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The Mystery of a Silent Love
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Title: The Czar's Spy: The Mystery of a Silent Love

Author: William Le Queux

Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10102]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CZAR'S
SPY: THE MYSTERY OF A SILENT LOVE ***

THE
CZAR'S SPY

The Mystery of a Silent
Love
By
CHEVALIER

WILLIAM LE
QUEUX
Author of "The Closed Book," Etc.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SERVICE
II. WHY THE SAFE WAS OPENED
III. THE HOUSE "OVER THE WATER"
IV. IN WHICH THE MYSTERY INCREASES
V. CONTAINS CERTAIN CONFIDENCES
VI. THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUDS
VII. CONTAINS A SURPRISE
VIII. LIFE'S COUNTER-CLAIM
IX. STRANGE DISCLOSURES ARE MADE
X. I SHOW MY HAND
XI. THE CASTLE OF THE TERROR
XII. "THE STRANGLER"
XIII. A DOUBLE GAME AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
XIV. HER HIGHNESS IS INQUISITIVE
XV. JUST OFF THE STRAND
XVI. MARKED MEN
XVII. THE TRUTH ABOUT THE "LOLA"
XVIII. CONTAINS ELMA'S STORY
CONCLUSION

CHAPTER I
HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SERVICE

"There was a mysterious affair last night, signore."
"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Anything that interests us?"
"Yes, signore," replied the tall, thin Italian Consular-clerk, speaking with
a strong accent. "An English steam yacht ran aground on the Meloria about
ten miles out, and was discovered by a fishing-boat who brought the news
to harbor. The Admiral sent out two torpedo-boats, which managed after a
lot of difficulty to bring in the yacht safely, but the Captain of the Port has a
suspicion that the crew were trying to make away with the vessel."
"To lose her, you mean?"
The faithful Francesco, whose English had mostly been acquired from
sea-faring men, and was not the choicest vocabulary, nodded, and, true
Tuscan that he was, placed his finger upon his closed lips, indicative of
silence.
"Sounds curious," I remarked. "Since the Consul went away on leave
things seem to have been humming—two stabbing affrays, eight drunken
seamen locked up, a mutiny on a tramp steamer, and now a yacht being cast
away—a fairly decent list! And yet some stay-at-home people complain that
British consuls are only paid to be ornamental! They should spend a week
here, at Leghorn, and they'd soon alter their opinion."
"Yes, they would, signore," responded the thin-faced old fellow with a
grin, as he twisted his fierce gray mustache. Francesco Carducci was a well-
known character in Leghorn; interpreter to the Consulate, and keeper of a
sailor's home, an honest, good-hearted, easy-going fellow, who for twenty
years had occupied the same position under half a dozen different Consuls.

At that moment, however, there came from the outer office a long-drawn
moan.
"Hulloa, what's that?" I enquired, startled.
"Only a mad stoker off the Oleander, signore. The captain has brought
him for you to see. They want to send him back to his friends at
Newcastle."
"Oh! a case of madness!" I exclaimed. "Better get Doctor Ridolfi to see
him. I'm not an expert on mental diseases."
My old friend Frank Hutcheson, His Britannic Majesty's Vice-Consul at
the port of Leghorn, was away on leave in England, his duties being
relegated to young Bertram Cavendish, the pro-Consul. The latter, however,
had gone down with a bad touch of malaria which he had picked up in the
deadly Maremma, and I, as the only other Englishman in Leghorn, had been
asked by the Consul-General in Florence to act as pro-Consul until
Hutcheson's return.
It was in mid-July, and the weather was blazing in the glaring sun-
blanched Mediterranean town. If you know Leghorn, you probably know
the Consulate with its black and yellow escutcheon outside, a large,
handsome suite of huge, airy offices facing the cathedral, and overlooking
the principal piazza, which is as big as Trafalgar Square, and much more
picturesque. The legend painted upon the door, "Office hours, 10 to 3," and
the green persiennes closed against the scorching sun give one the idea of
an easy appointment, but such is certainly not the case, for a Consul's life at
a port of discharge must necessarily be a very active one, and his duties
never-ending.
Carducci had left me to the correspondence for half an hour or so, and I
confess I was in no mood to write replies in that stifling heat, therefore I sat
at the Consul's big table, smoking a cigarette and stretched lazily in my
friend's chair, resolving to escape to the cool of England as soon as he
returned in the following week. Italy is all very well for nine months in the
year, but Leghorn is no place for the Englishman in mid-July. My thoughts
were wandering toward the English lakes, and a bit of grouse-shooting with
my uncle up in Scotland, when the faithful Francesco re-entered, saying—

"I've sent the captain and his madman away till this afternoon, signore.
But there is an English signore waiting to see you."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know him. He will give no name, but wants to see the Signor
Console."
"All right, show him in," I said lazily, and a few moments later a tall,
smartly-dressed, middle-aged Englishman, in a navy serge yachting suit,
entered, and bowing, enquired whether I was the British Consul.
When he had seated himself I explained my position, whereupon he said
—
"I couldn't make much out of your clerk. He speaks so brokenly, and I
don't know a word of Italian. But perhaps I ought to first introduce myself.
My name is Philip Hornby," and he handed me a card bearing the name
with the addresses "Woodcroft Park, Somerset ------ Brook's." Then he
added: "I am cruising on board my yacht, the Lola, and last night we
unfortunately went aground on the Meloria. I have a new captain whom I
engaged a few months ago, and he seems an arrant fool. Very fortunately
for us a fishing-boat saw our plight and gave the alarm at port. The Admiral
sent out two torpedo-boats and a tug, and after about three hours they
managed to get us off."
"And you are now in harbor?"
"Yes. But the reason I've called is to ask you to do me a favor and write
me a letter of thanks in Italian to the Admiral, and one to the Captain of the
Port—polite letters that I can copy and send to them. You know the kind of
thing."
"Certainly," I replied, the more interested in him on account of the
curious suspicion that the port authorities seemed to entertain. He was
evidently a gentleman, and after I had been with him ten minutes I scouted
the idea that he had endeavored to cast away the Lola.
I took down a couple of sheets of paper and scribbled the drafts of two
letters couched in the most elegant phraseology, as is customary when

addressing Italian officialdom.
"Fortunately, I left my wife in England, or she would have been terribly
frightened," he remarked presently. "There was a nasty wind blowing all
night, and the fool of a captain seemed to add to our peril by every order he
gave."
"You are alone, then?"
"I have a friend with me," was the answer.
"And how many of the crew are there?"
"Sixteen, all told."
"English, I suppose?"
"Not all. I find French and Italians are more sober than English, and
better behaved in port."
I examined him critically as he sat facing me, and the mere fact of his
desire to send thanks to the authorities convinced me that he was a well-
bred gentleman. He was about forty-five, with a merry round, good-natured
face, red with the southern sun, blue eyes, and a short fair beard. His
countenance was essentially that of a man devoted to open-air sport, for it
was slightly furrowed and weather-beaten as a true yachtsman's should be.
His speech was refined and cultivated, and as we chatted he gave me the
impression that as an enthusiastic lover of the sea, he had cruised the
Mediterranean many times from Gibraltar up to Smyrna. He had, however,
never before put into Leghorn.
After we had arranged that his captain should come to me in the
afternoon and make a formal report of the accident, we went out together
across the white sunny piazza to Nasi's, the well-known pastry-cook's,
where it is the habit of the Livornese to take their ante-luncheon vermouth.
The more I saw of Hornby, the more I liked him. He was chatty and
witty, and treated his accident as a huge joke.
"We shall be here quite a week, I suppose," he said as we were taking our
vermouth. "We're on our way down to the Greek Islands, as my friend

Chater wants to see them. The engineer says there's something strained that
we must get mended. But, by the way," he added, "why don't you dine with
us on board to-night? Do. We can give you a few English things that may be
a change to you."
This invitation I gladly accepted for two reasons. One was because the
suspicions of the Captain of the Port had aroused my curiosity, and the
other was because I had, honestly speaking, taken a great fancy to Hornby.
The captain of the Lola, a short, thickset Scotsman from Dundee, with a
barely healed cicatrice across his left cheek, called at the Consulate at two
o'clock and made his report, which appeared to me to be a very lame one.
He struck me as being unworthy his certificate, for he was evidently
entirely out of his bearings when the accident occurred. The owner and his
friend Chater were in their berths asleep, when suddenly he discovered that
the vessel was making no headway. They had, in fact, run upon the
dangerous shoal without being aware of it. A strong sea was running with a
stiff breeze, and although his seamanship was poor, he was capable enough
to recognize at once that they were in a very perilous position.
"Very fortunate it wasn't more serious, sir," he added, after telling me his
story, which I wrote at his dictation for the ultimate benefit of the Board of
Trade.
"Didn't you send up signals of distress?" I Inquired.
"No, sir—never thought of it."
"And yet you knew that you might be lost?" I remarked with recurring
suspicion.
The canny Scot, whose name was Mackintosh, hesitated a few moments,
then answered—
"Well, sir, you see the fishing-boat had sighted us, and we saw her
turning back to port to fetch help."
His excuse was a neat one. Probably it was his neglect to make signals of
distress that had aroused the suspicions of the Captain of the Port. From

first to last the story of the master of the Lola was, I considered, a very
unsatisfactory one.
"How long have you been in Mr. Hornby's service?" I inquired.
"Six months, sir," was the man's reply. "Before he engaged me, I was
with the Wilsons, of Hull, running up the Baltic."
"As master?"
"I've held my master's certificate these fifteen years, sir. I was with the
Bibbys before the Wilsons, and before that with the General Steam. I did
eight years in the Mediterranean with them, when I was chief mate."
"And you've never been into Leghorn before?"
"Never, sir."
I dismissed the captain with a distinct impression that he had not told me
the whole truth. That cicatrice did not improve his personal appearance. He
had left his certificates on board, he said, but if I wished he would bring
them to me on the morrow.
Was it possible that an attempt had actually been made to cast away the
yacht, and that it had been frustrated by the master of the felucca, who had
sighted the vessel aground? There certainly seemed some mystery
surrounding the circumstances, and my interest in the yacht and its owner
deepened each hour. How, I wondered, had the captain received that very
ugly wound across the cheek? I was half-inclined to inquire of him, but on
reflection decided that it was best to betray no undue curiosity.
That evening when the fiery sun was sinking in its crimson glory, bathing
the glassy sea with its blood-red light and causing the islands of Gorgona
and Capraja to loom forth a deep purple against the distant horizon, I took a
cab along the old sea-road to the port where, within the inner harbor, I
found the Lola, one of the most magnificent private vessels I had ever seen.
Her dimensions surprised me. She was painted dead white, with shining
brass everywhere. At the stern hung limply the British flag, while at the
masthead the ensign of the Royal Yacht Squadron. The yellow funnel
emitted no smoke, and as she lay calmly in the sunset a crowd of dock-

loungers and crimps leaned upon the parapet discussing her merits and
wondering who could be the rich Englishman who could afford to travel in
a small liner of his own—for her size surprised even those Italian dock-
hands, used as they were to seeing every kind of craft enter the busy port.
On stepping on deck Hornby, who like myself wore a clean suit of white
linen as the most sensible dinner-garb in a hot climate, came forward to
greet me, and took me along to the stern where, lying in a long wicker deck-
chair beneath the awning, was a tall, dark-eyed, clean-shaven man of about
forty, also dressed in cool white linen. His keen face gave one the
impression that he was a barrister.
"My friend, Hylton Chater—Mr. Gordon Gregg," he said, introducing us,
and then when, as we shook hands, the clean-shaven man exclaimed,
smiling pleasantly—
"Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gregg. You are not a stranger by
any means to Hornby or myself. Indeed, we've got a couple of your books
on board. But I had no idea you lived out here."
"At Ardenza," I said. "Three miles along the sea-shore. To-morrow I hope
you'll both come and dine with me."
"Delighted, I'm sure," declared Hornby. "To eat ashore is quite a treat
when one has been boxed up on board for some time. So we'll accept, won't
we, Hylton?"
"Certainly," replied the other; and then we began chatting about the peril
of the previous night, Hornby telling me how he had copied the two letters
of thanks in Italian and sent them to their respective addresses.
"Phil blasphemed like a Levant skipper when he copied those Italian
words!" laughed Chater. "He had made three copies of each letter before he
could get all the lingo in accordance with your copy."
"I've been the whole afternoon at them—confound them!" declared the
owner of the Lola with a laugh. "But, of course, I didn't want to make a lot
of errors in spelling. These Italians are so very punctilious."

"Well, you certainly did the right thing to thank the Admiral," I said. "It's
very unusual for him to send out torpedo-boats to help a vessel in distress.
That is generally left to the harbor tug."
"Yes, I feel that it was most kind of him. That's why I took all the trouble
to write. I don't understand a word of Italian, neither does Chater."
"But you have Italians on board?" I remarked. "The two sailors who
rowed me out are Genoese, from their accent."
Hornby and Chater exchanged glances—glances of distinct uneasiness, I
thought.
Then the owner of the Lola said—
"Yes, they are useful for making arrangements and buying things in
Italian ports. We have a Spaniard, a Greek, and a Syrian, all of whom act as
interpreters in different places."
"And make a handsome thing in the way of secret commissions, I
suppose?" I laughed.
"Of course. But to cruise in comfort one must pay and be pleasant,"
declared the man with the fair beard. "In Greece and the Levant they are
more rapacious than in Naples, and the Customs officers always want
squaring, otherwise they are for ever rummaging and discovering mares'
nests."
"Did you have any trouble here?" I inquired.
"They didn't visit us," he said with a smile, and at the same time he
rubbed his thumb and finger together, the action of feeling paper money.
This increased my surprise, for I happened to know that the Leghorn
Customs officers were not at all given to the acceptance of bribes. They
were too well watched by their superiors. If the yacht had really escaped a
search, then it was a most unusual thing. Besides, what motive could
Hornby have in eluding the Customs visit? They would, of course, seal up
his wines and liquors, but even if they did, they would leave him out
sufficient for the consumption of himself and his friends.

No. Philip Hornby had some strong motive in paying a heavy bribe to
avoid the visit of the dogana. If he really had paid, he must have paid very
heavily; of that I was convinced.
Was it possible that some mystery was hidden on board that splendidly
appointed craft?
Presently the gong sounded, and we went below into the elegantly fitted
saloon, where was spread a table that sparkled with cut glass and shone
with silver. Around the center fresh flowers had been trailed by some
artistic hand, while on the buffet at the end the necks of wine bottles peered
out from the ice pails. Both carpet and upholstery were in pale blue, while
everywhere it was apparent that none but an extremely wealthy man could
afford such a magnificent craft.
Hornby took the head of the table, and we sat on either side of him,
chatting merrily while we ate one of the choicest and best cooked dinners it
has ever been my lot to taste. Chater and I drank wine of a brand which
only a millionaire could keep in his cellar, while our host, apparently a most
abstemious man, took only a glass of iced Cinciano water.
The two smart stewards served in a manner which showed them to be
well trained to their duties, and as the evening light filtering through the
pale blue silk curtains over the open port-holes slowly faded, we gossiped
on as men will gossip over an unusually good dinner.
From his remarks I discerned that, contrary to my first impression,
Hylton Chater was an experienced yachtsman. He owned a craft called the
Alicia, and was a member of the Cork Yacht Club. He lived in London, he
told me, but gave me no information as to his profession. It might be the
law, as I had surmised.
"You've seen our ass of a captain, Mr. Gregg?" he remarked presently.
"What do you think of him?"
"Well," I said rather hesitatingly, "to tell the truth, I don't think very much
of his seamanship—nor will the Board of Trade when his report reaches
them."

"Ah!" exclaimed Hornby, "I was a fool to engage him. From the very first
I mistrusted him, only my wife somehow took a fancy to the fellow, and, as
you know, if you want peace you must always please the women. In this
case, however, her choice almost cost me the vessel, and perhaps our lives
into the bargain."
"You knew nothing of him previously?"
"Nothing."
"And he engaged the crew?" I asked.
"Of course."
"Are they all fresh hands?"
"All except the cook and the two stewards."
I was silent. I did not like Mackintosh. Indeed, I entertained a distinct
suspicion of both master and crew.
"The captain seems to have had a nasty cut across the cheek," I remarked,
whereupon my two companions again exchanged quick, apprehensive
glances.
"He fell down the other day," explained Chater, with a rather sickly
smile, I thought. "His face caught the edge of an iron stair in the engine-
room, and caused a nasty gash."
I smiled within myself, for I knew too well that the ugly wound in the
captain's face had never been inflicted by falling on the edge of a stair. But I
remained silent, being content that they should endeavor to mislead me.
After dessert had been served we rose, and in the summer twilight, when
all the ports were opened, Hornby took me over the vessel. Everywhere was
abundant luxury—a veritable floating palace. To each of the cabins of the
owner and his guests a bathroom was attached with sea-water or fresh water
as desired, while the ladies' saloon, the boudoir, the library, and the
smoking-room were furnished richly with exquisite taste. As he was
conducting me from his own cabin to the boudoir we passed a door that had
been blown open by the wind, and which he hastened to close, not,

however, before I had time to glance within. To my surprise I discovered
that it was an armory crammed with rifles, revolvers and ammunition.
It had not been intended that I should see that interior, and the reason
why the Customs officers had been bribed was now apparent.
I passed on without remark, making believe that I had not discerned
anything unusual, and we entered the boudoir, Chater having gone back to
the saloon to obtain cigars.
The dainty little chamber was upholstered in carnation-pink silk with
furniture of inlaid rosewood, and bore everywhere the trace of having been
arranged by a woman's hand, although no lady passenger was on board.
Just as we had entered, and I was admiring the dainty nest of luxury,
Chater shouted to his host asking for the keys of the cigar cupboard, and
Hornby, excusing himself, turned back along the gangway to hand them to
his friend, thus leaving me alone for a few moments.
I stood glancing around, and as I did so my eyes fell upon a quantity of
photographs, framed and unframed, that were scattered about—evidently
portraits of Hornby's friends. Upon a small side table, however, stood a
heavy oxidized silver frame, but empty, while lying on the floor beneath a
couch was the photograph it had contained, which had apparently been
taken hastily out, torn first in half and then in half again, and cast away.
Curiosity prompted me to stoop, pick up the four pieces and place them
together, when I found them to form the cabinet portrait of a sweet-looking
and extremely pretty English girl of eighteen or nineteen, with a bright,
smiling expression, and wearing a fresh morning blouse of white piqué. Her
hair was dressed low and fastened with a bow of black ribbon, while the
brooch at her throat was in the form of a heart edged with pearls. Whether it
was her sweet expression, or whether the curious look in her eyes had
attracted my attention and riveted the face upon my memory, I know not.
Perhaps it was the mystery of why it should have been so hastily torn from
its frame and destroyed that held my attention.
It seemed as though it had been torn up surreptitiously by someone who
had been sitting on that couch, and who had had no opportunity of casting
the fragments away through the port-hole into the water.

I looked at the back of the torn photograph, and saw that it had been
taken by a well-known and fashionable firm in New Bond Street.
About the expression of that pictured face was something which I cannot
describe—a curious look in the eyes which was at the same time both
attractive and mysterious. In that brief moment the girl's features were
indelibly impressed upon my memory.
Next second, however, hearing Hornby's returning footsteps, I flung the
fragments hastily beneath the couch where I had discovered them.
Why, I wondered, had the picture been destroyed—and by whom?
The face of the empty frame had been purposely turned towards the
panelling, therefore when he entered he did not notice that the picture had
been destroyed; but after a brief pause, explaining that that cosy little place
was his wife's particular nook, he conducted me on through the ladies'
saloon and afterwards on deck, where we flung ourselves into the long
chairs, took our coffee and certosina, that liqueur essentially Tuscan, and
smoked on as the moon rose and the lights of the harbor began to twinkle in
the steely night.
As I sat talking, my thoughts ran back to that torn photograph. To me it
seemed as though some previous visitor that day had sat upon the couch,
destroyed the picture, and cast it where I had found it. But for what reason?
Who was the merry-faced girl whose picture had aroused such jealousy or
revenge?
I purposely led the conversation to Hornby's family, and learned from
him that he had no children.
"You'll get the repairs to your engines done at Orlando's, I suppose?" I
remarked, naming the great shipbuilding firm of Leghorn.
"Yes. I've already given the order. They are contracted to be finished by
next Thursday, and then we shall be off to Zante and Chio."
For what reason, I wondered, recollecting that formidable armory on
board. Already I had seen quite sufficient to convince me that the Lola,

although outwardly a pleasure yacht, was built of steel, armored in its most
vulnerable parts, and capable of resisting a very sharp fire.
The hours passed, and beneath the brilliant moon we smoked long into
the night, for after the blazing sunshine of that Tuscan town the cool sea-
wind at night is very refreshing. From where we sat we commanded a view
of the whole of the sea-front of Leghorn and Ardenza, with its bright open-
air café-concerts and restaurants in full swing—all the life and gayety of
that popular watering-place.
Presently, when Hornby had risen to call a steward and left me alone with
Hylton Chater, the latter whispered to me in confidence—
"If you find my friend Hornby a little bit strange in his manner, Mr.
Gregg, you must take no notice. To tell the truth, he is a man who has
become suddenly wealthy beyond the wildest dreams of avarice, and I fear
it has had an effect upon his brain. He does very queer things at times."
I looked at my companion in surprise. He was either telling the truth, or
else he was endeavoring to allay my suspicions by an extremely clever ruse.
Now I had already decided that Philip Hornby was no eccentric, but a
particularly level-headed and practical man. Therefore I instantly arrived at
the conclusion that the clean-shaven fellow who looked so much like a
London barrister had some distinct and ulterior purpose in arousing within
my mind suspicion of his host's sanity.
It was past midnight when, having bade the strange pair adieu, I was put
ashore by the two sailors who had rowed me out and drove home along the
sea-front, puzzled and perplexed.
Next morning, on my arrival at the Consulate, old Francesco, who had
entered only a moment before, met me with blanched face, gasping—
"There have been thieves here in the night, signore! The Signor Console's
safe has been opened!"
"The safe!" I cried, dashing into Hutcheson's private room, and finding to
my dismay the big safe, wherein the seals, ciphers and other confidential
documents were kept, standing open, and the contents in disorder, as though
a hasty search had been made among them.

Was it possible that the thieves had been after the Admiralty and Foreign
Office ciphers, copies of which the Chancelleries of certain European
Powers were ever endeavoring to obtain? I smiled within myself when I
realized how bitterly disappointed the burglars must have been, for a British
Consul when he goes on leave to England always takes his ciphers with
him, and deposits them at the Foreign Office for safekeeping. Hutcheson
had, of course, taken his, according to the regulations.
Curiously enough, however, the door of the Consulate and the safe had
been opened with the keys which my friend had left in my charge. Indeed,
the small bunch still remained in the safe door.
In an instant the recollection flashed across my mind that I had felt the
keys in my pocket while at dinner on board the Lola. Had I lost them on my
homeward drive, or had my pocket been picked?
Carducci, with an Italian's volubility, commenced to hurl imprecations
upon the heads of the unknown sons of dogs who dared to tamper with his
master's safe, and while we were engaged in putting the scattered papers in
order the door-bell rang, and the clerk went to attend to the caller.
In a few moments he returned, saying—
"The English yacht left suddenly last night, signore, and the Captain of
the Port has sent to inquire whether you know to what port she is bound."
"Left!" I gasped in amazement "Why, I thought her engines were
disabled!"
A quarter of an hour later I was sitting in the private office of the shrewd,
gray-haired functionary who had sent this messenger to me.
"Do you know, Signor Commendatore," he said, "some mystery
surrounds that vessel. She is not the Lola, for yesterday we telegraphed to
Lloyd's, in London, and this morning I received a reply that no such yacht
appears on their register, and that the name is unknown. The police have
also telegraphed to your English police inquiring about the owner, Signor
Hornby, with a like result. There is no such place as Woodcroft Park, in
Somerset, and no member of Brook's Club of the name of Hornby."

I sat staring at the official, too amazed to utter a word. Certainly they had
not allowed the grass to grow beneath their feet.
"Unfortunately the telegraphic replies from England are only to hand this
morning," he went on, "because just before two o'clock this morning the
harbor police, whom I specially ordered to watch the vessel, saw a boat
come to the wharf containing a man and woman. The pair were put ashore,
and walked away into the town, the woman seeming to walk with
considerable difficulty. The boat returned, and an hour after, to the complete
surprise of the two detectives, steam was suddenly got up and the yacht
turned and went straight out to sea."
"Leaving the man and the woman?"
"Leaving them, of course. They are probably still in the town. The police
are now searching for traces of them."
"But could not you have detained the vessel?" I suggested.
"Of course, had I but known I could have forbidden her departure. But as
her owner had presented himself at the Consulate, and was recognized as a
respectable person, I felt that I could not interfere without some tangible
information—and that, alas! has come too late. The vessel is a swift one,
and has already seven hours start of us. I've asked the Admiral to send out a
couple of torpedo-boats after her, but, unfortunately, this is impossible, as
the flotilla is sailing in an hour to attend the naval review at Spezia."
I told him how the Consul's safe had been opened during the night, and
he sat listening with wide-open eyes.
"You dined with them last night," he said at last. "They may have
surreptitiously stolen your keys."
"They may," was my answer. "Probably they did. But with what motive?"
The Captain of the Port elevated his shoulders, exhibited his palms, and
declared—
"The whole affair from beginning to end is a complete and profound
mystery."

CHAPTER II
WHY THE SAFE WAS OPENED

That day was an active one in Questura, or police office, of Leghorn.
Detectives called, examined the safe, and sagely declared it to be burglar-
proof, had not the thieves possessed the key. The Foreign Office knew that,
for they supply all the safes to the Consulates abroad, in order that the
precious ciphers shall be kept from the prying eyes of foreign spies. The
Questore, or chief of police, was of opinion that it was the ciphers of which
the thieves had been in search, and was much relieved to hear that they
were in safekeeping far away in Downing Street.
His conjecture was the same as my own, namely, that the reason of
Hornby's call upon me was to ascertain the situation of the Consulate and
the whereabouts of the safe, which, by the way, stood in a corner of the
Consul's private room. Captain Mackintosh, too, had taken his bearings, and
probably while I sat at dinner on board the Lola my keys had been stolen
and passed on to the scarred Scotsman, who had promptly gone ashore and
ransacked the place while I had remained with his master smoking and
unsuspicious.
But what was the motive? Why had they ransacked all those confidential
papers?
My own idea was that they were not in search of the ciphers at all, but
either wanted some blank form or other, or else they desired to make use of
the Consular seal. The latter, however, still remained on the floor near the
safe, as though it had rolled out and been left unheeded. As far as Francesco
and I could ascertain, nothing whatever had been taken. Therefore, we re-
arranged the papers, re-locked the safe and resolved not to telegraph to
Hutcheson and unduly disturb him, as in a few days he would return from

England, and there would be time enough then to explain the remarkable
story.
One fact, however, we established. The detective on duty at the railway
station distinctly recollected a thin middle-aged man, accompanied by a
lady in deep black, passing the barrier and entering the train which left at
three o'clock for Colle Salvetti to join the Rome express. They were
foreigners, therefore he did not take the same notice of them as though they
had been Italians. Inquiries at the booking-office showed, however, that no
passengers had booked direct to Rome by the train in question. To
Grossetto, Cecina, Campiglia, and the other places in the Maremma,
passengers had taken tickets, but not one had been booked to any of the
great towns. Therefore it was apparent that the mysterious pair who had
come ashore just prior to the sailing of the yacht had merely taken tickets
for a false destination, and had re-booked at Colle Salvetti, the junction
with that long main line which connects Genoa with Rome.
The police were puzzled. The two fishermen who sighted the Lola and
first gave the alarm of her danger, declared that when they drew alongside
and proffered assistance the captain threatened to shoot the first man who
came aboard.
"They were English!" remarked the sturdy, brown-faced toilers of the sea,
grinning knowingly. "And the English, when they drink their cognac, know
not what they do."
"Did you get any reward for returning to harbor and reporting?" I asked.
"Reward!" echoed one of the men, the elder of the pair. "Not a soldo! The
English only cursed us for interfering. That is why we believed that they
were trying to make away with the vessel."
The description of the Lola, its owner, his guest, and the captain were
circulated by the police to all the Mediterranean ports, with a request that
the yacht should be detained. Yet if the vessel were really one of mystery, as
it seemed to be, its owner would no doubt go across to some quiet
anchorage on the Algerian coast out of the track of the vessels, and calmly
proceed to repaint, rename and disguise his craft so that it would not be
recognized in Marseilles, Naples, Smyrna, or any of the ports where private

yachts habitually call. Thus, from the very first, it seemed to me that
Hornby and his friends had very cleverly tricked me for some mysterious
purpose, and afterwards ingeniously evaded their watchers and got clean
away.
Had the Italian Admiral been able to send a torpedo-boat or two after the
fugitives they would no doubt soon have been overhauled, yet
circumstances had prevented this and the Lola had consequently escaped.
For purposes of their own the police kept the affair out of the papers, and
when Frank Hutcheson stepped out of the sleeping-car from Paris on to the
platform at Pisa a few nights afterwards, I related to him the extraordinary
story.
"The scoundrels wanted these, that's evident," he responded, holding up
the small, strong, leather hand-bag he was carrying, and which contained
his jealously-guarded ciphers. "By Jove!" he laughed, "how disappointed
they must have been!"
"It may be so," I said, as we entered the midnight train for Leghorn. "But
my own theory is that they were searching for some paper or other that you
possess."
"What can my papers concern them?" exclaimed the jovial, round-faced
Consul, a man whose courtesy is known to every skipper trading up and
down the Mediterranean, and who is perhaps one of the most cultured and
popular men in the British Consular Service. "I don't keep bank notes in that
safe, you know. We fellows in the Service don't roll in gold as our public at
home appears to think."
"No. But you may have something in there which might be of value to
them. You're often the keeper of valuable documents belonging to
Englishmen abroad, you know."
"Certainly. But there's nothing in there just now except, perhaps, the
registers of births, marriages and deaths of British subjects, and the papers
concerning a Board of Trade inquiry. No, my dear Gordon, depend upon it
that the yacht running ashore was all a blind. They did it so as to be able to
get the run of the Consulate, secure the ciphers, and sail merrily away with

them. It seems to me, however, that they gave you a jolly good dinner and
got nothing in return."
"They might very easily have carried me off too," I declared.
"Perhaps it would have been better if they had. You'd at least have had
the satisfaction of knowing what their little game really was!"
"But the man and the woman who left the yacht an hour before she
sailed, and who slipped away into the country somewhere! I wonder who
they were? Hornby distinctly told me that he and Chater were alone, and yet
there was evidently a lady and a gentleman on board. I guessed there was a
woman there, from the way the boudoir and ladies' saloon were arranged,
and certainly no man's hand decorated a dinner table as that was decorated."
"Yes. That's decidedly funny," remarked the Consul thoughtfully. "They
went to Colle Salvetti, you say? They changed there, of course. Expresses
call there, one going north and the other south, within a quarter of an hour
after the train arrives from Leghorn. They showed a lot of ingenuity,
otherwise they'd have gone direct to Pisa."
"Ingenuity! I should think so! The whole affair was most cleverly
planned. Hornby would have deceived even you, my dear old chap. He had
the air of the perfect gentleman, and a glance over the yacht convinced me
that he was a wealthy man traveling for pleasure."
"You said something about an armory."
"Yes, there were Maxims stowed away in one of the cabins. They aroused
my suspicions."
"They would not have aroused mine," replied my friend. "Yachts carry
arms for protection in many cases, especially if they are going to cruise
along uncivilized coasts where they must land for water or provisions."
I told him of the torn photograph, which caused him some deep
reflection.
"I wonder why the picture had been torn up. Had there been a row on
board—a quarrel or something?"

"It had been destroyed surreptitiously, I think."
"Pity you didn't pocket the fragments. We could perhaps have discovered
from the photographer the identity of the original."
"Ah!" I sighed regretfully. "I never thought of that. I recollect the name
of the firm, however."
"I shall have to report to London the whole occurrence, as British
subjects are under suspicion," Hutcheson said. "We'll see whether Scotland
Yard knows anything about Hornby or Chater. Most probably they do. Not
long ago a description of men on board a yacht was circulated from London
as being a pair of well-known burglars who were cruising about in a vessel
crammed with booty which they dared not get rid of. They are, however,
not the same as our friends on the Lola, for both men wanted were arrested
in New Orleans about eight months ago, without their yacht, for they
confessed that they had deliberately sunk it on one of the islands in the
South Pacific."
"Then these fellows might be another pair of London burglars!" I
exclaimed eagerly, as the startling theory occurred to me.
"They might be. But, of course, we can't form any opinion until we hear
what Scotland Yard has to say. I'll write a full report in the morning if you
will give me minute descriptions of the men, as well as of the captain,
Mackintosh."
Next morning I handed over my charge of the Consulate to Frank, and
then assisted him to go through the papers in the safe which had been
examined by the thieves.
"The ruffians seem to have thoroughly overhauled everything," remarked
the Consul in dismay when he saw the disordered state of his papers. "They
seem to have read every one deliberately."
"Which shows that had they been in search for the cipher-books they
would only have looked for them alone," I remarked decisively. "What on
earth could interest them in all these dry, unimportant shipping reports and
things?"

"Goodness only knows," replied my friend. Then, calling Cavendish, a
tall, fair young man, who had now recovered from his touch of fever and
had returned to the Consulate, he commenced to check the number of those
adhesive stamps, rather larger than ordinary postage-stamps, used in the
Consular service for the registration of fees received by the Foreign Office.
The values were from sixpence to one pound, and they were kept in a
portfolio.
After a long calculation the Consul suddenly raised his face to me and
said—
"Then six ten shilling ones have been taken!"
"Why? There must be some motive!"
"They are of no use to anyone except to Consuls," he explained. "Perhaps
they were wanted to affix to some false certificate. See," he added, opening
the portfolio, "there were six stamps here, and all are gone."
"But they would have to be obliterated by the Consular stamp," remarked
Cavendish.
"Ah! of course," exclaimed Hutcheson, taking out the brass seal from the
safe and examining it minutely. "By Jove!" he cried a second later, "it's
been used! They've stamped some document with it. Look! They've used
the wrong ink-pad! Can't you see that there's violet upon it, while we
always use the black pad!"
I took it in my hand, and there, sure enough, I saw traces of violet ink
upon it—the ink of the pad for the date-stamp upon the Consul's table.
"Then some document has been stamped and sealed!" I gasped.
"Yes. And my signature forged to it, no doubt. They've fabricated some
certificate or other which, bearing the stamp, seal and signature of the
Consulate, will be accepted as a legal document. I wonder what it is?"
"Ah!" I said. "I wonder!" And the three of us looked at each other in
sheer bewilderment.

"The reason the papers are all upset is because they were evidently in
search of some blank form or other, which they hoped to find," remarked
my friend. "As you say, the whole affair was most carefully and ingeniously
planned."
We crossed the great sunlit piazza together and entered the Questura, that
sun-blanched old palace with its long cool loggia where the sentry paces
day and night. The Chief of Police, whom we saw, had no further
information. The mysterious yacht had not put in at any Italian port. From
him, however, we learned the name of the detective who had seen the two
strangers leave Leghorn by the early morning train, and an hour afterwards
the police-officer, a black-eyed man short of stature, but of an intelligent
type, sat in the Consulate replying to our questions.
"As far as I could make out, signore," he said, "the man was an
Englishman, wearing a soft black felt hat and a suit of dark blue serge. He
had hair just turning gray, a small dark mustache and rather high cheek-
bones. In his hand he carried a small bag of tan leather of that square
English shape. He seemed in no hurry, for he was calmly smoking a
cigarette as he went across to the ticket office."
"And his companion?" asked the Consul.
"She was in black. Rather tall and slim. Her hair was fair, I noticed, but
she wore a black veil which concealed her features."
"Was she young or old?"
"Young—from her figure," replied the police agent. "As she passed me
her eyes met mine, and I thought I saw a strange fixed kind of glare in them
—the look of a woman filled with some unspeakable horror."
Next day the town of Leghorn awoke to find itself gay with bunting, the
Italian and English flags flying side by side everywhere, and the Consular
standard flapping over the Consulate in the piazza. In the night the British
Mediterranean fleet, cruising down from Malta, had come into the
roadstead, and at the signal from the flagship had maneuvered and dropped
anchor, forming a long line of gigantic battleships, swift cruisers, torpedo-
boat destroyers, torpedo-boats, despatch-boats, and other craft extending for
several miles along the coast.

In the bright morning sunlight the sight was both picturesque and
imposing, for from every vessel flags were flying, and ever and anon the
great battleship of the Admiral made signals which were repeated by all the
other vessels, each in turn. Lying still on those calm blue waters was a force
which one day might cause nations to totter, the overwhelming force which
upheld Britain's right in that oft-disputed sea.
A couple of thousand British sailors were ashore on leave, their white
caps conspicuous in the streets everywhere as they walked orderly in threes
and fours to inspect the town. In the square outside the Consulate a squad
from the flagship were setting up a temporary band-stand, where the ship's
band was to play when evening fell, while Hutcheson, perspiring in his
uniform, drove with the Admiral to make the calls of courtesy upon the
authorities which international etiquette demanded.
Myself, I had taken a boat out to the Bulwark, the great battleship flying
the Admiral's flag, and was sitting on deck with my old friend Captain Jack
Durnford, of the Royal Marines. Each year when the fleet put into Leghorn
we were inseparable, for in long years past, at Portsmouth, we had been
close friends, and now he was able to pay me annual visits at my Italian
home.
He was on duty that morning, therefore could not get ashore till after
luncheon.
"I'll dine with you, of course, to-night, old chap," he said. "And you must
tell me all the news. We're in here for six days, and I was half a mind to run
home. Two of our chaps got leave from the Admiral and left at three this
morning for London—four days in the train and two in town! Gone to see
their sweethearts, I suppose."
The British naval officer in the Mediterranean delights to dash across
Europe for a day at home if he can get leave and funds will allow. It is
generally reckoned that such a trip costs about two pounds an hour while in
London. And yet when a man is away from his fiancée or wife for three
whole years, his anxiety to get back, even for a brief day, is easily
understood. The youngsters, however, go for mere caprice—whenever they
can obtain leave. This is not often, for the Admiral has very fixed views
upon the matter.

