cried, “could not decipher the
mystery which to-night baffles the police of London.”

At these unexpected words, which carried in them something of the tone
of a challenge, the gentlemen about the table started as suddenly as
though the American had fired a pistol in the air, and Sir Andrew halted
abruptly and stood observing him with grave surprise.

The gentleman with the black pearl was the first to recover.

“Yes, yes,” he said eagerly, throwing himself across the table. “A
mystery that baffles the police of London.

[Illustration: 05 “My name,” he said, “is Sears.”]

“I have heard nothing of it. Tell us at once, pray do--tell us at once.”

The American flushed uncomfortably, and picked uneasily at the
tablecloth.

“No one but the police has heard of it,” he murmured, “and they only
through me. It is a remarkable crime, to, which, unfortunately, I am the
only person who can bear witness. Because I am the only witness, I
am, in spite of my immunity as a diplomat, detained in London by the
authorities of Scotland Yard. My name,” he said, inclining his head
politely, “is Sears, Lieutenant Ripley Sears of the United States Navy,
at present Naval Attache to the Court of Russia. Had I not been detained
to-day by the police I would have started this morning for Petersburg.”

The gentleman with the black pearl interrupted with so pronounced an
exclamation of excitement and delight that the American stammered and
ceased speaking.

“Do you hear, Sir Andrew!” cried the member of Parliament jubilantly.
“An American diplomat halted by our police because he is the only
witness of a most remarkable crime--_the_ most remarkable crime, I
believe you said, sir,” he added, bending eagerly toward the naval
officer, “which has occurred in London in many years.”

The American moved his head in assent and glanced at the two other
members. They were looking doubtfully at him, and the face of each
showed that he was greatly perplexed.

Sir Andrew advanced to within the light of the candles and drew a chair
toward him.

“The crime must be exceptional indeed,” he said, “to justify the police
in interfering with a representative of a friendly power. If I were not
forced to leave at once, I should take the liberty of asking you to tell
us the details.”

The gentleman with the pearl pushed the chair toward Sir Andrew, and
motioned him to be seated.

“You cannot leave us now,” he exclaimed. “Mr. Sears is just about to
tell us of this remarkable crime.”

He nodded vigorously at the naval officer and the American, after first
glancing doubtfully toward the servants at the far end of the room,
leaned forward across the table. The others drew their chairs nearer and
bent toward him. The baronet glanced irresolutely at his watch, and with
an exclamation of annoyance snapped down the lid. “They can wait,” he
muttered. He seated himself quickly and nodded at Lieutenant Sears.

“If you will be so kind as to begin, sir,” he said impatiently.

“Of course,” said the American, “you understand that I understand that
I am speaking to gentlemen. The confidences of this Club are inviolate.
Until the police give the facts to the public press, I must consider you
my confederates. You have heard nothing, you know no one connected with
this mystery. Even I must remain anonymous.”

The gentlemen seated around him nodded gravely.

“Of course,” the baronet assented with eagerness, “of course.”

“We will refer to it,” said the gentleman with the black pearl, “as ‘The
Story of the Naval Attache.’”

“I arrived in London two days ago,” said the American, “and I engaged a
room at the Bath Hotel. I know very few people in London, and even the
members of our embassy were strangers to me. But in Hong Kong I had
become great pals with an officer in your navy, who has since retired,
and who is now living in a small house in Rutland Gardens opposite the
Knightsbridge barracks. I telegraphed him that I was in London, and
yesterday morning I received a most hearty invitation to dine with him
the same evening at his house. He is a bachelor, so we dined alone and
talked over all our old days on the Asiatic Station, and of the changes
which had come to us since we had last met there. As I was leaving the
next morning for my post at Petersburg, and had many letters to write,
I told him, about ten o’clock, that I must get back to the hotel, and he
sent out his servant to call a hansom.

“For the next quarter of an hour, as we sat talking, we could hear the
cab whistle sounding violently from the doorstep, but apparently with no
result.

“‘It cannot be that the cabmen are on strike,’ my friend said, as he
rose and walked to the window.

“He pulled back the curtains and at once called to me.

“‘You have never seen a London fog, have you?’ he asked. ‘Well, come
here. This is one of the best, or, rather, one of the worst, of them.’ I
joined him at the window, but I could see nothing. Had I not known that
the house looked out upon the street I would have believed that I was
facing a dead wall. I raised the sash and stretched out my head, but
still I could see nothing. Even the light of the street lamps opposite,
and in the upper windows of the barracks, had been smothered in the
yellow mist. The lights of the room in which I stood penetrated the fog
only to the distance of a few inches from my eyes.

“Below me the servant was still sounding his whistle, but I could afford
to wait no longer, and told my friend that I would try and find the way
to my hotel on foot. He objected, but the letters I had to write were
for the Navy Department, and, besides, I had always heard that to be out
in a London fog was the most wonderful experience, and I was curious to
investigate one for myself.

“My friend went with me to his front door, and laid down a course for me
to follow. I was first to walk straight across the street to the brick
wall of the Knightsbridge Barracks. I was then to feel my way along the
wall until I came to a row of houses set back from the sidewalk. They
would bring me to a cross street. On the other side of this street was
a row of shops which I was to follow until they joined the iron railings
of Hyde Park. I was to keep to the railings until I reached the gates
at Hyde Park Corner, where I was to lay a diagonal course across
Piccadilly, and tack in toward the railings of Green Park. At the end
of these railings, going east, I would find the Walsingham, and my own
hotel.

“To a sailor the course did not seem difficult, so I bade my friend
goodnight and walked forward until my feet touched the paving. I
continued upon it until I reached the curbing of the sidewalk. A few
steps further, and my hands struck the wall of the barracks. I turned
in the direction from which I had just come, and saw a square of faint
light cut in the yellow fog. I shouted ‘All right,’ and the voice of
my friend answered, ‘Good luck to you.’ The light from his open door
disappeared with a bang, and I was left alone in a dripping, yellow
darkness. I have been in the Navy for ten years, but I have never known
such a fog as that of last night, not even among the icebergs of Behring
Sea. There one at least could see the light of the binnacle, but last
night I could not even distinguish the hand by which I guided myself
along the barrack wall. At sea a fog is a natural phenomenon. It is as
familiar as the rainbow which follows a storm, it is as proper that
a fog should spread upon the waters as that steam shall rise from a
kettle. But a fog which springs from the paved streets, that rolls
between solid house-fronts, that forces cabs to move at half speed, that
drowns policemen and extinguishes the electric lights of the music hall,
that to me is incomprehensible. It is as out of place as a tidal wave on
Broadway.

“As I felt my way along the wall, I encountered other men who were
coming from the opposite direction, and each time when we hailed each
other I stepped away from the wall to make room for them to pass. But
the third time I did this, when I reached out my hand, the wall had
disappeared, and the further I moved to find it the further I seemed
to be sinking into space. I had the unpleasant conviction that at any
moment I might step over a precipice. Since I had set out I had heard
no traffic in the street, and now, although I listened some minutes, I
could only distinguish the occasional footfalls of pedestrians. Several
times I called aloud, and once a jocular gentleman answered me, but only
to ask me where I thought he was, and then even he was swallowed up in
the silence. Just above me I could make out a jet of gas which I guessed
came from a street lamp, and I moved over to that, and, while I tried
to recover my bearings, kept my hand on the iron post. Except for this
flicker of gas, no larger than the tip of my finger, I could distinguish
nothing about me. For the rest, the mist hung between me and the world
like a damp and heavy blanket.

“I could hear voices, but I could not tell from whence they came, and
the scrape of a foot moving cautiously, or a muffled cry as some one
stumbled, were the only sounds that reached me.

“I decided that until some one took me in tow I had best remain where
I was, and it must have been for ten minutes that I waited by the lamp,
straining my ears and hailing distant footfalls. In a house near me some
people were dancing to the music of a Hungarian band. I even fancied I
could hear the windows shake to the rhythm of their feet, but I could
not make out from which part of the compass the sounds came. And
sometimes, as the music rose, it seemed close at my hand, and again, to
be floating high in the air above my head. Although I was surrounded by
thousands of householders--13--I was as completely lost as though I
had been set down by night in the Sahara Desert. There seemed to be no
reason in waiting longer for an escort, so I again set out, and at once
bumped against a low iron fence. At first I believed this to be an
area railing, but on following it I found that it stretched for a long
distance, and that it was pierced at regular intervals with gates. I was
standing uncertainly with my hand on one of these when a square of light
suddenly opened in the night, and in it I saw, as you see a picture
thrown by a biograph in a darkened theatre, a young gentleman in
evening dress, and back of him the lights of a hall. I guessed from its
elevation and distance from the side-walk that this light must come
from the door of a house set back from the street, and I determined
to approach it and ask the young man to tell me where I was. But in
fumbling with the lock of the gate I instinctively bent my head, and
when I raised it again the door had partly closed, leaving only a narrow
shaft of light. Whether the young man had re-entered the house, or had
left it I could not tell, but I hastened to open the gate, and as I
stepped forward I found myself upon an asphalt walk. At the same instant
there was the sound of quick steps upon the path, and some one rushed
past me. I called to him, but he made no reply, and I heard the gate
click and the footsteps hurrying away upon the sidewalk.

[Illustration: 06 A square of light suddenly opened in the night]

“Under other circumstances the young man’s rudeness, and his
recklessness in dashing so hurriedly through the mist, would have struck
me as peculiar, but everything was so distorted by the fog that at the
moment I did not consider it. The door was still as he had left it,
partly open. I went up the path, and, after much fumbling, found the
knob of the door-bell and gave it a sharp pull. The bell answered me
from a great depth and distance, but no movement followed from inside
the house, and although I pulled the bell again and again I could hear
nothing save the dripping of the mist about me. I was anxious to be on
my way, but unless I knew where I was going there was little chance
of my making any speed, and I was determined that until I learned my
bearings I would not venture back into the fog. So I pushed the door
open and stepped into the house.

“I found myself in a long and narrow hall, upon which doors opened from
either side. At the end of the hall was a staircase with a balustrade
which ended in a sweeping curve. The balustrade was covered with heavy
Persian rugs, and the walls of the hall were also hung with them. The
door on my left was closed, but the one nearer me on the right was open,
and as I stepped opposite to it I saw that it was a sort of reception
or waiting-room, and that it was empty. The door below it was also open,
and with the idea that I would surely find some one there, I walked on
up the hall. I was in evening dress, and I felt I did not look like
a burglar, so I had no great fear that, should I encounter one of the
inmates of the house, he would shoot me on sight. The second door in the
hall opened into a dining-room. This was also empty. One person had
been dining at the table, but the cloth had not been cleared away, and
a nickering candle showed half-filled wineglasses and the ashes of
cigarettes. The greater part of the room was in complete darkness.

“By this time I had grown conscious of the fact that I was wandering
about in a strange house, and that, apparently, I was alone in it.
The silence of the place began to try my nerves, and in a sudden,
unexplainable panic I started for the open street. But as I turned,
I saw a man sitting on a bench, which the curve of the balustrade had
hidden from me. His eyes were shut, and he was sleeping soundly.

“The moment before I had been bewildered because I could see no one, but
at sight of this man I was much more bewildered.

“He was a very large man, a giant in height, with long yellow hair which
hung below his shoulders. He was dressed in a red silk shirt that was
belted at the waist and hung outside black velvet trousers which, in
turn, were stuffed into high black boots. I recognized the costume at
once as that of a Russian servant, but what a Russian servant in his
native livery could be doing in a private house in Knightsbridge was
incomprehensible.