"Your time's soon up, isn't it?" I remarked, as I lolled back in the easy
deck-chair, and gazed away at the white port and its background of purple
Apennines.
The dark, good-looking fellow in his smart summer uniform leaned over
the bulwark, and said, with a slight sigh, I thought—
"Yes. This is my last trip to Leghorn, I think. I go back in November, and
I really shan't be sorry. Three years is a long time to be away from home.
You go next week, you say? Lucky devil to be your own master! I only
wish I were. Year after year on this deck grows confoundedly wearisome, I
can tell you, my dear fellow."
Durnford was a man who had written much on naval affairs, and was
accepted as an expert on several branches of the service. The Admiralty do
not encourage officers to write, but in Durnford's case it was recognized
that of naval topics he possessed a knowledge that was of use, and,
therefore, he was allowed to write books and to contribute critical articles to
the service magazines. He had studied the relative strengths of foreign
navies, and by keeping his eyes always open he had, on many occasions,
been able to give valuable information to our naval attachés at the
Embassies. More than once, however, his trenchant criticism of the action
of the naval lords had brought upon his head rebukes from head-quarters;
nevertheless, so universally was his talent as a naval expert recognized, that
to write had never been forbidden him as it had been to certain others.
"How's Hutcheson?" he asked a moment later, turning and facing me.
"Fit as a fiddle. Just back from his month's leave at home. His wife is still
up in Scotland, however. She can't stand Leghorn in summer."
"No wonder. It's a perfect furnace when the weather begins to stoke up."
"I go as soon as you've sailed. I only stayed because I promised to act for
Frank," I said. "And, by Jove! a funny thing occurred while I was in charge
—a real first-class mystery."
"A mystery—tell me," he exclaimed, suddenly interested.
"Well, a yacht—a pirate yacht, I believe it was—called here."

"A pirate! What do you mean?"
"Well, she was English. Listen, and I'll tell you the whole affair. It'll be
something fresh to tell at mess, for I know how you chaps get played out of
conversation."
"By Jove, yes! Things slump when we get no mail. But go on—I'm
listening," he added, as an orderly came up, saluted, and handed him a
paper.
"Well," I said, "let's cross to the other side. I don't want the sentry to
overhear."
"As you like—but why such mystery?" he asked as we walked together
to the other side of the spick-and-span quarter-deck of the gigantic
battleship.
"You'll understand when I tell you the story." And then, standing together
beneath the awning, I related to my friend the whole of the curious
circumstances, just as I have recorded them in the foregoing pages.
"Confoundedly funny!" he remarked with his dark eyes fixed upon mine.
"A mystery, by Jove, it is! What name did the yacht bear?"
"The Lola."
"What!" he gasped, suddenly turning pale. "The Lola? Are you quite sure
it was the Lola—L-O-L-A?"

"Absolutely certain," I replied. "But why do you ask? Do you happen to
know anything about the craft?"
"Me!" he stammered, and I could see that he had involuntarily betrayed
the truth, yet for some reason he wished to conceal his knowledge from me.
"Me! How should I know anything about such a craft? They were thieves
on board evidently—perhaps pirates, as you say."
"But the name Lola is familiar to you, Jack! I'm sure it is, by your
manner."

He paused a moment, and I could see what a strenuous effort he was
making to avoid betraying knowledge.
"It's—well—" he said hesitatingly, with a rather sickly smile. "It's a girl's
name—a girl I once knew. The name brings back to me certain memories."
"Pleasant ones—I hope."
"No. Bitter ones—very bitter ones," he said in a hard tone, striding across
the deck and back again, and I saw in his eyes a strange look, half of anger,
half of deep regret.
Was he telling the truth, I wondered? Some tragic romance or other
concerning a woman had, I knew, overshadowed his life in the years before
we had become acquainted. But the real facts he had never revealed to me.
He had never before referred to the bitterness of the past, although I knew
full well that his heart was in secret filled by some overwhelming sorrow.
Outwardly he was as merry as the other fellows who officered that huge
floating fortress; on board he was a typical smart marine, and on shore he
danced and played tennis and flirted just as vigorously as did the others. But
a heavy heart beat beneath his uniform.
When he returned to where I stood I saw that his face had changed: it had
become drawn and haggard. He bore the appearance of a man who had been
struck a blow that had staggered him, crushing out all life and hope.
"What's the matter, Jack?" I asked. "Come! Tell me—what ails you?"
"Nothing, my dear old chap," he answered hoarsely. "Really nothing—
only a touch of the blues just for a moment," he added, trying hard to smile.
"It'll pass."
"What I've just told you about that yacht has upset you. You can't deny it"
He started. His mouth was, I saw, hard set. He knew something
concerning that mysterious craft, but would not tell me.
The sound of a bugle came from the further end of the ship, and
immediately men were scampering along the deck beneath as some order or

other was being obeyed with that precision that characterizes the "handy
man."
"Why are you silent?" I asked slowly, my eyes fixed upon my friend the
officer. "I have told you what I know, and I want to discover the motive of
the visit of those men, and the reason they opened Hutcheson's safe."
"How can I tell you?" he asked in a strained, unnatural voice.
"I believe you know something concerning them. Come, tell me the
truth."
"I admit that I have certain grave suspicions," he said at last, standing
astride with his hands behind his back, his sword trailing on the white deck.
"You say that the yacht was called the Lola—painted gray with a black
funnel."
"No, dead white, with a yellow funnel."
"Ah! Of course," he remarked, as though to himself. "They would repaint
and alter her appearance. But the dining saloon. Was there a long carved
oak buffet with a big, heavy cornice with three gilt dolphins in the center—
and were there not dolphins in gilt on the backs of the chairs—an armorial
device?"
"Yes," I cried. "You are right. I remember them! You've surely been on
board her!"
"And there is a ladies' saloon and a small boudoir in pink beyond, while
the smoking-room is entirely of marble for the heat?"
"Exactly—the same yacht, no doubt! But what do you know of her?"
"The captain, who gave his name to you as Mackintosh, is an undersized
American of a rather low-down type?"
"I took him for a Scotsman."
"Because he put on a Scotch accent," he laughed. "He's a man who can
speak a dozen languages brokenly, and pass for an Italian, a German, a
Frenchman, as he wishes."

"And the—the man who gave his name as Philip Hornby?"
Durnford's mouth closed with a snap. He drew a long breath, his eyes
grew fierce, and he bit his lip.
"Ah! I see he is not exactly your friend," I said meaningly.
"You are right, Gordon—he is not my friend," was his slow, meaning
response.
"Then why not be outspoken and tell me all you know concerning him?
Frank Hutcheson is anxious to clear up the mystery because they've
tampered with the Consular seals and things. Besides, it would be put down
to his credit if he solved the affair."
"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm mystified myself. I can't yet discern their
motive."
"But at any rate you know the men," I argued. "You can at least tell us
who they really are."
He shook his head, still disinclined, for some hidden reason, to reveal the
truth to me.
"You saw no woman on board?" he asked suddenly, looking straight into
my eyes.
"No. Hornby told me that he and Chater were alone."
"And yet an hour after you left a man and a woman came ashore and
disappeared! Ah! If we only had a description of that woman it would
reveal much to us."
"She was young and dark-haired, so the detective says. She had a curious
fixed look in her eyes which attracted him, but she wore a thick motor veil,
so that he could not clearly discern her features."
"And her companion?"
"Middle-aged, prematurely gray, with a small dark mustache."
Jack Durnford sighed and stroked his chin.

"Ah! Just as I thought," he exclaimed. "And they were actually here, in
this port, a week ago! What a bitter irony of fate!"
"I don't understand you," I said. "You are so mysterious, and yet you will
tell me nothing!"
"The police, fools that they are, have allowed them to escape, and they
will never be caught now. Ah! you don't know them as I do! They are the
cleverest pair in all Europe. And they have the audacity to call their craft the
Lola—the Lola, of all names!"
"But as you know who and what the fellows are, you ought, I think, in
common justice to Hutcheson, to tell us something," I complained. "If they
are adventurers, they ought to be traced."
"What can I do—a prisoner here on board?" he argued bitterly. "How can
I act?"
"Leave it all to me. I'm free to travel after them, and find out the truth if
only you will tell me what you know concerning them," I said eagerly.
"Gordon, let me be frank and open with you, my dear old fellow. I would
tell you everything—everything—if I dared. But I cannot—you
understand!" And his final words seemed to choke him.
I stood before him, open-mouthed in astonishment.
"You really mean—well, that you are in fear of them—eh?" I whispered.
He nodded slowly in the affirmative, adding: "To tell you the truth would
be to bring upon myself a swift, relentless vengeance that would overwhelm
and crush me. Ah! my dear fellow, you do not know—you cannot dream—
what brought those desperate men into this port. I can guess—I can guess
only too well—but I can only tell you that if you ever do discover the
terrible truth—which I fear is unlikely—you will solve one of the strangest
and most remarkable mysteries of modern times."
"What does the mystery concern?" I asked, in breathless eagerness.
"It concerns a woman."

CHAPTER III
THE HOUSE "OVER THE WATER"

The Mediterranean Squadron, that magnificent display of naval force that
is the guarantee of peace in Europe, after a week of gay festivities in
Leghorn, had sailed for Gaeta, while I, glad to escape from the glaring heat,
found myself back once more in dear old London.
One passes one's time in the south well enough in winter, but after a year
even the most ardent lover of Italy longs to return to his own people, be it
ever for so brief a space. Exile for a whole year in any continental town is
exile indeed; therefore, although I lived in Italy for choice, I, like so many
other Englishmen, always managed to spend a month or two in summer in
our temperate if much maligned climate.
London, the same dear, dusty old London, only perhaps more dear and
more dusty than ever, was my native city; hence I always spent a few weeks
in it, even though all the world might be absent in the country, or at the
seaside.
I had idled away a pleasant month up in Buxton, and from there had gone
north to the Lakes, and it was one hot evening in mid-August that I found
myself again in London, crossing St. James's Square from the Sports Club,
where I had dined, walking towards Pall Mall. Darkness had just fallen, and
there was that stifling oppression in the air that fore-tokened a
thunderstorm. The club was not gay with life and merriment as it is in the
season, for everyone was away, many of the rooms were closed for re-
decoration, and most of the furniture swathed in linen.
I was on my way to pay a visit to a lady who lived up at Hampstead, a
friend of my late mother's, and had just turned into Pall Mall, when a voice
at my elbow suddenly exclaimed in Italian—

"Ah, signore!—why, actually, my padrone!"
And looking round, I saw a thin-faced man of about thirty, dressed in
neat but rather shabby black, whom I instantly recognized as a man who
had been my servant in Leghorn for two years, after which he had left to
better himself.
"Why, Olinto!" I exclaimed, surprised, as I halted. "You—in London—
eh? Well, and how are you getting on?"
"Most excellently, signore," he answered in broken English, smiling.
"But it is so pleasant for me to see my generous padrone again. What
fortune it is that I should pass here at this very moment!"
"Where are you working?" I inquired.
"At the Restaurant Milano, in Oxford Street—only a small place, but we
gain discreetly, so I must not complain. I live over in Lambeth, and am on
my way home."
"I heard you married after you left me. Is that true?"
"Yes, signore. I married Armida, who was in your service when I first
entered it. You remember her? Ah, well!" he added, sighing. "Poor thing! I
regret to say she is very ill indeed. She cannot stand your English climate.
The doctor says she will die if she remains here. Yet what can I do? If we go
back to Italy we shall only starve." And I saw that he was in deep distress,
and that mention of his ailing wife had aroused within him bitter thoughts.
Olinto Santini walked back at my side in the direction of Trafalgar
Square, answering the questions I put to him. He had been a good, hard-
working servant, and I was glad to see him again. When he left me he had
gone as steward on one of the Anchor Line boats between Naples and New
York, and that was the last I had heard of him until I found him there in
London, a waiter at a second-rate restaurant.
When I tried to slip some silver into his hand he refused to take it, and
with a merry laugh said—
"I wonder if you would be offended, signore, if I told you of something
for which I had been longing and longing?"

"Not at all."
"Well, the signore smokes our Tuscan cigars. I wonder if by chance you
have one? We cannot get them in London, you know."
I felt in my pocket, laughing, and discovered that I had a couple of those
long thin penny cigars which I always smoke in Italy, and which are so dear
to the Tuscan palate. These I handed him, and he took them with delight as
the greatest delicacy I could have offered him. Poor fellow! As an exiled
Italian he clung to every little trifle that reminded him of his own beloved
country.
When we halted before the National Gallery prior to parting I made some
further inquiries regarding Armida, the black-eyed, good-looking
housemaid whom he had married.
"Ah, signore!" he responded in a voice choked with emotion, dropping
into Italian. "It is the one great sorrow of my life. I work hard from early
morning until late at night, but what is the use when I see my poor wife
gradually fading away before my very eyes? The doctor says that she
cannot possibly live through the next winter. Ah! how delighted the poor
girl would be if she could see the padrone once again!"
I felt sorry for him. Armida had been a good servant, and had served me
well for nearly three years. Old Rosina, my housekeeper, had often
regretted that she had been compelled to leave to attend to her aged mother.
The latter, he told me, had died, and afterwards he had married her. There is
more romance and tragedy in the lives of the poor Italians in London than
London ever suspects. We are too apt to regard the Italian as a bloodthirsty
person given to the unlawful use of the knife, whereas, as a whole, the
Italian colony in London is a hard-working, thrifty, and law-abiding one,
very different, indeed, to those colonies of aliens from Northern Europe,
who are so continually bringing filth, disease, and immorality into the East
End, and are a useless incubus in an already over-populated city.
He spoke so wistfully that his wife might see me once more that, having
nothing very particular to do that evening, and feeling a deep sympathy for
the poor fellow in his trouble, I resolved to accompany him to his house and
see whether I could not, in some slight manner, render him a little help.

He thanked me profusely when I consented to go with him.
"Ah, signor padrone!" he said gratefully, "she will be so delighted. It is so
very good of you."
We hailed a hansom and drove across Westminster Bridge to the address
he gave—a gloomy back street off the York Road, one of those narrow,
grimy thoroughfares into which the sun never shines. Ah, how often do the
poor Italians, those children of the sun, pine and die when shut up in our
dismal, sordid streets! Dirt and squalor do not affect them; it is the damp
and cold and lack of sunshine that so very soon proves fatal.
A low-looking, evil-faced fellow opened the door to us and growled
acquaintance with Olinto, who, striking a match, ascended the worn,
carpetless stairs before me, apologizing for passing before me, and saying
in Italian—
"We live at the top, signore, because it is cheaper and the air is better."
"Quite right," I said. "Quite right. Go on." And I thought I heard my cab
driving away.
It was a gloomy, forbidding, unlighted place into which I would certainly
have hesitated to enter had not my companion been my trusted servant. I
instinctively disliked the look of the fellow who had opened the door. He
was one of those hulking loafers of the peculiarly Lambeth type. Yet the
alien poor, I recollected, cannot choose where they shall reside.
Contrary to my expectations, the sitting-room we entered on the top floor
was quite comfortably furnished, clean and respectable, even though traces
of poverty were apparent. A cheap lamp was burning upon the table, but the
apartment was unoccupied.
Olinto, in surprise, passed into the adjoining room, returning a moment
later, exclaiming—
"Armida must have gone out to get something. Or perhaps she is with the
people, a compositor and his wife, who live on the floor below. They are
very good to her. I'll go and find her. Accommodate yourself with a chair,

signore." And he drew the best chair forward for me, and dusted it with his
handkerchief.
I allowed him to go and fetch her, rather surprised that she should be well
enough to get about after all he had told me concerning her illness. Yet
consumption does not keep people in bed until its final stages.
As I stood there, gazing round the room, I could not well distinguish its
furthermost corners, for the lamp bore a shade of green paste-board, which
threw a zone of light upon the table, and left the remainder of the room in
darkness. When, however, my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, I
discerned that the place was dusty and somewhat disordered. The sofa was,
I saw, a folding iron bedstead with greasy old cushions, while the carpet
was threadbare and full of holes. When I drew the old rep curtains to look
out of the window, I found that the shutters were closed, which I thought
unusual for a room so high up as that was.
Olinto returned in a few moments, saying that his wife had evidently
gone to do some shopping in the Lower-Marsh, for it is the habit of the
denizens of that locality to go "marketing" in the evening among the
costermongers' stalls that line so many of the thoroughfares. Perishable
commodities, the overplus of the markets and shops, are cheaper at night
than in the morning.
"I hope you are not pressed for time, signore?" he said apologetically.
"But, of course, the poor girl does not know the surprise awaiting her. She
will surely not be long."
"Then I'll wait," I said, and flung myself back into the chair he had
brought forward for me.
"I have nothing to offer you, signer padrone," he said, with a laugh. "I did
not expect a visitor, you know."
"No, no, Olinto. I've only just had dinner. But tell me how you have fared
since you left me."
"Ah!" he laughed bitterly. "I had many ups and downs before I found
myself here in London. The sea did not suit me—neither did the work. They
put me in the emigrants' quarters, and consequently I could gain nothing.

The other stewards were Neapolitans, therefore, because I was a Tuscan,
they relegated me to the worst post. Ah, signore, you don't know what it is
to serve those emigrants! I made two trips, then returned and married
Armida. I called on you, but Tito said you were in London. At first I got
work at a café in Viareggio, but when the season ended, and I was thrown
out of employment, I managed to work my way from Genoa to London. My
first place was scullion in a restaurant in Tottenham Court Road, and then I
became waiter in the beer-hall at the Monico, and managed to save
sufficient to send Armida the money to join me here. Afterwards I went to
the Milano, and I hope to get into one of the big hotels very soon—or
perhaps the grill-room at the Carlton. I have a friend who is there, and they
make lots of money—four or five pounds every week in tips, they say."
"I'll see what I can do for you," I said. "I know several hotel-managers
who might have a vacancy."
"Ah, signore!" he cried, filled with gratification. "If you only would! A
word from you would secure me a good position. I can work, that you know
—and I do work. I will work—for her sake."
"I have promised you," I said briefly.
"And how can I sufficiently thank you?" he cried, standing before me,
while in his eyes I thought I detected a strange wild look, such as I had
never seen there before.
"You served me well, Olinto," I replied, "and when I discover real
sterling honesty I endeavor to appreciate it. There is, alas! very little of it in
this world."
"Yes," he said in a hoarse voice, his manner suddenly changing. "You
have to-night shown me, signore, that you are my friend, and I will, in
return, show you that I am yours." And suddenly grasping both my hands,
he pulled me from the chair in which I was sitting, at the same time asking
in a low intense whisper: "Do you always carry a revolver here in England,
as you do in Italy?"
"Yes," I answered in surprise at his action and his question. "Why?"

"Because there is danger here," he answered in the same low earnest
tone. "Get your weapon ready. You may want it."
"I don't understand," I said, feeling my handy Colt in my back pocket to
make sure it was there.
"Forget what I have said—all—all that I have told you to-night, sir," he
said. "I have not explained the whole truth. You are in peril—in deadly
peril!"
"How?" I exclaimed breathlessly, surprised at his extraordinary change of
manner and his evident apprehension lest something should befall me.
"Wait, and you shall see," he whispered. "But first tell me, signore, that
you will forgive me for the part I have played in this dastardly affair. I, like
yourself, fell innocently into the hands of your enemies."
"My enemies! Who are they?"
"They are unknown, and for the present must remain so. But if you doubt
your peril, watch—" and taking the rusty fire-tongs from the grate he
carefully placed them on end in front of the deep old armchair in which I
had sat, and then allowed them to fall against the edge of the seat, springing
quickly back as he did so.
In an instant a bright blue flash shot through the place, and the irons fell
aside, fused and twisted out of all recognition.
I stood aghast, utterly unable for the moment to sufficiently realize how
narrowly I had escaped death.
"Look! See here, behind!" cried the Italian, directing my attention to the
back legs of the chair, where, on bending with the lamp, I saw, to my
surprise, that two wires were connected, and ran along the floor and out of
the window, while concealed beneath the ragged carpet, in front of the
chair, was a thin plate of steel, whereon my feet had rested.
Those who had so ingeniously enticed me to that gloomy house of death
had connected up the overhead electric light main with that innocent-
looking chair, and from some unseen point had been able to switch on a
current of sufficient voltage to kill fifty men.

I stood stock-still, not daring to move lest I might come into contact with
some hidden wire, the slightest touch of which must bring instant death
upon me.
"Your enemies prepared this terrible trap for you," declared the man who
was once my trusted servant. "When I entered into the affair I was not
aware that it was to be fatal. They gave me no inkling of their dastardly
intention. But there is no time to admit of explanations now, signore," he
added breathlessly, in a low desperate voice. "Say that you will not prejudge
me," he pleaded earnestly.
"I will not prejudge you until I've heard your explanation," I said. "I
certainly owe my life to you to-night."
"Then quick! Fly from this house this instant. If you are stopped, then use
your revolver. Don't hesitate. In a moment they will be here upon you."
"But who are they, Olinto? You must tell me," I cried in desperation.
"Dio! Go! Go!" he cried, pushing me violently towards the door. "Fly, or
we shall both die—both of us! Run downstairs. I must make feint of
dashing after you."
I turned, and seeing his desperate eagerness, precipitately fled, while he
ran down behind me, uttering fierce imprecations in Italian, as though I had
escaped him.
A man in the narrow dark passage attempted to trip me up as I ran, but I
fired point blank at him, and gaining the door unlocked it, and an instant
later found myself out in the street.
It was the narrowest escape from death that I had ever had in all my life
—surely the strangest and most remarkable adventure. What, I wondered,
did it mean?
Next morning I searched up and down Oxford Street for the Restaurant
Milano, but could not find it. I asked shopkeepers, postmen, and policemen;
I examined the London Directory at the bar of the Oxford Music Hall, and
made every inquiry possible. But all was to no purpose. No one knew of
such a place. There were restaurants in plenty in Oxford Street, from the

Frascati down to the humble coffeeshop, but nobody had ever heard of the
"Milano."
Even Olinto had played me false!
I was filled with chagrin, for I had trusted him as honest, upright, and
industrious; and was puzzled to know the reason he had deceived me, and
why he had enticed me to the very brink of the grave.
He had told me that he himself had fallen into the trap laid by my
enemies, and yet he had steadfastly refused to tell me who they were! The
whole thing was utterly inexplicable.
I drove over to Lambeth and wandered through the maze of mean streets
off the York Road, yet for the life of me I could not decide into which house
I had been taken. There were a dozen which seemed to me that they might
be the identical house from which I had so narrowly escaped with my life.
Gradually it became impressed upon me that my ex-servant had
somehow gained knowledge that I was in London, that he had watched my
exit from the club, and that all his pitiful story regarding Armida was false.
He was the envoy of my unknown enemies, who had so ingeniously and so
relentlessly plotted my destruction.
That I had enemies I knew quite well. The man who believes he has not
is an arrant fool. There is no man breathing who has not an enemy, from the
pauper in the workhouse to the king in his automobile. But the unseen
enemy is always the more dangerous; hence my deep apprehensive
reflections that day as I walked those sordid back streets "over the water,"
as the Cockney refers to the district between those two main arteries of
traffic, the Waterloo and Westminster Bridge Roads.
My unknown enemies had secured the services of Olinto in their
dastardly plot to kill me. With what motive?
I wondered as I crossed Waterloo Bridge to the Strand, whether Olinto
Santini would again approach me and make the promised explanation. I had
given my word not to prejudge him until he revealed to me the truth. Yet I
could not, in the circumstances, repose entire confidence in him.

When one's enemies are unknown, the feeling of apprehension is always
much greater, for in the imagination danger lurks in every corner, and every
action of a friend covers the ruse of a suspected enemy.
That day I did my business in the city with a distrust of everyone, not
knowing whether I was not followed or whether those who sought my life
were not plotting some other equally ingenious move whereby I might go
innocently to my death. I endeavored to discover Olinto by every possible
means during those stifling days that followed. The heat of London was, to
me, more oppressive than the fiery sunshine of the old-world Tuscany, and
everyone who could be out of town had left for the country or the sea.
The only trace I found of the Italian was that he was registered at the
office of the International Society of Hotel Servants, in Shaftesbury Avenue,
as being employed at Gatti's Adelaide Gallery, but on inquiry there I found
he had left more than a year before, and none of his fellow-waiters knew his
whereabouts.
Thus being defeated in every inquiry, and my business at last concluded
in London, I went up to Dumfries on a duty visit which I paid annually to
my uncle, Sir George Little. Having known Dumfries since my earliest
boyhood, and having spent some years of my youth there, I had many
friends in the vicinity, for Sir George and my aunt were very popular in the
county and moved in the best set.
Each time I returned from abroad I was always a welcome guest at
Greenlaw, as their place outside the city of Burns was called, and this
occasion proved no exception, for the country houses of Dumfries are
always gay in August in prospect of the shooting.
"Some new people have taken Rannoch Castle. Rather nice they seem,"
remarked my aunt as we were sitting together at luncheon the day after my
arrival. "Their name is Leithcourt, and they've asked me to drive you over
there to tennis this afternoon."
"I'm not much of a player, you know, aunt. In Italy we don't believe in
athletics. But if it's out of politeness, of course, I'll go."
"Very well," she said. "Then I'll order the victoria for three."

"There are several nice girls there, Gordon," remarked my uncle
mischievously. "You have a good time, so don't think you are going to be
bored."
"No fear of that," was my answer. And at three o'clock Sir George, his
wife, and myself set out for that fine old historic castle that stands high on
the Bognie, overlooking the Cairn waters beyond Dunscore, one of the
strongholds of the Black Douglas in those turbulent days of long ago, and
now a splendid old residence with a big shoot which was sometimes let for
the season at a very high rent by its aristocratic if somewhat impecunious
owner.
We could see its great round towers, standing grim and gray on the
hillside commanding the whole of the valley, long before we approached it,
and when we drove into the grounds we found a gay party in summer
toilettes assembled on the ancient bowling-green, now transformed into a
modern tennis-lawn.
Mrs. Leithcourt and her husband, a tall, thin, gray-headed, well-dressed
man, both came forward to greet us, and after a few introductions I joined a
set at tennis. They were a merry crowd. The Leithcourts were entertaining a
large house-party, and their hospitality was on a scale quite in keeping with
the fine old place they rented.
Tea was served on the lawn by the footmen, and afterwards, being tired
of the game, I found myself strolling with Muriel Leithcourt, a bright, dark-
eyed girl with tightly-bound hair, and wearing a cotton blouse and flannel
tennis skirt.
I was apologizing for my terribly bad play, explaining that I had no
practice out in Italy, whereupon she said—
"I know Italy slightly. I was in Florence and Naples with mother last
season."
And then we began to discuss pictures and sculptures and the sights of
Italy generally. I discerned from her remarks that she had traveled widely;
indeed, she told me that both her father and mother were never happier than
when moving from place to place in search of variety and distraction. We
had entered the huge paneled hall of the Castle, and had passed up the

quaint old stone staircase to the long banqueting hall with its paneled oak
ceiling, which in these modern days had been transformed into a bright,
pleasant drawing-room, from the windows of which was presented a
marvelous view over the lovely Nithsdale and across to the heather-clad
hills beyond.
It was pleasant lounging there in the cool old room after the hot sunshine
outside, and as I gazed around the place I noted how much more luxurious
and tasteful it now was to what it had been in the days when I had visited its
owner several years before.
"We are awfully glad to be up here," my pretty companion was saying.
"We had such a busy season in London." And then she went on to describe
the Court ball, and two or three of the most notable functions about which I
had read in my English paper beside the Mediterranean.
She attracted me on account of her bright vivacity, quick wit and keen
sense of humor, therefore I sat listening to her pleasant chatter. Exiled as I
was in a foreign land, I seldom spoke English save with Hutcheson, the
Consul, and even then we generally spoke Italian if there were others
present, in order that our companions should understand. Therefore her
gossip interested me, and as the golden sunset flooded the handsome old
room I sat listening to her, inwardly admiring her innate grace and
handsome countenance.
I had no idea who or what her father was—whether a wealthy
manufacturer, like so many who take expensive shoots and give big
entertainments in order to edge their way into Society by its back door, or
whether he was a gentleman of means and of good family. I rather guessed
the latter, from his gentlemanly bearing and polished manner. His
appearance, tall and erect, was that of a retired officer, and his clean-cut
face was one of marked distinction.
I was telling my pretty companion something of my own life, how,
because I loved Italy so well, I lived in Tuscany in preference to living in
England, and how each year I came home for a month or two to visit my
relations and to keep in touch with things.
Suddenly she said—

"I was once in Leghorn for a few hours. We were yachting in the
Mediterranean. I love the sea—and yachting is such awfully good fun, if
you only get decent weather."
The mention of yachting brought back to my mind the visit of the Lola
and its mysterious sequel.
"Your father has a yacht, then?" I remarked, with as little concern as I
could.
"Yes. The Iris. My uncle is cruising on her up the Norwegian Fiords. For
us it is a change to be here, because we are so often afloat. We went across
to New York in her last year and had a most delightful time—except for one
bad squall which made us all a little bit nervous. But Moyes is such an
excellent captain that I never fear. The crew are all North Sea fishermen—
father will engage nobody else. I don't blame him."
"So you must have made many long voyages, and seen many odd corners
of the world, Miss Leithcourt?" I remarked, my interest in her increasing,
for she seemed so extremely intelligent and well-informed.
"Oh, yes. We've been to Mexico, and to Panama, besides Morocco,
Egypt, and the West Coast of Africa."
"And you've actually landed at Leghorn!" I remarked.
"Yes, but we didn't stay there more than an hour—to send a telegram, I
think it was. Father said there was nothing to see there. He and I went
ashore, and I must say I was rather disappointed."
"You are quite right. The town itself is ugly and uninteresting. But the
outskirts—San Jacopo, Ardenza and Antigniano are all delightful. It was
unfortunate that you did not see them. Was it long ago when you put in
there?"
"Not very long. I really don't recollect the exact date," was her reply. "We
were on our way home from Alexandria."
"Have you ever, in any of the ports you've been, seen a yacht called the
Lola?" I asked eagerly, for it occurred to me that perhaps she might be able

to give me information.
"The Lola!" she gasped, and instantly her face changed. A flush
overspread her cheeks, succeeded next moment by a death-like pallor. "The
Lola!" she repeated in a strange, hoarse voice, at the same time endeavoring
strenuously not to exhibit any apprehension. "No. I have never heard of any
such a vessel. Is she a steam-yacht? Who's her owner?"
I regarded her in amazement and suspicion, for I saw that mention of the
name had aroused within her some serious misgiving. That look in her dark
eyes as they fixed themselves upon me was one of distinct and unspeakable
terror.
What could she possibly know concerning the mysterious craft?
"I don't know the owner's name," I said, still affecting not to have noticed
her alarm and apprehension. "The vessel ran aground at the Meloria, a
dangerous shoal outside Leghorn, and through the stupidity of her captain
was very nearly lost."
"Yes?" she gasped, in a half-whisper, bending to me eagerly, unable to
sufficiently conceal the terrible anxiety consuming her. "And you—did you
go aboard her?"
"Yes," was the only word I uttered.
A silence fell between us, and as my eyes fixed themselves upon her, I
saw that from her handsome mobile countenance all the light and life had
suddenly gone out, and I knew that she was in secret possession of the key
to that remarkable enigma that so puzzled me.
Of a sudden the door opened, and a voice cried gayly—
"Why, I've been looking everywhere for you, Muriel. Why are you
hidden here? Aren't you coming?"
We both turned, and as she did so a low cry of blank dismay involuntarily
escaped her.
Next instant I sprang to my feet. The reason of her cry was apparent, for
there, in the full light of the golden sunset streaming through the long open

windows, stood a broad-shouldered, fair-bearded man in tennis flannels and
a Panama hat—the fugitive I knew as Philip Hornby!
I faced him, speechless.

CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH THE MYSTERY INCREASES

Neither of us spoke. Equally surprised at the unexpected encounter, we
stood facing each other dumbfounded.
Hornby started quickly as soon as his eyes fell upon me, and his face
became blanched to the lips, while Muriel Leithcourt, quick to notice the
sudden change in him, rose and introduced us in as calm a voice as she
could command.
"I don't think you are acquainted," she said to me with a smile. "This is
Mr. Martin Woodroffe—Mr. Gordon Gregg."
I bowed to him in sudden resolve to remain silent in pretense that I
doubted whether the man before me was actually my host of the Lola. I
intended to act as though I was not sufficiently convinced to openly express
my doubt. Therefore we bowed, exchanging greetings as strangers, while,
carefully watching, I saw how greatly the minds of both were relieved.
They shot meaning glances at each other, and then, as though reassured that
I was mystified and uncertain, the man who called himself Woodroffe
explained to my companion------
"I've been over to Newton Stewart with Fred all day, and only got back a
quarter of an hour ago. Aren't you playing any more to-day?"
"I think not," was her reply. "We've been out there the whole afternoon,
and I'm rather tired. But they're still on the lawn. You can surely get a game
with someone."
"If you don't play, I shan't. I returned to keep the promise I made this
morning," he laughed, standing before the big open fireplace, holding his
tennis racquet behind his back.

I examined his countenance, and was more than ever convinced that he
was actually the man who gave me the name of Hornby and the false
address in Somerset. The pair seemed to be on familiar terms, and I
wondered whether they were engaged. In any case, the man seemed quite at
home there.
As he chatted with the daughter of the house, he cast a quick, covert
glance at me, and then darted a meaning look at her—a look of renewed
confidence, as though he felt that he had successfully averted any
suspicions I might have held.
We talked of the prospects of the grouse and the salmon, and from his
remarks he seemed to be as keen at sport as he had once made out himself
to be at yachting.
"My friend Leithcourt is awfully fortunate in getting such a splendid old
place as this. On every hand I hear glowing accounts of the number of
birds. The place has been well preserved in the past, and there's plenty of
good cover."
"Yes," I said. "Gilrae, the owner, is a keen sportsman, and before he
became so hard up he spent a lot of money on the estate, which, I believe,
has always been considered one of the very best in the southwest. There's
salmon, they say, down in the Glen yonder—but I've never tried for any."
"Certainly there is. I've seen several. I hope to try one of these days. The
Glen is deep and shady—an ideal place for fish. The only disappointment
here, as far as I can make out, is the very few head of black-game."
"Yes, but every year they are getting rarer and rarer in this part of
Scotland. A really fine black-cock is quite an event nowadays," I said.
While we were talking, or rather while I was carefully watching the rapid
working of his mind, Leithcourt himself entered and joined us. He had been
playing tennis, and had come in to rest and cool.
Host and guest were evidently on the most intimate terms. Leithcourt
addressed him as "Martin," and began to relate a quarrel which his head-
gamekeeper had had that day with one of the small farmers on the estate
regarding the killing of some rabbits. And while they were talking Muriel

suggested that we should stroll down to the tennis-courts again, an
invitation which, much as I regretted leaving the two men, I was bound to
accept.
It seemed as though she wished purposely to take me away from that
man's presence, fearing that by remaining there longer my suspicions might
become confirmed. She was acting in conjunction with the man whom I had
known as Hornby.
There were still a good many people watching the game, for it was
pleasant in those old-world gardens in the sunset hour. The dried-up moat
was now transformed into a garden filled with rhododendrons and bright
azaleas, while the high ancient beech-hedges, the quaint old sundial with its
motto: "Each time ye shadowe turneth ys one daye nearer unto dethe," and
the old stone balustrades gray with lichen, all spoke mutely of those
glorious days when the fierce horsemen of the Lairds of Rannoch were
feared across the Border, and when many a prisoner of the Black Douglas
had pined and died in those narrow stone chambers in the grim north tower
that still stood high above.
Among the party strolling and lounging there prior to departure were
quite a number of people I knew, people who had shooting-boxes in the
vicinity and were my uncle's friends. In Scotland there is always a hearty
hospitality among the sporting folk, and the laws of caste are far less
rigorous than they are in England.
I was standing chatting with two ladies who were about to take leave of
their hostess, when Leithcourt returned, but alone. Hornby had not
accompanied him. Was it because he feared to again meet me?
In order to ascertain something regarding the man who had so
mysteriously fled from Leghorn, I managed by the exercise of a little
diplomacy to sit on the lawn with a young married woman named Tennant,
wife of a cavalry captain, who was one of the house-party. After a little time
I succeeded in turning the conversation to her fellow guests, and more
particularly to the man I knew as Hornby.
"Oh! Mr. Woodroffe is most amusing," declared the bright little woman.
"He's always playing some practical joke or other. After dinner he is usually

the life and soul of our party."
"Yes," I said, "I like what little I have seen of him. He's a very good
fellow, I should say. I've heard that he's engaged to Muriel," I hazarded. "Is
that true?"
"Of course. They've been engaged nearly a year, but he's been abroad
until quite lately. He is rather close about his own affairs, and never talks
about his travels and adventures, although one day Mr. Leithcourt declared
that his hairbreadth escapes would make a most exciting book if ever
written."
"Leithcourt and he are evidently most intimate friends."
"Oh, quite inseparable!" she laughed. "And the other man who is always
with them is that short, stout, red-faced old fellow standing over there with
the lady in pale blue, Sir Ughtred Gardner. Mr. Woodroffe has nicknamed
him 'Sir Putrid.'" And we both laughed. "Of course, don't say I said so," she
whispered. "They don't call him that to his face, but it's so easy to make a
mistake in his name when he's not within hearing. We women don't care for
him, so the nickname just fits."
And she gossiped on, telling me much that I desired to know regarding
the new tenant of Rannoch and his friends, and more especially of that man
who had first introduced himself to me in the Consulate at Leghorn.
Half an hour later my uncle's carriage was announced, and I left with the
distinct impression that there was some deep mystery surrounding the
Leithcourts. What it was, however, I could not, for the life of me, make out.
Perhaps it was Philip Leithcourt's intimate relation with the man who had so
cleverly deceived me that incited my curiosity concerning him; perhaps it
was that mysterious intuition, that curious presage of evil that sometimes
comes to a man as warning of impending peril. Whatever the reason, I had
become filled with grave apprehensions. The mystery grew deeper day by
day, and was inexplicable.
During the week that followed I sought to learn all I could regarding the
new people at the castle.

"They are taken up everywhere," declared my aunt when I questioned
her. "Of course, we knew very little of them, except that they had a shoot up
near Fort William two years ago, and that they have a town house in Green
Street. They are evidently rather smart folks. Don't you think so?"
"Judging from their house-party, yes," I responded. "They are about as
gay a crowd as one could find north of Carlisle just at present."
"Exactly. There are some well-known people among them, too," said my
aunt. "I've asked them over to-morrow afternoon, and they've accepted."
"Excellent!" I exclaimed, for I wanted an opportunity for another chat
with the dark-eyed girl who was engaged to the man whose alias was
Hornby. I particularly desired to ascertain the reason of her fear when I had
mentioned the Lola, and whether she possessed any knowledge of Hylton
Chater.
The opportunity came to me in due course, for next afternoon the
Rannoch party drove over in two large brakes, and with other people from
the neighborhood and a band from Dumfries, my aunt's grounds presented a
gay and animated scene. There was the usual tennis and croquet, while
some of the men enjoyed a little putting on the excellent course my uncle, a
golf enthusiast, had recently laid down.
As I expected, Woodroffe did not accompany the party. Mrs. Leithcourt,
a slightly fussy little woman, apologized for his absence, explaining that he
had been recalled to London suddenly a few days before, but was returning
to Rannoch again at the end of the week.
"We couldn't afford to lose him," she declared to my aunt. "He is so
awfully humorous—his droll sayings and antics keep us in a perfect roar
each night at dinner. He's such a perfect mimic."
I turned away and strolled with Muriel, pleading an excuse to show her
my uncle's beautiful grounds, not a whit less picturesque than those of the
castle, and perhaps rather better kept.
"I only heard yesterday of your engagement, Miss Leithcourt," I
remarked presently when we were alone. "Allow me to offer my best

congratulations. When you introduced me to Mr. Woodroffe the other day I
had no idea that he was to be your husband."
She glanced at me quickly, and I saw in her dark eyes a look of suspicion.
Then she flushed slightly, and laughing uneasily said, in a blank, hard voice
—
"It's very good of you, Mr. Gregg, to wish me all sorts of such pleasant
things."
"And when is the happy event to take place?"
"The date is not exactly fixed—early next year, I believe," and I thought
she sighed.
"And you will probably spend a good deal of time yachting?" I
suggested, my eyes fixed upon her in order to watch the result of my
pointed remark. But she controlled herself perfectly.
"I love the sea," she responded briefly, and her eyes were set straight
before her.
"Mr. Woodroffe has gone up to town, your mother says."
"Yes. He received a wire, and had to leave immediately. It was an awful
bore, for we had arranged to go for a picnic to Dundrennan Abbey
yesterday."
"But he'll be back here again, won't he?"
"I really don't know. It seems quite uncertain. I had a letter this morning
which said he might have to go over to Hamburg on business, instead of
coming up to us again."
There was disappointment in her voice, and yet at the same time I could
not fail to recognize how the man to whom she was engaged had fled from
Scotland because of my presence.
How I longed to ask her point-blank what she really knew of the
yachtsman who was shrouded in so much mystery. Yet by betraying any
undue anxiety I should certainly negative all my efforts to solve the

puzzling enigma, therefore I was compelled to remain content with asking
ingeniously disguised questions and drawing my own conclusions from her
answers.
As we passed along those graveled walks it somehow became vividly
impressed upon me that her marriage was being forced upon her by her
parents. Her manner was that of one who was concealing some strange and
terrible secret which she feared might be revealed. There was a distant look
of unutterable terror in those dark eyes as though she existed in some
constant and ever-present dread. Of course she told me nothing of her own
feelings or affections, yet I recognized in both her words and her bearing a
curious apathy—a want of the real enthusiasm of affection. Woodroffe,
much her senior, was her father's friend, and it therefore seemed to me more
than likely that Leithcourt was pressing a matrimonial alliance upon his
daughter for some ulterior motive. In the mad hurry for place, power, and
wealth, men relentlessly sell their daughters in the matrimonial market, and
ambitious mothers scheme and intrigue for their own aggrandizement at
sacrifice of their daughter's happiness more often than the public ever
dream. Tragedy is, alas! written upon the face of many a bride whose
portrait appears in the fashion-papers and whose toilette is so faithfully
chronicled in the paragraph beneath. Indeed, the girl in Society who is
allowed her own free choice in the matter of a husband is, alas! nowadays
the exception, for parents who want to "get on" up the social scale have
found that pretty daughters are a marketable commodity, and many a man
has been placed "on his legs," both financially and socially, by his son-in-
law. Hence the marriage of convenience is fast becoming common, while in
the same ratio the divorce petitions are unfortunately on the increase.
I read tragedy in the dark luminous eyes of Muriel Leithcourt. I knew
that her young heart was over-burdened by some secret sorrow or guilty
knowledge that she would reveal to me if she dared. Her own words told me
that she was perplexed; that she longed to confide and seek advice of
someone, yet by reason of some hidden and untoward circumstance her lips
were sealed.
I tried to question her further regarding Woodroffe, of what profession he
followed and of his past.

But she evidently suspected me, for I had unfortunately mentioned the
Lola.
She wanted to speak to me in confidence, and yet she would reveal to me
nothing—absolutely nothing.
Martin Woodroffe did not rejoin the house-party at Rannoch.
Although I remained the guest of my uncle much longer than I intended,
indeed right through the shooting season, in order to watch the Leithcourts,
yet as far as we could judge they were extremely well-bred people and very
hospitable.
We exchanged a good many visits and dinners, and while my uncle
several times invited Leithcourt and his friends to his shoot with al fresco
luncheon, which the ladies joined, the tenant of Rannoch always invited us
back in return.
Thus I gained many opportunities of talking with Muriel, and of
watching her closely. I had the reputation of being a confirmed bachelor,
and on account of that it seemed that she was in no way averse to my
companionship. She could handle a rook-rifle as well as any woman, and
was really a very fair shot. Therefore we often found ourselves alone
tramping across the wide open moorland, or along those delightful glens of
the Nithsdale, glorious in the autumn tints of their luxurious foliage.
Her father, on the other hand, seemed to view me with considerable
suspicion, and I could easily discern that I was only asked to Rannoch
because it was impossible to invite my uncle without including myself.
Leithcourt, who perhaps thought I was courting his daughter, was ever
endeavoring to avoid me, and would never allow me to walk with him
alone. Why? I wondered. Did he fear me? Had Woodroffe told him of our
strange encounter in Leghorn?
His pronounced antipathy towards me caused me to watch him
surreptitiously, and more closely than perhaps I should otherwise have
done. He was a man of gloomy mood, and often he would leave his guests
and take walks alone, musing and brooding. On several occasions I
followed him in secret, and found to my surprise that although he made

long detours in various directions, yet he always arrived at the same spot at
the same hour—five o'clock.
The place where he halted was on the edge of a dark wood on the brow
of a hill about three miles from Rannoch—a good place to get woodpigeon,
as they came to roost. It was fully two miles across the hills from the high
road to Moniaive, and from the break the gray wall where he was in the
habit of sitting to rest and smoke, there stretched the beautiful panorama of
Loch Urr and the heatherclad hills beyond.
Leithcourt never went direct to the place, but always so timed his walks
that he arrived just at five, and remained there smoking cigarettes until half-
past, as though awaiting the arrival of some person he expected. Once or
twice his guests suggested shooting pigeons at sundown, but he always had
some excuse for opposing the proposal, and thus the party, unsuspecting the
reason, were kept away from that particular lonely spot.
In my youth I had sat many a quiet hour there in the darkening gloom and
shot many a pigeon, therefore I knew the wood well, and was able to watch
the tenant of Rannoch from points where he least suspected the presence of
another.
Once, when I was alone with Muriel, I mentioned her father's capacity
for walking alone, whereupon she said—
"Oh, yes, he was always fond of walking. He used to take me with him
when we first came here, but he always went so far that I refused to go any
more."
She never once mentioned Woodroffe. I allowed her plenty of
opportunity for doing so, chaffing her about her forthcoming marriage in
order that she might again refer to him. But never did his name pass her
lips. I understood that he had gone abroad—that was all.
Often when alone I reflected upon my curious adventure on that night
when I met Olinto, and of my narrow escape from the hands of my
unknown enemies. I wondered if that ingenious and dastardly attempt upon
my life had really any connection with that strange incident at Leghorn. As
day succeeded day, my mind became filled by increasing suspicion.
Mystery surrounded me on every hand.

Indeed, by one curious fact alone it was increased a hundredfold.
Late one afternoon, when I had been out shooting all day with the
Rannoch party, I drove back to the castle in the Perth-cart with three other
men, and found the ladies assembled in the great hall with tea ready. A
welcome log-fire was blazing in the huge old grate, for in October it is
chilly and damp in Scotland and a fire is pleasant at evening.
Muriel was seated upon the high padded fender—like those one has at
clubs—which always formed a cosy spot for the ladies, especially after
dinner. When I entered, she rose quickly and handed me my cup,
exclaiming as she looked at me—
"Oh, Mr. Gregg! what a state you are in!"
"Yes, I was after snipe, and slipped into a bog," I laughed. "But it was
early this morning, and the mud has dried."
"Come with me, and I'll get you a brush," she urged. And I followed her
through the long corridors and upstairs to a small sitting-room which was
her own little sanctum, where she worked and read—a cosy little place with
two queer old windows in the colossal wall, and a floor of polished oak, and
great black beams above. When the owner had occupied the house that
room had been disused, but it had, I found, been now completely
transformed, and was a most tasteful little nest of luxury with its bright
chintzes, its Turkey rugs and its cheerful fire on the old stone hearth.
She laughed when I expressed admiration of her little den, and said—
"I believe it was the armory in the old days. But it makes quite a comfy
little boudoir. I can lock myself in and be quite quiet when the party are too
noisy," she added merrily.
But as my eyes wandered around they suddenly fell upon an object which
caused me to start with profound wonder—a cabinet photograph in a frame
of crimson leather.
The picture was that of a young girl—a duplicate of the portrait I had
found torn across and flung aside on board the Lola!

The merry eyes laughed out at me as I stood staring at it in sheer
bewilderment.
"What a pretty girl!" I exclaimed quickly, concealing my surprise. "Who
is she?"
My companion was silent a moment, her dark eyes meeting mine with a
strange look of inquiry.
"Yes," she laughed, "everyone admires her. She was a schoolfellow of
mine—Elma Heath."
"Heath!" I echoed. "Where was she at school with you?"
"At Chichester."
"Long ago?"
"A little over two years."
"She's very beautiful!" I declared, taking up the photograph and
discovering that it bore the name of the same well-known photographer in
New Bond Street as that I had found on the carpet of the Lola in the
Mediterranean.
"Yes. She's really prettier than her photograph. It hardly does her justice."
"And where is she now?"
"Why are you so very inquisitive, Mr. Gregg?" laughed the handsome
girl. "Have you actually fallen in love with her from her picture?"
"I'm hardly given to that kind of thing, Miss Leithcourt," I answered with
mock severity. "I don't think even my worst enemy could call me a flirt,
could she?"
"No. I will give you your due," she declared. "You never do flirt. That is
why I like you."
"Thanks for your candor, Miss Leithcourt," I said.
"Only," she added, "you seem smitten with Elma's charms."

"I think she's extremely pretty," I remarked, with the photograph still in
my hand. "Do you ever see her now?"
"Never," she replied. "Since the day I left school we have never met. She
was several years younger than myself, and I heard that a week after I left
Chichester her people came and took her away. Where she is now I have no
idea. Her people lived somewhere in Durham. Her father was a doctor."
Her reply disappointed me. Yet I had, at least, retained knowledge of the
name of the original of the picture, and from the photographer I might
perhaps discover her address, for to me it seemed that she was somehow
intimately connected with those mysterious yachtsmen.
What Muriel told me concerning her, I did not doubt for a single instant.
Yet it was certainly more than a coincidence that a copy of the picture
which had created such a deep impression upon me should be preserved in
her own little boudoir as a souvenir of a devoted school-friend.
"Then you have heard absolutely nothing as to her present position or
whereabouts—whether she is married, for instance?"
"Ah!" she cried mischievously. "You betray yourself by your own words.
You have fallen in love with her, I really believe, Mr. Gregg. If she knew,
she'd be most gratified—or at least, she ought to be."
At which I smiled, preferring that she should adopt that theory in
preference to any other.
She spoke frankly, as a pure honest girl would speak. She was not
jealous, but she nevertheless resented—as women do resent such things—
that I should fall in love with a friend's photograph.
There was a mystery surrounding that torn picture; of that I was
absolutely certain. The remembrance of that memorable evening when I had
dined on board the Lola arose vividly before me. Why had the girl's portrait
been so ruthlessly destroyed and the frame turned with its face to the wall?
There was some reason—some distinct and serious motive in it. Had Muriel
told me the truth, I wondered, or was she merely seeking to shield the
suspected man who was her lover?

Hour by hour the mystery surrounding the Leithcourts became more
inscrutable, more intensely absorbing. I had searched a copy of the London
Directory at the Station Hotel at Carlisle, and found that no house in Green
Street was registered as occupied by the tenant of Rannoch; and, further,
when I came to examine the list of guests at the castle, I found that they
were really persons unknown in society. They were merely of that class of
witty, well-dressed parasites who always cling on to the wealthy and make
believe that they are smart and of the grande monde. Rannoch was an
expensive place to keep up, with all that big retinue of servants and
gamekeepers, and with those nightly dinners cooked by a French chef; yet
Leithcourt seemed to possess a long pocket and smiled upon those
parasites, officers of doubtful commission and younger sprigs of the
pseudo-aristocracy who surrounded him, while his wife, keen-eyed and of
superb bearing, was punctilious concerning all points of etiquette, and at the
same time indefatigable that her mixed set of guests should enjoy a really
good time.
But I was not the only person who could not make them out. My uncle
was the first to open my eyes regarding the true character of certain of the
men staying at Rannoch.
"I think, Gordon, that one or two of those fellows with Leithcourt are
rank outsiders," he said confidentially to me one night after we had had a
hard day's shooting, and were playing a hundred up at billiards before
retiring. "One man, who arrived yesterday, I know too well. He was struck
off the list at Boodle's three years ago for card-sharping—that thin-faced,
fair-mustached man named Cadby. I suppose Leithcourt doesn't know it, or
he wouldn't have him up here among respectable folk." And my uncle,
chewing the end of his cigar, sniffed angrily, seeming half inclined to give
his friend a gentle hint that the name Cadby was placed beyond the pale of
good society.
"Better not say anything about it," I urged. "It's Leithcourt's own affair,
uncle—not ours."
"Yes, but if a man sets up a position in the country he mustn't be allowed
to ask us to meet such fellows. It's coming it a little too thick, Gordon. We

men can stand the women of the party, but the men—well, I tell you
candidly, I shan't accept his invites to shoot again."
"No, no, uncle," I protested. "Probably it's owing to ignorance. You'll be
able, a little later on, to give him valuable tips. He's a good fellow, and only
wants experience in Scotland to get along all right."
"Yes. But I don't like it, my boy, I don't like it! It isn't playing a fair
game," declared the rigid old gentleman, coloring resentfully. "I'm not
going to return the invitation and ask that sharper, Cadby, to my house—
and I tell you that plainly."
Next day I shot with the Carmichaels of Crossburn, and about four
o'clock, after a good day, took leave of the party in the Black Glen, and
started off alone to walk home, a distance of about six miles. It was already
growing dusk, and would be quite dark, I knew, before I reached my uncle's
house. My most direct way was to follow the river for about two miles and
then strike straight across the large dense wood, and afterwards over a wide
moor full of treacherous bogs and pitfalls for the unwary.
My gun over my shoulder, I had walked on for about three-quarters of an
hour, and had nearly traversed the wood, at that hour so dark that I had
considerable difficulty in finding my way, when—of a sudden—I fancied I
distinguished voices.
I halted. Yes. Men were talking in low tones of confidence, and in that
calm stillness of evening they appeared nearer to me than they actually
were.
I listened, trying to distinguish the words uttered, but could make out
nothing. They were moving slowly together, in close vicinity to myself, for
their feet stirred the dry leaves, and I could hear the boughs cracking as they
forced their way through them.
Of a sudden, while standing there not daring to breathe lest I should
betray my presence, a strange sound fell upon my eager ears.
Next moment I realized that I was at that place where Leithcourt so
persistently kept his disappointed tryst, having approached it from within
the wood.

The sound alarmed me, and yet it was neither an explosion of fire-arms
nor a startling cry for help.
One word reached me in the darkness—one single word of bitter and
withering reproach.
Heedless of the risk I ran and the peril to which I exposed myself, I
dashed forward with a resolve to penetrate the mystery, until I came to the
gap in the rough stone wall where Leithcourt's habit was to halt each day at
sundown.
There, in the falling darkness, the sight that met my eyes at the spot held
me rigid, appalled, stupefied.
In that instant I realized the truth—a truth that was surely the strangest
ever revealed to any man.

CHAPTER V
CONTAINS CERTAIN CONFIDENCES

As I dashed forward to the gap in the boundary wall of the wood, I nearly
stumbled over a form lying across the narrow path.
So dark was it beneath the trees that at first I could not plainly make out
what it was until I bent and my hands touched the garments of a woman.
Her hat had fallen off, for I felt it beneath my feet, while the cloak was a
thick woolen one.
Was she dead, I wondered? That cry—that single word of reproach—
sounded in my ears, and it seemed plain that she had been struck down
ruthlessly after an exchange of angry words.
I felt in my pocket for my vestas, but unfortunately my box was empty.
Yet just at that moment my strained ears caught a sound—the sound of
someone moving stealthily among the fallen leaves. Seizing my gun, I
demanded who was there.
There was, however, no response. The instant I spoke the movement
ceased.
As far as I could judge, the person in concealment was within the wood
about ten yards from me, separated by an impenetrable thicket. As,
however, I stood out against the sky, my silhouette was, I knew, a well-
defined mark for anyone with fire-arms.
It seemed evident that a tragedy had occurred, and that the victim at my
feet was a woman. But whom?
Of a sudden, while I stood hesitating, blaming myself for being without
matches, I heard the movement repeated. Someone was quickly receding—

escaping from the spot. I listened again. The sound was not of the rustling
of leaves or the crackling of dried sticks, but the low thuds of a man's feet
racing over softer ground. He had scaled the rough stone dyke and was out
in the turnip-field adjacent.
I sprang through the gap, straining my eyes into the gloom, and as I did
so could just distinguish a dark figure receding quickly beneath the wall of
the wood.
In an instant I dashed after it. But the agility of whoever the fugitive was,
man or woman, was marvelous. I considered myself a fairly good runner,
but racing across those rough turnips and heavy, newly-plowed land in the
darkness and carrying my gun soon caused me to pant and blow. Yet the
figure I was pursuing was so fleet of foot and so nimble in climbing the
high rough walls that from the very first I was outrun.
Down the steep hill to the Scarwater I followed the fugitive, crossing the
old footbridge near Penpont, and then up a wild winding glen towards the
Cairnsmore of Deugh. For a couple of miles or more I was close behind,
until, at a turn in the dark wooded glen where it branched in two directions,
I lost all trace of the person who flew from me. Whoever it was they had
very cleverly gone into hiding in the undergrowth of one or other of the two
glens—which I could not decide.
I stood out of breath, the perspiration pouring from me, undecided how to
act.
Was it Leithcourt himself whom I had surprised?
That idea somehow became impressed upon me and I suddenly resolved
to go boldly across to Rannoch and ascertain for myself. Therefore, with the
excuse that I was belated on my walk home, I turned back down the glen,
and half an hour afterward entered the great well-lighted hall of the castle
where the guests, ready dressed, were assembling prior to dinner.
I was welcomed warmly, as I was always by the men of the party, who
seeing my muddy plight at once offered me a glass of the sportsman's drink
in Scotland, and while I was adding soda to it Leithcourt himself joined his
guests, ready dressed in his dinner jacket, having just descended from his
room.

"Hulloa, Gregg!" he exclaimed heartily, holding out his hand. "Had a
long day of it, evidently. Good sport with Carmichael—eh?"
"Very fair," I said. "I remained longer with him than I ought to have
done, and have got belated on my way home, so looked in for a refresher."
"Quite right," he laughed merrily. "You're always welcome, you know. I'd
have been annoyed if I knew you had passed without coming in."
And Muriel, a pretty figure in a low-cut gown of turquoise chiffon,
standing behind her father, smiled secretly at me. I smiled at her in return,
but it was a strange smile, I fear, for with the knowledge of that additional
mystery within me—the mystery of the woman lying unconscious or
perhaps dead, up in the wood—held me stupefied.
I had suspected Leithcourt because of his constant trysts at that spot, but I
had at least proved that my suspicions were entirely without foundation. He
could not have got home and dressed in the time, for I had taken the nearest
route to the castle while the fugitive would be compelled to make a wide
detour.
I only remained a few minutes, then went forth into the darkness again,
utterly undecided how to act. My first impulse was to return to the woman's
aid, for she might not be dead after all.
And yet when I recollected that hoarse cry that rang out in the darkness, I
knew too well that she had been struck fatally. It was this latter conviction
that prevented me from turning back to the wood. You will perhaps blame
me, but the fact is I feared that if I went there suspicion might fall upon me,
now that the real culprit had so ingeniously escaped.
If the victim were dead, what aid could I render? A knife had, I believed,
been used, for my foot caught against it when I had started off after the
fugitive. The only doubt in my own mind was whether the unfortunate
woman was actually dead, for if she were not then my disinclination to
return to the scene of the tragedy was culpable.
Whether or not I acted rightly in remaining away from the place, I leave
it to you to judge in the light of the amazing truth which afterwards
transpired.

I decided to walk straight back to my uncle's, and dinner was over before
I had had my tub and dressed. I therefore ate my meal alone, Davis, the
grave old butler, serving me with that stateliness which always amused me.
I usually chatted with him when others were not present, but that night I
remained silent, my mind full of that strange and startling affair of which I
alone held secret knowledge.
Next day the body would surely be found; then the whole countryside
would be filled with horror and surprise. Was it possible that Leithcourt,
that calm, well-groomed, distinguished-looking man, held any knowledge
of the ghastly truth? No. His manner as he stood in the hall chatting gayly
with me was surely not that of a man with a guilty secret. I became firmly
convinced that although the tragedy affected him very closely, and that it
had occurred at the spot which he had each day visited for some mysterious
purpose, yet up to the present he was in ignorance of what had transpired.
But who was the woman? Was she young or old?
A thousand times I regretted bitterly that I had no matches with me so
that I might examine her features.
One sudden thought that struck me as I sat there at table caused me to lay
down my fork and pause in breathless bewilderment. Was the victim that
sweet-faced young girl whose photograph had been so ruthlessly cast from
its frame and destroyed? The theory was a weird one, but was it the truth?
I longed for the coming of the dawn when the Rannoch keepers would
most certainly discover her. Then at least I should know the truth, for I
might go and see the body out of curiosity without arousing any suspicion.
I tried to play my usual game of billiards with my uncle, but my hand
was so unsteady that the old gentleman began to chaff me.
"It's the gun, I suppose," I remarked. "I've been carrying it all day, and
am tired out. I walked all the way home from Crossburn."
"The Carmichaels are very thick with the Leithcourts, I hear," my uncle
remarked. "Strange they didn't ask Leithcourt to their shoot."

"They did, but he'd got another engagement—over at Kenmure Castle, I
think."
I retired to my room that night full of fevered apprehension. Had I acted
rightly in not returning to that lonely spot on the brow of the hill? Had I
done as a man should do in keeping the tragic secret to myself?
I opened my window and gazed away across the dark Nithsdale, where,
in the distant gloom, the black line of wood loomed up against the stormy
sky. The stars were no longer shining and the rain clouds had gathered. I
stood with my face turned to the dark indistinct spot that held the secret,
lost in wonderment.
At last I closed the window and turned in, but no sleep came to my eyes,
so full was my mind of the startling events of those past few months and of
that gruesome discovery I had made.
Had the fugitive actually recognized me? Probably my voice when I had
called out had betrayed me. Hour after hour I lay puzzling, trying to arrive
at some solution of that intricate problem which now presented itself.
Muriel could tell me what I wished to know. Of that I was certain. Yet she
dared not speak. Some inexpressible terror held her dumb—she was
affianced to the man Martin Woodroffe.
Again I rose, lit the gas, and tried to read a novel. But I could not
concentrate my thoughts, which were ever wandering to that strange
mystery of the wood. At six I shaved, descended, and went out with the
dogs for a short walk; but on returning I heard of nothing unusual, and was
compelled to remain inactive until near mid-day.
I was crossing the stable-yard where I had gone to order the carriage for
my aunt, when an English groom, suddenly emerging from the harness-
room, touched his cap, saying—
"Have you 'eard, sir, of the awful affair up yonder?"
"Of what?" I asked quickly.
"Well, sir, there seems to have been a murder last night up in Rannoch
Wood," said the man quickly. "Holden, the gardener, has just come back

from that village and says that Mr. Leithcourt's under-gamekeeper as he was
going home at five this morning came upon a dead body."
"A dead body!" I exclaimed, feigning great surprise.
"Yes, sir—a youngish man. He'd been stabbed to the heart."
"A man!"
"Yes, sir—so Holden says."
"Call Holden. I'd like to know all he's heard," I said. And presently, when
the gardener emerged from the grape-house, I sought of him all the
particulars he had gathered.
"I don't know very much, sir," was the man's reply. "I went into the inn
for a glass of beer at eleven, as I always do, and heard them talking about it.
A young man was murdered last night up in Rannoch Wood. The
gamekeeper thought at first there'd been a fight among poachers, but from
the dead man's clothes they say he isn't a poacher at all, but a stranger in
this district."
"The body was that of a man, then?" I asked, trying to conceal my utter
bewilderment.
"Yes—about thirty, they say. The police have taken him to the mortuary
at Dumfries, and the detectives are up there now looking at the spot, they
say."
A man! And yet the body I found was that of a woman—that I could
swear.
After lunch I took the dog-cart and drove alone into Dumfries.
When I inquired of the police-constable on duty at the town mortuary to
be allowed to view the body of the murdered man, he regarded me, I
thought, with considerable suspicion. My request was an unusual one.
Nevertheless, he took me up a narrow alley, unlocked a door, and I found
myself in the cold, gloomy chamber of death. From a small dingy window
above the light fell upon an object lying upon a large slab of gray stone and
covered with a soiled sheet.

The sight was ghastly and gruesome; the body lay there awaiting the
official inquiry into the cause of death. The silence of the tomb was
unbroken, save for the heavy tread of the policeman, who having removed
his helmet in the presence of the dead, lifted the end of the sheet, revealing
to me a white, hard-set face, with closed eyes and dropped jaw.
I started back as my eyes fell upon the dead countenance. I was entirely
unprepared for such a revelation. The truth staggered me.
The victim was the man who had acted as my friend—the Italian waiter,
Olinto.
I advanced and peered into the thin inanimate features, scarce able to
realize the actual fact. But my eyes had not deceived me. Though death
distorts the facial expression of every man, I had no difficulty in identifying
him.
"You recognize him, sir?" remarked the officer. "Who is he? Our people
are very anxious to know, for up to the present moment they haven't
succeeded in establishing his identity."
I bit my lips. I had been an arrant fool to betray myself before that man.
Yet having done so, I saw that any attempt to conceal my knowledge must
of necessity reflect upon me.
"I will see your inspector," I answered with as much calmness as I could
muster. "Where has the poor fellow been wounded?"
"Through the heart," responded the constable, as turning the sheet further
down he showed me the small knife wound which had penetrated the
victim's jacket and vest full in the chest.
"This is the weapon," he added, taking from a shelf close by a long, thin
poignard with an ivory handle, which he handed to me.
In an instant I recognized what it was, and how deadly. It was an old
Florentine misericordia, a long thin, triangular blade, a quarter of an inch
wide at its greatest width, tapering to a needle-point, with a hilt of yellow
ivory, the most deadly and fatal of all the daggers and poignards of the
Middle Ages. The blade being sharp on three angles produced a wound that

caused internal hemorrhage and which never healed—hence the name given
to it by the Florentines.
It was still blood-stained, but as I took the deadly thing in my hand I saw
that its blade was beautifully damascened, a most elegant specimen of a
medieval arm. Yet surely none but an Italian would use such a weapon, or
would aim so truly as to penetrate the heart.
And yet the person struck down was a woman, and not a man!
A wound from a misericordia always proves fatal, because the shape of
the blade cuts the flesh into little flaps which, on withdrawing the knife,
close up and prevent the blood from issuing forth. At the same time,
however, no power can make them heal again. A blow from such a weapon
is as surely fatal as the poisoned poignard of the Borgia or the Medici.
I handed the stiletto back to the man without comment. My resolve was
to say as little as possible, for I had no desire to figure publicly at the
inquiry, and consequently negative all my own efforts to solve the mystery
of the Leithcourts and of Martin Woodroffe.
I returned to where the figure was lying so ghastly and motionless, and
looked again for the last time upon the dead face of the man who had served
me so well, and yet who had enticed me so nearly to my death. In the latter
incident there was a deep mystery. He had relented at the last moment, just
in time to save me from my secret enemies.
Could it be that my enemies were his? Had he fallen a victim by the same
hand that had attempted so ingeniously to kill me?
Why had Leithcourt gone so regularly up to Rannoch Wood? Was it in
order to meet the man who was to be entrapped and killed? What was
Olinto Santini doing so far from London, if he had not come expressly to
meet someone in secret?
As I glanced down at the cold, inanimate countenance upon which
mystery was written, I became seized by regret. He had been a faithful and
honest servant, and even though he had enticed me to that fatal house in
Lambeth, yet I recollected his words, how he had done so under

compulsion. I remembered, too, how he had implored me not to prejudge
him before I became aware of the full facts.
With my own hand I re-covered the face with the sheet, and inwardly
resolved to avenge the dastardly crime.
I regretted that I was compelled to reveal the dead man's name to the
police, yet I saw that to make some statement was now inevitable, and
therefore I accompanied the constable to the inspector's office some
distance across the town.
Having been introduced to the big, fair-haired man in a rough tweed suit,
who was apparently directing the inquiries into the affair, he took me
eagerly into a small back room and began to question me. I was, however,
wary not to commit myself to anything further than the identification of the
body.
"The fact is," I said confidentially, "you must omit me from the witnesses
at the inquest."
"Why?" asked the detective suspiciously.
"Because if it were known that I have identified him, all chance of
getting at the truth will at once vanish," I answered. "I have come here to
tell you in strictest confidence who the poor fellow really is."
"Then you know something of the affair?" he said, with a strong
Highland accent.
"I know nothing," I declared. "Nothing except his name."
"H'm. And you say he's a foreigner—an Italian—eh?"
"He was in my service in Leghorn for several years, and on leaving me
he came to London and obtained an engagement as waiter in a restaurant.
His father lived in Leghorn; he was doorkeeper at the Prefecture."
"But why was he here, in Scotland?"
"How can I tell?"

"You know something of the affair. I mean that you suspect somebody, or
you would have no objection to giving evidence at the inquiry."
"I have no suspicions. To me the affair is just as much of an enigma as to
you," I hastened at once to explain. "My only fear is that if the assassin
knew that I had identified him he would take care not to betray himself."
"You therefore think he will betray himself?"
"I hope so."
"By the fact that the man was attacked with an Italian stiletto, it would
seem that his assailant was a fellow-countryman," suggested the detective.
"The evidence certainly points to that," I replied.
"You don't happen to be aware of anyone—any foreigner, I mean—who
was, or might be his enemy?"
I responded in the negative.
"Ah," he went on, "these foreigners are always fighting among
themselves and using knives. I did ten years' service in Edinburgh and made
lots of arrests for stabbing affrays. Italians, like Greeks, are a dangerous lot
when their blood is up." Then he added: "Personally, it seems to me that the
murdered man was enticed from London to that spot and coolly done away
with—from some motive of revenge, most probably."
"Most probably," I said. "A vendetta, perhaps. I live in Italy, and
therefore know the Italians well," I added.
I had given him my card, and told him with whom I was staying.
"Where were you yesterday, sir?" he inquired presently.
"I was shooting—on the other side of the Nithsdale," I answered, and
then went on to explain my movements, without, however, mentioning my
visit to Rannoch.
"And although you know the murdered man so intimately, you have no
suspicion of anyone in this district who was acquainted with him?"

"I know no one who knew him. When he left my service he had never
been in England."
"You say he was engaged in service in London?"
"Yes, at a restaurant in Oxford Street, I believe. I met him accidentally in
Pall Mall one evening, and he told me so."
"You don't know the name of the restaurant?"
"He did tell me, but unfortunately I have forgotten."
The detective drew a deep breath of regret.
"Someone who waited for him on the edge of that wood stepped out and
killed him—that's evident," he said.
"Without a doubt."
"And my belief is that it was an Italian. There were two foreigners who
slept at a common lodging-house two nights ago and went on tramp
towards Glasgow. We have telegraphed after them, and hope we shall find
them. Scotsmen or Englishmen never use a knife of that pattern."
With his latter remark I entirely coincided. In my own mind that was the
strongest argument in favor of Leithcourt's innocence. That the tenant of
Rannoch had kept that secret tryst in daily patience I knew from my own
observations, yet to me it scarcely seemed feasible that he would use a
weapon so peculiarly Italian and yet so terribly deadly.
And then when I reflected further, recollecting that the body I had
discovered was that of a woman and not a man, I stood staggered and
bewildered by the utterly inexplicable enigma.
I promised the burly detective that in exchange for his secrecy regarding
my statement that I would assist him in every manner possible in the
solution of the problem.
"The real name of the murdered man must be at all costs withheld," I
urged. "It must not appear in the papers, for I feel confident that only by the
pretense that he is unknown can we arrive at the truth. If his name is given

at the inquiry, then the assassin will certainly know that I have identified
him."
"And what then?"
"Well," I said with some hesitation, "while I am believed to be in
ignorance we shall have opportunity for obtaining the truth."
"Then you do really suspect?" he said, again looking at me with those
cold, blue eyes.
"I know not whom to suspect," I declared. "It is a mystery why the man
who was once my faithful servant should be enticed to that wood and
stabbed to the heart."
"There is no one in the vicinity who knew him?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"We might obtain his address in London through his father in Leghorn,"
suggested the officer.
"I will write to-day if you so desire," I said readily. "Indeed, I will get my
friend the British Consul to go round and see the old man and telegraph the
address if he obtains it."
"Capital!" he declared. "If you will do us this favor we shall be greatly
indebted to you. It is fortunate that we have established the victim's identity
—otherwise we might be entirely in the dark. A murdered foreigner is
always more or less of a mystery."
Therefore, then and there, I took a sheet of paper and wrote to my old
friend Hutcheson at Leghorn, asking him to make immediate inquiry of
Olinto's father as to his son's address in London.
I said nothing to the police of that strange adventure of mine over in
Lambeth, or of how the man now dead had saved my life. That his enemies
were my own he had most distinctly told me, therefore I felt some
apprehension that I myself was not safe. Yet in my hip pocket I always
carried my revolver—just as I did in Italy—and I rather prided myself on
my ability to shoot straight.

We sat for a long time discussing the strange affair. In order to betray no
eagerness to get away, I offered the big Highlander a cigar from my case,
and we smoked together. The inquiry would be held on the morrow, he told
me, but as far as the public was concerned the body would remain as that of
some person "unknown."
"And you had better not come to my uncle's house, or send anyone," I
said. "If you desire to see me, send me a line and I will meet you here in
Dumfries. It will be safer."
The officer looked at me with those keen eyes of his, and said:
"Really, Mr. Gregg, I can't quite make you out, I confess. You seem to be
apprehensive of your own safety. Why?"
"Italians are a very curious people," I responded quickly. "Their vendetta
extends widely sometimes."
"Then you have reason to believe that the enemy of this poor fellow
Santini may be your enemy also?"
"One never knows whom one offends when living in Italy," I laughed, as
lightly as I could, endeavoring to allay his suspicion. "He may have fallen
beneath the assassin's knife by giving quite a small and possibly innocent
offense to somebody. Italian methods are not English, you know."
"By Jove, sir, and I'm jolly glad they're not!" he said. "I shouldn't think a
police officer's life is a very safe one among all those secret murder
societies I've read about."
"Ah! what you read about them is often very much exaggerated," I
assured him. "It is the vendetta which is such a stain upon the character of
the modern Italian; and depend upon it this affair in Rannoch Wood is the
outcome of some revenge or other—probably over a love affair."
"But you will assist us, sir?" he urged. "You know the Italian language,
which will be of great advantage; besides, the victim was your servant."
"Be discreet," I said. "And in return I will do my very utmost to assist
you in hunting down the assassin."

And thus we made our compact. Half-an-hour after I was driving in the
dog-cart through the pouring rain up the hill out of gray old Dumfries to my
uncle's house.
As I descended from the cart and gave it over to a groom, old Davis, the
butler, came forward, saying in a low voice:
"There's Miss Leithcourt waiting to see you, Mr. Gordon. She's in the
morning-room, and been there an hour. She asked me not to tell anyone else
she's here, sir."
"Then my aunt has not seen her?" I exclaimed, scenting mystery in this
unexpected visit.
"No, sir. She wishes to see you alone, sir."
I walked across the big hall and along the corridor to the room the old
man had indicated.
And as I opened the door and Muriel Leithcourt in plain black rose to
meet me, I plainly saw from her white, haggard countenance that something
had happened—that she had been forced by circumstances to come to me in
strictest confidence.
Was she, I wondered, about to reveal to me the truth?

CHAPTER VI
THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUDS

"Mr. Gregg," exclaimed the girl with agitation, as she put forth her black-
gloved hand, "I—I suppose you know—you've heard all about the
discovery to-day up at the wood? I need not tell you anything about it"
"Yes, Miss Leithcourt, I only wish you would tell me about it," I said
gravely, inviting her to a chair and seating myself. "I've heard some
extraordinary story about a man being found dead, but I've been in
Dumfries nearly all day. Who is the man?"
"Ah! that we don't know," she replied, pale-faced and anxious. Her
attitude was as though she wished to confide in me and yet still hesitated to
do so.
"You've been waiting for me quite a long time, Davis tells me. I regret
that you should have done this. If you had left word that you wished to see
me, I would have come over to you at once."
"No. I wanted to see you alone—that's the reason I am here. They must
not know at home that I've been over here, so I purposely asked the man not
to announce me to your aunt."
"You want to see me privately," I said in a low, earnest voice. "Why? Is
there any service I can render you?"
"Yes. A very great one," she responded with quick eagerness, "I—well—
the fact is, I have summoned courage to come to you and beg of you to help
me. I am in great distress—and I have not a single friend whom I can trust
—in whom I can confide."