“I advanced and touched the man on the shoulder, and after an effort he
awoke, and, on seeing me, sprang to his feet and began bowing rapidly
and making deprecatory gestures. I had picked up enough Russian in
Petersburg to make out that the man was apologizing for having fallen
asleep, and I also was able to explain to him that I desired to see his
master.

“He nodded vigorously, and said, ‘Will the Excellency come this way? The
Princess is here.’

“I distinctly made out the word ‘princess,’ and I was a good deal
embarrassed. I had thought it would be easy enough to explain my
intrusion to a man, but how a woman would look at it was another matter,
and as I followed him down the hall I was somewhat puzzled.

“As we advanced, he noticed that the front door was standing open, and
with an exclamation of surprise, hastened toward it and closed it. Then
he rapped twice on the door of what was apparently the drawing-room.
There was no reply to his knock, and he tapped again, and then timidly,
and cringing subserviently, opened the door and stepped inside. He
withdrew himself at once and stared stupidly at me, shaking his head.

“‘She is not there,’ he said. He stood for a moment gazing blankly
through the open door, and then hastened toward the dining-room. The
solitary candle which still burned there seemed to assure him that the
room also was empty. He came back and bowed me toward the drawing-room.
‘She is above,’ he said; ‘I will inform the Princess of the Excellency’s
presence.’

“Before I could stop him he had turned and was running up the staircase,
leaving me alone at the open door of the drawing-room. I decided that
the adventure had gone quite far enough, and if I had been able to
explain to the Russian that I had lost my way in the fog, and only
wanted to get back into the street again, I would have left the house on
the instant.

“Of course, when I first rang the bell of the house I had no other
expectation than that it would be answered by a parlor-maid who would
direct me on my way. I certainly could not then foresee that I would
disturb a Russian princess in her boudoir, or that I might be thrown out
by her athletic bodyguard. Still, I thought I ought not now to leave
the house without making some apology, and, if the worst should come,
I could show my card. They could hardly believe that a member of an
Embassy had any designs upon the hat-rack.

“The room in which I stood was dimly lighted, but I could see that, like
the hall, it was hung with heavy Persian rugs. The corners were filled
with palms, and there was the unmistakable odor in the air of Russian
cigarettes, and strange, dry scents that carried me back to the bazaars
of Vladivostock. Near the front windows was a grand piano, and at the
other end of the room a heavily carved screen of some black wood,
picked out with ivory. The screen was overhung with a canopy of silken
draperies, and formed a sort of alcove. In front of the alcove was
spread the white skin of a polar bear, and set on that was one of those
low Turkish coffee tables. It held a lighted spirit-lamp and two gold
coffee cups. I had heard no movement from above stairs, and it must have
been fully three minutes that I stood waiting, noting these details of
the room and wondering at the delay, and at the strange silence.

“And then, suddenly, as my eye grew more used to the half-light, I saw,
projecting from behind the screen as though it were stretched along the
back of a divan, the hand of a man and the lower part of his arm. I
was as startled as though I had come across a footprint on a deserted
island. Evidently the man had been sitting there since I had come into
the room, even since I had entered the house, and he had heard the
servant knocking upon the door. Why he had not declared himself I could
not understand, but I supposed that possibly he was a guest, with no
reason to interest himself in the Princess’s other visitors, or perhaps,
for some reason, he did not wish to be observed. I could see nothing of
him except his hand, but I had an unpleasant feeling that he had been
peering at me through the carving in the screen, and that he still was
doing so. I moved my feet noisily on the floor and said tentatively, ‘I
beg your pardon.’

“There was no reply, and the hand did not stir. Apparently the man
was bent upon ignoring me, but as all I wished was to apologize for my
intrusion and to leave the house, I walked up to the alcove and peered
around it. Inside the screen was a divan piled with cushions, and on the
end of it nearer me the man was sitting. He was a young Englishman with
light yellow hair and a deeply bronzed face.

“He was seated with his arms stretched out along the back of the divan,
and with his head resting against a cushion. His attitude was one of
complete ease. But his mouth had fallen open, and his eyes were set with
an expression of utter horror. At the first glance I saw that he was
quite dead.

“For a flash of time I was too startled to act, but in the same flash I
was convinced that the man had met his death from no accident, that he
had not died through any ordinary failure of the laws of nature. The
expression on his face was much too terrible to be misinterpreted. It
spoke as eloquently as words. It told me that before the end had come he
had watched his death approach and threaten him.

“I was so sure he had been murdered that I instinctively looked on the
floor for the weapon, and, at the same moment, out of concern for my
own safety, quickly behind me; but the silence of the house continued
unbroken.

“I have seen a great number of dead men; I was on the Asiatic Station
during the Japanese-Chinese war. I was in Port Arthur after the
massacre. So a dead man, for the single reason that he is dead, does not
repel me, and, though I knew that there was no hope that this man was
alive, still for decency’s sake, I felt his pulse, and while I kept my
ears alert for any sound from the floors above me, I pulled open his
shirt and placed my hand upon his heart. My fingers instantly touched
upon the opening of a wound, and as I withdrew them I found them wet
with blood. He was in evening dress, and in the wide bosom of his
shirt I found a narrow slit, so narrow that in the dim light it was
scarcely discernable. The wound was no wider than the smallest blade of
a pocket-knife, but when I stripped the shirt away from the chest and
left it bare, I found that the weapon, narrow as it was, had been long
enough to reach his heart. There is no need to tell you how I felt as I
stood by the body of this boy, for he was hardly older than a boy, or
of the thoughts that came into my head. I was bitterly sorry for this
stranger, bitterly indignant at his murderer, and, at the same time,
selfishly concerned for my own safety and for the notoriety which I saw
was sure to follow. My instinct was to leave the body where it lay, and
to hide myself in the fog, but I also felt that since a succession of
accidents had made me the only witness to a crime, my duty was to make
myself a good witness and to assist to establish the facts of this
murder.

“That it might possibly be a suicide, and not a murder, did not disturb
me for a moment. The fact that the weapon had disappeared, and the
expression on the boy’s face were enough to convince, at least me, that
he had had no hand in his own death. I judged it, therefore, of the
first importance to discover who was in the house, or, if they had
escaped from it, who had been in the house before I entered it. I had
seen one man leave it; but all I could tell of him was that he was a
young man, that he was in evening dress, and that he had fled in such
haste that he had not stopped to close the door behind him.

“The Russian servant I had found apparently asleep, and, unless he acted
a part with supreme skill, he was a stupid and ignorant boor, and as
innocent of the murder as myself. There was still the Russian princess
whom he had expected to find, or had pretended to expect to find, in the
same room with the murdered man. I judged that she must now be either
upstairs with the servant, or that she had, without his knowledge,
already fled from the house. When I recalled his apparently genuine
surprise at not finding her in the drawing-room, this latter supposition
seemed the more probable. Nevertheless, I decided that it was my duty to
make a search, and after a second hurried look for the weapon among the
cushions of the divan, and upon the floor, I cautiously crossed the hall
and entered the dining-room.

“The single candle was still flickering in the draught, and showed only
the white cloth. The rest of the room was draped in shadows. I picked up
the candle, and, lifting it high above my head, moved around the corner
of the table. Either my nerves were on such a stretch that no shock
could strain them further, or my mind was inoculated to horrors, for
I did not cry out at what I saw nor retreat from it. Immediately at my
feet was the body of a beautiful woman, lying at full length upon the
floor, her arms flung out on either side of her, and her white face and
shoulders gleaming dully in the unsteady light of the candle. Around her
throat was a great chain of diamonds, and the light played upon these
and made them flash and blaze in tiny flames. But the woman who wore
them was dead, and I was so certain as to how she had died that without
an instant’s hesitation I dropped on my knees beside her and placed
my hands above her heart. My fingers again touched the thin slit of a
wound. I had no doubt in my mind but that this was the Russian princess,
and when I lowered the candle to her face I was assured that this
was so. Her features showed the finest lines of both the Slav and the
Jewess; the eyes were black, the hair blue-black and wonderfully heavy,
and her skin, even in death, was rich in color. She was a surpassingly
beautiful woman.

[Illustration: 07 At my feet was the body of a beautiful woman]

“I rose and tried to light another candle with the one I held, but
I found that my hand was so unsteady that I could not keep the wicks
together. It was my intention to again search for this strange dagger
which had been used to kill both the English boy and the beautiful
princess, but before I could light the second candle I heard footsteps
descending the stairs, and the Russian servant appeared in the doorway.

“My face was in darkness, or I am sure that at the sight of it he would
have taken alarm, for at that moment I was not sure but that this man
himself was the murderer. His own face was plainly visible to me in the
light from the hall, and I could see that it wore an expression of dull
bewilderment. I stepped quickly toward him and took a firm hold upon his
wrist.

“‘She is not there,’ he said. ‘The Princess has gone. They have all
gone.’

“‘Who have gone?’ I demanded. ‘Who else has been here?’

“‘The two Englishmen,’ he said.

“‘What two Englishmen?’ I demanded. ‘What are their names?’

“The man now saw by my manner that some question of great moment hung
upon his answer, and he began to protest that he did not know the names
of the visitors and that until that evening he had never seen them.

“I guessed that it was my tone which frightened him, so I took my hand
off his wrist and spoke less eagerly.

“‘How long have they been here?’ I asked, ‘and when did they go?’

“He pointed behind him toward the drawing-room.

“‘One sat there with the Princess,’ he said; ‘the other came after I
had placed the coffee in the drawing-room. The two Englishmen talked
together and the Princess returned here to the table. She sat there in
that chair, and I brought her cognac and cigarettes. Then I sat outside
upon the bench. It was a feast day, and I had been drinking. Pardon,
Excellency, but I fell asleep. When I woke, your Excellency was standing
by me, but the Princess and the two Englishmen had gone. That is all I
know.’

“I believed that the man was telling me the truth. His fright had
passed, and he was now apparently puzzled, but not alarmed.

“‘You must remember the names of the Englishmen,’ I urged. ‘Try to
think. When you announced them to the Princess what name did you give?’

“At this question he exclaimed with pleasure, and, beckoning to me,
ran hurriedly down the hall and into the drawing-room. In the corner
furthest from the screen was the piano, and on it was a silver tray. He
picked this up and, smiling with pride at his own intelligence, pointed
at two cards that lay upon it. I took them up and read the names
engraved upon them.”

The American paused abruptly, and glanced at the faces about him. “I
read the names,” he repeated. He spoke with great reluctance.

“Continue!” cried the Baronet, sharply.

“I read the names,” said the American with evident distaste, “and the
family name of each was the same. They were the names of two brothers.
One is well known to you. It is that of the African explorer of whom
this gentleman was just speaking. I mean the Earl of Chetney. The other
was the name of his brother, Lord Arthur Chetney.”

The men at the table fell back as though a trapdoor had fallen open at
their feet.

“Lord Chetney!” they exclaimed in chorus. They glanced at each other and
back to the American with every expression of concern and disbelief.

“It is impossible!” cried the Baronet. “Why, my dear sir, young Chetney
only arrived from Africa yesterday. It was so stated in the evening
papers.”

The jaw of the American set in a resolute square, and he pressed his
lips together.