"I shall esteem it the highest honor if you will trust me," I said in deep
earnestness. "I can only assure you that I will remain loyal to your interests
and to yourself."
"Ah! I believe you will, Mr. Gregg!" she declared with enthusiasm, her
large, dark eyes turned upon me—the eyes of a woman in sheer and bitter
despair. Her face was perfect, one of the most handsome I had ever gazed
upon. The more I saw of her the greater was the fascination she held over
me.
A silence fell between us as she sat with her gloved hands lying idly in
her lap. Her lips moved nervously, but no sound came from them, so
agitated was she, so eager to tell me something; and yet at the same time
reluctant to take me into her confidence.
"Well?" I asked at last in a low voice. "I am quite ready to render you any
service, if you will only command me."
"Ah! But I fear what I require will strike you as so unusual—you will
hesitate to act when I explain what service I require of you," she said
doubtfully.
"I cannot tell you until I hear your wishes," I said, smiling, and yet
puzzled at her attitude.
"It concerns the terrible discovery made up in Rannoch Wood," she said
in a hoarse, nervous voice at last. "That unknown man was murdered—
stabbed to the heart."
"Well?"
"Well," she said, scarcely above a whisper, "I have suspicions."
"Of the murdered man's identity?"
"No. Of the assassin."
I glanced at her sharply and saw the intense look in her dark, wide-open
eyes.
"You believe you know who dealt the blow?"

"I have a suspicion—that is all. Only I want you to help me, if you will."
"Most certainly," I responded. "But if you believe you know the assassin
you probably know something of the victim?"
"Only that he looked like a foreigner."
"Then you have seen him?" I exclaimed, much surprised.
My remark caused her to hold her breath for an instant. Then she
answered, rather lamely, it seemed to me:
"I saw him when the keepers brought the body to the castle."
Now, according to the account I had heard, the police had conveyed the
dead man direct from the wood into Dumfries. Was it possible, therefore,
that she had seen Olinto before he met with his sudden end?
I feared to press her for an explanation at that moment, but, nevertheless,
the admission that she had seen him struck me as a very peculiar fact.
"You judge him to be a foreigner?" I remarked as casually as I could.
"From his features and complexion I guessed him to be Italian," she
responded quickly, at which I pretended to express surprise. "I saw him
after the keepers had found him."
"Besides," she went on, "the stiletto was evidently an Italian one, which
would almost make it appear that a foreigner was the assassin."
"Is that your own suspicion?"
"No."
"Why?"
She hesitated a moment, then in a low, eager voice she said:
"Because I have already seen that three-edged knife in another person's
possession."
"That's pretty strong evidence," I declared. "The person in question will
have to prove that he was not in Rannoch Wood last evening at nightfall."

"How do you know it was done at nightfall?" she asked quickly with
some surprise, half-rising from her chair.
"I merely surmised that it was," I responded, inwardly blaming myself
for my ill-timed admission.
"Ah!" she said with a slight sigh, "there is more mystery in this affair
than we have yet discovered, Mr. Gregg. What, I wonder, brought the
unfortunate young man up into our wood?"
"An appointment, without a doubt. But with whom?"
She shook her head, saying:
"My father often goes to that spot to shoot pigeon in the evening. He told
us so at luncheon to-day. How fortunate he was not there last night, or he
might be suspected."
"Yes," I said. "It is a very fortunate circumstance, for it cannot be a
pleasant experience to be under suspicion of being an assassin. He was at
home last night, was he?" I added casually.
"Of course. Don't you recollect that when you called he chatted with
you? I did some typewriting for him in the study, and we were together all
the afternoon—or at least till nearly five o'clock, when we went out into the
hall to tea."
"Then what is your theory regarding the affair?" I inquired, rather
puzzled why she should so decisively prove an alibi for her father.
"It seems certain that the poor fellow went to the wood by appointment,
and was killed. But have you been up to the spot since the finding of the
body?"
"No. Have you?"
"Yes. The affair interested me, and as soon as I recognized the old Italian
knife in the hand of the keeper, I went up there and looked about. I am glad
I did so, for I found something which seems to have escaped the notice of
the detectives."

"And what's that?" I asked eagerly.
"Why, about three yards from the pool of blood where the unfortunate
foreigner was found is another small pool of blood where the grass and
ferns around are all crushed down as though there had been a struggle
there."
"There may have been a struggle at that spot, and the man may have
staggered some distance before he fell dead."
"Not if he had been struck in the heart, as they say. He would fall, would
he not?" she suggested. "No. The police seem very dense, and this plain fact
has not yet occurred to them. Their theory is the same as what you suggest,
but my own is something quite different, Mr. Gregg. I believe that a second
person also fell a victim," she added in a low, distinct tone.
I gazed at her open-mouthed. Did she, I wondered, know the actual truth?
Was she aware that the woman who had fallen there had disappeared?
"A second person!" I echoed, as though in surprise. "Then do you believe
that a double murder was committed?"
"I draw my conclusion from the fact that the young man, on being struck
in the heart, could not have gone such a distance as that which separates the
one mark from the other."
"But he might have been slightly wounded—on the hand, or in the face—
at first, and then at the spot where he was found struck fatally," I suggested.
She shook her head dubiously, but made no reply to my argument. Her
confidence in her own surmises made it quite apparent that by some
unknown means she was aware of the second victim. Indeed, a few
moments later she said to me:
"It is for this reason, Mr. Gregg, that I have sought you in confidence.
Nobody must know that I have come here to you, or they would suspect;
and if suspicion fell upon me it would bring upon me a fate worse than
death. Remember, therefore, that my future is entirely in your hands."
"I don't quite understand," I said, rising and standing before her in the
fading twilight, while the rain drove upon the old diamond window panes.

"But I can only assure you that whatever confidence you repose in me, I
shall never abuse, Miss Leithcourt."
"I know, I know!" she said quickly. "I trust you in this matter implicitly. I
have come to you for many reasons, chief of them being that if a second
victim has fallen beneath the hand of the assassin, it is, I know, a woman."
"A woman! Whom?"
"At present I cannot tell you. I must first establish the true facts. If this
woman were really stricken down, then her body lies concealed somewhere
in the vicinity. We must find it and bring home the crime to the guilty one."
"But if we succeed in finding it, could we place our hand upon the
assassin?" I asked, looking straight at her.
"If we find it, the crime would then tell its own tale—it would convict the
person in whose hand I have seen that fatal weapon," was her clear, bold
answer.
"Then you wish me to assist you in this search, Miss Leithcourt?" I said,
wondering if her suspicions rested upon that mysterious yachtsman, Philip
Hornby, the man to whom she was engaged.
"Yes, I would beg of you to do your utmost in secret to endeavor to
discover the body of the second victim. It is a woman—of that I am certain.
Find her, and we shall then be able to bring the crime home to the assassin."
"But my search may bring suspicion upon me," I remarked. "It will be
difficult to examine the whole wood without arousing the curiosity of
somebody—the keeper or the police."
"I have already thought of that," she said. "I will pretend to-morrow to
lose this watch-bracelet in the wood," and she held up her slim wrist to
show me the little enameled watch set in her bracelet. "Then you and I will
search for it diligently, and the police will never suspect the real reason of
our investigation. To-morrow I shall write to you telling you about my loss,
and you will come over to Rannoch and offer to help me."
I was silent for a moment.

"Is Mr. Woodroffe back at the castle? I heard he was to return to-day."
"No. I had a letter from him from Bordeaux a week ago. He is still on the
Continent. I believe, indeed, he has gone to Russia, where he sometimes has
business."
"I asked you the question, Miss Muriel, because I thought if Mr.
Woodroffe were here, he might object to our searching in company," I
explained, smiling.
Her cheeks flushed slightly, as though confused at my reference to her
engagement, and she said mischievously:
"I don't see why he should object in the least. If you are good enough to
assist me to search for my bracelet, he surely ought to be much obliged to
you."
It was on the tip of my tongue to explain to that dark-eyed, handsome girl
the circumstances in which I had met her lover on the sunny Mediterranean
shore, yet prudence forbade me to refer to the matter, and I at once gladly
accepted her invitation to investigate the curious disappearance of the body
of poor Olinto's fellow-victim.
What secret knowledge could be possessed by that smart, handsome girl
before me? That her suspicions were in the right direction I felt confident,
yet if the dead woman had been removed and hidden by the assassin it must
have been after the discovery made by me. The fellow must have actually
dared to return to the spot and carry off the victim. Yet if he had actually
done that, why did he allow the corpse of the Italian to remain and await
discovery? He might perhaps have been disturbed and compelled to make
good his escape.
"If the woman was really removed the assassin must surely have had
some assistance," I pointed out. "He could not have carried the body very
far unaided."
She agreed with me, but expressed a belief that the double crime had
been committed alone and unaided.

"Have you any idea as to the motive?" I asked her, eager to hear her
reply.
"Well," she answered hesitatingly, "if the woman has fallen a victim, the
motive will become plain; but if not, then the matter must remain a
complete mystery."
"You tell me, Miss Muriel, that you suspect the truth, and yet you deny
all knowledge of the murdered man!" I exclaimed in a tone of slight
reproach.
"Until we have cleared up the mystery of the woman I can say nothing,"
was her answer. "I can only tell you, Mr. Gregg, that if what I suspect is
true, then the affair will be found to be one of the strangest, most startling
and most ingenious plots ever devised by one man against the life of
another."
"Then a man is the assassin, you think?" I exclaimed quickly.
"I believe so. But even of that I am not at all sure. We must first find the
woman."
She seemed so positive that a woman had also fallen beneath that deadly
misericordia that I fell to wondering whether she, like myself, had
discovered the body, and was therefore certain that a second crime had been
committed. But I did not seek to question her further, lest her own
suspicions might become aroused. My own policy was to remain silent and
to wait. The woman sitting before me was herself a mystery.
Then, when the rain had abated, I told Davis to send her trap a little way
up the high-road, so that my aunt and uncle should not see her departing;
and after helping her on with her loose driving-coat, we left by one of the
servants' entrances, and I saw her into her high dog-cart and stood
bareheaded in the muddy high-road as she drove away into the gloom.

Rannoch Wood was already in its gold-brown glory of autumn, and as I
stood with Muriel Leithcourt on the edge of it, near the spot where Olinto
Santini had fallen, the morning sun was shining in a cloudless sky.
True to her promise, she had sent me a note by one of the grooms asking
me to help search for her bracelet, and I had driven over at once to Rannoch
and found her alone awaiting me. The shooting party had gone over to a
distant part of the estate, therefore we were able to stroll together up the hill
and commence our investigations without let or hindrance. She was
sensibly dressed in a short tweed skirt, high shooting-boots and a tam-o'-
shanter hat, while I also had on an old shooting-suit and carried a thick
serviceable stick with which I could prod likely spots.
On arrival at the wood I asked her opinion which was the most likely
corner, but she replied:
"I know so little of this place, Mr. Gregg. You have known it for years,
while this is only my first season here."
"Very well," I answered. "Let us place ourselves in the position of the
murderer, who probably knew the wood and wished to conceal a body in
the vicinity without risk of conveying it far. On this, the left side, the wood
has been thinned out for nearly half a mile, and therefore affords but little
cover, while here, to the right, it slopes down gently to the valley and is
very thick and partly impenetrable. There can therefore have been no two
courses open to him. He would look for a likely place to the right. Let us
start here, and first take a small circle, examining every bush carefully. The
body may have easily been pushed in beneath a thicket and well escape
observation."
And so together, after taking our bearings, we started off, working our
way into the thick undergrowth, beating with our sticks, and making minute
examination of every bush or heap of dead leaves. In parts, the great
spreading trees shut out the light, rendering our investigations very difficult;
but we kept on, my companion advancing with an eagerness which showed
that the fact of the woman's body being there was no mere surmise.
All through the morning we walked on, our hands badly torn by
brambles. Even Muriel's thick gloves did not wholly protect her, and once

when she received a nasty scratch across the cheek, she stopped and
laughingly exclaimed:
"Now what untruth must I invent to account for that?"
My own coat was badly torn, and more than once I was compelled to
scramble through almost impassable thickets; yet we found no trace of any
previous intruder, and having completed our circle were compelled to admit
that the gruesome evidence of the second crime did not exist at that spot.
More than once I felt half inclined to tell her how I had actually
discovered the body of the woman, yet on reflection I foresaw that in such
circumstances silence was best. If I desired to solve the strange complicated
enigma which had thus culminated in a double crime, it would be necessary
for me to keep my own counsel and remain patient and watchful.
When Hutcheson replied from Leghorn, and when I discovered where
Olinto was employed, I might perhaps follow up the clues from that end. I
might find his wife Armida and learn something of importance from her. So
I was hopeful, and by reason of that hope remained silent.
Muriel was untiring in her activity. Hither and thither she went, beating
down the high bracken and tangles of weeds, poking with her stick into
every hole and corner, and going further and further into the wood in the
certainty that the body was therein concealed.
For my own part, however, I was not too sanguine of success. The
portion of the wood which we had already exhausted seemed to be the most
likely point. To carry the body far would require assistance, and in my own
mind I believed the crime to have been the work of one person. There was
no path in the wood in that direction, but soon we came to a deep wooded
ravine of the existence of which I was in ignorance. It was a kind of small
glen through which a rivulet flowed, but the banks were covered with a
thick impenetrable undergrowth out of which sprang many fine old trees, a
place that had apparently existed for centuries undisturbed, for here and
there a giant trunk that had decayed and fallen lay across the bank, or had
rolled into the rocky bed far below.
"This is a most likely place," declared my dainty little companion as we
approached it. "Anything could easily be concealed in that high bracken

down there. Let us search the whole glen from end to end," she cried with
enthusiasm.
Acting upon her suggestion and without thought of luncheon, we made a
descent of the steep bank until we reached the rocky bed of the stream, and
then by springing from stone to stone—sometimes slipping into the water,
be it said—we commenced to beat the bracken and carefully examine every
bush. Progress was not swift. Once the girl, lithe and athletic as she was,
slipped off a mossy stone into a hole where the water was up to her knees.
But she only laughed gayly at the accident, and wringing out her wet skirt,
said:
"It doesn't matter in the least, if we only find what we're in search of."
And then, undaunted, she went on, springing from stone to stone and
steadying herself with her stick. If we could only discover the body of the
dead woman, then the rest would be clear, she declared. She would openly
denounce the assassin.
As we went on I revolved within my mind all the curious circumstances
in connection with the amazing affair, and recollected my old friend Jack
Durnford's words when we stood upon the quarter-deck of the Bulwark and
I had related to him the visit of the mysterious yacht. I too had left one
effort untried, and I blamed myself for overlooking it. I had not sought of
that Bond Street photographer the name and address of the original of the
photograph that had been mutilated and destroyed—that girl with the
magnificent eyes that had so attracted me.
The afternoon passed, and yet we were not successful. I was faint with
hunger and thirst, yet my companion did not once complain. Her energy
was marvelous—and yet was she not hunting down a criminal? was she not
determined to obtain such evidence as would enable her to speak the truth
fearlessly, and with confidence that it would have the effect of convicting
the guilty one?
Slowly we toiled on up the picturesque little glen for nearly a mile and a
half. Its beauties were extraordinary, and the silence was unbroken save for
the musical ripple of the water over the stones. Hidden there in the center of
that great wood, no one had visited it perhaps for years, not even the

keepers, for no path led there, and by reason of the tangle of briars and bush
it was utterly ungetatable. Indeed, it had ruined our clothes to search there,
and as we went on with so many windings and turns we became utterly out
of our bearings. We knew ourselves to be in the center of the wood, but that
was all.
The sun had set, and the sky above showed the crimson of the distant
afterglow, warning us that it was time we began to think of how to make our
exit. We were passing around a sharp bend in the glen where the boulders
were so thickly moss-grown that our feet fell noiselessly, when I thought I
heard a voice, and raising my hand we both halted suddenly.
"Someone is there," I whispered quickly. "Behind that rock." She nodded
in the affirmative, for she, too, had heard the voice.
We listened, but the sound was not repeated. That someone was on the
other side of the rock I knew, for in a tree in the vicinity a thrush was
hopping from twig to twig, sounding its alarm-cry and objecting to being
disturbed.
Therefore we crept silently forward together to ascertain who were the
intruders. The only manner, however, in which to get a view beyond the
huge rock that, having fallen across the stream centuries ago, had diverted
its channel, was to clamber up its mossy sides to the summit. This we did
eagerly and breathlessly, without betraying our presence by the utterance of
a single word.
To reach the side of the boulder we were compelled to walk through the
shallow water, but Muriel, quite undaunted, sprang lithely along at my side,
and with one accord we swarmed up the steep rock, gripping its slippery
face with our hands and laying ourselves flat as we came to its summit.
Then together we peered over, just, however, in time to see two dark
figures of men disappearing into the thicket on the opposite side of the glen.
"Who are they, I wonder?" I asked. "Do you recognize them?"
"No. They are entire strangers to me," was her answer. "But they seem
fairly well dressed. Perhaps two sportsmen from some shooting-party in the
neighborhood. They've lost their way most probably."

"But I don't think they carried guns," I said. "One of them had something
over his shoulder?"
"Wasn't it a gun? I thought it was."
"No, he wasn't carrying it like he'd carry a gun. It was short—and seemed
more like a spade."
"A spade!" she gasped quickly in a low voice. "A spade! Are you certain
of that?"
"No, not at all certain. We only had an instantaneous glance of them. We
were unfortunately too late to see them face to face."
"The back of one of the men, the tall fellow in the brown suit, was broad
and square—the back of someone who is familiar to me, only for the
moment I can't recollect whose it resembles." She only spoke in a whisper,
fearing lest we should be discovered.
I longed to scramble down and rush after the intruders, only the belief
that one of them carried a spade and the other an iron bar struck me as
curious, while at the same moment my eye caught sight of a portion of the
ground below us at the base of the rock which had evidently been recently
disturbed.
"It is a spade the man is carrying!" I cried excitedly. "Look down there!
They've just been burying something!"
Her quick eyes followed the direction I indicated, and she answered:
"I really believe they have concealed something!"
Then when we had allowed the men to get beyond hearing, we both
slipped down to the other side of the boulder and there discovered many
signs that the earth had been hurriedly excavated and only just replaced.
Quicker than it takes to describe the exciting incident which followed, we
broke down the branch of a tree and with it commenced moving the freshly
disturbed earth, which was still soft and easily removed.

Muriel found a dead branch in the vicinity, and both of us set to work
with a will, eager to ascertain what was hidden there. That something had
certainly been concealed was, to us, quite evident, but what it really was we
could not surmise. The hole they had dug did not seem large enough to
admit a human body, yet leaves had been carefully strewn over the place
which, if approached from any other point than the high-up one whence we
had seen it, would arouse no suspicion that the ground had ever been
interfered with.
Digging with a piece of wood was hard and laborious work and it was a
long time before we removed sufficient earth to make a hole of any size.
But Muriel exerted all her energy, and both of us worked on in dogged
silence full of wonder and anticipation. With a spade we should have soon
been able to investigate, but the earth having apparently been stamped
down hard prior to the last covering being put upon it, our progress was
very slow and difficult.
At last, a quarter of an hour or so after we had commenced, Muriel,
standing in the hole and having dug her stake deeply into the ground,
suddenly cried:
"Look! Look, Mr. Gregg! Why—whatever is that?"
I bent forward as she indicated, and my eyes met an object so unexpected
that I was held dumb and motionless.
By what we had succeeded in discovering, the mystery was increased
rather than diminished.
I gave vent to an ejaculation of complete bewilderment, and looked
blankly into my companion's face.
The amazing enigma was surely complete!

CHAPTER VII
CONTAINS A SURPRISE

The first object brought to light, about two feet beneath the surface, was a
piece of dark gray woolen stuff which, when the mold was removed, proved
to be part of a woman's skirt.
With frantic eagerness I got into the hole we had made and removed the
soil with my hands, until I suddenly touched something hard.
A body lay there, doubled up and crushed into the well-like hole the men
had dug.
Together we pulled it out, when, to my surprise, on wiping away the dirt
from the hard waxen features, I recognized it as the body of Armida, the
woman who had been my servant in Leghorn and who had afterwards
married Olinto. Both had been assassinated!
When Muriel gazed upon the dead woman's face she gave vent to an
expression of surprise. The body was evidently not that of the person she
had expected to find.
"Who is she, I wonder?" my companion ejaculated. "Not a lady,
evidently, by her dress and hands."
"Evidently not," was my response, for I still deemed it best to keep my
own counsel. I recollected the story Olinto had told me about his wife; of
her illness and her longing to return to Italy. Yet the dead woman's
countenance must have been healthy enough in life, although her hands
were rough and hard, showing that she had been doing manual labor.
Armida had been a particularly good housemaid, a black-haired, black-
eyed Tuscan, quick, cleanly, and full of a keen sense of humor. It was a

great shock to me to find her lying there dead. The breast of her dress was
stained with dried blood, which, on examination, I found had issued from a
deep and fatal wound beneath the ear where she had been struck an unerring
blow that had severed the artery.
"Those men—those men who buried her! I wonder who they were?" my
companion exclaimed in a hushed voice. "We must follow them and
ascertain. They are certainly the murderers who have returned in secret and
concealed the evidence of this second crime."
"Yes," I said. "Let us go after them. They must not escape us."
Then, leaving the exhumed body beneath a tree, I caught Muriel by the
waist and waded across the deep channel worn by the stream at that point,
after which we both ascended the steep bank where the pair had
disappeared in the darkness of the wood.
I blamed myself a thousand times for not following them, yet my
suspicions had not been aroused until after they had disappeared. The back
of the man in a snuff-colored suit was, she felt confident, familiar to her.
She repeated what she had already told me, yet she could not remember
where she had seen a similar figure before.
We went on through the gloomy forest, for the light had faded and
evening was now creeping on. From time to time we halted and listened.
But there was a dead silence, broken only by the shrill cry of a night bird
and the low rustling of the leaves in the autumn wind. The men knew their
way, it seemed, even though the wood was trackless. Yet they had nearly
twenty minutes start of us, and in that time they might be already out in the
open country. Would they succeed in evading us? Yet even if they did, I
could describe the dress of one of them, while that of his companion was, as
far as I made out, dark blue, of a somewhat nautical cut. He wore also a flat
cap, with a peak.
We went on, striking straight for the open moorland which we knew
bounded the woods in that direction, and before the light had entirely faded
we found ourselves out amongst the heather with the distant hills looming
dark against the horizon. But we saw no sign of the men who had so
secretly concealed the body of their victim.

"I will take you back to the castle, Miss Leithcourt," I said. "And then I'll
drive on into Dumfries and see the police. These men must be arrested."
"Yes, do," she urged. "I will get into the house by the stable-yard, for
they must not see me in this terrible plight."
It was rough walking, therefore at my invitation she took my arm, and as
she did so I felt that she was shivering.
"You are very wet," I remarked. "I hope you won't take cold."
"Oh! I'm used to getting wet. I drive and cycle a lot, you know, and very
often get drenched," was her reply. Then after a pause she said: "We must
discover who that woman was. She seems, from her complexion and her
hair, to be a foreigner, like the man."
"Yes, I think so," was my reply. "I will tell the police all that we have
found out, and they will go there presently and recover the body."
"If they can only find those two men, then we should know the truth," she
declared. "One of them—the one in brown—was unusually broad-
shouldered, and seemed to walk with a slight stoop."
"You expected to discover another woman, did you not, Miss
Leithcourt?" I asked presently, as we walked across the moor.
"Yes," she answered. "I expected to find an entirely different person."
"And if you had found her it would have proved the guilt of someone
with whom you are acquainted?"
She nodded in the affirmative.
"Then what we have found this evening does not convey to you the
identity of the assassins?"
"No, unfortunately it does not. We must for the present leave the matter
in the hands of the police."
"But if the identity of the dead woman is established?" I asked.

"It might furnish me with a clue," she exclaimed quickly. "Yes, try and
discover who she is."
"Who was the woman you expected to find?"
"A friend—a very dear friend."
"Will you not tell me her name?" I inquired.
"No, it would be unfair to her," she responded decisively, an answer
which to me was particularly tantalizing.
On we plodded in silence, our thoughts too full for words. Was it not
strange that the mysterious yachtsman should be her lover, and stranger still
that on recognizing me he should have escaped, not only from Scotland, but
away to the Continent?
Was not that, in itself, evidence of guilt and fear?
It was quite dark when I took leave of my bright little companion, who,
tired out and yet uncomplaining, pressed my hand and wished me good
fortune in my investigations.
"I shall await you to-morrow afternoon. Call and tell me everything,
won't you?"
I promised, and then she disappeared into the great stable-yard behind the
castle, while I went on down the dark road and then struck across the open
fields to my uncle's house.
At half-past nine that night I pulled up the dog-cart before the chief
police-station in Dumfries, and alighting at once sought the big fair
Highlander, Mackenzie, with whom I had had the consultation on the
previous day.
When we were seated in his room beneath the hissing gas-jet, I related
my adventure and the result of my investigation.
"What?" he cried, jumping up. "You've unearthed another body—a
woman's?"

"I have. And what is more, I can identify her," I replied. "Her name is
Armida, and she was wife of the murdered man Olinto Santini."
"Then both husband and wife were killed?"
"Without a doubt—a double tragedy."
"But the two men who concealed the body! Will you describe them?"
I did so, and he wrote at my dictation, afterwards remarking—
"We must find them." And calling in one of his sub-inspectors, he gave
him instructions for the immediate circulation of the description to all the
police-stations in the county, saying the two men were wanted on a charge
of willful murder.
When the official had gone out again and we were alone, Mackenzie
turned to me and asked—
"What induced you to search the wood? Why did you suspect a second
crime?"
His question nonplused me for the moment.
"Well, you see, I had identified the young man Olinto, and knowing him
to be married and devoted to his wife, I suspected that she had accompanied
him here. It was entirely a vague surmise. I wondered whether, if the poor
fellow had fallen a victim to his enemies, she had not also been struck
down."
His lips were pressed together in distinct dissatisfaction. I knew my
explanation to be a very lame one, but at all hazards I could not import
Muriel's name into the affair. I had given her my promise, and I intended to
keep it.
"Then the body is still in the glen, where you left it?"
"Yes. If you wish, I will take you to the spot. I can drive you and your
assistant up there."
"Certainly. Let us go," he exclaimed, rising at once and ringing his bell.

"Get three good lanterns and some matches, and put them in this
gentleman's trap outside," he said to the constable who answered his
summons. "And tell Gilbert Campbell that I want him to go with me up to
Rannoch Wood."
"Yes, sir," answered the man; and the door again closed.
"It's a pity—a thousand pities, Mr. Gregg, that you didn't stop those two
men who buried the body."
"They were already across the stream, and disappearing into the thicket
before I mounted the rock," I explained. "Besides, at the moment I had no
suspicion of what they'd been doing. I believed them to be stragglers from a
neighboring shooting-party who had lost their way."
"Ah, most unfortunate!" he said. "I hope they don't escape us. If they're
foreigners, they are not likely to get away. But if they're English or Scots,
then I fear there's but little chance of us coming up with them. Yesterday at
the inquest the identity of the murdered man was strictly preserved, and the
inquiry was adjourned for a fortnight."
"Of course my name was not mentioned?" I said.
"Of course not," was the detective's reply. Then he asked: "When do you
expect to get a telegram from your friend, the Consul at Leghorn? I am
anxious for that, in order that we may commence inquiries in London."
"The day after to-morrow, I hope. He will certainly reply at once,
providing the dead man's father can still be found."
And at that moment a tall, thin man, who proved to be Detective
Campbell, entered, and five minutes later we were all three driving over the
uneven cobbles of Dumfries and out in the darkness towards Rannoch.
It was cloudy and starless, with a chill mist hanging over the valley; but
my uncle's cob was a swift one, and we soon began to ascend the hill up
past the castle, and then, turning to the left, drove along a steep, rough by-
road which led to the south of the wood and out across the moor. When we
reached the latter we all descended, and I led the horse, for owing to the
many treacherous bogs it was unsafe to drive further. So, with Mackenzie

and Campbell carrying lanterns, we walked on carefully, skirting the wood
for nearly a mile until we came to the rough wall over which I had
clambered with Muriel.
I recognized the spot, and having tied up the cob we all three plunged
into the pitch-darkness of the wood, keeping straight on in the direction of
the glen, and halting every now and then to listen for the rippling of the
stream.
At last, after some difficulty, we discovered it, and searching along the
bank with our three powerful lights, I presently detected the huge moss-
grown boulder whereon I had stood when the pair of fugitives had
disappeared.
"Look!" I cried. "There's the spot!" And quickly we clambered down the
steep bank, lowering ourselves by the branches of the trees until we came to
the water into which I waded, being followed closely by my two
companions.
On gaining the opposite side I clambered up to the base of the boulder
and lowered my lantern to reveal to them the gruesome evidence of the
second crime, but the next instant I cried—
"Why! It's gone!"
"Gone!" gasped the two men.
"Yes. It was here. Look! this is the hole where they buried it! But they
evidently returned, and finding it exhumed, they've retaken possession of it
and carried it away!"
The two detectives gazed down to where I indicated, and then looked at
each other without exchanging a word.
As we stood there dumbfounded at the disappearance of the body, the
Highlander's quick glance caught something, and stooping he picked it up
and examined the little object by the aid of his lantern.
Within his palm I saw lying a tiny little gold cross, about an inch long,
enameled in red, while in the center was a circular miniature of a kneeling

saint, an elegant and beautifully executed little trinket which might have
adorned a lady's bracelet.
"This is a pretty little thing!" remarked the detective. "It may possibly
lead us to something. But, Mr. Gregg," he added, turning to me, "are you
quite certain you left the body here?"
"Certain?" I echoed. "Why, look at the hole I made. You don't think I
have any interest in leading you here on a fool's errand, do you?"
"Not at all," he said apologetically. "Only the whole affair seems so very
inconceivable—I mean that the men, having once got rid of the evidence of
their crime, would hardly return to the spot and re-obtain possession of it."
"Unless they watched me exhume it, and feared the consequences if it
fell into your hands," I suggested.
"Of course they might have watched you from behind the trees, and when
you had gone they came and carried it away somewhere else," he remarked
dubiously; "but even if they did, it must be in this wood. They would never
risk carrying a body very far, and here is surely the best place of
concealment in the whole country."
"The only thing remaining is to search the wood at daylight," I suggested.
"If the two men came back here during my absence they may still be on the
watch in the vicinity."
"Most probably they are. We must take every precaution," he said
decisively. And then, with our lanterns lowered, we made an examination of
the vicinity, without, however, discovering anything else to furnish us with
a clew. While I had been absent the body of the unfortunate Armida had
disappeared—a fact which, knowing all that I did, was doubly mysterious.
The pair had, without doubt, watched Muriel and myself, and as soon as
we had gone they had returned and carried off the ghastly remains of the
poor woman who had been so foully done to death.
But who were the men—the fellow with the broad shoulders whom
Muriel recognized, and the slim seafarer in his pilot-coat and peaked cap?
The enigma each hour became more and more inscrutable.

At dawn Mackenzie, with four of his men, made a thorough examination
of the wood, but although they continued until dusk they discovered
nothing, neither was anything heard of the mysterious seafarer and his
companion in brown tweeds.
I called on Muriel as arranged, and explained how the body had so
suddenly disappeared, whereupon she stared at me pale-faced, saying—
"The assassins must have watched us! They are aware, then, that we have
knowledge of their crime?"
"Of course," I said.
"Ah!" she cried hoarsely. "Then we are both in deadly peril—peril of our
own lives! These people will hesitate at nothing. Both you and I are marked
down by them, without a doubt. We must both be wary not to fall into any
trap they may lay for us."
Her very words seemed an admission that she was aware of the identity
of the conspirators, and yet she would give me no clue to them.
We went out and up the drive together to the kennels, where her father, a
tall, imposing figure in his shooting-kit, was giving orders to the keepers.
"Hulloa, Gregg!" he cried merrily, extending his hand. "You'll make one
of a party to Glenlea to-morrow, won't you? Paton and Phillips are coming.
Ten sharp here, and the ladies are coming out to lunch with us."
"Thanks," I said, accepting with pleasure, for by so doing I saw that I
might be afforded an opportunity of being near Muriel. The fact that the
assassins were aware of our knowledge seemed to have caused her the
greatest apprehension lest evil should befall us. Then, as we turned away to
go back to the house, Leithcourt said to me—
"You know all about the discovery up at the wood the other day! Horrible
affair—a young foreigner found murdered."
"Yes. I've heard about it," I responded.
"And the police are worse than useless," he declared with disgust. "They
haven't discovered who the fellow is yet. Why, if it had happened anywhere

else but in Scotland, they'd have arrested the assassin before this."
"He's an entire stranger, I hear," I remarked. And then added: "You often
go up to the wood of an evening after pigeons. It's fortunate you were not
there that evening, eh?"
He glanced at me quickly with his brows slightly contracted, as though
he did not exactly comprehend me. In an instant I saw that my remark had
caused him quick apprehension.
"Yes," he answered with a sickly smile which he intended should convey
to me utter unconcern. "They might have suspected me."
"It certainly is a disagreeable affair to happen on one's property." I said,
still watching him narrowly. And then Muriel at his side managed with her
feminine ingenuity to divert the conversation into a different channel.
Next day I accompanied the party over to Glenlea, about five miles
distant, and at noon at a spot previously arranged, we found the ladies
awaiting us with luncheon spread under the trees. As soon as we
approached Muriel came forward quickly, handing me a telegram, saying
that it had been sent over by one of my uncle's grooms at the moment they
were leaving the castle.
I tore it open eagerly, and read its contents. Then, turning to my
companions, said in as quiet a voice as I could command—
"I must go up to London to-night," whereat the men, one and all,
expressed hope that I should soon return. Leithcourt's party were a friendly
set, and at heart I was sorry to leave Scotland. Yet the telegram made it
imperative, for it was from Frank Hutcheson in Leghorn, and read—
"Made inquiries. Olinto Santini married your servant Armida at Italian
Consulate-General in London about a year ago. They live 64B, Albany
Road, Camberwell: he is employed waiter Ferrari's Restaurant, Westbourne
Grove.—British Consulate, Leghorn"
The lunch was a merry one, as shooting luncheons usually are, and while
we ate the keepers packed our morning bag—a considerable one—into the
Perth-cart in waiting. Then, when we could wander away alone together, I

explained to Muriel that the reason of my sudden journey to London was in
order to continue my investigations regarding the mysterious affair.
This puzzled her, for I had not, of course, revealed to her that I had
identified Olinto. Yet I managed to make such excuses and promises to
return that I think allayed all her suspicions, and that night, after calling
upon the detective Mackenzie, I took the sleeping-car express to Euston.
The restaurant which Hutcheson had indicated was, I found, situated
about half-way up Westbourne Grove, nearly opposite Whiteley's, a small
place where confectionery and sweets were displayed in the window,
together with long-necked flasks of Italian chianti, chump-chops, small
joints and tomatoes. It was soon after nine o'clock when I entered the long
shop with its rows of marble-topped tables and greasy lounges of red plush.
An unhealthy-looking lad was sweeping out the place with wet saw-dust,
and a big, dark-bearded, flabby-faced man in shirt-sleeves stood behind the
small counter polishing some forks.
"I wish to see Signor Ferrari," I said, addressing him.
"There is no Ferrari, he is dead," responded the man in broken English.
"My name is Odinzoff. I bought the place from madame."
"You are Russian, I presume?"
"Polish, m'sieur—from Varsovie."
I had seen from the first moment we had met that he was no Italian. He
was too bulky, and his face too broad and flat.
"I have come to inquire after a waiter you have in your service, an Italian
named Santini. He was my servant for some years, and I naturally take an
interest in him."
"Santini?" he repeated. "Oh I you mean Olinto? He is not here yet. He
comes at ten o'clock."
This reply surprised me. I had expected the restaurant-keeper to express
regret at his disappearance, yet he spoke as though he had been at work as
usual on the previous day.

"May I have a liqueur brandy?" I asked, seeing that I would be compelled
to take something. "Perhaps you will have one with me?"
"Ach no! But a kümmel—yes, I will have a kümmel!" And he filled our
glasses, and tossed off his own at a single gulp, smacking his lips after it,
for the average Russian dearly loves his national decoction of caraway
seeds.
"You find Olinto a good servant, I suppose?" I said, for want of
something else to say.
"Excellent. The Italians are the best waiters in the world. I am Russian,
but dare not employ a Russian waiter. These English would not come to my
shop if I did."
I looked around, and it struck me that the trade of the place mainly
consisted in chops and steaks for chance customers at mid-day, and tea and
cake for those swarms of women who each afternoon buzz around that long
line of windows of the "world's provider." I could see that his was a cheap
trade, as revealed by the printed notice stuck upon one of the long fly-
blown mirrors: "Ices 4d and 6d."
"How long has Olinto been with you?" I inquired.
"About a year—perhaps a little more. I trust him implicitly, and I leave
him in charge when I go away for holidays. He does not get along very well
with the cook—who is Milanese. These Italians from different provinces
always quarrel," he added, laughing. "If you live in Italy you know that, no
doubt."
I laughed in chorus, and then glancing at my watch, said: "I'll wait for
him, if he will be here at ten. I'd much like to see him again."
The Russian was by no means nonplused, but merely remarked—
"He is late sometimes, but not often. He lives on the other side of London
—over at Camberwell." His confidence that the waiter would return struck
me as extremely curious; nevertheless I possessed myself in patience,
strolled up and down the restaurant, and then stood watching the traffic in
the Grove outside.

The man Odinzoff seemed a quick, hard-working fellow with a keen eye
to business, for he fell to polishing the top of the marble tables with a pail
and brush, at the same time directing the work of the pallid-looking youth.
Suddenly a side door opened, and the cook put his head in to speak with his
master in French. He was a typical Italian, about forty, with dark mustaches
turned upwards, and an easy-going, careless manner. Seeing me, however,
and believing me to be a customer, he turned and closed the door quickly. In
that instant I noticed the high broadness of his shoulders, and his back
struck me as strangely similar to that of the man in brown whom we had
seen disappearing in Rannoch Wood.
The suspicion held me breathless.
Was this Russian endeavoring to deceive me when he declared that
Olinto would arrive in a few minutes? It seemed curious, for the man now
dead must, I reflected, have been away at least four days. Surely his
absence from work had caused the proprietor considerable inconvenience?
"That was your cook, wasn't it? The Milanese who is quarrelsome?" I
laughed, when the side door had closed.
"Yes, m'sieur. But Emilio is a very good workman—and very honest,
even though I had constantly to complain that he uses too much oil in his
cooking. These English do not like the oil."
I stood in the doorway again watching the busy throng passing outside
towards Royal Oak. Ten o'clock struck from a neighboring church, and I
still waited, knowing only too well that I waited in vain for a man whose
body had already been committed to the grave outside that far-away old
Scotch town. But I waited in order to ascertain the motive of the bearded
Russian in leading me to believe that the young fellow would really return.
Presently Odinzoff went outside, carrying with him two boards upon
which the menu of the "Eight-penny Luncheon! This Day!" was written in
scrawly characters, and proceeded to affix them to the shop-front.
This was my opportunity, and quick as thought I moved towards where
the unhealthy youth was at work, and whispered:

"I'll give you half-a-sovereign if you'll answer my questions truthfully.
Now, tell me, was the cook, the man I've just seen, here yesterday?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was he here the day before?"
"No, sir. He's been away ill for four days."
"And your master?"
"He's been away too, sir."
I had no time to put any further question, for the Russian re-entered at
that moment, and the youth busied himself rubbing the front of the counter
in pretense that I had not spoken to him. Indeed, I had some difficulty in
slipping the promised coin into his hand at a moment when his master was
not looking.
Then I paced up and down the restaurant, waiting patiently and
wondering whether the absence of Emilio had any connection with the
tragedy up in Rannoch Wood.
While I stood there a rather thin, respectably-dressed man entered, and
seating himself upon one of the plush lounges at the further end, removed
his bowler hat and ordered from the proprietor a chop and a pot of tea.
Then, taking a newspaper from his pocket, he settled himself to read,
apparently oblivious to his surroundings.
And yet as I watched I saw that over the top of his paper he was carefully
taking in the general appearance of the place, and his eyes were keenly
following the Russian's movements. The latter shouted—in French—the
order for the chop through the speaking-tube to the man Emilio, and then
returning to his customer he spread out a napkin and placed a small cruet,
with knife, fork, and bread before him. But the customer seemed immersed
in his paper, and never looked up until after the Russian's back was turned.
Then so deep was his interest in the place, and so keen those dark eyes of
his, that the truth suddenly dawned upon me. Mackenzie had telegraphed to
Scotland Yard, and the customer sitting there was a detective who had come

to investigate. I had advanced to the counter to chat again with the
proprietor, when a quick step behind me caused me to turn.
Before me stood the slim figure of a man in a straw hat and rather seedy
black jacket.
"Dio Signor Padrone!" he cried.
I staggered as though I had received a blow.
Olinto Santini in the flesh, smiling and well, stood there before me!

CHAPTER VIII
LIFE'S COUNTER-CLAIM

No words of mine can express my absolute and abject amazement when I
faced the man, whom I had seen lying cold and dead upon that gray stone
slab in the mortuary at Dumfries.
My eye caught the customer who, on the entry of Olinto, had dropped his
paper and sat staring at him in wonderment. The detective had evidently
been furnished with a photograph of the dead man, and now, like myself,
discovered him alive and living.
"Signor Padrone!" cried the man whose appearance was so absolutely
bewildering. "How did you find me here? I admit that I deceived you when
I told you I worked at the Milano," he went on rapidly in Italian. "But it was
under compulsion—my actions that night were not my own—but those of
others."
"Yes, I understand," I said. "But come out into the street. I don't wish to
speak before these people. Your padrone knows Italian, no doubt."
"Ah! only a very little," he answered, smiling. "Have no fear of him."
"But there is Emilio, the cook?"
"Then you have met him!" he exclaimed quickly, with a strange look of
apprehension. "He is an undesirable person, signore."
"So I gather," I answered. "But I desire to speak to you outside—not
here." And then turning with a smile to the Pole, I apologized for taking
away his servant for a few minutes. "Recollect, I am his old master, I
added."

"Of course, m'sieur," answered the Pole, bowing politely. "Speak with
him where and how long you will. He is entirely at your service."
And when we were outside in Westbourne Grove, Olinto walking by my
side in wonderment, I asked suddenly:
"Tell me. Have you ever been in Scotland—at Dumfries?"
"Never, signore, in my life. Why?"
"Answer me another question," I said quickly. "You married Armida at
the Italian Consulate. Where is she now—where is she this morning?"
He turned pale, and I saw a complete change in his countenance.
"Ah, signore!" he responded, "I only wish I could tell."
"It is untrue that she is an invalid," I went on, "or that you live in
Lambeth. Your address is in Albany Road, Camberwell. You can't deny
these facts."
"I do not deny them, Signor Commendatore. But how did you learn this?"
"The authorities in Italy know everything," I answered. "Like that of all
your countrymen, your record is written down at the Commune."
"It is a clean one, at any rate, signore," he declared with some slight
warmth. "I have a permesso to carry a revolver, which is in itself sufficient
proof that I am a man of spotless character."
"I cast no reflection whatever upon you, Olinto," I answered. "I have
merely inquired after your wife, and you do not give me a direct reply."
We had walked to the Royal Oak, and stood talking on the curb outside.
"I give you no reply, because I can't," he said in Italian. "Armida—my
poor Armida—has left home."
"Why did you tell me such a tale of distress regarding her?"
"As I have already explained, signore, I was not then master of my own
actions. I was ruled by others. But I saved your life at risk of my own. Some

day, when it is safe, I will reveal to you everything."
"Let us allow the past to remain," I said. "Where is your wife now?"
He hesitated a moment, looking straight into my face.
"Well, Signor Commendatore, to tell the truth, she has disappeared."
"Disappeared!" I echoed. "And have you not made any report to the
police?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"For reasons known only to myself I did not wish the police to pry into
my private affairs."
"I know. Because you were once convicted at Lucca of using a knife—
eh? I recollect quite well that affair—a love affair, was it not?"
"Yes, Signor Commendatore. But I was a youth then—a mere boy."
"Then tell me the circumstances In which Armida has disappeared," I
urged, for I saw quite plainly that his sudden meeting with me had upset
him, and that he was trying to hold back from me some story which he was
bursting to tell.
"Well, signore," he said at last in a low tone of confidence, "I don't like to
trouble you with my private affairs after those untruths I told you when we
last met."
"Go on," I said. "Tell me the truth."
After the exciting incidents of our last meeting, I was half inclined to
doubt him.
"The truth is, Signor Commendatore, that my wife has mysteriously
disappeared. Last Saturday, at eleven o'clock, she was talking over the
garden wall with a neighbor and was then dressed to go out. She apparently
went out, but from that moment no one has seen or heard of her."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him the ghastly truth, yet so strange
was the circumstance that his own double, even to the mole upon his face,
should be lying dead and buried in Scotland that I hesitated to relate what I
knew.
"She spoke English, I suppose?"
"She could make herself understood very well," he said with a sigh, and I
saw a heavy, thoughtful look upon his brow. That he was really devoted to
her, I knew. With the Italian of whatever station in life, love is all-
consuming—it is either perfect love or genuine hatred. The Tuscan
character is one of two extremes.
I glanced across the road, and saw that the detective who had ordered his
chop and coffee had stopped to light his pipe and was watching us.
"Have you any idea where your wife is, or what has induced her to go
away from home? Perhaps you had some words!"
"Words, signore!" he echoed. "Why, we were the happiest pair in all
London. No unkind word ever passed between us. There seems absolutely
no reason whatever why she should go away without wishing me a word of
farewell."
"But why haven't you told the police?"
"For reasons that I have already stated. I prefer to make inquiries for
myself."
"And in what have your inquiries resulted?"
"Nothing—absolutely nothing," he said gravely.
"You do not suspect any plot? I recollect that night in Lambeth you told
me that you had enemies?"
"Ah! so I have, signore—and so have you!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Yes,
my poor Armida may have been entrapped by them."
"And if entrapped, what then?"

"Then they would kill her with as little compunction as they would a fly,"
he said. "Ah! you do not know the callousness of those people. I only hope
and pray that she may have escaped and is in hiding somewhere, and will
arrive unexpectedly and give me a startling surprise. She delights in
startling me," he added with a laugh.
Poor fellow, I thought, she would never again be able to startle him. She
had actually fallen a victim just as he dreaded.
"Then you think she must have been called away from home by some
urgent message?" I suggested.
"By the manner in which she left things, it seemed as though she went
away hurriedly. There were five sovereigns in a drawer that we had saved
for the rent, and she took them with her."
I paused again, hesitating whether to tell him the terrible truth. I
recollected that the body had disappeared, therefore what proof had I of my
allegation that she had been murdered?
"Tell me, Olinto," I said as we moved forward again in the direction of
Paddington Station, "have you any knowledge of a man named Leithcourt?"
He started suddenly and looked at me.
"I have heard of him," he answered very lamely.
"And of his daughter—Muriel?"
"And also of her. But I am not acquainted with them—nor, to tell the
truth, do I wish to be."
"Why?"
"Because they are enemies of mine—bitter enemies."
His declaration was strange, for it threw some light upon the tragedy in
Rannoch Wood.
"And of your wife also?"

"I do not know that," he responded. "My enemies are my wife's also, I
suppose."
"You have not told me the secret of that dastardly attempt upon me when
we last met," I said in a low voice. "Why not tell me the truth? I surely
ought to know who my enemies really are, so as to be warned against any
future plot."
"You shall know some day, signore. I dare not tell you now."
"You said that before," I exclaimed with dissatisfaction. "If you are
faithful to me, you ought at least to tell me the reason they wished to kill me
in secret."
"Because they fear you," was his answer.
"Why should they fear me?"
But he shrugged his shoulders, and made a gesture with his hands
indicative of utter ignorance.
"I ask you one question. Answer yes or no. Is the man Leithcourt my
enemy?"
The young Italian paused, and then answered:
"He is not your friend. I am quite well aware of that."
"And his daughter? She is engaged, I hear."
"I think so."
"Where did you first meet Leithcourt?"
"I have known him several years. When we first met he was poor."
"Suddenly became rich—eh?"
"Bought a fine house in the country; lives mostly at the Carlton when he
and his wife and daughter are in London—although I believe they now have
a house somewhere in the West End—and he often makes long cruises on
his steam-yacht."

"And how did he make his money?"
Again Olinto elevated his shoulders, without replying.
If he would only betray to me the reason he had been induced to entice
me to that house, I might then be able to form some conclusion regarding
the tenants of Rannoch and their friends.
Who was the man who, having represented the man now before me, had
been struck dead by an unerring hand? Was it possible that Armida had been
called by telegram to meet her husband, and recognizing the fraud
perpetrated upon her threatened to disclose it and, for that reason, shared
the same fate as the masquerader?
This was the first theory that occurred to me; one which I believed to be
the correct one. The motive was a mystery, yet the facts seemed to me plain
enough.
As the young Italian had refused to give any satisfactory explanation, I
resolved within myself to wait until the unfortunate woman's body was
recovered before revealing to him the ghastly truth. Without doubt he had
some reason in withholding from me the true facts, either because he feared
that I might become unduly alarmed, or else he himself had been deeply
implicated in the plot. Of the two suggestions, I was inclined to believe in
the latter.
He walked with me as far as the end of Bishop's Road, endeavoring with
all the Italian's exquisite diplomacy to obtain from me what I knew
concerning the Leithcourts. But I told him nothing, nor did I reveal that I
had only that morning returned from Scotland. Then at last we parted, and
he retraced his steps to the little restaurant in Westbourne Grove, while I
entered a hansom and drove to the well-known photographer's in New Bond
Street, whose name had been upon the torn photograph of the young girl in
the white piqué blouse and her hair fastened with a bow of black ribbon, the
picture that I had found on board the Lola on that memorable night in the
Mediterranean, and a duplicate of which I had seen in Muriel's cosy little
room up at Rannoch.

I recollected that she had told me the name of the original was Elma
Heath, and that she had been a schoolfellow of hers at Chichester. Therefore
I inquired of the photographer's lady-clerk whether she could supply me
with a print of the negative.
For a considerable time she searched in her books for the name, and at
last discovered it. Then she said:
"I regret, sir, that we can't give you a print, for the customer purchased
the negative at the time."
"Ah, I'm very sorry for that," I said. "To what address did you send it?"
"The customer who ordered it was apparently a foreigner," she said, at
the same time turning round the ledger so that I could read. And I saw that
the entry was: "Heath—Miss Elma—3 dozen cabinets and negative.
Address: Baron Xavier Oberg, Vosnesenski Prospect 48, St. Petersburg,
Russia."
"Did this gentleman come with the young lady when her portrait was
taken?" I inquired.
"I can't tell, sir," she replied. "I've only been here a year, and you see the
date—over two years ago."
"The photographer would know, perhaps?"
"He's a new man, sir. He only came a month ago. In fact, the business
changed hands a year ago, and none of the previous employees have
remained."
"Ah! that's unfortunate," I said, greatly disappointed; and having copied
the address to which the negative and prints had been sent, I thanked her
and left.
Who, I wondered, was this Baron Oberg, and what relation was he to
Elma Heath?
The picture of the girl in the white blouse somehow exercised a strange
attraction for me.

Have you never experienced the fascination of a photograph, inexplicable
and yet forcible—a kind of magnetism from which you cannot release
yourself? Perhaps it was the curious fact that some person had taken it from
its frame on board the Lola and destroyed it that first aroused my interest;
or it might have been the discovery of it in Muriel's room at Rannoch.
Anyhow, it had for me an absorbing interest, for I often wondered whether
the unknown girl who had secretly gone ashore from the yacht when I had
left it was not Elma Heath herself.
Who was this Baron Oberg? The name was German undoubtedly, yet he
lived in the Russian capital. From London to Petersburg is a far cry, yet I
resolved that if it were necessary I would travel there and investigate.
At the German Embassy, in Carlton House Terrace, I found my friend
Captain Nieberding, the second secretary, of whom I inquired whether the
name of Baron Oberg was known, but having referred to a number of
German books in his Excellency's library, he returned and told me that the
name did not appear in the lists of the German nobility.
"He may be Russian—Polish most probably," added the captain, a tall,
fair fellow in gold spectacles, whom I had known when he was third
secretary of Embassy at Rome. His opinion was that it was not a German
name, for there was a little place called Oberg, he said, on the railway
between Lodz and Lowicz.
Then, after luncheon, I went to Albany Road, one of those dreary, old-
fashioned streets that were pleasant back in the early Victorian days when
Camberwell was a suburb and Walworth Common was still an open waste. I
found the house where Olinto lived—a small, smoke-blackened, semi-
detached place standing back in a tiny strip of weedy garden, with a
wooden veranda before the first floor windows. The house, according to the
woman who kept a general shop at the corner, was occupied by two
families. The "Eye-talians," as she termed them, lived above, while the
Gibbonses rented the ground floor.
"Oh, yes, sir. The foreigners are respectable enough. Always pays me
ready money for everythink, except the milk. That they pays for weekly."

"I understand that the wife has disappeared. What have you heard about
that?"
"They do say, sir, that they 'ad some words together the other day, and
that the woman's took herself off in a tantrum. Only you can't believe all
you 'ear, you know."
"Did they often quarrel?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir. They were really very quiet, respectable
persons for foreigners."
I repassed the house of the dead woman, and then regaining the busy
Camberwell Road I took an omnibus back to the Hotel Cecil in the Strand
where I had put up, tired and disappointed.
Next day I ran down to Chichester, and after some difficulty found the
Cheverton College for Ladies, a big old-fashioned house about half-a-mile
out of the town on the Drayton Road. The seminary was evidently a first-
class one, for when I entered I noticed how well everything was kept.
To the principal, an elderly lady of a somewhat severe aspect, I said:
"I regret, madam, to trouble you, but I am in search of information you
can supply. It is with regard to a certain Elma Heath whom you had as pupil
here, and who left, I believe, about two years ago. Her parents lived in
Durham."
"I remember her perfectly," was the woman's response as she sat behind
the big desk, having apparently at first expected that I had a daughter to put
to school.
"Well," I said, "there has been some little friction in the family, and I am
making inquiries on behalf of another branch of it—an aunt who desires to
ascertain the girl's whereabouts."
"Ah, I regret, sir, that I cannot tell you that. The Baron, her uncle, came
here one day and took her away suddenly—abroad, I think."
"Had she no school-friend to whom she would probably write?"

"There was a girl named Leithcourt—Muriel Leithcourt—who was her
friend, but who has also left."
"And no one else?" I asked. "Girls often write to each other after leaving
school, until they get married, and then the correspondence usually ceases."
The principal was silent and reflective.
"Well," she said at last, "there was another pupil who was also on
friendly terms with Elma—a girl named Lydia Moreton. She may have
written to her. If you really desire to know, sir, I dare say I could find her
address. She left us about nine months after Elma."
"I should esteem it a great favor if you would give me that young lady's
address," I said, whereupon she unlocked a drawer in her writing-table and
took therefrom a thick, leather-bound book which she consulted for a few
minutes, at last exclaiming:
"Yes, here it is—'Lydia Moreton, daughter of Sir Hamilton Moreton,
K.C.M.G., Whiston Grange, Doncaster.'" And she scribbled it in pencil
upon an envelope, and handing it to me, said:
"Elma Heath was, I fear, somewhat neglected by her parents. She
remained here for five years, and had no holidays like the other girls. Her
uncle, the Baron, came to see her several times, but on each occasion after
he had left I found her crying in secret. He was mean and unkind to her.
Now that I recollect, I remember that Lydia had said she had received a
letter from her, therefore she might be able to give you some information."
And with that I took my leave, thanking her, and returned to London.
Could Lydia Moreton furnish any information? If so, I might find this girl
whose photograph had aroused the irate jealousy of the mysterious
unknown.
The ten o'clock Edinburgh express from King's Cross next morning took
me up to Doncaster, and hiring a musty old fly at the station, I drove three
miles out of the town on the Rotherham Road, finding Whiston Grange to
be a fine old Elizabethan mansion in the center of a great park, with tall old
twisted chimneys, and beautifully-kept gardens.

When I descended at the door and rang, the footman was not aware
whether Miss Lydia was in. He looked at me somewhat suspiciously, I
thought, until I gave my card and impressed upon him meaningly that I had
come from London purposely to see his young mistress upon a very
important matter.
"Tell her," I said, "that I wish to see her regarding her friend, Miss Elma
Heath."
"Miss Elma 'Eath," repeated the man. "Very well, sir. Will you walk this
way?"
And then I followed him across the big old oak-paneled hall, filled with
trophies of the chase and arms of the civil wars, into a small paneled room
on the left, the deep-set window with its diamond panes giving out upon the
old bowling-green and the flower-garden beyond.
Presently the door opened, and a tall dark-haired girl in white entered
with an enquiring expression upon her face as she halted and bowed to me.
"Miss Lydia Moreton, I believe?" I commenced, and as she replied in the
affirmative I went on: "I have first to apologize for coming to you, but Miss
Sotheby, the principal of the school at Chichester, referred me to you for
information as to the present whereabouts of Miss Elma Heath, who, I
believe, was one of your most intimate friends at school." And I added a lie,
saying: "I am trying, on behalf of an aunt of hers, to discover her."
"Well," responded the girl, "I have had only one or two letters. She's in
her uncle's hands, I believe, and he won't let her write, poor girl. She
dreaded leaving us."
"Why?"
"Ah! she would never say. She had some deep-rooted terror of her uncle,
Baron Oberg, who lived in St. Petersburg, and who came over at long
intervals to see her. But possibly you know the whole story?"
"I know nothing," I cried eagerly. "You will be furthering her interests, as
well as doing me a great personal favor, if you will tell me what you know."

"It is very little," she answered, leaning back against the edge of the table
and regarding me seriously. "Poor Elma! Her people treated her very badly
indeed. They sent her no money, and allowed her no holidays, and yet she
was the sweetest-tempered and most patient girl in the whole school."
"Well—and the story regarding her?"
"It was supposed that her people at Durham did not exist," she explained.
"Elma had evidently lived a greater part of her life abroad, for she could
speak French and Italian better than the professor himself, and therefore
always won the prizes. The class revolted, and then she did not compete any
more. Yet she never told us of where she had lived when a child. She came
from Durham, she said—that was all."
"You had a letter from her after the Baron came and took her away?"
"Yes, from London. She said that she had been to several plays and
concerts, but did not care for life in town. There was too much bustle and
noise and study of clothes."
"And what other letters did you receive from her?"
"Three or four, I think. They were all from places abroad. One was from
Vienna, one was from Milan, and one from some place with an
unpronounceable name in Hungary. The last----"
"Yes, the last?" I gasped eagerly, interrupting her.
"Well, the last I received only a fortnight ago. If you will wait a moment I
will go and get it. It was so strange that I haven't destroyed it." And she
went out, and I heard by the frou-frou of her skirts that she was ascending
the stairs.
After five minutes of breathless anxiety she rejoined me, and handing me
the letter to read, said:
"It is not in her handwriting—I wonder why?"
The paper was of foreign make, with blue lines ruled in squares. Written
in a hand that was evidently foreign, for the mistakes in the orthography
were many, was the following curious communication:

"My Dear Lydia:
"Perhaps you may never get this letter—the last I shall ever be able to
send you. Indeed, I run great risks in sending it. Ah! you do not know the
awful disaster that has happened to me, all the terrors and the tortures I
endure. But no one can assist me, and I am now looking forward to the time
when it will all be over. Do you recollect our old peaceful days in the
garden at Chichester? I think of them always, always, and compare that
sweet peace of the past with my own terrible sufferings of to-day. Ah, how I
wish I might see you once again; how that I might feel your hand upon my
brow, and hear your words of hope and encouragement! But happiness is
now debarred from me, and I am only sinking to the grave under this slow
torture of body and of soul.
"This will pass through many hands before it reaches the post. If,
however, it ever does get despatched and you receive it, will you do me one
last favor—a favor to an unfortunate girl who is friendless and helpless, and
who will no longer trouble the world? It is this: Take this letter to London,
and call upon Mr. Martin Woodroffe at 98 Cork Street, Piccadilly. Show
him my letter, and tell him from me that through it all I have kept my
promise, and that the secret is still safe. He will understand—and also know
why I cannot write this with my own hand. If he is abroad, keep it until he
returns.
"It is all I ask of you, Lydia, and I know that if this reaches you, you will
not refuse me. You have been my only friend and confidante, but I now bid
you farewell, for the unknown beckons me, and from the grave I cannot
write. Again farewell, and for ever.
"Your loving and affectionate friend,
"Elma."
"A very strange letter, is it not?" remarked the girl at my side. "I can't
make it out. You see there is no address, but the postmark is Russian. She is
evidently in Russia."
"In Finland," I said, examining the stamp and making out the post town
to be Abo. "But have you been to London and executed this strange
commission?"

"No. We are going up next week. I intend to call upon this person named
Woodroffe."
I made no remark. He was, I knew, abroad, but I was glad at having
obtained two very important clues: first, the address of the mysterious
yachtsman, Woodroffe, alias Hornby, and, secondly, ascertaining that the
young girl I sought was somewhere in the vicinity of the town of Abo, the
Finnish port on the Baltic.
"Poor Elma, you see, speaks in her letter of some secret, Mr. Gregg," my
companion said. "She says she wishes this Mr. Woodroffe, whoever he is, to
know that she has kept her promise and has not divulged it. This only bears
out what I have all along suspected."
"What are your suspicions?"
"Well, from her deep, thoughtful manner, and from certain remarks she at
times made to me, I believe that Elma is in possession of some great and
terrible secret—a secret which her uncle, Baron Oberg, is desirous of
learning. I know she holds him in deadly fear—she is in terror that she may
inadvertently betray to him the truth!"

CHAPTER IX
STRANGE DISCLOSURES ARE MADE

The strange letter of Elma Heath, combined with what Lydia Moreton
had told me, aroused within me a determination to investigate the mystery.
From the moment I had landed from the Lola on that hot, breathless night at
Leghorn, mystery had crowded upon mystery until it was all bewildering.
It was now proved that the sweet-faced girl, the original of the torn
photograph, held a secret, and that, by her own words, she knew that death
was approaching. The incomprehensible attempt upon my life, the strange
actions of Hornby and Chater—who, by the way, seemed to have entirely
disappeared—the assassination of the man who by masquerading as the
Italian waiter had met his death, and the murder of Olinto's wife were all
problems which required solution.
Had it not been for the mystery of it all—and mystery ever arouses the
human curiosity—I should have given up trying to get at the truth. Yet as a
man with some leisure, and knowing by that letter of Elma Heath's that she
was in sore distress, I redoubled my efforts to ascertain the reason of it all.
The mystery of the Lola was still a mystery along the Mediterranean. At
every French and Italian port the yacht's false name and general build was
written in the police-books, while at Lloyd's the name Lola was marked
down as among the mysterious craft at sea.
Chater was missing, while Hornby was abroad. Perhaps they were both
cruising again, with their yacht repainted and bearing a fresh name. But
why? What had been their motive?
Stirred by the complete mystery which now seemed to enshroud the
unfortunate girl, I set before myself the task of elucidating it. Hitherto I had

remained passive rather than active, but I now realized by that curious letter
that at least one woman's life was at stake—that Elma Heath was in
possession of some secret.
On leaving Leghorn I had given up all hope of tracing the mysterious
yachtsman, and had left the matter in the hands of the Italian police. But,
without any effort on my own part, I seemed to have been drawn into a
veritable network of strange incidents, all of which combined to form the
most complete and remarkable enigma ever presented in life. Surely no man
was ever confronted by so many mysteries at one time as I was at this
moment.
Fortunately I had been careful not to show my hand to anyone, and this
perhaps gave me a distinct advantage. On my journey back to London, as
the train swung through Peterborough and out across the rich level lands
towards Hitchin, I recollected Jack Durnford's words when I had mentioned
the Lola. What, I wondered, did he know?
Next month, in November, he was due back in London after his three
years' service on the Mediterranean station. Then we should meet in a few
weeks I hoped. Would he tell me anything when he became aware of all I
knew? He held some secret knowledge. Was it possible that his secret was
the same as that held by the unfortunate girl in far-off, dreary Finland?
I called at the house in Cork Street indicated by Elma, and learned from
the old commissionaire who acted as lift-man and porter, that Mr.
Woodroffe's chambers were closed.
"'E's nearly always away, sir—abroad, I think," was all I could get out of
the old soldier, who, like his class, was no doubt well paid to keep his
mouth closed.
For two days I lounged about Westbourne Grove watching Ferrari's
restaurant. In such a busy, bustling thoroughfare, with so many shop
windows as excuses for loitering, the task was easy. I saw that Olinto came
regularly at ten o'clock in the morning, worked hard all day, and left at nine
o'clock at night, taking an omnibus home from Royal Oak. His exterior was
calm and unconcerned, unlike that of a man whose devoted wife had
disappeared.

I would have approached him and explained the ghastly truth, had it not
been for the fact that the poor woman's body was missing.
Those September days were full of anxiety for me. Alone and unaided I
was trying to solve one of the greatest of problems, plunged as I was in a
veritable sea of mystery. I wanted to see Muriel Leithcourt, and to question
her further regarding Elma Heath. Therefore again I left Euston, and,
traveling through the night, took my seat at the breakfast-table at Greenlaw
next morning.
Sir George, who was sitting alone—it not being my aunt's habit to appear
early—welcomed me, and then in his bluff manner sniffed and exclaimed:
"Nice goings on up at Rannoch! Have you heard of them?"
"No. What?" I cried breathlessly, staring at him.
"Well, my suspicions that those Leithcourts were utter outsiders turns out
to be about correct."
"Why?"
"Well, it's a very funny story, and there are a dozen different distorted
versions of it," he said. "But from what I can gather the true facts are these:
About seven o'clock the night before last, as Leithcourt and his house-party
were dressing for dinner, a telegram arrived. Mrs. Leithcourt opened it, and
at once went off into hysterics, while her husband, in a breathless hurry,
slipped off his evening clothes again and got into an old blue serge suit,
tossed a few things into a bag, and then went along to Muriel's room to urge
her to prepare for secret flight."
"Flight!" I gasped. "What, have they gone?"
"Listen, and I'll tell you. The servants have described the whole affair
down in the village, so there's no doubt about it. Leithcourt showed Muriel
the telegram and urged her to fly. At first she refused, but for her father's
sake was induced to prepare to accompany him. Of course, the guests were
in ignorance of all this. The brougham was ordered to be ready in the
stable-yard and not to go round, while Mrs. Leithcourt's maid tried to bring
the lady back to her senses. Leithcourt himself, it seemed, rushed hither and

thither, seizing the jewel-cases of his wife and daughter and whatever
valuables he could place his hand upon, while the mother and daughter
were putting on their things. As he rushed down the main staircase to the
library, where his check-book and some ready cash were locked in the safe,
he met a stranger who had just been admitted and shown into the room.
Leithcourt closed the door and faced him. What afterwards transpired,
however, is a mystery, for two hours later, after he and the two women had
escaped, leaving the house-party to their own diversions, the stranger was
found locked in a large cupboard and insensible. The sensation was a
tremendous one. Cowan, the doctor, was called, and declared that the
stranger had been drugged and was suffering from some narcotic. The
servant who admitted him declared that the man had said he had an
appointment with his master, and that no card was necessary. He, however,
gave the name of Chater."
"Chater!" I cried, starting up. "Are you certain of that name?"
"I only know what Cowan told me," was my uncle's reply. "But do you
know him?"
"Not at all. Only I've heard that name before," I said. "I knew a man out
in Italy of the same name. But where is the visitor now?"
"In the hospital at Dumfries. They took him there in preference to leaving
him alone at Rannoch."
"Alone?"
"Of course. Everyone has left, now the host and hostess have slipped off
without saying good-bye. Scandalous affair, isn't it? But, my boy, you'll
remember that I always said I didn't like those people. There's something
mysterious about them, I feel certain. That telegram gave them warning of
the visit of the man Chater, depend upon it, and for some reason they're
afraid of him. It would be interesting to know what transpired between the
two men in the library. And these are people who've been taken up by
everybody—mere adventurers, I should call them!" And old Sir George
sniffed again at thought of such scandal happening in the neighborhood. "If
Gilrae must let Rannoch, then why in the name of Fortune doesn't he let it

to respectable folk and not to the first fellow who answers his advertisement
in The Field? It's simply disgraceful!"
"Certainly, it is a most extraordinary story," I declared. "Leithcourt
evidently wished to escape from his visitor, and that's why he drugged
him."
"Why he poisoned him, you mean. Cowan says the fellow is poisoned,
but that he'll probably recover. He is already conscious, I hear."
I resolved to call on the doctor, who happened to be well known to me,
and obtain further particulars. Therefore at eleven o'clock I drove into
Dumfries and entered his consulting-room.
He was a spare, short, fair man, a trifle bald, and when I was shown in he
welcomed me warmly, speaking with his pronounced Galloway accent.
"Well, it is a very mysterious case, Mr. Gregg," he said, after I had told
him the object of my visit. "The gentleman is still in the hospital, and I have
to keep him very quiet. He was poisoned without a doubt, and has had a
very narrow escape of his life. The police got wind of the affair, and
Mackenzie called to question him. But he refused to make any statement
whatever, apparently treating the affair very lightly. The police, however,
are mystified as to the reason of Mr. Leithcourt's sudden flight, and are
anxious to get at the bottom of the curious affair."
"Naturally. And more especially after the tragedy up in Rannoch Wood a
short time ago," I said.
"That's just it," said the doctor, removing his pince-nez and rubbing them.
"Mackenzie seems to suspect some connection between Leithcourt's sudden
disappearance and that mysterious affair. It seems very evident that the
telegram was a warning to Leithcourt of the man Chater's intention of
calling, and that the last-named was shown in just at the moment when the
fugitive was on the point of leaving."
"Chater." I echoed. "Do you know his Christian name?"
"Hylton Chater. He is apparently a gentleman. Curious that he will tell us
nothing of the reason he called, and of the scene that occurred between

them."
Knowing all that I did, I was not surprised. Leithcourt had undoubtedly
taken him unawares, but knights of industry never betray each other.
My next visit was to Mackenzie, for whom I had to wait nearly an hour,
as he was absent in another quarter of the town.
"Ah, Mr. Gregg!" he cried gladly, as he came in to find me seated in a
chair patiently reading the newspaper. "You are the very person I wish to
see. Have you heard of this strange affair at Rannoch?"
"I have," was my answer. "Has the man in the hospital made any
statement yet?"
"None. He refuses point-blank," answered the detective. "But my own
idea is that the affair has a very close connection with the two mysteries of
the wood."
"The first mystery—that of the man—proves to be a double mystery," I
said.
"How? Explain it."
"Well, the waiter Olinto Santini is alive and well in London."
"What!" he gasped, starting up. "Then he is not the person you identified
him to be?"
"No. But he was masquerading as Santini—made up to resemble him, I
mean, even to the mole upon his face."
"But you identified him positively?"
"When a person is dead it is very easy to mistake countenances. Death
alters the countenance so very much."
"That's true," he said reflectively. "But if the man we've buried is not the
Italian, then the mystery is considerably increased. Why was the real man's
wife here?"
"And where has her body been concealed? That's the question."

"Again a mystery. We have made a thorough search for four days,
without discovering any trace of it. Quite confidentially, I'm wondering if
this man Chater knows anything. It is curious, to say the least, that the
Leithcourts should have fled so hurriedly on this man's appearance. But
have you actually seen Olinto Santini?"
"Yes, and have spoken with him."
"I sent up to London asking that inquiries should be made at the
restaurant in Bayswater, but up to the present I have received no report."
"I have chatted with Olinto. His wife has mysteriously disappeared, but
he is in ignorance that she is dead."
"You did not tell him anything?"
"Nothing."
"Ah, you did well. There is widespread conspiracy here, depend upon it,
Mr. Gregg. It will be an interesting case when we get to the bottom of it all.
I only wish this fellow Chater would tell us the reason he called upon
Leithcourt."
"What does he say?"
"Merely that he has no wish to prosecute, and that he has no statement to
make."
"Can't you compel him to say something?" I asked.
"No, I can't. That's the infernal difficulty of it. If he don't choose to speak,
then we must still remain in ignorance, although I feel confident that he
knows something of the strange affair up in the wood."
And although I was silent, I shared the Scotch detective's belief.
The afternoon was chill and wet as I climbed the hill to Greenlaw.
The sudden disappearance of the tenants of Rannoch was, I found, on
everyone's tongue in Dumfries. In the smoke-room of the railway hotel
three men were discussing it with many grimaces and sinister hints, and the

talkative young woman behind the bar asked me my opinion of the strange
goings-on up at the Castle.
As I walked on alone, with the dark line of woods crowning the hill-top
before me, the scene of that double tragedy, I again calmly reviewed the
situation. I longed to go to the hospital and see Hylton Chater, yet when I
recollected the part he had played with Hornby on board the Lola, I
naturally hesitated. He was allied with Hornby, apparently against
Leithcourt, although the latter was Hornby's friend.
What, I wondered, had transpired in the library of that gray old castle
which stood out boldly before me, dark and grim, as I plodded on through
the rain? How had Leithcourt succeeded in rendering his enemy insensible
and hiding him in that cupboard? Did he believe that he had killed him?
If I went boldly to Chater, then it would only be the betrayal of myself.
No. I decided that the man who had smoked and chatted with me so affably
on that hot, breathless night in the Mediterranean must remain in ignorance
of my presence, or of my knowledge. Therefore I stayed for a week at
Greenlaw with eyes and ears ever open, yet exercising care that the patient
in the hospital should be unaware of my presence.
Mackenzie saw him on several occasions, but he still persisted in that
tantalizing silence. The inquiry into the death of the unidentified man in
Rannoch Wood had been resumed, and a verdict returned of willful murder
against some person unknown, while of the second crime the public had no
knowledge, for the body was not discovered.
Time after time I searched the wood alone, on the pretense of shooting
pigeon, but discovered nothing. When not having sport on my uncle's
property, I joined various parties in the neighborhood, not because Scotland
at that time attracted me, but because I desired to watch events.
Chater, as soon as he recovered, left the hospital and went south—to
London, I ascertained—leaving the police utterly in the dark and filled with
suspicion of the fugitives from Rannoch.
I longed to know the whereabouts of Muriel, hoping to gain from her
some information regarding their visitor who had so nearly escaped with his

life. That she was aware of the object of his visit was plain from the
statements of the servants, all of whom had been left without either money
or orders.
One day I called at the castle, the front entrance of which I found closed.
Gilrae, the owner, had come up from London, met his factor there, and
discharged all the late tenant's servants, keeping on only three of his own
who had been in service there for a number of years. Ann Cameron, a
housemaid, was one of these, and it was she whom I met when entering by
the servants' hall.
On questioning her, I found her most willing to describe how she was in
the corridor outside the young mistress's room when Mr. Leithcourt dashed
along in breathless haste with the telegram in his hand. She heard him cry:
"Look at this! Read it, Muriel. We must go. Put on your things at once, my
dear. Never mind about luggage. Every minute lost is of consequence.
What!" he cried a moment later. "You won't go? You'll stay here—stay here
and face them? Good Heavens! girl, are you mad? Don't you know what
this means? It means that the secret is out—the secret is out, you hear! We
must fly!"
The woman told me that she distinctly heard Miss Muriel sobbing, while
her father walked up and down the room speaking rapidly in a low tone.
Then he came out again and returned to his dressing-room, while Miss
Muriel presumably changed from her evening-gown into a dark traveling-
dress.
"Did she say anything to you?" I inquired.
"Only that they were called away suddenly, sir. But," the domestic added,
"the young lady was very pale and agitated, and we all knew that something
terrible had happened. Mrs. Leithcourt gave orders that nothing was to be
told to the guests, who dined alone, believing that their host and hostess had
gone down to the village to see an old man who was dying. That was the
story we told them, sir."
"And in the meantime the Leithcourts were in the express going to
Carlisle?"