“You are perfectly right, sir,” he said, “Lord Chetney did arrive in
London yesterday morning, and yesterday night I found his dead body.”

The youngest member present was the first to recover. He seemed much
less concerned over the identity of the murdered man than at the
interruption of the narrative.

“Oh, please let him go on!” he cried. “What happened then? You say you
found two visiting cards. How do you know which card was that of the
murdered man?”

The American, before he answered, waited until the chorus of
exclamations had ceased. Then he continued as though he had not been
interrupted.

“The instant I read the names upon the cards,” he said, “I ran to the
screen and, kneeling beside the dead man, began a search through his
pockets. My hand at once fell upon a card-case, and I found on all
the cards it contained the title of the Earl of Chetney. His watch and
cigarette-case also bore his name. These evidences, and the fact of his
bronzed skin, and that his cheekbones were worn with fever, convinced
me that the dead man was the African explorer, and the boy who had fled
past me in the night was Arthur, his younger brother.

“I was so intent upon my search that I had forgotten the servant, and
I was still on my knees when I heard a cry behind me. I turned, and saw
the man gazing down at the body in abject horror.

“Before I could rise, he gave another cry of terror, and, flinging
himself into the hall, raced toward the door to the street. I leaped
after him, shouting to him to halt, but before I could reach the hall he
had torn open the door, and I saw him spring out into the yellow fog. I
cleared the steps in a jump and ran down the garden walk but just as
the gate clicked in front of me. I had it open on the instant, and,
following the sound of the man’s footsteps, I raced after him across the
open street. He, also, could hear me, and he instantly stopped running,
and there was absolute silence. He was so near that I almost fancied I
could hear him panting, and I held my own breath to listen. But I could
distinguish nothing but the dripping of the mist about us, and from far
off the music of the Hungarian band, which I had heard when I first lost
myself.

“All I could see was the square of light from the door I had left open
behind me, and a lamp in the hall beyond it flickering in the draught.
But even as I watched it, the flame of the lamp was blown violently to
and fro, and the door, caught in the same current of air, closed slowly.
I knew if it shut I could not again enter the house, and I rushed madly
toward it. I believe I even shouted out, as though it were something
human which I could compel to obey me, and then I caught my foot against
the curb and smashed into the sidewalk. When I rose to my feet I was
dizzy and half stunned, and though I thought then that I was moving
toward the door, I know now that I probably turned directly from it;
for, as I groped about in the night, calling frantically for the police,
my fingers touched nothing but the dripping fog, and the iron railings
for which I sought seemed to have melted away. For many minutes I beat
the mist with my arms like one at blind man’s buff, turning sharply in
circles, cursing aloud at my stupidity and crying continually for help.
At last a voice answered me from the fog, and I found myself held in the
circle of a policeman’s lantern.

“That is the end of my adventure. What I have to tell you now is what I
learned from the police.

“At the station-house to which the man guided me I related what you have
just heard. I told them that the house they must at once find was one
set back from the street within a radius of two hundred yards from
the Knightsbridge Barracks, that within fifty yards of it some one was
giving a dance to the music of a Hungarian band, and that the railings
before it were as high as a man’s waist and filed to a point. With that
to work upon, twenty men were at once ordered out into the fog to search
for the house, and Inspector Lyle himself was despatched to the home of
Lord Edam, Chetney’s father, with a warrant for Lord Arthur’s arrest. I
was thanked and dismissed on my own recognizance.

“This morning, Inspector Lyle called on me, and from him I learned the
police theory of the scene I have just described.

“Apparently I had wandered very far in the fog, for up to noon to-day
the house had not been found, nor had they been able to arrest Lord
Arthur. He did not return to his father’s house last night, and there is
no trace of him; but from what the police knew of the past lives of the
people I found in that lost house, they have evolved a theory, and their
theory is that the murders were committed by Lord Arthur.

“The infatuation of his elder brother, Lord Chetney, for a Russian
princess, so Inspector Lyle tells me, is well known to every one. About
two years ago the Princess Zichy, as she calls herself, and he were
constantly together, and Chetney informed his friends that they were
about to be married. The woman was notorious in two continents, and when
Lord Edam heard of his son’s infatuation he appealed to the police for
her record.

“It is through his having applied to them that they know so much
concerning her and her relations with the Chetneys. From the police Lord
Edam learned that Madame Zichy had once been a spy in the employ of the
Russian Third Section, but that lately she had been repudiated by her
own government and was living by her wits, by blackmail, and by her
beauty. Lord Edam laid this record before his son, but Chetney either
knew it already or the woman persuaded him not to believe in it, and the
father and son parted in great anger. Two days later the marquis altered
his will, leaving all of his money to the younger brother, Arthur.

“The title and some of the landed property he could not keep from
Chetney, but he swore if his son saw the woman again that the will
should stand as it was, and he would be left without a penny.

“This was about eighteen months ago, when apparently Chetney tired of
the Princess, and suddenly went off to shoot and explore in Central
Africa. No word came from him, except that twice he was reported as
having died of fever in the jungle, and finally two traders reached
the coast who said they had seen his body. This was accepted by all
as conclusive, and young Arthur was recognized as the heir to the Edam
millions. On the strength of this supposition he at once began to borrow
enormous sums from the money lenders. This is of great importance, as
the police believe it was these debts which drove him to the murder of
his brother. Yesterday, as you know, Lord Chetney suddenly returned from
the grave, and it was the fact that for two years he had been considered
as dead which lent such importance to his return and which gave rise
to those columns of detail concerning him which appeared in all the
afternoon papers. But, obviously, during his absence he had not tired of
the Princess Zichy, for we know that a few hours after he reached London
he sought her out. His brother, who had also learned of his reappearance
through the papers, probably suspected which would be the house he would
first visit, and followed him there, arriving, so the Russian servant
tells us, while the two were at coffee in the drawing-room. The
Princess, then, we also learn from the servant, withdrew to the
dining-room, leaving the brothers together. What happened one can only
guess.

“Lord Arthur knew now that when it was discovered he was no longer the
heir, the money-lenders would come down upon him. The police believe
that he at once sought out his brother to beg for money to cover the
post-obits, but that, considering the sum he needed was several hundreds
of thousands of pounds, Chetney refused to give it him. No one knew
that Arthur had gone to seek out his brother. They were alone. It is
possible, then, that in a passion of disappointment, and crazed with
the disgrace which he saw before him, young Arthur made himself the heir
beyond further question. The death of his brother would have availed
nothing if the woman remained alive. It is then possible that he crossed
the hall, and with the same weapon which made him Lord Edam’s heir
destroyed the solitary witness to the murder. The only other person
who could have seen it was sleeping in a drunken stupor, to which fact
undoubtedly he owed his life. And yet,” concluded the Naval Attache,
leaning forward and marking each word with his finger, “Lord Arthur
blundered fatally. In his haste he left the door of the house open, so
giving access to the first passer-by, and he forgot that when he entered
it he had handed his card to the servant. That piece of paper may yet
send him to the gallows. In the mean time he has disappeared completely,
and somewhere, in one of the millions of streets of this great capital,
in a locked and empty house, lies the body of his brother, and of the
woman his brother loved, undiscovered, unburied, and with their murder
unavenged.”

In the discussion which followed the conclusion of the story of the
Naval Attache the gentleman with the pearl took no part. Instead, he
arose, and, beckoning a servant to a far corner of the room, whispered
earnestly to him until a sudden movement on the part of Sir Andrew
caused him to return hurriedly to the table.

“There are several points in Mr. Sears’s story I want explained,” he
cried. “Be seated, Sir Andrew,” he begged. “Let us have the opinion of
an expert. I do not care what the police think, I want to know what you
think.”

But Sir Henry rose reluctantly from his chair.

“I should like nothing better than to discuss this,” he said. “But it
is most important that I proceed to the House. I should have been there
some time ago.” He turned toward the servant and directed him to call a
hansom.

The gentleman with the pearl stud looked appealingly at the Naval
Attache. “There are surely many details that you have not told us,” he
urged. “Some you have forgotten.”

The Baronet interrupted quickly.

“I trust not,” he said, “for I could not possibly stop to hear them.”

“The story is finished,” declared the Naval Attache; “until Lord Arthur
is arrested or the bodies are found there is nothing more to tell of
either Chetney or the Princess Zichy.”

“Of Lord Chetney perhaps not,” interrupted the sporting-looking
gentleman with the black tie, “but there’ll always be something to tell
of the Princess Zichy. I know enough stories about her to fill a book.
She was a most remarkable woman.” The speaker dropped the end of his
cigar into his coffee cup and, taking his case from his pocket, selected
a fresh one. As he did so he laughed and held up the case that the
others might see it. It was an ordinary cigar-case of well-worn
pig-skin, with a silver clasp.

“The only time I ever met her,” he said, “she tried to rob me of this.”

The Baronet regarded him closely.

“She tried to rob you?” he repeated.

[Illustration: 08 The Princess Zichy]

“Tried to rob me of this,” continued the gentleman in the black tie,
“and of the Czarina’s diamonds.” His tone was one of mingled admiration
and injury.

“The Czarina’s diamonds!” exclaimed the Baronet. He glanced quickly and
suspiciously at the speaker, and then at the others about the table.
But their faces gave evidence of no other emotion than that of ordinary
interest.

“Yes, the Czarina’s diamonds,” repeated the man with the black tie.
“It was a necklace of diamonds. I was told to take them to the Russian
Ambassador in Paris who was to deliver them at Moscow. I am a Queen’s
Messenger,” he added.

“Oh, I see,” exclaimed Sir Andrew in a tone of relief. “And you say
that this same Princess Zichy, one of the victims of this double murder,
endeavored to rob you of--of--that cigar-case.”

“And the Czarina’s diamonds,” answered the Queen’s Messenger
imperturbably. “It’s not much of a story, but it gives you an idea
of the woman’s character. The robbery took place between Paris and
Marseilles.”

The Baronet interrupted him with an abrupt movement. “No, no,” he cried,
shaking his head in protest. “Do not tempt me. I really cannot listen. I
must be at the House in ten minutes.”

“I am sorry,” said the Queen’s Messenger. He turned to those seated
about him. “I wonder if the other gentlemen--” he inquired tentatively.
There was a chorus of polite murmurs, and the Queen’s Messenger, bowing
his head in acknowledgment, took a preparatory sip from his glass. At
the same moment the servant to whom the man with the black pearl had
spoken, slipped a piece of paper into his hand. He glanced at it,
frowned, and threw it under the table.

The servant bowed to the Baronet.

“Your hansom is waiting, Sir Andrew,” he said.

“The necklace was worth twenty thousand pounds,” began the Queen’s
Messenger. “It was a present from the Queen of England to celebrate--”
 The Baronet gave an exclamation of angry annoyance.

“Upon my word, this is most provoking,” he interrupted. “I really ought
not to stay. But I certainly mean to hear this.” He turned irritably to
the servant. “Tell the hansom to wait,” he commanded, and, with an air
of a boy who is playing truant, slipped guiltily into his chair.

The gentleman with the black pearl smiled blandly, and rapped upon the
table.

“Order, gentlemen,” he said. “Order for the story of the Queen’s
Messenger and the Czarina’s diamonds.”



CHAPTER II


“The necklace was a present from the Queen of England to the Czarina of
Russia,” began the Queen’s Messenger. “It was to celebrate the occasion
of the Czar’s coronation. Our Foreign Office knew that the Russian
Ambassador in Paris was to proceed to Moscow for that ceremony, and I
was directed to go to Paris and turn over the necklace to him. But when
I reached Paris I found he had not expected me for a week later and was
taking a few days’ vacation at Nice. His people asked me to leave the
necklace with them at the Embassy, but I had been charged to get a
receipt for it from the Ambassador himself, so I started at once for
Nice The fact that Monte Carlo is not two thousand miles from Nice may
have had something to do with making me carry out my instructions so
carefully. Now, how the Princess Zichy came to find out about the
necklace I don’t know, but I can guess. As you have just heard, she was
at one time a spy in the service of the Russian government. And after
they dismissed her she kept up her acquaintance with many of the Russian
agents in London. It is probable that through one of them she learned
that the necklace was to be sent to Moscow, and which one of the Queen’s
Messengers had been detailed to take it there. Still, I doubt if even
that knowledge would have helped her if she had not also known something
which I supposed no one else in the world knew but myself and one other
man. And, curiously enough, the other man was a Queen’s Messenger too,
and a friend of mine. You must know that up to the time of this robbery
I had always concealed my despatches in a manner peculiarly my own. I
got the idea from that play called ‘A Scrap of Paper.’ In it a man wants
to hide a certain compromising document. He knows that all his rooms
will be secretly searched for it, so he puts it in a torn envelope and
sticks it up where any one can see it on his mantel shelf. The result is
that the woman who is ransacking the house to find it looks in all the
unlikely places, but passes over the scrap of paper that is just under
her nose. Sometimes the papers and packages they give us to carry about
Europe are of very great value, and sometimes they are special makes of
cigarettes, and orders to court dressmakers. Sometimes we know what we
are carrying and sometimes we do not. If it is a large sum of money or a
treaty, they generally tell us. But, as a rule, we have no knowledge of
what the package contains; so, to be on the safe side, we naturally
take just as great care of it as though we knew it held the terms of
an ultimatum or the crown jewels. As a rule, my confreres carry the
official packages in a despatch-box, which is just as obvious as a
lady’s jewel bag in the hands of her maid. Every one knows they are
carrying something of value. They put a premium on dishonesty.
Well, after I saw the ‘Scrap of Paper’ play, I determined to put the
government valuables in the most unlikely place that any one would
look for them. So I used to hide the documents they gave me inside my
riding-boots, and small articles, such as money or jewels, I carried
in an old cigar-case. After I took to using my case for that purpose I
bought a new one, exactly like it, for my cigars. But to avoid mistakes,
I had my initials placed on both sides of the new one, and the moment
I touched the case, even in the dark, I could tell which it was by the
raised initials.

“No one knew of this except the Queen’s Messenger of whom I spoke.
We once left Paris together on the Orient Express. I was going to
Constantinople and he was to stop off at Vienna. On the journey I told
him of my peculiar way of hiding things and showed him my cigar-case. If
I recollect rightly, on that trip it held the grand cross of St. Michael
and St. George, which the Queen was sending to our Ambassador. The
Messenger was very much entertained at my scheme, and some months later
when he met the Princess he told her about it as an amusing story. Of
course, he had no idea she was a Russian spy. He didn’t know anything at
all about her, except that she was a very attractive woman.

“It was indiscreet, but he could not possibly have guessed that she
could ever make any use of what he told her.

“Later, after the robbery, I remembered that I had informed this young
chap of my secret hiding-place, and when I saw him again I questioned
him about it. He was greatly distressed, and said he had never seen the
importance of the secret. He remembered he had told several people of
it, and among others the Princess Zichy. In that way I found out that it
was she who had robbed me, and I know that from the moment I left London
she was following me and that she knew then that the diamonds were
concealed in my cigar-case.

“My train for Nice left Paris at ten in the morning. When I travel at
night I generally tell the _chef de gare_ that I am a Queen’s Messenger,
and he gives me a compartment to myself, but in the daytime I take
whatever offers. On this morning I had found an empty compartment, and
I had tipped the guard to keep every one else out, not from any fear of
losing the diamonds, but because I wanted to smoke. He had locked the
door, and as the last bell had rung I supposed I was to travel alone, so
I began to arrange my traps and make myself comfortable. The diamonds
in the cigar-case were in the inside pocket of my waistcoat, and as they
made a bulky package, I took them out, intending to put them in my hand
bag. It is a small satchel like a bookmaker’s, or those hand bags that
couriers carry. I wear it slung from a strap across my shoulder, and, no
matter whether I am sitting or walking, it never leaves me.

“I took the cigar-case which held the necklace from my inside pocket
and the case which held the cigars out of the satchel, and while I was
searching through it for a box of matches I laid the two cases beside me
on the seat.

“At that moment the train started, but at the same instant there was a
rattle at the lock of the compartment, and a couple of porters lifted
and shoved a woman through the door, and hurled her rugs and umbrellas
in after her.

“Instinctively I reached for the diamonds. I shoved them quickly into
the satchel and, pushing them far down to the bottom of the bag, snapped
the spring lock. Then I put the cigars in the pocket of my coat, but
with the thought that now that I had a woman as a travelling companion I
would probably not be allowed to enjoy them.

“One of her pieces of luggage had fallen at my feet, and a roll of rugs
had landed at my side. I thought if I hid the fact that the lady was
not welcome, and at once endeavored to be civil, she might permit me
to smoke. So I picked her hand bag off the floor and asked her where I
might place it.

“As I spoke I looked at her for the first time, and saw that she was a
most remarkably handsome woman.

“She smiled charmingly and begged me not to disturb myself. Then she
arranged her own things about her, and, opening her dressing-bag, took
out a gold cigarette case.

“‘Do you object to smoke?’ she asked.

“I laughed and assured her I had been in great terror lest she might
object to it herself.

“‘If you like cigarettes,’ she said, ‘will you try some of these? They
are rolled especially for my husband in Russia, and they are supposed to
be very good.’

“I thanked her, and took one from her case, and I found it so much
better than my own that I continued to smoke her cigarettes throughout
the rest of the journey. I must say that we got on very well. I judged
from the coronet on her cigarette-case, and from her manner, which was
quite as well bred as that of any woman I ever met, that she was some
one of importance, and though she seemed almost too good looking to be
respectable, I determined that she was some _grande dame_ who was so
assured of her position that she could afford to be unconventional. At
first she read her novel, and then she made some comment on the scenery,
and finally we began to discuss the current politics of the Continent.
She talked of all the cities in Europe, and seemed to know every one
worth knowing. But she volunteered nothing about herself except that she
frequently made use of the expression, ‘When my husband was stationed at
Vienna,’ or ‘When my husband was promoted to Rome.’ Once she said to me,
‘I have often seen you at Monte Carlo. I saw you when you won the pigeon
championship.’ I told her that I was not a pigeon shot, and she gave a
little start of surprise. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she said; ‘I thought
you were Morton Hamilton, the English champion.’ As a matter of fact,
I do look like Hamilton, but I know now that her object was to make
me think that she had no idea as to who I really was. She needn’t have
acted at all, for I certainly had no suspicions of her, and was only too
pleased to have so charming a companion.

“The one thing that should have made me suspicious was the fact that
at every station she made some trivial excuse to get me out of the
compartment. She pretended that her maid was travelling back of us in
one of the second-class carriages, and kept saying she could not imagine
why the woman did not come to look after her, and if the maid did not
turn up at the next stop, would I be so very kind as to get out and
bring her whatever it was she pretended she wanted.

“I had taken my dressing-case from the rack to get out a novel, and had
left it on the seat opposite to mine, and at the end of the compartment
farthest from her. And once when I came back from buying her a cup of
chocolate, or from some other fool errand, I found her standing at my
end of the compartment with both hands on the dressing-bag. She looked
at me without so much as winking an eye, and shoved the case carefully
into a corner. ‘Your bag slipped off on the floor,’ she said. ‘If you’ve
got any bottles in it, you had better look and see that they’re not
broken.’

“And I give you my word, I was such an ass that I did open the case and
looked all through it. She must have thought I _was_ a Juggins. I get
hot all over whenever I remember it. But in spite of my dulness, and her
cleverness, she couldn’t gain anything by sending me away, because what
she wanted was in the hand bag and every time she sent me away the hand
bag went with me.

“After the incident of the dressing-case her manner changed. Either in
my absence she had had time to look through it, or, when I was examining
it for broken bottles, she had seen everything it held.

“From that moment she must have been certain that the cigar-case, in
which she knew I carried the diamonds, was in the bag that was fastened
to my body, and from that time on she probably was plotting how to get
it from me. Her anxiety became most apparent. She dropped the great lady
manner, and her charming condescension went with it. She ceased talking,
and, when I spoke, answered me irritably, or at random. No doubt her
mind was entirely occupied with her plan. The end of our journey was
drawing rapidly nearer, and her time for action was being cut down with
the speed of the express train. Even I, unsuspicious as I was, noticed
that something was very wrong with her. I really believe that before we
reached Marseilles if I had not, through my own stupidity, given her the
chance she wanted, she might have stuck a knife in me and rolled me out
on the rails. But as it was, I only thought that the long journey had
tired her. I suggested that it was a very trying trip, and asked her if
she would allow me to offer her some of my cognac.

“She thanked me and said, ‘No,’ and then suddenly her eyes lighted, and
she exclaimed, ‘Yes, thank you, if you will be so kind.’

“My flask was in the hand bag, and I placed it on my lap and with my
thumb slipped back the catch. As I keep my tickets and railroad guide in
the bag, I am so constantly opening it that I never bother to lock
it, and the fact that it is strapped to me has always been sufficient
protection. But I can appreciate now what a satisfaction, and what a
torment too, it must have been to that woman when she saw that the bag
opened without a key.

“While we were crossing the mountains I had felt rather chilly and had
been wearing a light racing coat. But after the lamps were lighted
the compartment became very hot and stuffy, and I found the coat
uncomfortable. So I stood up, and, after first slipping the strap of the
bag over my head, I placed the bag in the seat next me and pulled off
the racing coat. I don’t blame myself for being careless; the bag was
still within reach of my hand, and nothing would have happened if
at that exact moment the train had not stopped at Arles. It was the
combination of my removing the bag and our entering the station at the
same instant which gave the Princess Zichy the chance she wanted to rob
me.

“I needn’t say that she was clever enough to take it. The train ran into
the station at full speed and came to a sudden stop. I had just thrown
my coat into the rack, and had reached out my hand for the bag. In
another instant I would have had the strap around my shoulder. But at
that moment the Princess threw open the door of the compartment and
beckoned wildly at the people on the platform. ‘Natalie!’ she called,
‘Natalie! here I am. Come here! This way!’ She turned upon me in the
greatest excitement. ‘My maid!’ she cried. ‘She is looking for me. She
passed the window without seeing me. Go, please, and bring her back.’
She continued pointing out of the door and beckoning me with her other
hand. There certainly was something about that woman’s tone which made
one jump. When she was giving orders you had no chance to think of
anything else. So I rushed out on my errand of mercy, and then rushed
back again to ask what the maid looked like.

[Illustration: 09 This gave the Princess Zichy the chance]

“‘In black,’ she answered, rising and blocking the door of the
compartment. ‘All in black, with a bonnet!’

“The train waited three minutes at Aries, and in that time I suppose I
must have rushed up to over twenty women and asked, ‘Are you Natalie?’
The only reason I wasn’t punched with an umbrella or handed over to the
police was that they probably thought I was crazy.