"Yes, sir. They say in Dumfries that the police telegraphed after them, but
they had reached Carlisle and evidently changed there, and so got away."
By the administration of a judicious tip I was allowed to go up to Miss
Muriel's room, an elegantly furnished little chamber in the front of the fine
old place, with a deep old-fashioned window commanding a magnificent
view across the broad Nithsdale.
The room had been tidied by the maids, but allowed to remain just as she
had left it. I advanced to the window, in which was set the large dressing-
table with its big swing-mirror and silver-topped bottles, and on gazing out
saw, to my surprise, it was the only window which gave a view of that
corner of Rannoch Wood where the double tragedy had taken place. Indeed,
any person standing at the spot would have a clear view of that one distant
window while out of sight of all the rest. A light might be placed there at
night as signal, for instance; or by day a towel might be hung from the
window as though to dry and yet could be plainly seen at that distance.
Another object in the room also attracted my attention—a pair of long
field-glasses. Had she used these to keep watch upon that spot?
I took them up and focused them upon the boundary of the wood, finding
that I could distinguish everything quite plainly.
"That's where they found the man who was murdered," explained the
servant, who still stood in the doorway.
"I know," I replied. "I was just trying the glasses." Then I put them down,
and on turning saw upon the mantelshelf a small, bright-red candleshade,
which I took in my hand. It was made, I found, to fit upon the electric table-
lamp.
"Miss Muriel was very fond of a red light," explained the young woman;
and as I held it I wondered if that light had ever been placed upon the toilet-
table and the blind drawn up—whether it had ever been used as a warning
of danger?
As I expressed a desire to see the young lady's boudoir, the maid
Cameron took me down to the luxurious little room where, the first moment
I entered, one fact struck me as peculiar. The picture of Elma Heath was no

longer there. The photograph had been taken from its frame, and in its place
was the portrait of a broad-browed, full-bearded man in a foreign military
uniform—a picture that, being soiled and faded, had evidently been placed
there to fill the empty frame.
Whose hand had secured that portrait before the Leithcourt's flight? Why,
indeed, should I, for the second time, discover the unhappy girl's picture
missing?
"Has the gentleman who called on the evening of Mr. Leithcourt's
disappearance been back here again since he left the hospital?" I inquired as
a sudden idea occurred to me.
"Yes, sir. He called here in a fly on the day he came out, and at his
request I took him over the castle. He went into the library, and spent half-
an-hour in pacing across it, taking measurements, and examining the big
cupboard in which he was found insensible. It was a strange affair, sir,"
added the young woman, "wasn't it?"
"Very," I replied.
"The gentleman might have been in there now had I not gone into the
library and found a lot of illustrated papers, which I always put in the
cupboard to keep the place tidy, thrown out on to the floor. I went to put
them back but discovered the door locked. The key I afterwards found in
the grate, where Mr. Leithcourt had evidently thrown it, and on opening the
door imagine the shock I had when I found the visitor lying doubled up. I,
of course, thought he was dead."
"And when he returned here on his recovery, did he question you?"
"Oh, yes. He asked about the Leithcourts, and especially about Miss
Muriel. I believe he's rather sweet on her, by the way he spoke. And really
no better or kinder lady never breathed, I'm sure. We're all very sorry indeed
for her."
"But she had nothing to do with the affair."
"Of course not. But she shares in the scandal and disgrace. You should
have seen the effect of the news upon the guests when they knew that the

Leithcourts had gone. It was a regular pandemonium. They ordered the best
champagne out of the cellars and drank it, the men cleared all the cigar-
boxes, and the women rummaged in the wardrobes until they seemed like a
pack of hungry wolves. Everybody went away with their trunks full of the
Leithcourt's things. They took whatever they could lay their hands on, and
we, the servants, couldn't stop them. I did remonstrate with one lady who
was cramming into her trunk two of Miss Muriel's best evening dresses, but
she told me to mind my own business and leave the room. One man I saw
go away with four of Mr. Leithcourt's guns, and there was a regular
squabble in the billiard-room over a set of pearl and emerald dress-studs
that somebody found in his dressing-room. Crane, the valet, says they
tossed for them."
"Disgraceful!" I ejaculated. "Then as soon as the host and hostess had
gone, they simply swept through the rooms and cleared them?"
"Yes, sir. They took away all that was most valuable. They'd have had the
silver, only Mason had thrown it into the plate-chest, all dirty as it was,
locked it up and hid the key. The plate was Mr. Gilrae's, you know, sir, and
Mason was responsible."
"He acted wisely," I said, surprised at the domestic's story. "Why, the
guests acted like a gang of thieves."
"They were, sir. They rushed all over the house like demons let loose,
and they even stole some of our things. I lost a silver chain."
"And what did the stranger say when you told him of this?"
"He smiled. It did not seem to surprise him in the least, for after all his
visit was the cause of the sudden breaking up of the party, wasn't it?"
"And did you show him over the whole house?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir," responded the servant. "Curiously enough he had with him
what seemed to be a large plan of the castle, and as we went from room to
room he compared it with his plan. He was here for hours, and told me he
wanted to make a thorough examination of the place and didn't want to be
disturbed. He also said that he might probably take the place for next
season, if he liked it. I think, however, he only told me this because he

thought I would be more patient while he took his measurements and made
his investigations. He was here from twelve till nearly six o'clock, and went
through every room, even up to the turrets."
"He came into this room, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir," she responded, with just a slight hesitation, I thought. "This
was the room where he stayed the longest. There was a photograph in that
frame over there," she added, indicating the frame that had held the picture
of Elma Heath, "a portrait of a young lady, which he begged me to give
him."
"And you gave it to him?" I cried quickly.
"Well—yes, sir. He begged so hard for it, saying that it was the portrait of
a friend of his."
"And he gave you something handsome for it—eh?"
The young woman, whom I knew could not refuse half-a-sovereign,
colored slightly and smiled.
"And who put that picture in its place?" I asked.
"I did, sir. I found it upstairs."
"He didn't tell you who the young lady was, I suppose?"
"No, sir. He only said that that was the only photograph that existed, and
that she was dead."
"Dead!" I gasped, staring at her.
"Yes, sir. That was why he was so anxious for the picture."
Elma Heath dead! Could it be true? That sweet-pictured face haunted me
as no other face had ever impressed itself upon my memory. It somehow
seemed to impel me to endeavor to penetrate the mystery, and yet Hylton
Chater had declared that she was dead! I recollected the remarkable letter
from Abo, and her own declaration that her end was near. That letter was,
she said, the last she should write to her friend. Did Hylton Chater actually
possess knowledge of the girl's death? Had he all along been acquainted

with her whereabouts? What the young woman told me upset all my plans.
If Elma Heath were really dead, then she was beyond discovery, and the
truth would be hidden forever.
"After he had put the photograph in his pocket, the gentleman made a
most minute search in this room," the domestic went on. "He consulted his
plan, took several measurements, and then tapped on the paneling all along
this wall, as though he were searching for some hidden cupboard or hiding
place. I looked at the plan, and saw a mark in red ink upon it. He was trying
to discover that spot, and was greatly disappointed at not being able to do
so. He was in here over an hour, and made a most careful search all
around."
"And what explanation did he give?"
"He only said, 'If I find what I want, Ann, I shall make you a present of a
ten-pound note.' That naturally made me anxious."
"He made no other remark about the young lady's death?" I inquired
anxiously.
"No. Only he sighed, and looked steadily for a long time at the
photograph. I saw his lips moving, but his words were inaudible."
"You haven't any idea of the reason why he called upon Mr. Leithcourt, I
suppose?"
"From what he said, I've formed my own conclusions," was her answer.
"And what is your opinion?"
"Well, I feel certain that there is, or was, something concealed in this
house that he's very anxious to obtain. He came to demand it of Mr.
Leithcourt, but what happened in the library we don't know. He, however,
believes that Mr. Leithcourt has not taken it away, and that, whatever it may
be, it is still hidden here."

CHAPTER X
I SHOW MY HAND

On my return to London next day I made inquiry at the Admiralty and
learned that the battleship Bulwark was lying at Palermo, therefore I
telegraphed to Jack Durnford, and late the same afternoon his reply came at
the Cecil:—
"Due in London twentieth. Dine with me at club that evening—Jack."
The twentieth! That meant nearly a month of inactivity. In that time I
could cross to Abo, make inquiries there, and ascertain, perhaps, if Elma
Heath were actually dead as Chater had declared.
Two facts struck me as remarkable: Baron Oberg was said to be Polish,
while the dark-bearded proprietor of the restaurant in Westbourne Grove
was also of the same nationality. Then I recollected that pretty little
enameled cross that Mackenzie had found in Rannoch Wood, and it
suddenly occurred to me that it might possibly be the miniature of one of
the European orders of chivalry. In the club library at midnight I found a
copy of Cappelletti's Storia degli Ordini Cavallereschi, the standard work
on the subject, and on searching the illustrations I at length discovered a
picture of it. It was a Russian order—the coveted Order of Saint Anne,
bestowed by the Czar only upon persons who have rendered eminent
services to the State and to the sovereign. One fact was now certain,
namely, that the owner of that tiny cross, the small replica of the fine
decoration, must be a person of high official standing.
Next day I spent in making inquiries with a view to discovering the house
said to be occupied by Leithcourt. As it was not either in the Directory or
the Blue Book, I concluded that he had perhaps rented it furnished, and
after many inquiries and considerable difficulties I found that such was the

fact. He had occupied the house of Lady Heathcote, a few doors from
Grosvenor Square, for the previous season, although he had lived there but
very little.
Where the fugitives were in hiding I had no idea. I longed to meet Muriel
again and tell her what I had discovered, yet it was plain that the trio were
concealing themselves from Hylton Chater, whom I supposed to be now
back in London.
The autumn days were dull and rainy, and the streets were muddy and
unpleasant, as they always are at the fall of the year. Compelled to remain
inactive, I idled in the club with the recollection of that pictured face ever
before me—the face of the unfortunate girl who wished her last message to
be conveyed to Philip Hornby. What, I wondered, was her secret? What was
really her fate?
This latter question troubled me until I could bear it no longer. I felt that
it was my duty to go to Finland and endeavor to learn something regarding
this Baron Oberg and his niece. Frank Hutcheson had written me declaring
that the weather in Leghorn was now perfect, and expressing wonder that I
did not return. I was his only English friend, and I knew how dull he was
when alone. Even his Majesty's Consuls sometimes suffer from
homesickness, and long for the smell of the London gutters and a glass of
homely bitter ale.
But you, my reader, who have lived in a foreign land for any length of
time, know well how wearisome becomes the life, however brilliant, and
how sweet are the recollections of our dear gray old England with her green
fields, her muddy lanes, and the bustling streets of her gray, grimy cities.
You have but one "home," and England Is still your home, even though you
may become the most bigoted of cosmopolitans and may have no
opportunity of speaking your native tongue the whole year through.
Duty—the duty of a man who had learned strange facts and knew that a
defenseless woman was a victim—called me to Finland. Therefore, with my
passport properly viséd and my papers all in order, I one night left Hull for
Stockholm by the weekly Wilson service. Four days of rough weather in the
North Sea and the Baltic brought me to the Swedish capital, whence on the
following day I took the small steamer which plies three times a week

around the Aland Islands, and then across the Gulf of Bothnia to Korpo, and
through the intricate channels and among those low-lying islands to the
gray lethargic town of Abo.
It was not the first occasion on which I had trod Russian soil, and I knew
too well the annoyances of the bureaucracy. Finland, however, is perhaps
the most severely governed of any of the Czar's dominions, and I had my
first taste of its stern, relentless officialdom at the moment of landing on the
half-deserted quay.
In the wooden passport office the uniformed official, on examining my
passport, discovered that at the Russian Consulate-General they had
forgotten to date the visé which had been impressed with a rubber stamp. It
was signed by the Consul-General, but the date was missing, whereupon the
man shook his head and handed back the document curtly, saying in
Russian, which I understood fairly well, although I spoke badly—
"This is not in order. It must be returned to London and dated before you
can proceed."
"But it is not my fault," I protested. "It is the fault of the clerk at the
Consulate-General."
"You should have examined it before leaving. You must send it to
London, and return to Stockholm by to-night's boat."
"But this is outrageous!" I cried, as he had already taken the papers of a
passenger behind me and was looking at them with unconcern.
"Enough!" he exclaimed, glaring at me. "You will return to-night, or if
you choose to stay you will be arrested for landing without a passport."
"I shall not go back!" I declared defiantly. "Your Consul-General viséd
my passport, and I claim, under international law, to be allowed to proceed
without hindrance."
"The steamer leaves at six o'clock," he remarked without looking up. "If
you are in Abo after that it will be at your own risk."
"I am English, recollect," I said.

"To me it does not matter what or who you are. Your passport, undated, is
worthless."
"I shall complain to the Ambassador at Petersburg."
"Your Ambassador does not interest me in the least. He is not
Ambassador here in Finland. There is no Czar here."
"Oh! Who is ruler in this country, pray?"
"His Excellency the Governor-General, an official who has love for
neither England nor the pigs of English. So recollect that."
"Yes," I said meaningly, "I shall recollect it." And I turned and went out
of the little wooden office, replacing my passport in my pocket-book.
I had already been directed to the hotel, and walked there, but as I did so
I saw that I was already under the surveillance of the police, for two men in
plain clothes who were lounging outside the passport-office strolled on after
me, evidently to watch my movements. Truly Finland was under the iron-
heel of autocracy.
After taking my rooms, I strolled about the flat, uninteresting town,
wondering how best to commence my search. If I had but a photograph to
show people it would give me a great advantage, but I had nothing. I had
never, indeed, set eyes upon the unfortunate girl.
Six o'clock came. I heard the steam siren of the departing boat bound for
Sweden, but I was determined to remain there at whatever cost, therefore I
returned to the hotel, and at seven dined comfortably in company with a
German who had been my fellow-passenger across from Stockholm.
At eight o'clock, however, just as we were idling over dessert, two gray-
coated police officers entered and arrested me on the serious charge of
landing without a passport.
I accompanied them to the police-office, where I was ushered into the
presence of the big, bristly Russian who held the town of Abo in terror, the
Chief of Police. The officials which Russia sends into Finland are selected
for their harsh discipline and hide-bound bureaucracy, and this human

machine in uniform was no exception. Had he been the Minister of the
Interior himself, he could not have been more self-opinionated.
"Well?" he snapped, looking up at me as I was placed before him. "Your
name is Gordon Gregg, English, from Stockholm. No passport, and decline
to leave even though warned—eh?"
"I have a passport," I said firmly, producing it.
He looked at it, and pointing with his finger, said: "It has no date, and is
therefore worthless."
"The fault is not mine, but that of a Russian official. If you wish it to be
dated, you may send it to your Consulate-General in London."
"I shall not," he cried, glaring at me angrily. "And for your insult to the
law, I shall commit you to prison for one month. Perhaps you will then
learn Russian manners."
"Oh! so you will commit an Englishman to prison for a month, without
trial—eh? That's very interesting! Perhaps if you attempt such a thing as
that they may have something to say about it in Petersburg."
"You defy me!"
"Not in the least. I have presented my passport and demand common
courtesy."
"Your passport is worthless, I tell you!" he cried. "There, that's how much
it is worth to me!" And snatching it up he tore it in half and tossed the
pieces of blue paper in my face.
My blood was up at this insult, yet I bit my lips and remained quite calm.
"Perhaps you will kindly tell me who you are?" I asked in as quiet a
voice as I could command.
"With pleasure. I am Michael Boranski, Chief of Police of the Province
of Abo-Biornebourg."
"Ah! Well, Michael Boranski, I shall trouble you to pick up my passport,
stick it together again, and apologize to me."

"Apologize! Me apologize!" And the fellow laughed aloud, while the
police officers on either side of me grinned from ear to ear.
"You refuse?"
"Refuse? Certainly I do!"
"Very well, then," I said, re-opening my pocket-book and taking out an
open letter. "Perhaps you will kindly glance at that. It is in Russian, so you
can read it."
He snatched it from me with ill-grace, but not without curiosity. And
then, as he read the lines, his face changed and he went paler. Raising his
head, he stood staring at me open-mouthed in amazement.
"I apologize to your Excellency!" he gasped, blanched to the lips. "I most
humbly apologize. I—I did not know. You told me nothing!"
"Perhaps you will kindly mend my passport, and give it a proper visé."
In an instant he was up from his chair, and having gathered the torn paper
from the floor, proceeded to paste it together. On the back he endorsed that
it had been torn by accident, and then gave it the proper visé, affixing the
stamps.
"I trust, Excellency," he said, bowing low as he handed it to me, "I trust
that this affair will not trouble you further. I assure you I had no intention of
insulting you."
"Yes, you had!" I said. "You insulted me merely because I am English.
But recollect in future that the man who insults an Englishman generally
pays for it, and I do not intend to let this pass. There is a higher power in
Finland than even the Governor-General."
"But, Excellency," whined the fellow who only ten minutes ago had been
such an insulting bully, "I shall lose my position. I have a wife and six
children—my wife is delicate, and my pay here is not a large one. You will
forgive, won't you, Excellency? I have apologized—I most humbly
apologize."

And he took up the letter I had given him, holding it gingerly with
trembling fingers. And well he might, for the document was headed:

"MINISTER OF THE IMPERIAL HOUSEHOLD,
"PALACE OF PETERHOF.
"The bearer of this is one Gordon Francis Gregg, British subject, whom it is
Our will and command that he shall be Our guest during his journey
through our dominion. And we hereby command all Governors of Provinces
and minor officials to afford him all the facilities he requires and privileges
and immunities as Our guest."
The above decree was in a neat copper-plate handwriting in Russian,
while beneath was the sprawling signature of the ruler of one hundred and
thirty millions of people, that signature that was all-powerful from the gulf
of Bothnia to the Pacific—"Nicholas."
The document was the one furnished to me a year before when, at the
invitation of the Russian Government, I had gone on a mission of inquiry
into the state of the prisons in order to see, on behalf of the British public,
whether things were as black as some writers had painted them. It had been
my intention to visit the far-off penal settlements in Northern Siberia, but
having gone through some twenty prisons in European Russia, my health
had failed and I had been compelled to return to Italy to recuperate. The
document had therefore remained in my possession because I intended to
resume my journey in the following summer. It was in order that I should be
permitted to go where I liked, and to see what I liked without official
hindrance, that his Majesty the Emperor had, at the instigation of the
Ministry of the Interior, given me that most valuable document.
Sight of it had changed the Chief of Police from a burly bully into a
whining coward, for he saw that he had torn up the passport of a guest of
the Czar, and the consequence was most serious if I complained. He begged
of me to pardon him, urging all manner of excuses, and humbling himself
before me as well as before his two inferiors, who now regarded me with
awe.
"I will atone for the insult in any way your high Excellency desires,"
declared the official. "I will serve your Excellency in any way he may

command."
His words suggested a brilliant idea. I had this man in my power; he
feared me.
"Well," I said after some reluctance, "there is a little matter in which you
might be of some assistance. If you will, I will reconsider my decision of
complaining to Petersburg."
"And what is that, Excellency?" he gasped eagerly.
"I desire to know the whereabouts of a young English lady named Elma
Heath," I said, and I wrote down the name for him upon a piece of paper.
"Age about twenty, and was at school at Chichester, in England. She is a
niece of a certain Baron Oberg."
"Baron Oberg!" he repeated, looking at me rather strangely, I thought.
"Yes, as she is a foreigner she will be registered in your books. She is
somewhere in your province, but where I do not know. Tell me where she
is, and I will say nothing more about my passport," I added.
"Then your high Excellency wishes to see the young lady?" he said
reflectively, with the paper in his hand.
"Yes."
"In that case, it being commanded by the Emperor that I shall serve your
Excellency, I will have immediate inquiries made," was his answer. "When
I discover her whereabouts, I will do myself the pleasure of calling at your
Excellency's hotel."
And I left the fellow, very satisfied that I had turned his officiousness and
hatred of the English to very good account.
On that gray, dreary northern coast the long winter was fast setting in.
Poor oppressed Finland suffers under a hard climate with August frosts, an
eight months' winter in the north, and five months of frost in the south.
Idling in sleepy Abo, where the public buildings were so mean and meager
and the houses for the most part built of wood, I saw on every hand the
disastrous result of the attempted Russification of the country. The hand of

the oppressor, that official sent from Petersburg to crush and to conquer,
was upon the honest Finnish nation. The Russian bureaucracy was trying to
destroy its weaker but more successful neighbor, and in order to do so
employed the harshest and most unscrupulous officials it could import.
My fellow-traveler from Stockholm, who represented a firm of paper-
makers in Hamburg, and who paid an annual visit to Abo and Helsingfors,
acted as my guide around the town, while I awaited the information from
the humbled Chief of Police. My German friend pointed out to me how,
since Russia placed her hand upon Finland, progress had been arrested, and
certainly plain evidences were on every hand. There was growing
discontent everywhere, for many of the newspapers had recently been
suppressed and the remainder were under a severe censorship; agriculture
had already decreased, and many of the cotton-spinning and saw mills were
silent and deserted. The exploitation of those gigantic forests from which
millions of trunks were floated down to the sea annually had now been
suspended, the great landowners were deserting the country, and there was
silence and depression everywhere. Finland had been separated for
economic purposes from the more civilized countries, and bound to the
poverty-stricken, artificially isolated and oppressed Russia. The double-
headed eagle was everywhere, and the people sat silent and brooding
beneath its black shadow.
"There will be an uprising here before long," declared the German
confidentially, as we were taking tea one day on the wooden balcony of the
hotel where the sea and the low-lying islands stretched out before us in the
pale yellow of the autumn sundown. "The people will revolt, as they did in
Poland. The Finnish Government can only appeal to the Czar through the
Governor-General, and one can easily imagine that their suggestions never
reach the Emperor. It is said here that the harsher and more corrupt the
official, the greater honor does he receive from Petersburg. But trouble is
brewing for Russia," he added. "A very serious trouble—depend upon it."
I looked upon the gray dismal scene, the empty port, the silent quay, the
dark line of gloomy pine forest away beyond the town, the broken coast and
the wide expanse of water glittering in the northern sunset. Yes. The very
silence seemed to forbode evil and mystery. Truly what I saw of Finland

impressed me even more than what I had witnessed in the far-off eastern
provinces of European Russia.
My object, however, was not to inquire into the internal condition of
Finland, or of her resentment of her powerful conqueror. I was there to find
that unfortunate girl who had written so strangely to her old school friend
and whose portrait had, for some hidden reason, been destroyed.
On the morning of the third day after my arrival at Abo, while sitting on
the hotel veranda reading an old copy of the Paris Journal, many portions
of which had been "blacked out" by the censor, the Chief of Police, in his
dark green uniform, entered and saluted before me.
"Your Excellency, may I be permitted to speak with you in private?"
"Certainly," I responded, rising and conducting him to my bedroom,
where I closed the door, invited him to a seat, and myself sat upon the edge
of the bed.
"I have made various inquiries," he said, "and I think I have found the
lady your Excellency is seeking. My information, however, must be
furnished to you in strictest confidence," he added, "because there are
reasons why I should withhold her whereabouts from you."
"What do you mean?" I inquired. "What reasons?"
"Well—the lady is living in Finland in secret."
"Then she is alive!" I exclaimed quickly. "I thought she was dead."
"To the world she is dead," responded Michael Boranski, stroking his red
beard. "For that reason the information I give you must be treated as
confidential."
"Why should she be in hiding? She is guilty of no offense—is she?"
The man shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply.
"And this Baron Oberg? You tell me nothing of him," I said with
dissatisfaction.
"How can I when I know nothing, Excellency?" was his response.

I felt certain that the fellow was not speaking the truth, for I had noticed
his surprise when I had first uttered the mysterious nobleman's name.
"As I have already said, Excellency, I am desirous of atoning for my
insult, and will serve you in every manner I can. For that reason I had
sought news of the young English lady—the Mademoiselle Heath."
"But you have all foreigners registered in your books," I said. "The
search was surely not a difficult one. I know your police methods in Russia
too well," I laughed.
"No, the lady was not registered," he said. "There was a reason."
"Why?"
"I have told you, Excellency. She is in hiding."
"Where?"
"I regret that much as I desire, I dare not appear to have any connection
with your quest. But I will direct you. Indeed, I will give you instructions to
a second person to take you to her."
"Is she in Abo?"
"No. Away in the country. If your Excellency will be down at the end of
the quay to-morrow at noon you will find a carriage in waiting, and the
driver will have full instructions how to take you to her and how to act.
Follow his directions implicitly, for he is a man I can trust."
"To-morrow!" I cried anxiously. "Why not to-day? I am ready to go at
any moment."
The Chief of Police remained thoughtful for a few moments, then said—
"Well, if I could find the man, you might go to-day. Yet it is a long way,
and you would not return before to-morrow."
"The roads are safe, I suppose? I don't mind driving in the night."
The official glanced at the clock, and rising exclaimed—

"Very well, I will send for the man. If we find him, then the carriage will
be at the same spot at the eastern end of the quay in two hours."
"At noon. Very well. I shall keep the appointment."
"And after seeing her, you will of course keep your promise of secrecy
regarding our little misunderstanding?" he asked anxiously.
"I have already given my word," was the response; and the man bowed
and left, much, I think, to the surprise of the hotel-proprietor and his staff. It
was an unusual thing for such a high official as the Chief of Police to visit
one of their guests in person. If he desired to interview any of them, he
commanded them to attend at his office, or they were escorted there by his
gray-coated agents.
The day was cold, with a biting wind from the icy north, when after a
hasty luncheon I put on my overcoat and strolled along the deserted quay
where I lounged at the further end, watching the approach of a great
pontoon of pine logs that had apparently floated out of one of the rivers and
was now being navigated to the port by four men who seemed every
moment in imminent danger of being washed off the raft into the sea as the
waves broke over and drenched them. They had, however, lashed
themselves to their raft, I saw, and now slowly piloted the great floating
platform towards the quay.
I think I must have waited half an hour, when my attention was suddenly
attracted by the rattle of wheels over the stones, and turning I saw an old
closed carriage drawn by three horses abreast, with bells upon the harness,
approaching me rapidly. When it drew up, the driver, a burly-looking, fair-
headed Finn in a huge sheepskin overcoat, motioned me to enter, urging in
broken Russian—
"Quickly, Excellency!—quickly!—you must not be seen!"
And then the instant I was seated, and before I could close the door, the
horses plunged forward and we were tearing at full gallop out of the town.
For five miles or so we skirted the sea along a level, well-made road
through a barren wind-swept country whence the meager harvest had
already been garnered. There were no villages. All around was a houseless

land, rolling miles of brown and green, broken and checkered by bits of
forest and clumps of dark melancholy pines. The road ran ever and anon
right down to where the cold, green waves broke upon the rocky shore. In a
few weeks that coast would be ice-bound and snow-covered, and then the
silence of the God-forsaken country would be complete.
After five miles or so, the driver pulled up and descended to readjust his
harness, whereupon I got out and asked him in the best Russian I could
command:
"Where are we going?"
"To Nystad."
"How far is that?"
"Sixty-eight," was his reply.
I took him to imply kilometres, as being a Finn he would not speak of
versts.
"The Chief of Police has given you directions?" I asked.
"His high Excellency has told me exactly what to do," was the man's
answer, as he took out his huge wooden pipe and filled it. "You wish to see
the young lady?"
"Yes," I answered, "to first see her, and I do not know whether it will be
necessary for me to make myself known to her. Where is she?"
"Beyond Nystad," was his vague answer with a wave of his big fat hand
in the direction of the dark pine forest that stretched before us. "We shall be
there about an hour after sundown."
Then I re-entered the stuffy old conveyance that rocked and rolled as we
dashed away over the uneven forest road, and sat wondering to what
manner of place I was being conducted.
Elma Heath was in hiding. Why? I recollected her curious letter and
remembered every word of it. She wished Hornby to know that she had
never revealed her secret. What secret, I wondered?

I lit an abominable cigar, and tried to smoke, but I was too filled with
anxiety, too bewildered by the maze of mystery in which I now found
myself. Two hours later we pulled up before a long log-built post-house just
beyond a small town in a hollow that faced the sea, and I alighted to watch
the steaming horses being replaced by a trio of fresh ones. The place was
Dadendal, I was informed, and the proprietor of the place, when I entered
and tossed off a liqueur-glass of cognac, pointed out to me a row of granite
buildings fallen much to decay as the ancient convent.
Then, resuming our journey, the short day quickly drew to a close, the
sun sank yellow and watery over the towering pines through which we went
mile after mile, a dense, interminable forest wherein the wolves lurked in
winter, often rendering the road dangerous.
The temperature fell, and it froze again. Through the window in front I
could see the big Finn driver throwing his arms across his shoulders to
promote circulation, in the same manner as does the London "cabby."
When night drew on we changed horses again at a small, dirty post-house
in the forest, at the edge of a lake, and then pushed forward again, although
it was already long past the hour at which he had said we should arrive.
Time passed slowly in the darkness, for we had no light, and the horses
seemed to find their way by instinct. The rolling of the lumbering old
vehicle after six hours had rendered me sleepy, I think, for I recollect
closing my eyes and conjuring up that strange scene on board the Lola.
Indeed, I suppose I must have slept, for I was awakened by a light
shining into my face and the driver shaking me by the shoulder. When I
roused myself and, naturally, inquired the reason, he placed his finger
mysteriously upon my lips, saying:
"Hush, your high nobility, hush! Come with me. But make no noise. If
we are discovered, it means death for us—death. Come, give me your hand.
Slowly. Tread softly. See, here is the boat. I will get in first. We shall not be
heard upon the water. So."
And the fellow led me, half-dazed, down to the bank of a broad, dark
river which I could just distinguish—he led me to an unknown bourne.

CHAPTER XI
THE CASTLE OF THE TERROR

The big Finn had, I found, tied up his horses, and in the heavy old boat he
rowed me down the swollen river which ran swift and turbulent around a
sudden bend and then seemed to open out to a great width. In the starlight I
could distinguish that it stretched gray and level to a distance, and that the
opposite bank was fringed with pines.
"Where are we going?" I asked my guide in a low voice. But he only
whispered:
"Hush! Excellency! Remain patient, and you shall see the young
Englishwoman."
So I sat in the boat, while he allowed it to drift with the current, steering
it with the great heavy oars. The river suddenly narrowed again, with high
pines on either bank, a silent, lonesome reach, perhaps indeed one of the
loneliest spots in all Europe. Once the dismal howl of a wolf sounded close
to where we passed, but my guide made no remark.
After nearly a mile, the stream again opened out into a broad lake where,
in the distance, I saw rising sheer and high from the water, a long square
building of three stories, with a tall round tower at one corner—an old
medieval castle it seemed to be. From one of the small windows of the
tower, as we came into view of it, a light was shining upon the water, and
my guide seeing it, grunted in satisfaction. It had undoubtedly been placed
there as signal.
With great caution he approached the place, keeping in the deep shadow
of the bank until we came exactly opposite the flanking-tower. In the
lighted window I distinctly saw a dark figure of someone appear for a

moment, and then my guide struck a match and held it in his fingers until it
was wholly consumed.
Almost instantly the light was extinguished, and then, after waiting five
minutes or so, he pulled straight across the lake to the high, dark tower that
descended into the water. The place was as grim and silent as any I had ever
seen, an impregnable stronghold of the days before siege guns were
invented, the fortress of some feudal prince or count who had probably held
the surrounding country in thraldom.
I put my hand against the black, slimy wall to prevent the boat bumping,
and then distinguished just beyond me a small wooden ledge and half-a-
dozen steps which led up to a low arched door. The latter had opened
noiselessly, and the dark figure of a woman stood peering forth.
My guide uttered some reassuring word in Finnish in a low half-whisper,
and then slowly pushed the boat along to the ledge, saying:
"Your high nobility may disembark. There is at present no danger."
I rose, gripped a big rusty chain to steady myself, and climbed into the
narrow doorway in the ponderous wall, where I found myself in the
darkness beside the female who had apparently been expecting our arrival
and watching our signal.
Without a word she led me through a short passage, and then, striking a
match, lit a big old-fashioned lantern. As the light fell upon her features I
saw they were thin and hard, with deep-set eyes and a stray wisp of silver
across her wrinkled brow. Around her head was a kind of hood of the same
stuff as her dress, a black, coarse woolen, while around her neck was a
broad linen collar. In an instant I recognized that she was a member of some
religious order, some minor order perhaps, with whose habit we, in Italy,
were not acquainted.
The thin ascetic countenance was that of a woman of strong character,
and her funereal habit seemed much too large for her stunted, shrunken
figure.
"The sister speaks French?" I hazarded in that language, knowing that in
most convents throughout Europe French is known.

"Oui, m'sieur," was her answer. "And a leetle Engleesh, too—a ve-ry
leetle," she smiled.
"You know why I am here?" I said, gratified that at least one person in
that lonesome country could speak my own tongue.
"Yes, I have already been told," was her answer with a strong accent, as
we stood in that small, bare stone room, a semicircular chamber in the
tower, once perhaps a prison. "But are you not afraid to venture here?" she
asked.
"Why?"
"Well—because no strangers are permitted here, you know. If your
presence here was discovered you would not leave this place alive—so I
warn you."
"I am prepared to risk that," I said, smiling; at the same time my hand
instinctively sought my hip-pocket to ascertain that my weapon was safe. "I
wish to see Miss Elma Heath."
The old nun nodded, fumbling with her lantern. I glanced at my watch
and found that it was already two o'clock in the morning.
"Remember that if you are discovered here you exonerate me of all
blame?" she said, raising her head and peering into my face with her keen
gray eyes. "By admitting you I am betraying my trust, and that I should not
have done were it not compulsory."
"Compulsory! How?"
"The order of the Chief of Police. Even here, we cannot afford to offend
him."
So the fellow Boranski had really kept faith with me, and at his order the
closed door of the convent had been opened.
"Of course not," I answered. "Russian officialdom is all-powerful in
Finland nowadays. But where is the lady?"

"You are still prepared to risk your liberty and life?" she asked in a
hoarse voice, full of grim meaning.
"I am," I said. "Lead me to her."
"And when you see her you will make no effort to speak with her?
Promise me that."
"Ah, Sister!" I cried. "You are asking too great a sacrifice of me. I come
here from England, nay, from Italy in search of her, to question her
regarding a strange mystery and to learn the truth. Surely I may be
permitted to speak with her?"
"You wish to learn the truth, sir!" remarked the woman. "I thought you
were her lover—that you merely wished to see her once again."
"No, I am not her lover," I answered. "Indeed, we have never yet met.
But I am in search of the truth from her own lips."
"That you will never learn," she said, in a hard, changed voice.
"Because there is a conspiracy to preserve the secret!" I cried. "But I
intend to solve the mystery, and for that reason I have traveled here from
England."
The woman with the lantern smiled sadly, as though amused by my
impetuosity.
"You are on Russian soil now, m'sieur, not English," she remarked in her
broken English. "If your object were known, you would never be spared to
return to your own land. Ah!" she sighed, "you do not know the mysteries
and terrors of Finland. I am a French subject, born in Tours, and brought to
Helsingfors when I was fifteen. I have been in Finland forty-five years.
Once we were happy here, but since the Czar appointed Baron Oberg to be
Governor-General----" and she shrugged her shoulders without finishing her
sentence.
"Baron Oberg—Governor-General of Finland!" I gasped.
"Certainly. Did you not know?" she said, dropping into French. "It is four
years now that he has held supreme power to crush and Russify these poor

Finns. Ah, m'sieur! this country, once so prosperous, is a blot upon the face
of Europe. His methods are the worst and most unscrupulous of any
employed by Russia. Before he came here he was the best hated man in
Petersburg, and that, they say, is why the Emperor sent him to us."
"And he is uncle of this young lady, Elma Heath?"
"Uncle? Ah! I don't know that, m'sieur. I have never been told so. His
niece—poor young lady!—can that be? Surely not!"
"Why not?" I asked.
But the woman gave me no reason; she only exhibited her palms and
sighed. She seemed to have compassion upon the girl I sought; her heart
was really softer than I had believed it to be.
"Where does this Baron live?" I asked, surprised that he should occupy
so high a place in Russian officialdom—the representative of the Czar, with
powers as great as the Emperor himself.
"At the Government Palace, in Helsingfors."
"And Elma Heath is here—in this grim fortress! Why?"
"Ah, m'sieur, how can I tell? By reason of family secrets, perhaps. They
account for so much, you know."
"That is exactly my opinion," I said. "She has been brought here against
her will."
"Most probably. This is not a cheerful place, as you see. We have five
months of ice and snow, and for four months are practically cut off from
civilization and see no new face."
"Terrible!" I gasped, glancing round at those dark stone walls that seemed
to breathe an air of tragedy and mystery. The old castle had, I supposed,
been turned into a convent, as many have been in Germany and Austria.
Back in feudal times it no doubt had been a grand old place. "And have you
been here long?" I asked.