“When I jumped back into the compartment the Princess was seated where
I had left her, but her eyes were burning with happiness. She placed her
hand on my arm almost affectionately, and said in a hysterical way, ‘You
are very kind to me. I am so sorry to have troubled you.’

“I protested that every woman on the platform was dressed in black.

“‘Indeed I am so sorry,’ she said, laughing; and she continued to laugh
until she began to breathe so quickly that I thought she was going to
faint.

“I can see now that the last part of that journey must have been a
terrible half hour for her. She had the cigar-case safe enough, but she
knew that she herself was not safe. She understood if I were to open my
bag, even at the last minute, and miss the case, I would know positively
that she had taken it. I had placed the diamonds in the bag at the very
moment she entered the compartment, and no one but our two selves had
occupied it since. She knew that when we reached Marseilles she would
either be twenty thousand pounds richer than when she left Paris, or
that she would go to jail. That was the situation as she must have read
it, and I don’t envy her her state of mind during that last half hour.
It must have been hell.

[Illustration: 10 She knew she would be twenty thousand pounds richer]

“I saw that something was wrong, and in my innocence I even wondered if
possibly my cognac had not been a little too strong. For she suddenly
developed into a most brilliant conversationalist, and applauded and
laughed at everything I said, and fired off questions at me like a
machine gun, so that I had no time to think of anything but of what she
was saying. Whenever I stirred she stopped her chattering and leaned
toward me, and watched me like a cat over a mouse-hole. I wondered how I
could have considered her an agreeable travelling companion. I thought
I would have preferred to be locked in with a lunatic. I don’t like to
think how she would have acted if I had made a move to examine the bag,
but as I had it safely strapped around me again, I did not open it, and
I reached Marseilles alive. As we drew into the station she shook hands
with me and grinned at me like a Cheshire cat.

“‘I cannot tell you,’ she said, ‘how much I have to thank you for.’ What
do you think of that for impudence!

“I offered to put her in a carriage, but she said she must find Natalie,
and that she hoped we would meet again at the hotel. So I drove off by
myself, wondering who she was, and whether Natalie was not her keeper.

“I had to wait several hours for the train to Nice, and as I wanted to
stroll around the city I thought I had better put the diamonds in the
safe of the hotel. As soon as I reached my room I locked the door,
placed the hand bag on the table and opened it. I felt among the things
at the top of it, but failed to touch the cigar-case. I shoved my hand
in deeper, and stirred the things about, but still I did not reach it.
A cold wave swept down my spine, and a sort of emptiness came to the pit
of my stomach. Then I turned red-hot, and the sweat sprung out all over
me. I wet my lips with my tongue, and said to myself, ‘Don’t be an ass.
Pull yourself together, pull yourself together. Take the things out, one
at a time. It’s there, of course it’s there. Don’t be an ass.’

“So I put a brake on my nerves and began very carefully to pick out the
things one by one, but after another second I could not stand it, and
I rushed across the room and threw out everything on the bed. But the
diamonds were not among them. I pulled the things about and tore them
open and shuffled and rearranged and sorted them, but it was no use. The
cigar-case was gone. I threw everything in the dressing-case out on the
floor, although I knew it was useless to look for it there. I knew that
I had put it in the bag. I sat down and tried to think. I remembered I
had put it in the satchel at Paris just as that woman had entered the
compartment, and I had been alone with her ever since, so it was she
who had robbed me. But how? It had never left my shoulder. And then I
remembered that it had--that I had taken it off when I had changed
my coat and for the few moments that I was searching for Natalie. I
remembered that the woman had sent me on that goose chase, and that at
every other station she had tried to get rid of me on some fool errand.

[Illustration: 11 I threw out everything on the bed]

“I gave a roar like a mad bull, and I jumped down the stairs six steps
at a time.

“I demanded at the office if a distinguished lady of title, possibly a
Russian, had just entered the hotel.

“As I expected, she had not. I sprang into a cab and inquired at two
other hotels, and then I saw the folly of trying to catch her without
outside help, and I ordered the fellow to gallop to the office of the
Chief of Police. I told my story, and the ass in charge asked me to calm
myself, and wanted to take notes. I told him this was no time for taking
notes, but for doing something. He got wrathy at that, and I demanded
to be taken at once to his Chief. The Chief, he said, was very busy, and
could not see me. So I showed him my silver greyhound. In eleven years I
had never used it but once before. I stated in pretty vigorous language
that I was a Queen’s Messenger, and that if the Chief of Police did not
see me instantly he would lose his official head. At that the fellow
jumped off his high horse and ran with me to his Chief,--a smart young
chap, a colonel in the army, and a very intelligent man.

“I explained that I had been robbed in a French railway carriage of a
diamond necklace belonging to the Queen of England, which her Majesty
was sending as a present to the Czarina of Russia. I pointed out to him
that if he succeeded in capturing the thief he would be made for life,
and would receive the gratitude of three great powers.

[Illustration: 12 Threw everything in the dressing-case out on the floor]

“He wasn’t the sort that thinks second thoughts are best. He saw Russian
and French decorations sprouting all over his chest, and he hit a bell,
and pressed buttons, and yelled out orders like the captain of a penny
steamer in a fog. He sent her description to all the city gates, and
ordered all cabmen and railway porters to search all trains leaving
Marseilles. He ordered all passengers on outgoing vessels to be
examined, and telegraphed the proprietors of every hotel and pension to
send him a complete list of their guests within the hour. While I was
standing there he must have given at least a hundred orders, and sent
out enough commissaires, sergeants de ville, gendarmes, bicycle police,
and plain-clothes Johnnies to have captured the entire German army.
When they had gone he assured me that the woman was as good as arrested
already. Indeed, officially, she was arrested; for she had no more
chance of escape from Marseilles than from the Chateau D’If.

“He told me to return to my hotel and possess my soul in peace. Within
an hour he assured me he would acquaint me with her arrest.

“I thanked him, and complimented him on his energy, and left him. But I
didn’t share in his confidence. I felt that she was a very clever woman,
and a match for any and all of us. It was all very well for him to be
jubilant. He had not lost the diamonds, and had everything to gain if he
found them; while I, even if he did recover the necklace, would only
be where I was before I lost them, and if he did not recover it I was a
ruined man. It was an awful facer for me. I had always prided myself on
my record. In eleven years I had never mislaid an envelope, nor missed
taking the first train. And now I had failed in the most important
mission that had ever been intrusted to me. And it wasn’t a thing that
could be hushed up, either. It was too conspicuous, too spectacular. It
was sure to invite the widest notoriety. I saw myself ridiculed all over
the Continent, and perhaps dismissed, even suspected of having taken the
thing myself.

“I was walking in front of a lighted cafe, and I felt so sick and
miserable that I stopped for a pick-me-up. Then I considered that if I
took one drink I would probably, in my present state of mind, not want
to stop under twenty, and I decided I had better leave it alone. But
my nerves were jumping like a frightened rabbit, and I felt I must
have something to quiet them, or I would go crazy. I reached for my
cigarette-case, but a cigarette seemed hardly adequate, so I put it back
again and took out this cigar-case, in which I keep only the strongest
and blackest cigars. I opened it and stuck in my fingers, but instead
of a cigar they touched on a thin leather envelope. My heart stood
perfectly still. I did not dare to look, but I dug my finger nails into
the leather and I felt layers of thin paper, then a layer of cotton, and
then they scratched on the facets of the Czarina’s diamonds!

“I stumbled as though I had been hit in the face, and fell back into one
of the chairs on the sidewalk. I tore off the wrappings and spread out
the diamonds on the cafe table; I could not believe they were real. I
twisted the necklace between my fingers and crushed it between my palms
and tossed it up in the air. I believe I almost kissed it. The women
in the cafe stood tip on the chairs to see better, and laughed and
screamed, and the people crowded so close around me that the waiters
had to form a bodyguard. The proprietor thought there was a fight, and
called for the police. I was so happy I didn’t care. I laughed, too, and
gave the proprietor a five-pound note, and told him to stand every one
a drink. Then I tumbled into a fiacre and galloped off to my friend the
Chief of Police. I felt very sorry for him. He had been so happy at the
chance I gave him, and he was sure to be disappointed when he learned I
had sent him off on a false alarm.

“But now that I had found the necklace, I did not want him to find the
woman. Indeed, I was most anxious that she should get clear away, for
if she were caught the truth would come out, and I was likely to get a
sharp reprimand, and sure to be laughed at.

“I could see now how it had happened. In my haste to hide the diamonds
when the woman was hustled into the carriage, I had shoved the cigars
into the satchel, and the diamonds into the pocket of my coat. Now that
I had the diamonds safe again, it seemed a very natural mistake. But I
doubted if the Foreign Office would think so. I was afraid it might not
appreciate the beautiful simplicity of my secret hiding-place. So, when
I reached the police station, and found that the woman was still at
large, I was more than relieved.

“As I expected, the Chief was extremely chagrined when he learned of my
mistake, and that there was nothing for him to do. But I was feeling so
happy myself that I hated to have any one else miserable, so I suggested
that this attempt to steal the Czarina’s necklace might be only the
first of a series of such attempts by an unscrupulous gang, and that I
might still be in danger.

“I winked at the Chief and the Chief smiled at me, and we went to Nice
together in a saloon car with a guard of twelve carabineers and twelve
plain-clothes men, and the Chief and I drank champagne all the way.
We marched together up to the hotel where the Russian Ambassador was
stopping, closely surrounded by our escort of carabineers, and delivered
the necklace with the most profound ceremony. The old Ambassador was
immensely impressed, and when we hinted that already I had been made the
object of an attack by robbers, he assured us that his Imperial Majesty
would not prove ungrateful.

“I wrote a swinging personal letter about the invaluable services of
the Chief to the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, and they gave him
enough Russian and French medals to satisfy even a French soldier. So,
though he never caught the woman, he received his just reward.”

The Queen’s Messenger paused and surveyed the faces of those about him
in some embarrassment.

“But the worst of it is,” he added, “that the story must have got about;
for, while the Princess obtained nothing from me but a cigar-case and
five excellent cigars, a few weeks after the coronation the Czar sent
me a gold cigar-case with his monogram in diamonds. And I don’t know yet
whether that was a coincidence, or whether the Czar wanted me to know
that he knew that I had been carrying the Czarina’s diamonds in my
pigskin cigar-case. What do you fellows think?”



CHAPTER III


Sir Andrew rose with disapproval written in every lineament.

“I thought your story would bear upon the murder,” he said. “Had I
imagined it would have nothing whatsoever to do with it I would not have
remained.” He pushed back his chair and bowed stiffly. “I wish you good
night,” he said.

There was a chorus of remonstrance, and under cover of this and the
Baronet’s answering protests a servant for the second time slipped a
piece of paper into the hand of the gentleman with the pearl stud. He
read the lines written upon it and tore it into tiny fragments.

The youngest member, who had remained an interested but silent listener
to the tale of the Queen’s Messenger, raised his hand commandingly.

“Sir Andrew,” he cried, “in justice to Lord Arthur Chetney I must ask
you to be seated. He has been accused in our hearing of a most serious
crime, and I insist that you remain until you have heard me clear his
character.”

“You!” cried the Baronet.

“Yes,” answered the young man briskly. “I would have spoken sooner,”
 he explained, “but that I thought this gentleman”--he inclined his head
toward the Queen’s Messenger--“was about to contribute some facts of
which I was ignorant. He, however, has told us nothing, and so I will
take up the tale at the point where Lieutenant Sears laid it down and
give you those details of which Lieutenant Sears is ignorant. It seems
strange to you that I should be able to add the sequel to this story.
But the coincidence is easily explained. I am the junior member of
the law firm of Chudleigh & Chudleigh. We have been solicitors for
the Chetneys for the last two hundred years. Nothing, no matter how
unimportant, which concerns Lord Edam and his two sons is unknown to
us, and naturally we are acquainted with every detail of the terrible
catastrophe of last night.”

The Baronet, bewildered but eager, sank back into his chair.

“Will you be long, sir!” he demanded.

“I shall endeavor to be brief,” said the young solicitor; “and,” he
added, in a tone which gave his words almost the weight of a threat, “I
promise to be interesting.”

“There is no need to promise that,” said Sir Andrew, “I find it much too
interesting as it is.” He glanced ruefully at the clock and turned his
eyes quickly from it.

“Tell the driver of that hansom,” he called to the servant, “that I take
him by the hour.”

“For the last three days,” began young Mr. Chudleigh, “as you have
probably read in the daily papers, the Marquis of Edam has been at the
point of death, and his physicians have never left his house. Every hour
he seemed to grow weaker; but although his bodily strength is apparently
leaving him forever, his mind has remained clear and active. Late
yesterday evening word was received at our office that he wished my
father to come at once to Chetney House and to bring with him certain
papers. What these papers were is not essential; I mention them only
to explain how it was that last night I happened to be at Lord Edam’s
bed-side. I accompanied my father to Chetney House, but at the time we
reached there Lord Edam was sleeping, and his physicians refused to have
him awakened. My father urged that he should be allowed to receive Lord
Edam’s instructions concerning the documents, but the physicians would
not disturb him, and we all gathered in the library to wait until he
should awake of his own accord. It was about one o’clock in the morning,
while we were still there, that Inspector Lyle and the officers from
Scotland Yard came to arrest Lord Arthur on the charge of murdering his
brother. You can imagine our dismay and distress. Like every one else,
I had learned from the afternoon papers that Lord Chetney was not dead,
but that he had returned to England, and on arriving at Chetney House
I had been told that Lord Arthur had gone to the Bath Hotel to look
for his brother and to inform him that if he wished to see their father
alive he must come to him at once. Although it was now past one o’clock,
Arthur had not returned. None of us knew where Madame Zichy lived, so we
could not go to recover Lord Chetney’s body. We spent a most miserable
night, hastening to the window whenever a cab came into the square, in
the hope that it was Arthur returning, and endeavoring to explain
away the facts that pointed to him as the murderer. I am a friend of
Arthur’s, I was with him at Harrow and at Oxford, and I refused to
believe for an instant that he was capable of such a crime; but as a
lawyer I could not help but see that the circumstantial evidence was
strongly against him.

“Toward early morning Lord Edam awoke, and in so much better a state of
health that he refused to make the changes in the papers which he had
intended, declaring that he was no nearer death than ourselves. Under
other circumstances, this happy change in him would have relieved us
greatly, but none of us could think of anything save the death of his
elder son and of the charge which hung over Arthur.

“As long as Inspector Lyle remained in the house my father decided that
I, as one of the legal advisers of the family, should also remain there.
But there was little for either of us to do. Arthur did not return, and
nothing occurred until late this morning, when Lyle received word that
the Russian servant had been arrested. He at once drove to Scotland Yard
to question him. He came back to us in an hour, and informed me that
the servant had refused to tell anything of what had happened the night
before, or of himself, or of the Princess Zichy. He would not even give
them the address of her house.

“‘He is in abject terror,’ Lyle said. ‘I assured him that he was not
suspected of the crime, but he would tell me nothing.’

“There were no other developments until two o’clock this afternoon, when
word was brought to us that Arthur had been found, and that he was lying
in the accident ward of St. George’s Hospital. Lyle and I drove there
together, and found him propped up in bed with his head bound in a
bandage. He had been brought to the hospital the night before by the
driver of a hansom that had run over him in the fog. The cab-horse had
kicked him on the head, and he had been carried in unconscious. There
was nothing on him to tell who he was, and it was not until he came to
his senses this afternoon that the hospital authorities had been able
to send word to his people. Lyle at once informed him that he was under
arrest, and with what he was charged, and though the inspector warned
him to say nothing which might be used against him, I, as his solicitor,
instructed him to speak freely and to tell us all he knew of the
occurrences of last night. It was evident to any one that the fact of
his brother’s death was of much greater concern to him, than that he was
accused of his murder.

[Illustration 13  We found him propped up in bed]

“‘That,’ Arthur said contemptuously, ‘that is damned nonsense. It is
monstrous and cruel. We parted better friends than we have been in
years. I will tell you all that happened--not to clear myself, but to
help you to find out the truth.’ His story is as follows: Yesterday
afternoon, owing to his constant attendance on his father, he did not
look at the evening papers, and it was not until after dinner, when the
butler brought him one and told him of its contents, that he learned
that his brother was alive and at the Bath Hotel. He drove there at
once, but was told that about eight o’clock his brother had gone out,
but without giving any clew to his destination. As Chetney had not at
once come to see his father, Arthur decided that he was still angry
with him, and his mind, turning naturally to the cause of their quarrel,
determined him to look for Chetney at the home of the Princess Zichy.

“Her house had been pointed out to him, and though he had never
visited it, he had passed it many times and knew its exact location. He
accordingly drove in that direction, as far as the fog would permit the
hansom to go, and walked the rest of the way, reaching the house about
nine o’clock. He rang, and was admitted by the Russian servant. The man
took his card into the drawing-room, and at once his brother ran out and
welcomed him. He was followed by the Princess Zichy, who also received
Arthur most cordially.

“‘You brothers will have much to talk about,’ she said. ‘I am going to
the dining-room. When you have finished, let me know.’

“As soon as she had left them, Arthur told his brother that their father
was not expected to outlive the night, and that he must come to him at
once.

“‘This is not the moment to remember your quarrel,’ Arthur said to him;
‘you have come back from the dead only in time to make your peace with
him before he dies.’

“Arthur says that at this Chetney was greatly moved.

“‘You entirely misunderstand me, Arthur,’ he returned. ‘I did not know
the governor was ill, or I would have gone to him the instant I arrived.
My only reason for not doing so was because I thought he was still angry
with me. I shall return with you immediately, as soon as I have said
good-by to the Princess. It is a final good-by. After tonight, I shall
never see her again.’

“‘Do you mean that?’ Arthur cried.

“‘Yes,’ Chetney answered. ‘When I returned to London I had no intention
of seeking her again, and I am here only through a mistake.’ He then
told Arthur that he had separated from the Princess even before he went
to Central Africa, and that, moreover, while at Cairo on his way south,
he had learned certain facts concerning her life there during the
previous season, which made it impossible for him to ever wish to see
her again. Their separation was final and complete.

“‘She deceived me cruelly,’ he said; ‘I cannot tell you how cruelly.
During the two years when I was trying to obtain my father’s consent to
our marriage she was in love with a Russian diplomat. During all that
time he was secretly visiting her here in London, and her trip to Cairo
was only an excuse to meet him there.’

“‘Yet you are here with her tonight,’ Arthur protested, ‘only a few
hours after your return.’

“‘That is easily explained,’ Chetney answered. ‘As I finished dinner
tonight at the hotel, I received a note from her from this address. In
it she said she had but just learned of my arrival, and begged me
to come to her at once. She wrote that she was in great and present
trouble, dying of an incurable illness, and without friends or money.
She begged me, for the sake of old times, to come to her assistance.
During the last two years in the jungle all my former feeling for Ziehy
has utterly passed away, but no one could have dismissed the appeal she
made in that letter. So I came here, and found her, as you have seen
her, quite as beautiful as she ever was, in very good health, and, from
the look of the house, in no need of money.

“‘I asked her what she meant by writing me that she was dying in a
garret, and she laughed, and said she had done so because she was
afraid, unless I thought she needed help, I would not try to see her.
That was where we were when you arrived. And now,’ Chetney added, ‘I
will say good-by to her, and you had better return home. No, you can
trust me, I shall follow you at once. She has no influence over me now,
but I believe, in spite of the way she has used me, that she is, after
her queer fashion, still fond of me, and when she learns that this
good-by is final there may be a scene, and it is not fair to her that
you should be here. So, go home at once, and tell the governor that I
am following you in ten minutes.’ “‘That,’ said Arthur, ‘is the way we
parted. I never left him on more friendly terms. I was happy to see him
alive again, I was happy to think he had returned in time to make up his
quarrel with my father, and I was happy that at last he was shut of that
woman. I was never better pleased with him in my life.’ He turned to
Inspector Lyle, who was sitting at the foot of the bed taking notes of
all he told us.

“‘Why in the name of common sense,’ he cried, ‘should I have chosen that
moment of all others to send my brother back to the grave!’ For a moment
the Inspector did not answer him. I do not know if any of you gentlemen
are acquainted with Inspector Lyle, but if you are not, I can assure you
that he is a very remarkable man. Our firm often applies to him for aid,
and he has never failed us; my father has the greatest possible respect
for him. Where he has the advantage over the ordinary police official is
in the fact that he possesses imagination. He imagines himself to be the
criminal, imagines how he would act under the same circumstances, and
he imagines to such purpose that he generally finds the man he wants. I
have often told Lyle that if he had not been a detective he would have
made a great success as a poet, or a playwright.

“When Arthur turned on him Lyle hesitated for a moment, and then told
him exactly what was the case against him.

“‘Ever since your brother was reported as having died in Africa,’ he
said, ‘your Lordship has been collecting money on post obits. Lord
Chetney’s arrival last night turned them into waste paper. You were
suddenly in debt for thousands of pounds--for much more than you could
ever possibly pay. No one knew that you and your brother had met at
Madame Zichy’s. But you knew that your father was not expected to
outlive the night, and that if your brother were dead also, you would
be saved from complete ruin, and that you would become the Marquis of
Edam.’

“‘Oh, that is how you have worked it out, is it?’ Arthur cried. ‘And for
me to become Lord Edam was it necessary that the woman should die, too!’

“‘They will say,’ Lyle answered, ‘that she was a witness to the
murder--that she would have told.’

“‘Then why did I not kill the servant as well!’ Arthur said.

“‘He was asleep, and saw nothing.’

“‘And you believe _that?_’ Arthur demanded.

“‘It is not a question of what I believe,’ Lyle said gravely. ‘It is a
question for your peers.’

“‘The man is insolent!’ Arthur cried. ‘The thing is monstrous!
Horrible!’

“Before we could stop him he sprang out of his cot and began pulling
on his clothes. When the nurses tried to hold him down, he fought with
them.

“‘Do you think you can keep me here,’ he shouted, ‘when they are
plotting to hang me? I am going with you to that house!’ he cried at
Lyle. ‘When you find those bodies I shall be beside you. It is my right.
He is my brother. He has been murdered, and I can tell you who murdered
him. That woman murdered him. She first ruined his life, and now she
has killed him. For the last five years she has been plotting to make
herself his wife, and last night, when he told her he had discovered
the truth about the Russian, and that she would never see him again, she
flew into a passion and stabbed him, and then, in terror of the gallows,
killed herself. She murdered him, I tell you, and I promise you that we
will find the knife she used near her--perhaps still in her hand. What
will you say to that?’