"Seven years only. But I am leaving. Even I, used as I am to a solitary
life, can stand it no longer. I feel that its cold silence and dreariness will
drive me mad. In winter the place is like an ice-well."
The fact that the Baron was ruler of Finland amazed me, for I had half-
expected him to be some clever adventurer. Yet as the events of the past
flashed through my brain, I recollected that in Rannoch Wood had been
found the miniature of the Russian Order of Saint Anne, a distinction
which, in all probability, had been conferred upon him. If so, the
coincidence, to say the least, was a remarkable one. I questioned my
companion further regarding the Baron.
"Ah, m'sieur," she declared, "they call him 'The Strangler of the Finns,' It
was he who ordered the peasants of Kasko to be flogged until four of them
died—and the Czar gave him the Star of White Eagle for it—he who
suppressed half the newspapers and put eighteen editors in prison for
publishing a report of a meeting of the Swedes in Helsingfors; he who
encourages corruption and bribery among the officials for the furtherance of
Russian interests; he who has ordered Russian to be the official language,
who has restricted public education, who has overtaxed and ground down
the people until now the mine is laid, and Finland is ready for open revolt.
The prisons are filled with the innocent; women are flogged; the poor are
starving, and 'The Strangler,' as they call him, reports to the Czar that
Finland is submissive and is Russianized!"
I had heard something of this abominable state of affairs from time to
time from the English press, but had never taken notice of the name of the
oppressor. So the uncle of Elma Heath was "The Strangler of Finland," the
man who, in four years, had reduced a prosperous country to a state of ruin
and revolt!
"Cannot I see her?" I asked, feeling that we had remained too long there.
If my presence in that place was perilous the sooner I escaped from it the
better.
"Yes, come," she said. "But silence! Walk softly," and holding up the old
horn lantern to give me light, she led me out into the low stone corridor
again, conducting me through a number of intricate passages, all bare and
gloomy, the stones worn hollow by the feet of ages. On we crept noiselessly

past a number of low arched doors studded with big nails in the style of
generations ago, then turning suddenly at right angles, I saw that we were in
a kind of cul de sac, before the door of which at the end she stopped and
placed her finger upon her lips. Then, motioning me to remain there, she
entered, closing the door after her, and leaving me in the pitch darkness.
I strained my ears, but could hear no sound save that of someone moving
within. No word was uttered, or if so, it was whispered so low that it did not
reach me. For nearly five minutes I waited in impatience outside that closed
door, until again the handle turned and my conductress beckoned me in
silence within.
I stepped into a small, square chamber, the floor of which was carpeted,
and where, suspended high above, was a lamp that shed but a faint light
over the barely-furnished place. It seemed to me to be a kind of sitting-
room, with a plain deal table and a couple of chairs, but there was no stove,
and the place looked chill and comfortless. Beyond was another smaller
room into which the old nun disappeared for a moment; then she came forth
leading a strange wan little figure in a gray gown, a figure whose face was
the most perfect and most lovely I had ever seen. Her wealth of chestnut
hair fell disheveled about her shoulders, and as her hands were clasped
before her she looked straight at me in surprise as she was led towards me.
She walked but feebly, and her countenance was deathly pale. Her dress,
as she came beneath the lamp, was, I saw, coarse, yet clean, and her
beautiful, regular features, which in her photograph had held me in such
fascination, were even more sweet and more matchless than I had believed
them to be. I stood before her dumbfounded in admiration.
In silence she bowed gracefully, and then looked at me with
astonishment, apparently wondering what I, a perfect stranger, required of
her.
"Miss Elma Heath, I presume?" I exclaimed at last. "May I introduce
myself to you? My name is Gordon Gregg, English by birth, cosmopolitan
by instinct. I have come here to ask you a question—a question that
concerns yourself. Lydia Moreton has sent me to you."
I noticed that her great brown eyes watched my lips and not my face.

Her own lips moved, but she looked at me with an inexpressible sadness.
No sound escaped her.
I stood rigid before her as one turned to stone, for in that instant, in a
flash indeed, I realized the awful truth.
She was both deaf and dumb!
She raised her clasped hands to me in silence, yet with tears welling in
her splendid eyes.
I saw that upon her wrists were a pair of bright steel gyves.
"What is this place?" I demanded of the woman in the religious habit,
when I recovered from the shock of the poor girl's terrible affliction.
"Where am I?"
"This is the Castle of Kajana—the criminal lunatic asylum of Finland,"
was her answer. "The prisoner, as you see, has lost both speech and
hearing."
"Deaf and dumb!" I cried, looking at the beautiful original of that
destroyed photograph on board the Lola. "But she has surely not always
been so!" I exclaimed.
"No. I think not always," replied the sister quietly. "But you said you
intended to question her, and did I not tell you that to learn the truth was
impossible?"
"But she can write responses to my questions?" I argued.
"Alas! no," was the old woman's whispered reply. "Her mind is affected.
She is, unfortunately, a hopeless lunatic."
I looked straight into those sad, wide-open, yet unflinching brown eyes
utterly confounded.
Those white wrists held in steel, that pale face and blanched lips, the
inertness of her movements, all told their own tragic tale. And yet that letter
I had read, dictated in secret most probably because her hands were not
free, was certainly not the outpourings of a madwoman. She had spoken of

death, it was true, yet was it not to be supposed that she was slowly being
driven to suicide? She had kept her secret, and she wished the man Hornby
—the man who was to marry Muriel Leithcourt—to know.
The room in which we stood was evidently an apartment set apart for her
use, for beyond was the tiny bedchamber; yet the small, high-up window
was closely barred, and the cold bareness of the prison was sufficient
indeed to cause anyone confined there to prefer death to captivity.
Again I spoke to her slowly and kindly, but there was no response. That
she was absolutely dumb was only too apparent. Yet surely she had not
always been so! I had gone in search of her because the beauty of her
portrait had magnetized me, and I had now found her to be even more
lovely than her picture, yet, alas! suffering from an affliction that rendered
her life a tragedy. The realization of the terrible truth staggered me. Such a
perfect face as hers I had never before set eyes upon, so beautiful, so clear-
cut, so refined, so eminently the countenance of one well-born, and yet so
ineffably sad, so full of blank unutterable despair.
She placed her clasped hands to her mouth and made signs by shaking
her head that she could neither understand nor respond. I therefore took my
wallet from my pocket and wrote upon a piece of paper in a large hand the
words: "I come from Lydia Moreton. My name is Gordon Gregg."
When her eager gaze fell upon the words she became instantly filled with
excitement, and nodded quickly. Then holding her steel-clasped wrists
towards me she looked wistfully at me, as though imploring me to release
her from the awful bondage in that silent tomb.
Though the woman who had led me there endeavored to prevent it, I
handed her the pencil, and placed the paper on the table for her to write.
The nun tried to snatch it up, but I held her arm gently and forcibly,
saying in French:
"No. I wish to see if she is really insane. You will at least allow me this
satisfaction."
And while we were in altercation, Elma, with the pencil in her fingers,
tried to write, but by reason of her hands being bound so closely was

unable. At length, however, after several attempts, she succeeded in printing
in uneven capitals the response:
"I know you. You were on the yacht. I thought they killed you."
The thin-faced old woman saw her response—a reply that was surely
rational enough—and her brows contracted with displeasure.
"Why are you here?" I wrote, not allowing the sister to get sight of my
question.
In response, she wrote painfully and laboriously:
"I am condemned for a crime I did not commit. Take me from here, or I
shall kill myself."
"Ah!" exclaimed the old woman. "You see, poor girl, she believes herself
innocent! They all do."
"But why is she here?" I demanded fiercely.
"I do not know, m'sieur. It is not my duty to inquire the history of their
crimes. When they are ill I nurse them; that is all."
"And who is the commandant of this fortress?"
"Colonel Smirnoff. If he knew that I had admitted you, you would never
leave this place alive. This is the Schusselburg of Finland—the place of
imprisonment for those who have conspired against the State."
"The prison of political conspirators, eh?"
"Alas, m'sieur, yes! The place in which some of the poor creatures are
tortured in order to obtain confessions and information with as much cruelty
as in the black days of the Inquisition. These walls are thick, and their cries
are not heard from the oubliettes below the lake."
I had long ago heard of the horrors of Schusselburg. Indeed who has not
heard of them who has traveled in Russia? The very mention of the modern
Bastille on Lake Ladoga, where no prisoner has ever been known to come
forth alive, is sufficient to cause any Russian to turn pale. And I was in the
Schusselburg of Finland!

I turned over the sheet of paper and wrote the question—
"Did Baron Oberg send you here?"
In response, she printed the words—
"I believe so. I was arrested in Helsingfors. Tell Lydia where I am."
"Do you know Muriel Leithcourt?" I inquired by the same means,
whereupon she replied that they were at school together.
"Did you see me on board the Lola?" I wrote.
"Yes. But I could not warn you, although I had overheard their intentions.
They took me ashore when you had gone, to Siena. After three days I found
myself deaf and dumb—I was made so."
Her allegation startled me. She had been purposely afflicted!
"Who did it?"
"A doctor, I suppose. They put me under chloroform."
"Who?"
"People who said they were my friends."
I turned to the woman in the religious habit, and cried—
"Do you see what she has written? She has been maimed by some friends
who intended that the secret she holds should be kept. They feared to kill
her, so they bribed a doctor to deliberately operate upon her so that she
could neither speak nor hear. And now they are driving her to suicide!"
"M'sieur, I am astounded!" declared the nun. "I have always believed that
she was not in her right mind, yet assuredly she seems to be as sane as I am,
only willfully mutilated by some pretended friend who determined that no
further word should pass her lips."
"A shameful mutilation has been committed upon this poor defenseless
girl!" I cried in anger. "And I will make it my duty to discover and punish
the perpetrators of it."

"Ah, m'sieur. Do not act rashly, I pray of you," the woman said seriously,
placing her hand upon my arm. "Recollect you are in Finland—where the
Baron Oberg is all-powerful."
"I do not fear the Baron Oberg," I exclaimed. "If necessary, I will appeal
to the Czar himself. Mademoiselle is kept here for the reason that she is in
possession of some secret. She must be released—I will take the
responsibility."
"But you must not try to release her from here. It would mean death to
you both. The Castle of Kajana tells no secrets of those who die within its
walls, or of those cast headlong into its waters and forgotten."
Again I turned to Elma, who stood in anxious wonder of the subject of
our conversation, and had suddenly taken the old nun's hand and kissed it
affectionately, perhaps in order to show me that she trusted her.
Then upon the paper I wrote—
"Is the Baron Oberg your uncle?"
She shook her head in the negative, showing that the dreaded Governor-
General of Finland had only acted a part towards her in which she had been
compelled to concur.
"Who is Philip Hornby?" I inquired, writing rapidly.
"My friend—at least, I believe so."
Friend! And I had all along believed him to be an adventurer and an
enemy!
"Why did he go to Leghorn?" I asked.
"For a secret purpose. There was a plot to kill you, only I managed to
thwart them," were the words she printed with much labor.
"Then I owe my life to you," I wrote. "And in return I will do my utmost
to rescue you from here, if you do not fear to place yourself in my hands."
And to this she replied—

"I shall be thankful, for I cannot bear this awful place longer. I believe
they must torture the women here. They will torture me some day. Do your
best to get me out of here and I will tell you everything. But," she wrote, "I
fear you can never secure my release. I am confined here on a life
sentence."
"But you are English, and if you have had no trial I can complain to our
Ambassador."
"No, I am a Russian subject. I was born in Russia, and went to England
when I was a girl."
That altered the case entirely. As a subject of the Czar in her own country
she was amenable to that disgraceful blot upon civilization that allows a
person to be consigned to prison at the will of a high official, without trial
or without being afforded any opportunity of appeal. I therefore at once saw
a difficulty.
Yet she promised to tell me the truth if I could but secure her release!
A flood of recollections of the amazing mystery swept through my mind.
A thousand questions arose within me, all of which I desired to ask her, but
there, in that noisome prison-house, it was impossible. As I stood there a
woman's shrill scream of excruciating pain reached me, notwithstanding
those cyclopean walls. Some unfortunate prisoner was, perhaps, being
tortured and confession wrung from her lips. I shuddered at the unspeakable
horrors of that grim fortress.
Could I allow this refined defenseless girl to remain an inmate of that
Bastille, the terrors of which I had heard men in Russia hint at with bated
breath? They had willfully maimed her and deprived her of both hearing
and the power of speech, and now they intended that she should be driven
mad by that silence and loneliness that must always end in insanity.
"I have decided," I said suddenly, turning to the woman who had
conducted me there, and having now removed the steel bonds of the
prisoner with a key she secretly carried, stood with folded hands in the calm
attitude of the religious.

"You will not act with rashness?" she implored in quick apprehension.
"Remember, your life is at stake, as well as my own."
"Her enemies intended that I, too, should die!" I answered, looking
straight into those deep mysterious brown eyes which held me as beneath a
spell. "They have drawn her into their power because she had no means of
defense. But I will assume the position of her friend and protector."
"How?"
"The man is awaiting me in the boat outside. I intend to take her with
me."
"But, m'sieur, why that is impossible!" cried the old woman in a hoarse
voice. "If you were discovered by the guards who patrol the lake both night
and day they would shoot you both."
"I will risk it," I said, and without another word dashed into the tiny bed
chamber and tore an old brown blanket from off the narrow truckle bed.
Then, linking my arm in that of the woman whose lovely countenance
had verily become the sun of my existence, I made a sign, inviting her to
accompany me.
The sister barred the door, urging me to reconsider my decision.
"Leave her alone in secret, and act as you will, appeal to the Baron, to the
Czar, but do not attempt, m'sieur, to rescue a prisoner from here, for it is an
impossibility. The man who brought you here from Abo will not dare to
accept such responsibility."
"Come," I said to Elma, although, alas! she could not hear my voice. "Let
us at least make a dash for freedom."
She recognized my intentions in a moment, and allowed herself to be
conducted down the long intricate corridor, walking stealthily, and making
no noise.
I had seized the old horn lantern, and as the nun held back, not daring to
accompany us, we stole on alone, turning back along the stone corridor
until I recognized the door of the room to which I had been first conducted.

All was silent, and as we crept along on tiptoe I felt the girl's grip upon my
arm, a grip that told me that she placed her faith in me as her deliverer.
I own that it was a rash and headstrong act, for even beyond the lake how
could we ever hope to penetrate those interminable inhospitable forests, so
far from any hiding-place. Yet I felt it my duty to attempt the rescue. And
besides, had not her marvelous beauty enmeshed me; had I not felt by some
unaccountable intuition at the first moment we had met that our lives were
linked in the future? She clung to me as though fearful of discovery, as we
went forward in silence along that dark, low corridor where I knew the
strong door in the tower opened upon the lake. Once in the boat, and we
could row back to where the horses awaited us, and then away. The woman
had not arrested our progress or raised an alarm, after all. Once I had
mistrusted her, but I now saw that her heart was really filled with pity for
the poor girl now at my side.
Without a sound we crept forward until within a few yards from that
unlocked door where the boat awaited us below, when, of a sudden, the
uncertain light of the lantern fell upon something that shone and a deep
voice cried out of the darkness in Russian—
"Halt! or I fire!"
And, startled, we found ourselves looking down the muzzle of a loaded
carbine.
A huge sentry stood with his back to the secret exit, his dark eyes shining
beneath his peaked cap, as he held his weapon to his shoulder within six
feet of us.
The big, bearded fellow demanded fiercely who I was.
My heart sank within me. I had acted recklessly, and had fallen into the
hands of his Excellency, the Baron Xavier Oberg, the unscrupulous
Governor-General—fallen into a trap which, it seemed, had been very
cleverly prepared for me.
I was a prisoner in the terrible fortress whence no single person save the
guards had ever been known to emerge—the Bastille of "The Strangler of
Finland!"

I saw I was lost.
The muzzle of the sentry's carbine was within two feet of my chest.
"Speak!" cried the fellow. "Who are you?"
At a glance I took in the peril of the situation, and without a second's
hesitation made a dive for the man beneath his weapon. He lowered it, but it
was too late, for I gripped him around the waist, rendering his gun useless.
It was the work of an instant, for I knew that to close with him was my only
chance.
Yet if the boat was not in waiting below that closed door? If my Finn
driver was not there in readiness, then I was lost. The unfortunate girl
whom I was there to rescue drew back in fright against the wall for a single
second, then, seeing that I had closed with the hulking fellow, she sprang
forward, and with both hands seized the gun and attempted to wrest it from
him. His fingers had lost the trigger, and he was trying to regain it to fire
and so raise the alarm. I saw this, and with an old trick learned at
Uppingham I tripped him, so that he staggered and nearly fell.
An oath escaped him, yet in that moment Elma succeeded in twisting the
gun from his sinewy hands, which I now held with a strength begotten of a
knowledge of my imminent peril. My whole future, as well as hers,
depended upon my success in that desperate encounter. He was huge and
powerful, with a strength far exceeding my own, yet I had been reckoned a
good wrestler at Uppingham, and now my knowledge of that most ancient
form of combat held me in good stead.
The man shouted for help, his deep, hoarse voice sounding along the
stone corridors. If heard by his comrades-in-arms, then the alarm would at
once be given.
We struggled desperately, swaying to and fro, he trying to throw me,
while I, at every turn, practiced upon him the tricks learned in my youth. It
seemed an even match, however, for he kept his feet by sheer brute force,
and his muscles seemed hard and unbending as steel.
Suddenly, however, as we were striving so vigorously and desperately,
the English girl slipped past us with the carbine in her hand, and with a

quick movement dragged open the heavy door that gave exit to the lake.
At that instant I unfortunately made a false move, and his hand closed
upon my throat like a band of steel. I fought and struggled to loose myself,
exerting every muscle, but alas! he gained the advantage. I heard a splash,
and saw that Elma no longer held the sentry's weapon in her hands, having
thrown it into the water.
Then at the same moment I heard a voice outside cry in a low tone:
"Courage, Excellency! Courage! I will come and help you."
It was the faithful Finn, who had been awaiting me in the deep shadow,
and with a few strokes pulled his boat up to the narrow rickety ledge
outside the door.
"Take the lady!" I succeeded in gasping in Russian. "Never mind me,"
and I saw to my satisfaction that he guided Elma to step into the boat,
which at that moment drifted past the little platform.
I struggled valiantly, but against such a man of brute strength I was
powerless. He held my throat, causing me excruciating pain, and each
moment I felt my chance of victory grow smaller. My strength was failing.
While I held his arms at his sides, I could keep him secure without much
effort, but now with his fingers pressing in my windpipe I could not
breathe.
I was slowly being strangled.
To be vanquished meant imprisonment there, perhaps even death. Victory
meant Elma's life, as well as my own. Mine was therefore a fight for life. A
sudden idea flashed across my mind, and I continued to struggle, at the
same time gradually forcing my enemy backward towards the door. He
shouted for help, but was unheard. He cursed and swore and shouted until,
with a sudden and almost superhuman effort, I tripped him, bringing his
head into such violent contact with the stone lintel of the door that the
sound could surely be heard a considerable distance. For a moment he was
stunned, and in that brief second I released his grip from my throat and
hurled him backwards beyond the door.

There was the sound of the crashing of wood as the rotten platform gave
way, a loud splash, and next instant the dark waters closed over the big,
bearded fellow who would have snatched Elma Heath from me, and have
held me prisoner in that castle of terrors. He sank like a stone, for although I
stood watching for him to rise, I could only distinguish the woodwork
floating away with the current.
In a moment, however, even as I stood there in horror at my deed of self-
defense, the place suddenly resounded with shouts of alarm, and in the
tower above me the great old rusty bell began to swing, ringing its brazen
note across the broad expanse of waters.
The fair-bearded Finn again shot the boat across to where I stood, crying
—
"Jump, Excellency! For your life, jump! The guards will be upon us!"
Behind me in the passage I saw a light and the glitter of arms. A shot rang
out, and a bullet whizzed past me, but I stood unharmed. Then I jumped,
and nearly upset the boat, but taking an oar I began to row for life, and as
we drew away from those grim, black walls the fire belched forth from
three rifles.
"Row!" I shrieked, turning to see if my fair companion had been hit.
"Keep cool, Excellency," urged the Finn. "See, right away there in the
shadow. We might trick them, for the patrol-boat will be at the head of the
river waiting to cut us off."
Again the guards fired upon us, but in the darkness their aim was faulty.
Lights appeared in the high windows of the castle, and we could see that the
greatest commotion had been caused by the escape of the prisoner. The men
at the door in the tower were shouting to the patrol-boats, which were
nowhere to be seen, calling them to row us down and capture us, but by
plying our oars rapidly we shot straight across the lake until we got under
the deep shadow of the opposite shore, and then crept gradually along in the
direction we had come.
"If we meet the boats, Excellency, we must run ashore and take to the
woods," explained the Finn. "It is our only chance."

Scarcely had he spoken when out in the center of the lake we could just
distinguish a long boat with three rowers going swiftly towards the entrance
to the river, which we so desired to gain.
"Look!" cried our guide, backing water, and bringing the boat to a
standstill. "They are in search of us! If we are discovered they will fire. It is
their orders. No boat is allowed upon this lake."
Elma sat watching our pursuers, but still calm and silent. She seemed to
intrust herself entirely to me.
The guards were rowing rapidly, the oars sounding in the rowlocks,
evidently in the belief that we had made for the river. But the Finlander had
apparently foreseen this, and for that reason we were lying safe from
observation in the deep shadow of an overhanging tree.
A gray mist was slowly rising from the water, and the Finn, noticing it,
hoped that it might favor us. In Finland in late autumn the mists are often as
thick as our proverbial London fogs, only whiter, denser, and more frosty.
"If we disembark we shall be compelled to make a detour of fully four
days in the forest, in order to pass the marshes," he pointed out in a low
whisper. "But if we can enter the river we can go ashore anywhere and get
by foot to some place where the lady can lie in hiding."
"What do you advise? We are entirely in your hands. The Chief of Police
told me he could trust you."
"I think it will be best to risk it," he said in Russian after a brief pause.
"We will tie up the boat, and I will go along the bank and see what the
guards are doing. You will remain here, and I shall not be seen. The rushes
and undergrowth are higher further along. But if there is danger while I am
absent get out and go straight westward until you find the marsh, then keep
along its banks due south," and drawing up the boat to the bank the shrewd,
big-boned fellow disappeared into the dark undergrowth.
There were no signs yet of the break of day. Indeed, the stars were now
hidden, and the great plane of water was every moment growing more
indistinct as we both sat in silence. My ears were strained to catch the
dipping of an oar or a voice, but beyond the lapping of the water beneath

the boat there was no other sound. I took the hand of the fair-faced girl at
my side and pressed it. In return she pressed mine.
It was the only means by which we could exchange confidences. She
whom I had sought through all those months sat at my side, yet powerless
to utter one single word.
Still holding her hands in both my own I gripped them to show her that I
intended to be her champion, while she turned to me in confidence as
though happy that it should be so. What, I wondered, was her history? What
was the mystery surrounding her? What could be that secret which had
caused her enemies to thus brutally maim and mutilate her, and afterwards
send her to that grim, terrible fortress that still loomed up before us in the
gloom? Surely her secret must affect some person very seriously, or such
drastic means would never be employed to secure her silence.
Suddenly I heard a stealthy footstep approaching, and next moment a low
voice spoke which I recognized as that of our friend, the Finn.
"There is danger, Excellency—a grave danger!" he said in a low half
whisper. "Three boats are in search of us."
And scarcely had he uttered those words when there was the flash of a
rifle from the haze, a loud report, and again a bullet whizzed past just
behind my head. In an instant the truth became apparent, for I saw the dark
shadow of a boat rapidly rowed, bearing full upon us. The shot had been
fired as a signal that we had been sighted, and were pursued. Other shots
rang out, mingled with the wild exultant shouts of the guards as they bore
down full upon us, and then I knew that, notwithstanding our escape, we
were now lost. They were too close upon us to admit of eluding them. The
peril we had dreaded had fallen. The Finn's presence on the bank had
evidently been detected by a boat drawn up at the shore, and he had been
followed to where we had lain in what we had so foolishly believed to be a
safe hiding-place. Nought else was to be done but to face the inevitable.
Three times the red fire of a rifle belched angrily in our faces, and yet, by
good fortune, neither of us was struck. Yet we knew too well that the
intention of our pursuers was to kill us.

"Quick, Excellency! Fly! while there is yet time!" gasped the Finn,
grasping my hand and half dragging me from the boat, while, I, in turn,
placed Elma upon the bank.
"Hoida! This way! Swiftly!" cried our guide, and the three of us, heedless
of the consequences, plunged forward into the impenetrable darkness, just
as our fierce pursuers came alongside where we had only a moment ago
been seated. They shouted wildly as they sprang to land after us, but our
guide, who had been born and bred in these forests, knew well how to travel
in a semi-circle, and how to conceal himself. It was a race for freedom—
nay, for very life.
So dark that we could see before us hardly a foot, we were compelled to
place our hands in front of us to avoid collision with the big tree trunks,
while ever and anon we found ourselves entangled in the mass of dead
creepers and vegetable parasites that formed the dense undergrowth.
Around us on every side we heard the shouts and curses of our pursuers,
while above the rest we heard an authoritative voice, evidently that of a
sergeant of the guard, cry—
"Shoot the man, but spare the woman! The Colonel wants her back. Don't
let her escape! We shall be well rewarded. So keep on, comrades! Mene
edemmäski!"
But the trembling girl beside me heard nothing, and perhaps indeed it
was best that she could not hear. My only fear was that our pursuers, of
whom there now seemed to be a dozen, had extended, with the intention of
encircling us. They, no doubt, knew every inch of that giant forest with its
numerous bogs and marshes, and if they could not discover us would no
doubt drive us into one or other of the bogs, where escape was impossible.
Our gallant guide, on the other hand, seemed to utterly disregard the
danger and kept on, every now and then stretching out his hand and helping
along the afflicted girl we had rescued from that living tomb. Headlong we
went in a straight line, until suddenly we began to feel our feet sinking into
the soft ground, and then the Finlander turned to the left, at right angles, and
we found ourselves in a denser undergrowth, where in the darkness our
hands and faces became badly scratched.

Another gun was fired as signal, echoing through the wood, but the
sound came from the opposite direction to that we were traveling; therefore
we hoped that we had eluded those whose earnest desire it was to capture us
for the reward. Suddenly, however, a second gun, an answering signal, was
fired from straight before us, and that revealed the truth. We were actually
between the two parties, and they were closing in upon us! They had
already driven us to the edge of the bog. The Finlander recognized our peril
as quickly as I did, and halted.
"Let us turn straight back," he urged breathlessly. "We may yet elude
them."
And then we again turned off at right angles, traveling as quickly as we
were able back towards the lake shore. It was an exciting chase in the
darkness, for we knew not whither we were going, nor into what pitfall or
ravine or treacherous marsh we might fall. Once we saw afar through the
trees the light of a lantern held by a guard, and already the sweet-faced girl
beside me seemed tired and terribly fatigued. But we hurried on and on,
striving to make no noise, and yet the crackling of wood beneath our feet
seemed to us to sound like the noise of thunder.
At last, breathless, we halted to listen. We were already in sight of the
gray mist where lay the silent lake that held so many secrets. There was not
a sound. The guards had gone straight on, believing they had driven us into
that deadly bog wherein, if we had entered, we must have been slowly
sucked down and engulfed. They were surrounding it, no doubt, feeling
certain of their prey.
But we crept along the water's edge, until in the gray light we could
distinguish two empty boats—that of the guards and our own. We were
again at the spot where we had disembarked.
"Let us row to the head of the lake," suggested the Finn. "We may then
land and escape them." And a moment later we were all three in the guards'
boat, rowing with all our might under the deep shadow of the bank
northward, in the opposite direction to the town of Nystad.
We kept a sharp look-out for any other boat, but saw none. The signals
ashore had attracted all the guards to that spot to join in the search, and

now, having doubled back and again embarked, we were every moment
increasing the distance between ourselves and our pursuers. I think we must
have rowed several miles, for ere we landed again, upon a low, flat and
barren shore, the first gray streak of day was showing in the east.
Elma noticed it, and kept her great brown eyes fixed upon it thoughtfully.
It was the dawn for her—the dawn of a new life. Our eyes met; she smiled
at me, and then gazed again eastward, full of silent meaning.
Having landed, we drew the boat up and concealed it in the undergrowth
so that the guards, on searching, should not know the direction we had
taken, and then we went straight on northward across the low-lying lands,
to where the forest showed dark against the morning gray. The mist had
now somewhat cleared, but the air was keen and frosty.
This wood, we found, was of tall high pines, where walking was not
difficult, a wide wilderness of trees which, hour after hour, we traversed in
the vain endeavor to find the rough path which our guide told us led for a
hundred miles from Alavo down to Tammerfors, the manufacturing center
of the country. But to discover a path in a forest forty miles wide is a matter
of considerable difficulty, and for hours we wandered on and on, but alas!
always in vain.
Faint and hungry, yet we still kept courage. Fortunately we found a little
spring, and all three of us drank eagerly with our hands. But of food we had
nothing, save a small piece of hard rye bread which the Finn had in his
pocket, the remains of his evening meal; and this we gave to Elma, who,
half famished, ate it quickly. We knew quite well that it would be an easy
matter to die of starvation in that great trackless forest, therefore we kept on
undaunted, while the yellow autumn sun struggled through the dark pines,
glinting on the straight gray trunks and reflecting a golden light in that dead
unbroken silence.
How many miles we trudged I have no idea. It was a consolation to know
that we now had no pursuers, yet what fate lay before us we knew not. If we
could only find that forest-road we might come across some wood-cutter's
hut, where we could obtain rough food of some sort, yet our guide, used as
he was to those enormous woods of central Finland, was utterly out of his
bearings, and no mark of civilization attracted his quick, experienced eye.

The light above gradually faded, and over a sharp stone Elma stumbled and
ripped her shoe.
I looked at my watch, and found that it was already five o'clock. In an
hour it would be dark, the beginning of the long northern night. Elma, who
was weary and footsore, asked by signs to be permitted to lay down and
rest. Therefore we gathered a bed of dried leaves for her, and she lay down,
and while we watched she was soon asleep. The Finn, who declared that he
did not suffer from the cold, removed his coat and placed it tenderly upon
her shoulders.
While there was still a ray of light I watched her white refined features as
she slept, and was sorely tempted to bend and imprint a kiss upon that soft
inviting cheek. Yet I had no right to do so—no right to take such an
advantage.
The long cold night passed wearily, and the howling of the wolves caused
me to grip my revolver, yet at daybreak we arose refreshed, and
notwithstanding the terrible pangs of hunger now gnawing at our vitals, we
were prepared to renew our desperate dash for liberty.
Although I had paper, I possessed no pencil with which to write,
therefore I could only communicate by signs with the mysterious prisoner
of Kajana, the beautiful dark-eyed girl who held me irrevocably beneath the
spell of her beauty. All the little acts of homage I was able to perform she
accepted with a quiet, calm dignity, while in her deep luminous eyes I read
an unfathomable mystery.
The mist had not cleared, for it was soon after dawn when we again
moved along, hungry, chill, and yet hopeful. At a spring we obtained some
water, and then, in silent procession, pressed forward in search of the rough
track of the woodcutters.
Elma's torn shoe gave her considerable trouble, and noticing her limping,
I induced her to sit down while I took it off, hoping to be able to mend it,
but, having unlaced it, I saw that upon her stocking was a large patch of
congealed blood, where her foot itself had also been cut. I managed to beat
the nails of the shoe with a stone, so that its sole should not be lost, and she
readjusted it, allowing me to lace it up for her and smiling the while.

Forward we trudged, ever forward, across that enormous forest where the
myriad treetrunks presented the same dismal scene everywhere, a forest
untrodden save by wild, half-savage lumbermen. Throughout that dull gray
day we marched onward, faint with hunger, yet suffering but little pain, for
the first pangs were now past, and were succeeded by slight light-
headedness. My only fear was that we should be compelled to spend
another night without shelter, and what its effect might be upon the
delicately-reared girl whose hand I held tenderly in mine. Surely my
position was a strange one. Her terrible affliction seemed to cause her to be
entirely dependent upon me.
Suddenly, just as the yellow sunlight overhead had begun to fade, the
flat-faced Finn, whose name he had told me was Felix Estlander, cried
joyfully—
"Polushaite! Look, Excellency! Ah! The road at last!"
And as we glanced before us we saw that his quick, well-trained eyes had
detected away in the twilight, at some distance, a path traversing our vista
among the gray-green tree-trunks. Then, hurrying along, we found
ourselves upon a track, on which we turned to the right—a track, rough and
deeply-rutted by the felled trunks that were dragged along it to the nearest
river.
Elma made a gesture of renewed hope, and all three of us redoubled our
pace, expecting every moment to come upon some log hut, the owner of
which would surely give us hospitality for the night. But darkness came on
quickly, and yet we still pushed forward. Poor Elma was limping, and I
knew that her injured foot was paining her, even though she could tell me
nothing.
At last, however, after walking for nearly four hours in the almost
impenetrable forest gloom, always fearing lest we might miss the path, our
hearts suddenly beat quickly by seeing before us a light shining in a
window, and five minutes later Felix was knocking at the door, and asking
in Finnish the occupant to give hospitality to a lady lost in the forest.
We heard a low growl like a muttered imprecation within, and when the
door opened there stood upon the threshold a tall, bearded, muscular old

fellow in a dirty red shirt, with a big revolver shining in his hand. A quick
glance at us satisfied him that we were not thieves, and he invited us in
while Felix explained that we had landed from the lake, and our boat having
drifted away we had been compelled to take to the woods. The man heard
the Finn's picturesque story, and then said something to me which Felix
translated into Russian.
"Your Excellency is welcome to all the poor fare he has. He gives up his
bed in the room yonder to the lady, so that she may rest. He is honored by
your Excellency's presence."
And while he was making this explanation the herculean wood-cutter in
the red shirt stirred the red embers whereon a big pot was simmering, and
sending forth an appetizing odor, and in five minutes we were all three
sitting down to a stew of capercailzie, with a foaming light beer as a fitting
beverage. We finished the dish with such lightning rapidity that our host
boiled us a number of eggs, which, I fear, denuded his larder.
The place was a poor one of two low rooms, built of rough log-pines,
with double windows for the winter and a high brick stove. Cleanliness was
not exactly its characteristic, nevertheless we all passed a very comfortable
hour, and received a warm welcome from the lonely old fellow who passed
his life so far beyond European civilization, and whose house, he told us,
was often snowed up and cut off from all the world for three or four months
at a time.
After we had finished our meal, I asked the sturdy old fellow for a pencil,
but the nearest thing he possessed was a stick of thick charcoal, and with
that it was surely difficult to communicate with our fair companion.
Therefore she rose, gave me her hand, bowed smilingly, and then passed
into the inner room and closed the door.
The old wood-cutter gave us some coarse tobacco, and after smoking and
chatting for an hour we threw ourselves wearily upon the wooden benches
and slept soundly.
Suddenly, however, at early dawn, we were startled by a loud banging at
the door, the clattering of hoofs, and authoritative shouts in Russian. The

old wood-cutter sprang up, and looking through a chink in the heavy
shutters turned to us with blanched face, whispering breathlessly—
"The police! What can they want of me?"
"Open!" shouted the horsemen outside. "Open in the name of his
Majesty!"
Felix and I sprang up facing each other.
"We are entrapped!"
In an instant our guide Felix made a dash for the door of the inner room
where Elma had retired, but next second he reappeared, gasping in Russian
—
"Excellency! Why, the door is open! The lady has gone!"
"Gone!" I cried, dismayed, rushing into the little room, where I found the
truckle couch empty, and the door leading outside wide open. She had
actually disappeared!
The police again battered at the opposite door, threatening loudly to
break it in if it were not opened at once, whereupon the old wood-cutter
drew the bolt and admitted them. Two big, hulking fellows in heavy riding-
coats and swords strode in, while two others remained mounted outside,
holding the horses.
"Your names?" demanded one of the fellows, glancing at us as we stood
together in expectation.
Our host told them his name, and asked why they wished to enter.
"We are searching for a woman who has escaped from Kajana," was the
reply. "Have you seen any woman here?"
"No," responded the wood-cutter. "We never see any woman out in these
woods."
The police-officer strode into the inner room, glanced around to make
certain that no one was concealed there, and then returning to me asked,
"Who are you?"

"That is my own affair," I answered.
The mystery of Elma's disappearance while we had slept annoyed me.
She seemed to have fled from me in secret. Yet could she have received
some warning that the police were in search of her? She was deaf, therefore
she could not have been alarmed by the banging on the door.
"Your identity is my affair," declared the man with the fair, bristly beard,
an average type of the uncouth officer of police.
"Who is your chief?" I inquired, as a sudden thought occurred to me.
"Melnikoff, at Helsingfors."
"Then this is not in the district of Abo?"
"No. But what difference does it make? Who are you?"
"Gordon Gregg, British subject," I replied.
"And you are the drosky-driver from Abo," remarked the fellow, turning
to Felix. "Exactly as I thought. You are the pair who bribed the nun at
Kajana, and succeeded in releasing the Englishwoman. In the name of the
Czar, I arrest you!"
The old wood-cutter turned pale as death. We certainly were in grave
peril, for I foresaw the danger of falling into the hands of Baron Oberg, the
Strangler of Finland. Yet we had a satisfaction in knowing that, be the
mystery what it might, Elma had escaped.
"And on what charge, pray, do you presume to arrest me?" I inquired as
coolly as I could.
"For aiding a prisoner to escape."
"Then I wish to say, first, that you have no power to arrest me; and,
secondly, that if you wish me to give you satisfaction, I am perfectly willing
to do so, providing you first accompany me down to Abo."
"It is outside my district," growled the fellow, but I saw that his hesitancy
was due to his uncertainty as to whom I really might be.

"I desire you to take me to the Chief of Police Boranski, who will make
all the explanation necessary. Until we have an interview with him, I refuse
to give any information concerning myself," I said.
"But you have a passport?"
I drew it from my pocket, saying—
"It proves, I think, that my name is what I have told you."
The fellow, standing astride, read it, and handed it back to me.
"Where is the woman?" he demanded. "Tell me."
"I don't know," was my reply.
"Perhaps you will tell me," he said, turning to the old wood-cutter with a
sinister expression upon his face. "Remember, these fugitives are found in
your house, and you are liable to arrest."
"I don't know—indeed I don't!" protested the old fellow, trembling
beneath the officer's threat. Like all his class, he feared the police, and held
them in dread.
"Ah, you don't remember, I suppose!" he smiled. "Well, perhaps your
memory will be refreshed by a month or two in prison. You are also
arrested."
"But, your Excellency, I—"
"Enough!" blared the bristly officer. "You have given shelter to
conspirators. You know the penalty in Finland for that, surely?"
"But these gentlemen are surely not conspirators!" the poor old man
protested. "His Excellency is English, and the English do not plot."
"We shall see afterwards," he laughed. And then, turning to the agent of
police at his side, he gave him orders to search the log-hut carefully, an
investigation in which one of the men from the outside joined. They upset
everything and pried everywhere.