“Lyle turned his head away and stared down at the floor. ‘I might say,’
he answered, ‘that you placed it there.’

“Arthur gave a cry of anger and sprang at him, and then pitched forward
into his arms. The blood was running from the cut under the bandage, and
he had fainted. Lyle carried him back to the bed again, and we left him
with the police and the doctors, and drove at once to the address he had
given us. We found the house not three minutes’ walk from St. George’s
Hospital. It stands in Trevor Terrace, that little row of houses set
back from Knightsbridge, with one end in Hill Street.

“As we left the hospital Lyle had said to me, ‘You must not blame me for
treating him as I did. All is fair in this work, and if by angering that
boy I could have made him commit himself I was right in trying to do so;
though, I assure you, no one would be better pleased than myself if I
could prove his theory to be correct. But we cannot tell. Everything
depends upon what we see for ourselves within the next few minutes.’

“When we reached the house, Lyle broke open the fastenings of one of the
windows on the ground floor, and, hidden by the trees in the garden, we
scrambled in. We found ourselves in the reception-room, which was the
first room on the right of the hall. The gas was still burning behind
the colored glass and red silk shades, and when the daylight streamed in
after us it gave the hall a hideously dissipated look, like the foyer of
a theatre at a matinee, or the entrance to an all-day gambling hell. The
house was oppressively silent, and because we knew why it was so silent
we spoke in whispers. When Lyle turned the handle of the drawing-room
door, I felt as though some one had put his hand upon my throat. But
I followed close at his shoulder, and saw, in the subdued light of
many-tinted lamps, the body of Chetney at the foot of the divan, just as
Lieutenant Sears had described it. In the drawing-room we found the body
of the Princess Zichy, her arms thrown out, and the blood from her
heart frozen in a tiny line across her bare shoulder. But neither of us,
although we searched the floor on our hands and knees, could find the
weapon which had killed her.

[Illustration: We found the body of the Princess Zichy]

“‘For Arthur’s sake,’ I said, ‘I would have given a thousand pounds if
we had found the knife in her hand, as he said we would.’

“‘That we have not found it there,’ Lyle answered, ‘is to my mind the
strongest proof that he is telling the truth, that he left the house
before the murder took place. He is not a fool, and had he stabbed his
brother and this woman, he would have seen that by placing the knife
near her he could help to make it appear as if she had killed Chetney
and then committed suicide. Besides, Lord Arthur insisted that the
evidence in his behalf would be our finding the knife here. He would not
have urged that if he knew we would _not_ find it, if he knew he himself
had carried it away. This is no suicide. A suicide does not rise and
hide the weapon with which he kills himself, and then lie down again.
No, this has been a double murder, and we must look outside of the house
for the murderer.’

“While he was speaking Lyle and I had been searching every corner,
studying the details of each room. I was so afraid that, without telling
me, he would make some deductions prejudicial to Arthur, that I never
left his side. I was determined to see everything that he saw, and, if
possible, to prevent his interpreting it in the wrong way. He finally
finished his examination, and we sat down together in the drawing-room,
and he took out his notebook and read aloud all that Mr. Sears had told
him of the murder and what we had just learned from Arthur. We compared
the two accounts word for word, and weighed statement with statement,
but I could not determine from anything Lyle said which of the two
versions he had decided to believe.

“‘We are trying to build a house of blocks,’ he exclaimed, ‘with half of
the blocks missing. We have been considering two theories,’ he went on:
‘one that Lord Arthur is responsible for both murders, and the other
that the dead woman in there is responsible for one of them, and has
committed suicide; but, until the Russian servant is ready to talk, I
shall refuse to believe in the guilt of either.’

“‘What can you prove by him!’ I asked. ‘He was drunk and asleep. He saw
nothing.’

“Lyle hesitated, and then, as though he had made up his mind to be quite
frank with me, spoke freely.

“‘I do not know that he was either drunk or asleep,’ he answered.
‘Lieutenant Sears describes him as a stupid boor. I am not satisfied
that he is not a clever actor. What was his position in this house! What
was his real duty here? Suppose it was not to guard this woman, but to
watch her. Let us imagine that it was not the woman he served, but a
master, and see where that leads us. For this house has a master, a
mysterious, absentee landlord, who lives in St. Petersburg, the unknown
Russian who came between Chetney and Zichy, and because of whom Chetney
left her. He is the man who bought this house for Madame Zichy, who sent
these rugs and curtains from St. Petersburg to furnish it for her after
his own tastes, and, I believe, it was he also who placed the Russian
servant here, ostensibly to serve the Princess, but in reality to spy
upon her. At Scotland Yard we do not know who this gentleman is; the
Russian police confess to equal ignorance concerning him. When Lord
Chetney went to Africa, Madame Zichy lived in St. Petersburg; but there
her receptions and dinners were so crowded with members of the nobility
and of the army and diplomats, that among so many visitors the police
could not learn which was the one for whom she most greatly cared.’

“Lyle pointed at the modern French paintings and the heavy silk rugs
which hung upon the walls.

“‘The unknown is a man of taste and of some fortune,’ he said, ‘not the
sort of man to send a stupid peasant to guard the woman he loves. So I
am not content to believe, with Mr. Sears, that the servant is a boor. I
believe him instead to be a very clever ruffian. I believe him to be
the protector of his master’s honor, or, let us say, of his master’s
property, whether that property be silver plate or the woman his master
loves. Last night, after Lord Arthur had gone away, the servant was left
alone in this house with Lord Chetney and Madame Zichy. From where he
sat in the hall he could hear Lord Chetney bidding her farewell; for, if
my idea of him is correct, he understands English quite as well as you
or I. Let us imagine that he heard her entreating Chetney not to leave
her, reminding him of his former wish to marry her, and let us suppose
that he hears Chetney denounce her, and tell her that at Cairo he has
learned of this Russian admirer--the servant’s master. He hears the
woman declare that she has had no admirer but himself, that this unknown
Russian was, and is, nothing to her, that there is no man she loves but
him, and that she cannot live, knowing that he is alive, without his
love. Suppose Chetney believed her, suppose his former infatuation for
her returned, and that in a moment of weakness he forgave her and took
her in his arms. That is the moment the Russian master has feared. It is
to guard against it that he has placed his watchdog over the Princess,
and how do we know but that, when the moment came, the watchdog served
his master, as he saw his duty, and killed them both? What do you
think?’ Lyle demanded. ‘Would not that explain both murders?’

[Illustration: 15 Entreating Chetney not to leave her]

“I was only too willing to hear any theory which pointed to any one
else as the criminal than Arthur, but Lyle’s explanation was too utterly
fantastic. I told him that he certainly showed imagination, but that he
could not hang a man for what he imagined he had done.

“‘No,’ Lyle answered, ‘but I can frighten him by telling him what I
think he has done, and now when I again question the Russian servant
I will make it quite clear to him that I believe he is the murderer.
I think that will open his mouth. A man will at least talk to defend
himself. Come,’ he said, ‘we must return at once to Scotland Yard and
see him. There is nothing more to do here.’

“He arose, and I followed him into the hall, and in another minute we
would have been on our way to Scotland Yard. But just as he opened
the street door a postman halted at the gate of the garden, and began
fumbling with the latch.

“Lyle stopped, with an exclamation of chagrin.

“‘How stupid of me!’ he exclaimed. He turned quickly and pointed to a
narrow slit cut in the brass plate of the front door. ‘The house has a
private letter-box,’ he said, ‘and I had not thought to look in it! If
we had gone out as we came in, by the window, I would never have seen
it. The moment I entered the house I should have thought of securing
the letters which came this morning. I have been grossly careless.’ He
stepped back into the hall and pulled at the lid of the letterbox, which
hung on the inside of the door, but it was tightly locked. At the same
moment the postman came up the steps holding a letter. Without a word
Lyle took it from his hand and began to examine it. It was addressed to
the Princess Zichy, and on the back of the envelope was the name of a
West End dressmaker.

“‘That is of no use to me,’ Lyle said. He took out his card and showed
it to the postman. ‘I am Inspector Lyle from Scotland Yard,’ he said.
‘The people in this house are under arrest. Everything it contains is
now in my keeping. Did you deliver any other letters here this morning!’

“The man looked frightened, but answered promptly that he was now upon
his third round. He had made one postal delivery at seven that morning
and another at eleven.

“‘How many letters did you leave here!’ Lyle asked.

“‘About six altogether,’ the man answered.

“‘Did you put them through the door into the letter-box!’

“The postman said, ‘Yes, I always slip them into the box, and ring and
go away. The servants collect them from the inside.’

“‘Have you noticed if any of the letters you leave here bear a Russian
postage stamp!’ Lyle asked.

“The man answered, ‘Oh, yes, sir, a great many.’

“‘From the same person, would you say!’

“‘The writing seems to be the same,’ the man answered. ‘They come
regularly about once a week--one of those I delivered this morning had a
Russian postmark.’

“‘That will do,’ said Lyle eagerly. ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’

“He ran back into the hall, and, pulling out his penknife, began to pick
at the lock of the letter-box.

“‘I have been supremely careless,’ he said in great excitement. ‘Twice
before when people I wanted had flown from a house I have been able to
follow them by putting a guard over their mail-box. These letters, which
arrive regularly every week from Russia in the same handwriting, they
can come but from one person. At least, we shall now know the name of
the master of this house. Undoubtedly it is one of his letters that the
man placed here this morning. We may make a most important discovery.’

“As he was talking he was picking at the lock with his knife, but he
was so impatient to reach the letters that he pressed too heavily on the
blade and it broke in his hand. I took a step backward and drove my
heel into the lock, and burst it open. The lid flew back, and we pressed
forward, and each ran his hand down into the letterbox. For a moment we
were both too startled to move. The box was empty.

“I do not know how long we stood staring stupidly at each other, but
it was Lyle who was the first to recover. He seized me by the arm and
pointed excitedly into the empty box.

“‘Do you appreciate what that means?’ he cried. ‘It means that some one
has been here ahead of us. Some one has entered this house not three
hours before we came, since eleven o’clock this morning.’

“‘It was the Russian servant!’ I exclaimed.

“‘The Russian servant has been under arrest at Scotland Yard,’ Lyle
cried. ‘He could not have taken the letters. Lord Arthur has been in his
cot at the hospital. That is his alibi. There is some one else, some one
we do not suspect, and that some one is the murderer. He came back here
either to obtain those letters because he knew they would convict him,
or to remove something he had left here at the time of the murder,
something incriminating,--the weapon, perhaps, or some personal article;
a cigarette-case, a handkerchief with his name upon it, or a pair of
gloves. Whatever it was it must have been damning evidence against him
to have made him take so desperate a chance.’

“‘How do we know,’ I whispered, ‘that he is not hidden here now?’

“‘No, I’ll swear he is not,’ Lyle answered. ‘I may have bungled in some
things, but I have searched this house thoroughly. Nevertheless,’ he
added, ‘we must go over it again, from the cellar to the roof. We have
the real clew now, and we must forget the others and work only it.’ As
he spoke he began again to search the drawing-room, turning over even
the books on the tables and the music on the piano. “‘Whoever the man
is,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘we know that he has a key to the front
door and a key to the letter-box. That shows us he is either an inmate
of the house or that he comes here when he wishes. The Russian says
that he was the only servant in the house. Certainly we have found no
evidence to show that any other servant slept here. There could be
but one other person who would possess a key to the house and the
letter-box--and he lives in St. Petersburg. At the time of the murder he
was two thousand miles away.’ Lyle interrupted himself suddenly with a
sharp cry and turned upon me with his eyes flashing. ‘But was he?’ he
cried. ‘Was he? How do we know that last night he was not in London, in
this very house when Zichy and Chetney met?’

“He stood staring at me without seeing me, muttering, and arguing with
himself.

“‘Don’t speak to me,’ he cried, as I ventured to interrupt him. ‘I can
see it now. It is all plain. It was not the servant, but his master, the
Russian himself, and it was he who came back for the letters! He came
back for them because he knew they would convict him. We must find
them. We must have those letters. If we find the one with the Russian
postmark, we shall have found the murderer.’ He spoke like a madman, and
as he spoke he ran around the room with one hand held out in front of
him as you have seen a mind-reader at a theatre seeking for something
hidden in the stalls. He pulled the old letters from the writing-desk,
and ran them over as swiftly as a gambler deals out cards; he dropped on
his knees before the fireplace and dragged out the dead coals with his
bare fingers, and then with a low, worried cry, like a hound on a scent,
he ran back to the waste-paper basket and, lifting the papers from it,
shook them out upon the floor. Instantly he gave a shout of triumph,
and, separating a number of torn pieces from the others, held them up
before me.

“‘Look!’ he cried. ‘Do you see? Here are five letters, torn across in
two places. The Russian did not stop to read them, for, as you see, he
has left them still sealed. I have been wrong. He did not return for the
letters. He could not have known their value. He must have returned
for some other reason, and, as he was leaving, saw the letter-box, and
taking out the letters, held them together--so--and tore them twice
across, and then, as the fire had gone out, tossed them into this
basket. Look!’ he cried, ‘here in the upper corner of this piece is a
Russian stamp. This is his own letter--unopened!’

“We examined the Russian stamp and found it had been cancelled in St.
Petersburg four days ago. The back of the envelope bore the postmark of
the branch station in upper Sloane Street, and was dated this morning.
The envelope was of official blue paper and we had no difficulty in
finding the two other parts of it. We drew the torn pieces of the letter
from them and joined them together side by side. There were but two
lines of writing, and this was the message: ‘I leave Petersburg on the
night train, and I shall see you at Trevor Terrace after dinner Monday
evening.’

“‘That was last night!’ Lyle cried. ‘He arrived twelve hours ahead of
his letter--but it came in time--it came in time to hang him!’”

The Baronet struck the table with his hand.

“The name!” he demanded. “How was it signed? What was the man’s name!”

The young Solicitor rose to his feet and, leaning forward, stretched out
his arm. “There was no name,” he cried. “The letter was signed with
only two initials. But engraved at the top of the sheet was the man’s
address. That address was ‘THE AMERICAN EMBASSY, ST. PETERSBURG, BUREAU
or THE NAVAL ATTACHE,’ and the initials,” he shouted, his voice rising
into an exultant and bitter cry, “were those of the gentleman who sits
opposite who told us that he was the first to find the murdered bodies,
the Naval Attache to Russia, Lieutenant Sears!”

A strained and awful hush followed the Solicitor’s words, which seemed
to vibrate like a twanging bowstring that had just hurled its bolt. Sir
Andrew, pale and staring, drew away with an exclamation of repulsion.
His eyes were fastened upon the Naval Attache with fascinated horror.
But the American emitted a sigh of great content, and sank comfortably
into the arms of his chair. He clapped his hands softly together.

“Capital!” he murmured. “I give you my word I never guessed what you
were driving at. You fooled _me,_ I’ll be hanged if you didn’t--you
certainly fooled me.”

The man with the pearl stud leaned forward with a nervous gesture.
“Hush! be careful!” he whispered. But at that instant, for the third
time, a servant, hastening through the room, handed him a piece of paper
which he scanned eagerly. The message on the paper read, “The light over
the Commons is out. The House has risen.”

The man with the black pearl gave a mighty shout, and tossed the paper
from him upon the table.

“Hurrah!” he cried. “The House is up! We’ve won!” He caught up his
glass, and slapped the Naval Attache violently upon the shoulder. He
nodded joyously at him, at the Solicitor, and at the Queen’s Messenger.
“Gentlemen, to you!” he cried; “my thanks and my congratulations!”
 He drank deep from the glass, and breathed forth a long sigh of
satisfaction and relief.

“But I say,” protested the Queen’s Messenger, shaking his finger
violently at the Solicitor, “that story won’t do. You didn’t play
fair--and--and you talked so fast I couldn’t make out what it was all
about. I’ll bet you that evidence wouldn’t hold in a court of law--you
couldn’t hang a cat on such evidence. Your story is condemned tommy-rot.
Now my story might have happened, my story bore the mark--”

In the joy of creation the story-tellers had forgotten their audience,
until a sudden exclamation from Sir Andrew caused them to turn guiltily
toward him. His face was knit with lines of anger, doubt, and amazement.

“What does this mean!” he cried. “Is this a jest, or are you mad? If you
know this man is a murderer, why is he at large? Is this a game you have
been playing? Explain yourselves at once. What does it mean?”

The American, with first a glance at the others, rose and bowed
courteously.

“I am not a murderer, Sir Andrew, believe me,” he said; “you need not
be alarmed. As a matter of fact, at this moment I am much more afraid of
you than you could possibly be of me. I beg you please to be indulgent.
I assure you, we meant no disrespect. We have been matching stories,
that is all, pretending that we are people we are not, endeavoring to
entertain you with better detective tales than, for instance, the last
one you read, ‘The Great Rand Robbery.’”

The Baronet brushed his hand nervously across his forehead.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he exclaimed, “that none of this has happened?
That Lord Chetney is not dead, that his Solicitor did not find a letter
of yours written from your post in Petersburg, and that just now, when
he charged you with murder, he was in jest?”

“I am really very sorry,” said the American, “but you see, sir, he could
not have found a letter written by me in St. Petersburg because I have
never been in Petersburg. Until this week, I have never been outside
of my own country. I am not a naval officer. I am a writer of short
stories. And tonight, when this gentleman told me that you were fond of
detective stories, I thought it would be amusing to tell you one of my
own--one I had just mapped out this afternoon.”

“But Lord Chetney _is_ a real person,” interrupted the Baronet, “and he
did go to Africa two years ago, and he was supposed to have died there,
and his brother, Lord Arthur, has been the heir. And yesterday Chetney
did return. I read it in the papers.” “So did I,” assented the American
soothingly; “and it struck me as being a very good plot for a story.
I mean his unexpected return from the dead, and the probable
disappointment of the younger brother. So I decided that the younger
brother had better murder the older one. The Princess Zichy I invented
out of a clear sky. The fog I did not have to invent. Since last night I
know all that there is to know about a London fog. I was lost in one for
three hours.”

The Baronet turned grimly upon the Queen’s Messenger.

“But this gentleman,” he protested, “he is not a writer of short
stories; he is a member of the Foreign Office. I have often seen him
in Whitehall, and, according to him, the Princess Zichy is not an
invention. He says she is very well known, that she tried to rob him.”

The servant of the Foreign Office looked unhappily at the Cabinet
Minister, and puffed nervously on his cigar.

“It’s true, Sir Andrew, that I am a Queen’s Messenger,” he said
appealingly, “and a Russian woman once did try to rob a Queen’s
Messenger in a railway carriage--only it did not happen to me, but to
a pal of mine. The only Russian princess I ever knew called herself
Zabrisky. You may have seen her. She used to do a dive from the roof of
the Aquarium.”

Sir Andrew, with a snort of indignation, fronted the young Solicitor.

“And I suppose yours was a cock-and-bull story, too,” he said. “Of
course, it must have been, since Lord Chetney is not dead. But don’t
tell me,” he protested, “that you are not Chudleigh’s son either.”

“I’m sorry,” said the youngest member, smiling in some embarrassment,
“but my name is not Chudleigh. I assure you, though, that I know the
family very well, and that I am on very good terms with them.”

“You should be!” exclaimed the Baronet; “and, judging from the liberties
you take with the Chetneys, you had better be on very good terms with
them, too.”

The young man leaned back and glanced toward the servants at the far end
of the room.

“It has been so long since I have been in the Club,” he said, “that I
doubt if even the waiters remember me. Perhaps Joseph may,” he added.
“Joseph!” he called, and at the word a servant stepped briskly forward.

The young man pointed to the stuffed head of a great lion which was
suspended above the fireplace.

“Joseph,” he said, “I want you to tell these gentlemen who shot that
lion. Who presented it to the Grill?”

Joseph, unused to acting as master of ceremonies to members of the Club,
shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

“Why, you--you did,” he stammered.

“Of course I did!” exclaimed the young man. “I mean, what is the name of
the man who shot it! Tell the gentlemen who I am. They wouldn’t believe
me.”

“Who you are, my lord?” said Joseph. “You are Lord Edam’s son, the Earl
of Chetney.”

“You must admit,” said Lord Chetney, when the noise had died away, “that
I couldn’t remain dead while my little brother was accused of murder.
I had to do something. Family pride demanded it. Now, Arthur, as the
younger brother, can’t afford to be squeamish, but personally I should
hate to have a brother of mine hanged for murder.”

“You certainly showed no scruples against hanging me,” said the
American, “but in the face of your evidence I admit my guilt, and I
sentence myself to pay the full penalty of the law as we are made to pay
it in my own country. The order of this court is,” he announced, “that
Joseph shall bring me a wine-card, and that I sign it for five bottles
of the Club’s best champagne.” “Oh, no!” protested the man with the
pearl stud, “it is not for _you_ to sign it. In my opinion it is Sir
Andrew who should pay the costs. It is time you knew,” he said, turning
to that gentleman, “that unconsciously you have been the victim of what
I may call a patriotic conspiracy. These stories have had a more serious
purpose than merely to amuse. They have been told with the worthy object
of detaining you from the House of Commons. I must explain to you,
that all through this evening I have had a servant waiting in Trafalgar
Square with instructions to bring me word as soon as the light over
the House of Commons had ceased to burn. The light is now out, and the
object for which we plotted is attained.”

The Baronet glanced keenly at the man with the black pearl, and then
quickly at his watch. The smile disappeared from his lips, and his face
was set in stern and forbidding lines.

“And may I know,” he asked icily, “what was the object of your plot!”

“A most worthy one,” the other retorted. “Our object was to keep you
from advocating the expenditure of many millions of the people’s money
upon more battleships. In a word, we have been working together to
prevent you from passing the Navy Increase Bill.”

Sir Andrew’s face bloomed with brilliant color. His body shook with
suppressed emotion.

[Illustration: 16 What was the object of your plot?]

“My dear sir!” he cried, “you should spend more time at the House and
less at your Club. The Navy Bill was brought up on its third reading
at eight o’clock this evening. I spoke for three hours in its favor. My
only reason for wishing to return again to the House to-night was to sup
on the terrace with my old friend, Admiral Simons; for my work at the
House was completed five hours ago, when the Navy Increase Bill was
passed by an overwhelming majority.”

The Baronet rose and bowed. “I have to thank you, sir,” he said, “for a
most interesting evening.”

The American shoved the wine-card which Joseph had given him toward the
gentleman with the black pearl.

“You sign it,” he said.

THE END.





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