"You may find papers or letters," said the officer. "Search thoroughly."
And in every corner they rummaged, even to taking up a number of boards
in the inner room which Elma had occupied. But they found nothing.
A dozen times was the old wood-cutter questioned, but he stubbornly
refused to admit that he had ever set eyes upon Elma, while I insisted on my
right to return to Abo and see Boranski. I knew, of course, by what we had
overheard said by the prison-guards, that the Governor-General was
extremely anxious to recapture the girl with whom, I frankly admit, I had
now so utterly fallen in love. And it appeared that no effort was being
spared to search for us. Indeed, the whole of the police in the provinces of
Abo and of Helsingfors seemed to be actively making a house-to-house
search.
But what could be the truth of Elma's disappearance? Had she fled of her
own accord, or had she once more fallen a victim to some ingenious and
dastardly plot. That gray dress of hers might, I recollected, betray her if she
dared to venture near any town, while her affliction would, of itself, be
plain evidence of identification. All I hoped was that she had gone and
hidden herself in the forest somewhere in the vicinity to wait until the
danger of recapture had passed.
For nearly half an hour I argued with the police officer whose intention it
was to take me under arrest to Helsingfors. Once there, however, I knew too
well that my liberty would be probably gone for ever. Whatever was the
Baron's motive in holding the poor girl a prisoner, it would also be his
motive to silence me. I knew too much for his liking.
"I refuse to go to Helsingfors," I said defiantly. "I am a British subject,
and demand to be taken back to the port where my passport was viséd."
This argument I repeated time after time, until at length I succeeded in
convincing him that I really had a right to be taken to Abo, and to seek the
aid of the British Vice-Consul if necessary.
For as long as possible I succeeded in delaying our departure, but at
length, just as the yellow sun began to struggle through the gray clouds, we
were all three compelled to depart in sorrowful procession.

What, we wondered, had really happened to Elma? It was evident that
she had not fallen into the hands of the police; nevertheless, the fact that the
door of the inner room was open caused them to look upon the statement of
the wood-cutter with distinct suspicion and disbelief.
Our captors seemed quite well aware of all the circumstances of our
escape from Kajana, and were consequently filled with chagrin that Elma,
the person they so much desired to recapture, had slipped through their
fingers. While the police rode, we were compelled to walk before them, and
after trudging ten miles or so through the forest we came across another
small posse of police, who were apparently in search of us, for they
expressed delight when they saw us under arrest.
"Where is the woman?" inquired one officer of the other.
"Still at liberty," replied the man who held us as prisoners. "In hiding
twenty versts back, I think."
"Ah, we shall find her before long," he said confidently. "Within twelve
hours we shall have searched the whole forest. She cannot escape us."
Our captors explained who we were, and then we were pushed forward
again, skirting a great wide lake called the Nasjarvi, along the wooded
shore of which we walked the whole day long until, at sundown, we came
to a picturesque little log-built town facing the water, called Filppula. Here
we obtained a hasty meal, and afterwards took the train down to Abo, where
we arrived next morning, after a very uncomfortable and sleepless journey.
At nine o'clock I stood in the big bare office of Michael Boranski, where
only a few days before we had had such a heated argument. As soon as the
Chief of Police entered, he recognized me under arrest, and dismissed my
guards with a wave of the hand—all save the officer who had brought me
there. The Finnish driver and the old wood-cutter were in another room,
therefore I stood alone with the police-officer of Helsingfors and the Chief
of Police at Abo. The latter listened to the officer's story of my arrest
without saying a word.
"The prisoner, your Excellency, desired to be brought here to you before
being taken to Helsingfors. He said you would be aware of the facts."

"And so I am," remarked Boranski, with a smile. "There is no conspiracy.
You must at once release this gentleman and the other two prisoners."
"But, Excellency, the Governor-General has issued orders for the
prisoner's arrest and deportation to Helsingfors."
"That may be. But I am Chief of Police in Abo, and I release him."
The officer looked at me in such blank astonishment that I could not
resist smiling.
"I am well aware of the reason of this Englishman's visit to the north,"
added Boranski. "More need not be said. Has the lady been arrested?"
"No, your Excellency. Every effort is being made to find her. Colonel
Smirnoff has already been relieved of his post as Governor of Kajana, and
many of the guards are under arrest for complicity in the plot to allow the
woman to escape."
"Ah, yes. I see from the despatches that a reward is offered for her
recapture."
"The Governor-General is determined that she shall not escape,"
remarked the other.
"She is probably hidden in the forest, somewhere or other."
"Of course. They are making a thorough search over every verst of it. If
she is there, she will most certainly be found."
"No doubt," remarked Boranski, leaning back in his padded chair and
looking at me meaningly across the littered table. "And now I wish to speak
to this Englishman privately, so please leave us. Also inform the other two
prisoners that they are at liberty."
"But your Excellency does this upon his own responsibility," he said
anxiously. "Remember that I brought them to you under arrest."
"And I release them entirely at my own discretion," he said. "As Chief of
Police of this province, I am permitted to use my jurisdiction, and I exercise
it in this matter. You are liberty to report that at Helsingfors, if you so

desire, but I should suggest that you say nothing unless absolutely obliged
—you understand?"
The manner in which Boranski spoke apparently decided my captor, for
after a moment's hesitation he said, saluting:
"If that is really your wish, then I will obey." And he left.
"Excellency!" exclaimed the Chief of Police, rising quickly and walking
towards me as soon as the door was closed, and we were alone, "you have
had a very narrow escape—very. I did my best to assist you. I succeeded in
bribing the water-guards at Kajana in order that you might secure the lady's
release. But it seems that just at the very moment when you were about to
get away one of the guards turned informer and roused the governor of the
castle, with the result that you all three nearly lost your lives. The whole
matter has been reported to me officially, and," he added with a grim smile,
"my men are now searching everywhere for you."
"But why is Baron Oberg so extremely anxious to recapture Miss
Heath?" I asked earnestly.
"I have no idea," was his reply. "The secret orders from Helsingfors to
me are to arrest her at all hazards—alive or dead."
"Which means that the Baron would not regret if she was dead," I
remarked, in response to which he nodded in the affirmative.
I told him of the faithful services of Felix, the Finlander, whereupon he
said simply:
"I told you that you might trust him implicitly."
"But now that you have shown yourself my friend," I said, "you will
assist Miss Heath to escape this man, who desires to hold her prisoner in
that awful place. They are driving her mad."
"I will do my best," he answered, but shaking his head dubiously. "But
you must recollect that Baron Oberg is Governor-General of Finland, with
all the powers of the Czar himself."

"And if Elma Heath again falls into his unscrupulous hands, she will die,"
I declared.
"Ah!" he sighed, looking me straight in the face, "I fear that what you say
is only too true. She evidently holds some secret which he fears she will
reveal. He wishes to rearrest her in order—well—" he added in a low tone,
"in order to close her lips. It would not be the first time that persons have
been silenced in secret at Kajana. Many fatal accidents take place in that
fortress, you know."

CHAPTER XII
"THE STRANGLER"

Where was Elma? What was the cause of her inexplicable disappearance
into the gloomy forest while we had slept?
I returned to the hotel where I had stayed on my arrival, a comfortable
place called the Phoenix, and lunched there alone. Both Felix, the Finn, and
my host, the wood-cutter, had received their douceurs and left, but to the
last-named I had given instructions to return home at once and report by
telegraph any news of my lost one.
A thousand conflicting thoughts arose within me as I sat in that crowded
salle-à-manger filled with a gobbling crowd of the commercial men of Abo.
I had, I recognized, now to deal with the most powerful man in that country,
and I suffered a distinct disadvantage by being in ignorance of the reason he
held that sweet English girl a prisoner. The tragedy of the dastardly manner
in which she had been willfully maimed caused my blood to boil within me.
I had never believed that in this civilized twentieth century such things
could be.
Michael Boranski had given his pledge to assist me, yet he had most
plainly explained to me his fears. The Baron was intent upon again getting
Elma into his power. Was it at his orders, I wondered, that the sweet-faced
girl had been deprived of speech and hearing? Had she fallen an innocent
victim to his infamous scheming?
About me men were eating strange dishes and talking in Finnish, while
others were smoking and drinking their vodka; but I was in no mood for
observation. My only thought was of she who was now lost to me.

Why had she disappeared without warning I was at loss to imagine, yet I
could only surmise that her flight had been compulsory. Some women
possess a mysterious sense of intuition, a curious and indescribable faculty
of knowing when evil threatens them, that presents a strange and puzzling
problem to our scientists. It is unaccountable, and yet many women possess
it in a very marked degree. Was it, therefore, possible that Elma had
awakened, and being warned of her peril had fled without arousing us? The
suggestion was possible, but I feared improbable.
Another very curious feature in the affair was the sudden manner in
which Michael Boranski had exerted his power and influence in order to
render me that service. He had actually bribed the guards of Kajana; he had
instructed the faithful Felix, he had provided our boat, and he had ordered
the nun to open the water-gate to me. Why?
There was, I felt convinced, some hidden motive in all that sudden and
marked friendliness. That he really hated the English I had seen plainly
when we had first met, and I had only compelled him to serve me by
presenting the order signed by the Emperor, which made me his guest
within the Russian dominions. Even that document did not account for the
length he had gone to secure the release of the woman I now loved in
secret. The more I thought it over, the more anxious did I become. I could
discern no motive for his friendliness, and, truth to tell, I always distrust
those who are too friendly. What straight and decided line of action should I
take? Carefully I went over all the strange events that had happened in
England, and while anxious to obtain some solution of the amazing
problem, yet I could not bring myself to leave Finland, and allow Elma to
fall into the clutches of that high official who so persistently sought her end.
No. I would go to him and face him. I was anxious to see what manner of
man was "The Strangler of Finland." Therefore, that same evening I left
Abo, and traveled by rail up to the junction Toijala, whence, after a wait of
six hours, I resumed by slow journey to Helsingfors. I put up at Kamp's, an
elegant hotel on the long esplanade overlooking the port, and found the
town, with its handsome streets and spacious squares, to be a much finer
place than I had believed. When I inquired of the French director of my
hotel for the residence of his Excellency, the Governor-General, he regarded
me with some surprise, saying:

"The Baron lives up at the Palace, m'sieur—that great building opposite
the Salutong. The driver of your drosky will point it out to you."
"Is his Excellency in Helsingfors at the present moment?" I asked.
"The Baron never leaves the Palace, m'sieur," responded the man. "This
is a strange country, you know," he added, with a grin. "It is said that his
Excellency is in hourly fear of assassination."
"Perhaps not without cause," I remarked in a low voice, at which he
elevated his shoulders and smiled.
At noon I descended from a drosky before a long, gray, massive building,
over the big doorway of which was a large escutcheon bearing the Russian
arms emblazoned in gold, and on entering where a sentry stood on either
side, a colossal concierge in livery of bright blue and gold came forward to
meet me, asking in Russian:
"Whom do you wish to see?"
"His Excellency, the Governor-General."
"Have you an appointment?"
"No."
"His Excellency sees no one without an appointment," the man told me
somewhat gruffly.
"I am not here on public business, but upon a private matter," I explained.
"Perhaps I may see his Excellency's secretary?"
"If you wish, but I repeat that his Excellency sees no one without a
previous appointment."
I knew this quite well, for the "Strangler of Finland," fearful of
assassination, was as unapproachable as the Czar himself. Following the
directions of the concierge, however, I crossed a great bare courtyard, and,
ascending a wide stone staircase, was confronted by a servant, who, on
hearing my inquiry took me into a waiting-room, and left with my card to
Colonel Luganski, whom he informed me was the Baron's private secretary.

After ten minutes or so the man returned, saying:
"The Colonel will see you if you will please step this way," and following
him he conducted me into the richly furnished private apartments of the
Palace, across a great hall filled with fine paintings, and then up a long
thickly-carpeted passage to a small, elegant room, where a tall bald-headed
man in military uniform stood awaiting me.
"Your name is M'sieur Gregg," he exclaimed in very good French, "and I
understand you desire audience of his Excellency, the Governor-General. I
regret, however, that he never gives audience to strangers."
"The matter upon which I desire to see his Excellency is of a purely
private and confidential nature," I said, for used as I was to the ways of
foreign officialdom, I spoke with the same firm courtesy as himself.
"I am very sorry, m'sieur, but I fear it will be necessary in that case for
you to write to his Excellency, and mark your letter 'personal.' It will then
go into the Governor-General's own hands."
"What I have to say cannot be committed to writing," was my reply. "I
must see Baron Oberg upon a matter which affects him personally, and
which admits of no delay."
He glanced at me quickly, and then in a low voice inquired:
"Is it in regard to a—well, a conspiracy?"
His question instantly suggested to me a ruse, and I replied in the
affirmative.
"Then you can place the facts before me without the slightest hesitation,"
he said, going to the door and slipping the bolt into its socket. "Anything
spoken into my ear is as though it were spoken into that of his Excellency
himself."
"I much regret, M'sieur the Colonel, that I must see the Baron in person."
"Has the plot assassination as its object—or revolt?" he asked pointedly.
"That I will explain to the Baron only."

"But I tell you he will not see you. We have so many persons here with
secret information concerning Finnish conspiracies against our Russian
rule. Why, if his Excellency saw everyone who desired to see him, he would
be compelled to give audience the whole twenty-four hours round."
At a glance I saw that this elegant Colonel, who seemed to take the
greatest pride over his exquisitely kept person and his spotless uniform, did
not intend to allow me the satisfaction of an audience of that most hated
official of the Czar. The latter was in fear of the dagger, the pistol, or the
bomb, and consequently hedged himself in by persons of the Colonel's type
—courteous, diplomatic, but utterly unbending. After some further
argument, I said at last in a firm tone:
"I wish to impress upon you the extreme importance of the information I
have to impart, and can only repeat that it is a matter concerning his
Excellency privately. Will you therefore do me the favor to take my name to
him?"
"His Excellency refuses to be troubled with the names of strangers," was
his cold reply, as he turned over my card in his hand.
"But if I write upon it the nature of my business, and enclose it in an
envelope, will you then take it to him?" I suggested.
He hesitated for a short time, twisting his mustache, and then replied with
great reluctance:
"Well, if you are so determined, you may write your business upon your
card."
I therefore took out one, and on the back wrote in French the words
which I knew must have the effect of obtaining an audience for me:

"To give information regarding Miss Elma Heath."

This I enclosed in the envelope he handed to me, when, ringing a bell, he
handed it to the footman who appeared, with orders to take it to his
Excellency and await a reply. The response came in a few minutes.

"His Excellency will give audience to the English m'sieur."
Then I rose and followed the footman through several wide corridors
filled with palms and flowers, which formed a kind of winter-garden, until
we crossed a red-carpeted ante-room, where two statuesque sentries stood
on guard, and the man conducting me rapped at the great polished
mahogany doors of the room beyond.
A voice responded, the door was opened, and I found myself in a high,
beautifully-painted room, with long windows hung with pastel-blue silk
with heavy gilt fringe, a pastel-blue carpet, and upon the opposite wall a
great canopy of rich purple velvet bearing the double-headed eagle
embroidered in gold. The apartment was splendidly decorated, and in the
center of the parquet floor, with his back to the light, was the thin, wiry
figure of an elderly man in a funereal frock-coat, in the lapel of which
showed the red and yellow ribbon of the Order of Saint Anne. His hands
were behind his back, and he stood purposely in such a position that when I
entered I could not at first see his face against the strong, gray light behind.
But when the footman had bowed and retired and we were alone, he
turned slightly, and I then saw that his bony face, with high cheek-bones,
slight gray side-whiskers, hard mouth and black eyes set closely together,
was one that bore the mark of evil upon it—the keen, sinister countenance
of one who could act without any compunction and without regret. Truly
one would not be surprised at any cruel, dastardly action of a man with such
a face—the face of an oppressor.
"Well?" he snapped in French in a high-pitched voice. "You want to see
me concerning that mad English girl? What picturesque lies do you intend
to tell me concerning her?"
"I have no intention of telling any untruths concerning her," was my
quick response, as I faced him unflinchingly. "She has told me sufficient to
—"
"She has told you something! Ah! I guessed as much. I expected this!"
And I saw that his thin, crafty face went pale, while his eyes glanced evilly
upon me. He believed that she had revealed to me her secret. He placed his
hand upon the back of a chair wherein was concealed an electric button, and

next instant a little stout man in shabby black appeared as though by magic
through a secret door hidden in the dark paneling of the audience chamber
—the man who was his personal guard against the plots for his
assassination.
His Excellency spoke, and the words he uttered staggered me. I stood
aghast.
"Seize that man!" he cried, pointing to me. "He is armed! He has just
threatened to kill me! He is the man against whom we were recently warned
—the Englishman!"
"Ah!" I cried, standing before the thin-faced official of the Czar, the
unscrupulous man who had crushed Finland beneath the iron heel of Russia,
and who, by his lying allegation, now held me in his power. "I see your
object, Baron Oberg! You intend to arrest me as a conspirator!"
"Search the fellow. He has a revolver there in his hip-pocket," declared
the Governor-General, and in an instant the short, ferret-eyed little man had
run his hands down me and felt my weapon.
I drew it forth and handed it to him, saying:
"You are quite welcome to it if you fear that I am here with any sinister
motive."
"He obtained admission by a clever ruse," the Baron explained to the
police agent. "And then he threatened me."
"It's untrue," I protested hotly. "I have merely called to see you regarding
the young English lady, Elma Heath—the unfortunate lady whom you
consigned to the fortress of Kajana."
"The mad woman, you mean!" he laughed.
"She is not mad," I cried, "but as sane as you yourself. It is you who
intended that the horrors of the castle should drive her insane, and thus your
secret should be kept!"
"What do you suggest?" he demanded, stepping a few paces towards me.

"I mean, Xavier Oberg, that you would kill Elma Heath if you dared to
do so," I answered plainly, as I faced him unflinchingly.
"You see?" he laughed, turning to the stout man at my side. "The fellow
is insane. He does not know what he is talking about. Ah, my dear Malkoff,
I've had a narrow escape! He came here intending to shoot me."
"I did not," I protested. "I am here to demand satisfaction on behalf of
Miss Heath."
"Oh!—well, if the lady cares to come here herself, I will give her the
satisfaction she desires," was his crafty reply.
"The lady has escaped you, and it is therefore hardly likely she will
willingly return to Helsingfors," I said.
"It was you who succeeded, by throwing the guard into the water, in
abducting her from the castle," he remarked. "But," he added sneeringly,
with a sinister smile, "I presume your gallantry was prompted by affection
—eh?"
"That is my own affair."
"A deaf and dumb woman is surely not a very cheerful companion!"
"And who caused her that affliction?" I cried hotly. "When she was at
Chichester she possessed speech and hearing as other girls. Indeed, she was
not afflicted when on board the Lola in Leghorn harbor only a few months
ago. Perhaps you recollect the narrow escape the yacht had on the Meloria
sands?"
His eyes met mine, and I saw by his drawn face and narrow brows that
my words were causing him the utmost consternation. My object was to
make him believe that I knew more than I really did—to hold him in fear, in
fact.
"Perhaps the man whom some know as Hornby, or Woodroffe, could tell
an interesting story," I went on. "He will, no doubt, when he meets Elma
Heath, and finds the terrible affliction of which she has been the victim."

His thin, bony countenance was bloodless, his mouth twitched and his
gray brows contracted quickly.
"I haven't the least idea what you mean, my dear sir," he stammered. "All
that you say is entirely enigmatical to me. What have I to do with this mad
Englishwoman's affairs?"
"Send out this man," I said, pointing to the detective Malkoff, who had
appeared from behind the paneling of the audience-chamber. "Send him out,
and I will tell you."
But the representative of the Czar, always as much in dread of
assassination as his imperial master, refused. I saw that what I had said had
upset him, and that he was not at all clear as to how much or how little of
the true facts I knew.
The connection between the little miniature cross of the Order of St.
Anne and that red and yellow ribbon in his button-hole struck me forcibly at
that moment, and I said:
"I have no desire to make any statements before a second person. I came
here to see you privately, and in private will I speak. I have certain
information that will, I feel confident, be of the utmost interest to you--
concerning another woman, Armida Santini."
His lips were pressed together, and I noticed how he started when I
uttered the name of that woman whom I had found dead in Rannoch Wood,
and whose body had so mysteriously disappeared.
"And what on earth can the woman concern me?" he asked, with a brave
attempt to remain cool, still speaking in French.
"Only that you knew her," was my brief reply. Then, with my eyes still
fixed upon his, I asked: "Will you not now request this gentleman to retire?"
He hesitated a moment, and then with a wave of his hand dismissed the
man he had summoned to his aid. A moment later the "Strangler's" personal
protector had disappeared through that secret door in the paneling by which
he had entered.

"Well?" asked the Baron, turning quickly to me again, his dark, evil eyes
trying to fathom my intentions.
"Well?" I asked. "And what, pray, can you profit by denouncing me as an
assassin? Remember, Baron, that your secret is mine," I said in a clear voice
full of meaning.
"And your intention is blackmail—eh?" he snapped, walking to the
window and back again. "How much do you want?"
"My intention is nothing of the kind. My object is to avenge the
outrageous injury to Elma Heath."
"Of course. That is only natural, m'sieur, if you have fallen in love with
her," he said. "But are not your intentions somewhat ill-advised considering
her position as a criminal lunatic?"
"She is neither," I protested quickly.
"Very well. You know better than myself," he laughed. "The offense for
which she was condemned to confinement in a fortress was the attempted
assassination of Madame Vakuroff, wife of the General commanding the
Uleaborg Military Division."
"Assassination!" I cried. "Have you actually sent her to prison as a
murderess?"
"I have not. The Criminal Court of Abo did so," he said dryly. "The
offense has since been proved to have been the outcome of a political
conspiracy, and the Minister of the Interior in Petersburg last week signed
an order for the prisoner's transportation to the island of Saghalien."
"Ah!" I remarked with set teeth. "Because you fear lest she shall write
down your secret."
"You are insulting! You evidently do not know what you are saying," he
exclaimed resentfully.
"I know what I am saying quite well. You have requested her removal to
Saghalien in order that the truth shall be never known. But Baron Oberg," I
added with mock politeness, "you may do as you will, you may send Elma

Heath to her grave, you may hold me prisoner if you dare, but there are still
witnesses of your crime that will rise against you."
In an instant he went ghastly pale, and I knew that my blind shot had
struck its mark. The man before me was guilty of some crime, but what it
was only Elma herself could tell. That he had had her arrested for an
attempted political assassination only showed how ingeniously and craftily
the heartless ruler of that ruined country had laid his plans. He feared Elma,
and therefore had conspired to have her sent out to that dismal penal island
in the far-off Pacific.
"You do not fear arrest, m'sieur?" he asked, as though with some surprise.
"Not in the least—at least, not arrest by you. You may be the
representative of the Emperor in Finland, but even here there is justice for
the innocent."
A sinister smile played around the thin, gray lips of the man whose very
name was hated through the great empire of the Czar, and was synonymous
of oppression, injustice, and heartless tyranny.
"All I can repeat," he said, "is that if you bring the young Englishwoman
here I shall be quite prepared to hear her appeal." And he laughed harshly.
"You ask that because you know it is impossible," I said, whereat he
again laughed in my face—a laugh which made me wonder whether Elma
had not already fallen into his hands. The uncertainty of her fate held me in
terrible suspense.
"I merely wish to impress upon you the fact that I have not the slightest
interest whatsoever in the person in question," he said coldly. "You seem to
have formed some romantic attachment towards this young woman who
attempted to poison Madame Vakuroff, and to have succeeded in rescuing
her from Kajana. You afterwards disregard the fact that you are liable to a
long term of imprisonment yourself, and actually have the audacity to seek
audience of me and make all sorts of hints and suggestions that I have held
the woman a prisoner for my own ends!"
"Not only do I repeat that, Baron Oberg," I said quickly. "But I also
allege that it was at your instigation that in Siena an operation was

performed upon the unfortunate girl which deprived her of speech and
hearing."
"At my instigation?"
"Yes, at yours!"
He laughed again, but uneasily, a forced laugh, and leaned against the
edge of the big writing-table near the window.
"Well, what next?" he inquired, pretending to be interested in my
allegations. "What do you want of me?"
"I desire you to give the Mademoiselle Heath her complete freedom," I
said.
"Is that all?"
"All—for the present."
"But her future is not in my hands. The Minister in Petersburg has
decreed her removal to Saghalien as a person dangerous to the State."
"Which means that she will be ill-treated—knouted to death, perhaps."
"We do not use the knout in the Russian prisons nowadays," he said
briefly. "His Majesty has decreed its abolition."
"But you adopt torture in Kajana and Schusselburg instead."
"My time is too limited to discuss our penal system, m'sieur," he
exclaimed impatiently, while I could well see that he was anxious to escape
before I made any further charges against him. I had already shown him that
Elma had spoken, and he feared that she had told the truth. While this
would embitter him against her and cause him to seek to silence her at all
hazards, it was of course in my own interests that he should fear any
revelations that I might make.
"You have posed in England as the uncle of Elma Heath, and yet you
here hold her prisoner. For what reason?" I demanded.

"She is held prisoner by the State—for conspiracy against Russian rule—
not by herself personally."
"Who enticed her here? Why you, yourself. Who conspired to throw the
guilt of this attempted murder of the general's wife upon her? You—you,
the man whom they call 'The Strangler of Finland'! But I will avenge the
cruel and abominable affliction you have placed upon her. Her secret—your
secret, Baron Oberg—shall be published to the world. You are her enemy—
and therefore mine!"
"Very well," he growled between his teeth, advancing towards me
threateningly, his fists clenched in his rage. "Recollect, m'sieur, that you
have insulted me. Recollect that I am Governor-General of Finland."
"If you were Czar himself, I should not hesitate to denounce you as the
tyrant and mutilator of a poor defenseless woman."
"And to whom, pray, will you tell this romantic story of yours?" he
laughed hoarsely. "To your prison walls below the lake at Kajana? Yes,
M'sieur Gregg, you will go there, and once within the fortress you shall
never again see the light of day. You threaten me—the Governor-General of
Finland!" he laughed in a strange, high-pitched key as he threw himself into
a chair and scribbled something rapidly upon paper, appending his signature
in his small crabbed handwriting.
"I do not threaten," I said in open defiance, "I shall act."
"And so shall I," he said with an evil grin upon his bony face as he
blotted what he had written and took it up, adding: "In the darkness and
silence of your living tomb, you can tell whatever strange stories you like
concerning me. They are used to idiots where you are going," he added
grimly.
"Oh! And where am I going?"
"Back to Kanaja. This order consigns you to confinement there as a
dangerous political conspirator, as one who has threatened me—it consigns
you to the cells below the lake—for life!"

I laughed aloud, and my hand sought my wallet wherein was that all-
powerful document—the order of the Emperor which gave me, as an
imperial guest, immunity from arrest. I would produce it as my trump-card.
Next second, however, I held my breath, and I think I must have turned
pale. My pocket was empty! My wallet had been stolen! Entirely and
helplessly I had fallen into the hands of the tyrant of the Czar.
His own personal interest would be to consign me to a living tomb in that
grim fortress of Kajana, the horrors of which were unspeakable. I had seen
enough during my inspection of the Russian prisons as a journalist to know
that there, in strangled Finland, I should not be treated with the same
consideration or humanity as in Petersburg or Warsaw. The Governor-
General consigned me to Kajana as a "political," which was synonymous
with a sentence of death in those damp, dark oubliettes beneath the water-
dungeons every whit as awful as those of the Paris Bastile.
We faced each other, and I looked straight into his gray, bony face, and
answered in a tone of defiance:
"You are Governor-General, it is true, but you will, I think, reflect before
you consign me, an Englishman, to prison without trial. I know full well
that the English are hated by Russia, yet I assure you that in London we
entertain no love for your nation or its methods."
"Yes," he laughed, "you are quite right. Russia has no use for an effete
ally such as England is."
"Effete or powerful, my country is still able to present an ultimatum
when diplomacy requires it," I said. "Therefore I have no fear. Send me to
prison, and I tell you that the responsibility rests upon yourself." And
folding my arms I kept my eyes intently upon his, so that he should not see
that I wavered.
"As for the responsibility, I certainly do not fear that, m'sieur," he said.
"But the exposure that will result—are you prepared to face that?" I
asked. "Perhaps you are not aware that others beside myself—one other,
indeed, who is a diplomatist—is aware of my journey here? If I do not

return, your Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Petersburg will be pressed for a
reason."
"Which they will not give."
"Then if they do not, the truth will be out," I said laughing harshly, for I
saw how determined he had become to hold me prisoner. "Come, call up
your myrmidon and send me to Kajana. It will be the first step towards your
own downfall."
"We shall see," he growled.
"Ah! you surely do not think that I, after ten years' service in the British
diplomatic service, would dare to come to Finland upon this quest—would
dare to face the rotten and corrupt officialdom which Russia has placed
within this country—without first taking some adequate precaution? No,
Baron. Therefore I defy you, and I leave Helsingfors to-night."
"You will not. You are under arrest."
I laughed heartily and snapped my fingers, saying:
"Before you give me over to your police, first telegraph to your Minister
of Finance, Monsieur de Witte, and inquire of him who and what I am."
"I don't understand you."
"You have merely to send my name and description to the Minister and
ask for a reply," I said. "He will give you instructions—or, if you so desire,
ask his Majesty yourself."
"And why, pray, does his Majesty concern himself about you?" he asked,
at once puzzled.
"You will learn later, after I am confined in Kajana and your secret is
known in Petersburg."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," I said, "I mean that I have taken all the necessary steps to be
forearmed against you. The day I am incarcerated by your order, the whole
truth will be known. I shall not be the sufferer—but you will."

My words, purposely enigmatical, misled him. He saw the drift of my
argument, and being of course unaware of how much I knew, he was still in
fear of me. My only uncertainty was of the actual fate of poor Elma. My
wallet had been stolen—with a purpose, without a doubt—for the thief had
deprived me of that most important of all documents, the open sesame to
every closed door, the ukase of the Czar.
"You defy me!" he said hoarsely, turning back to the window with the
written order for my imprisonment as a political still in his hand. "But we
shall see."
"You rule Finland," I said in a hard tone, "but you have no power over
Gordon Gregg."
"I have power, and intend to exert it."
"For your own ruin," I remarked with a self-confident smile. "You may
give your torturers orders to kill me—orders that a fatal accident shall occur
within the fortress—but I tell you frankly that my death will neither erase
nor conceal your own offenses. There are others, away in England, who are
aware of them, and who will, in order to avenge my death, speak the truth.
Remember that although Elma Heath has been deprived of both hearing and
of speech, she can still write down the true facts in black and white. The
Czar may be your patron, and you his favorite, but his Majesty has no
tolerance of officials who are guilty of what you are guilty of. You talk of
arresting me!" I added with a smile. "Why, you ought rather to go on your
knees and beg my silence."
He went white with rage at my cutting sarcasm. He literally boiled over,
for he saw that I was quite cool and had no fear of him or of the terrible
punishment to which he intended to consign me. Besides which, he was
filled with wonder regarding the exact amount of information which Elma
had imparted to me.
"There are certain persons," I went on, "to whom it would be of intense
interest to know the true reason why the steam-yacht Lola put into Leghorn;
why I was entertained on board her; why the safe in the British Consulate
was rifled, and why the unfortunate girl, kept a prisoner on board, was
taken on shore just before the hurried sailing of the vessel. And there are

other mysteries which the English police are trying to solve, namely, the
reason Armida Santini and a man disguised as her husband died in Scotland
at the hand of an assassin. But surely I need say no more. It is surely
sufficient to convince you that if the truth were spoken, the revelations
would be distinctly awkward."
"For whom?" he asked, opening his eyes.
"For you. Come, Baron," I said, "can we not yet speak frankly?"
But he was silent for a moment, a fact which was in itself proof that my
pointed argument had caused him to reconsider his intention of sending me
under escort back to that castle of terror.
If my journey there was in order to meet my love, I would not have
cared. It was the ignorance of her whereabouts or of her fate that held me in
such deep, all-consuming anxiety. Each hour that passed increased my fond
and tender affection for her. And yet what irony of circumstance! She had
been cruelly snatched from me at the very moment that freedom had been
ours.
I think it was well that I assumed that air of defiance with the man who
had ground Finland beneath his heel. He was unused to it. No one dared to
go against his will, or to utter taunt or threat to him. He was paramount,
with all the powers of an emperor—the power, indeed, of life and death.
Therefore he was not in the habit of being either thwarted or criticised, and
I could see that my words had aroused within him a boiling tumult of
resentment and of rage. I told him nothing of the loss of my wallet or of the
precious document that it had contained. My defiance was merely upon
principle.
"Arrest me if you like. Denounce me by means of any lie that arises to
your lips, but remember that the truth is known beyond the confines of the
Russian Empire, and for that reason traces will be sought of me and full
explanation demanded. I have taken precaution, Xavier Oberg," I added,
"therefore do your worst. I repeat again that I defy you!"
He paced the big room, his thin claw-like hands still clenched, his yellow
teeth grinding, his dark, deep-set eyes fixed straight before him. If he had
dared, he would have struck me down at his feet. But he did not dare. I saw

too plainly that even though my wallet was gone I still held the trump-card
—that he feared me.
The mention I had made of the Minister of Finance, however, seemed to
cause him considerable hesitation. That high official had the ear of the
Emperor, and if I were a friend there might be inquiries. As I stood before
him leaning against a small buhl table, I watched all the complex workings
of his mind, and tried to read the mysterious motive which had caused him
to consign poor Elma to Kajana.
He was a proud bully, possessing neither pity nor remorse, an average
specimen of the high Russian official, a hide-bound bureaucrat, a slave to
etiquette and possessing a veneer of polish. But beneath it all I saw that he
was a coward in deadly fear of assassination—a coward who dreaded lest
some secret should be revealed. That concealed door in the paneling with
the armed guard lurking behind was sufficiently plain evidence that he was
not the fearless Governor-General that was popularly supposed. He, "The
Strangler of Finland," had crushed the gallant nation into submission,
ruining their commerce, sapping the country by impressing its youth into
the Russian army, forbidding the use of the Finnish language, and taxing the
people until the factories had been compelled to close down while the
peasantry starved. And now, on the verge of revolt, there had arisen a band
of patriots who resented ruin, and who had already warned his Majesty by
letter that if Baron Oberg were not removed from his post he would die.
These and other thoughts ran through my mind in the silence that
followed our heated argument, for I saw well that he was in actual fear of
me. I had led him to believe that I knew everything, and that his future was
in my hands, while he, on his part, was anxious to hold me prisoner, and yet
dared not do so.
My wallet had probably been stolen by some lurking police-spy, for
Russian agents abound everywhere in Finland, reporting conspiracies that
do not exist and denouncing the innocent as "politicals."
The Baron had halted, and was looking through one of the great windows
down upon the courtyard below where the sentries were pacing. The palace
was for him a gilded prison, for he dared not go out for a drive in one or
other of the parks or for a blow on the water across to Hogholmen or

Dagero, being compelled to remain there for months without showing
himself publicly. People in Abo had told me that when he did go out into
the streets of Helsingfors it was at night, and he usually disguised himself in
the uniform of a private soldier of the guard, thus escaping recognition by
those who, driven to desperation by injustice, sought his life.
A long silence had fallen between us, and it now occurred to me to take
advantage of his hesitation. Therefore I said in a firm voice, in French—
"I think, Baron, our interview is at an end, is it not? Therefore I wish you
good-day."
He turned upon me suddenly with an evil flash in his dark eyes, and a
snarling imprecation in Russian upon his lips. His hand still held the order
committing me to the fortress.
"But before I leave you will destroy that document. It may fall into other
hands, you know," and I walked towards him with quick determination.
"I shall do nothing of the kind!" he snapped.
Without further word I snatched the paper from his thin white fingers and
tore it up before his face. His countenance went livid. I do not think I have
ever seen a man's face assume such an expression of fiendish
vindictiveness. It was as though at that instant hell had been let loose within
his heart.
But I turned upon my heel and went out, passing the sentries in the ante-
room, along the flower-filled corridors and across the courtyard to the main
entrance where the gorgeous concierge saluted me as I stepped forth into
the square.
I had escaped by means of my own diplomacy and firmness. The Czar's
representative—the man who ruled that country—feared me, and for that
reason did not hold me prisoner. Yet when I recalled that evil look of
revenge on my departure, I could not help certain feelings of grave
apprehension arising within me.
Returning to my hotel, I smoked a cigar in my room and pondered.
Where was Elma? was the chief question which arose within my mind. By

remaining in Helsingfors I could achieve nothing further, now that I had
made the acquaintance of the oppressor, whereas if I returned to Abo I
might perchance be able to obtain some clue to my love's whereabouts. I
call her my love because I both pitied and loved the poor afflicted girl who
was so helpless and defenseless.
Therefore I took the midnight train back to Abo, arriving at the hotel next
morning. After an hour's rest I set out anxiously in search of Felix, the
drosky-driver. I found him in his log-built house in the Ludno quarter, and
when he asked me in I saw, from his face, that he had news to impart.
"Well?" I inquired. "And what of the lady? Has she been found?"
"Ah! your Excellency. It is a pity you were not here yesterday," he said
with a sigh.
"Why? Tell me quickly. What has happened?"
"I have been assisting the police as spy, Excellency, as I often do, and I
have seen her."
"Seen her! Where?" I cried in quick anxiety.
"Here, in Abo. She arrived yesterday morning from Tammerfors
accompanied by an Englishman. She had changed her dress, and was all in
black. They lunched together at the Restaurant du Nord opposite the landing
stage, and an hour later left by steamer for Petersburg."
"An Englishman!" I cried. "Did you not inform the Chief of Police,
Boranski?"
"Yes, your Excellency. But he said that their passports being in order it
was better to allow the lady to proceed. To delay her might mean her
rearrest in Finland," he added.
"Then their passports were viséd here on embarking?" I exclaimed.
"What was the name upon that of the Englishman?"
"I have it here written down, Excellency. I cannot pronounce your
difficult English names." And he produced a scrap of dirty paper whereon
was written in a Russian hand the name—

"Martin Woodroffe."

CHAPTER XIII
A DOUBLE GAME AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

I went to the railway station, and from the time-table gathered that if I
left Abo by rail at noon I could be in Petersburg an hour before noon on the
morrow, or about four hours before the arrival of the steamer by which the
silent girl and her companion were passengers. This I decided upon doing,
but before leaving I paid a visit to my friend, Boranski, who, to my surprise
and delight, handed me my wallet with the Czar's letter intact, saying that it
had been found upon a German thief who had been arrested at the harbor on
the previous night. The fellow had, no doubt, stolen it from my pocket
believing I carried my paper money in the flap.
"The affair of the English lady is a most extraordinary one," remarked the
Chief of Police, toying with his pen as he sat at his big table. "She seems to
have met this Englishman up at Tammerfors, or at some place further north,
yet it is curious that her passport should be in order even though she fled so
precipitately from Kajana. There is a mystery connected with her
disappearance from the wood-cutter's hut that I confess I cannot fathom."
"Neither can I," I said. "I know the man who is with her, and cannot help
fearing that he is her bitterest enemy—that he is acting in concert with the
Baron."
"Then why is he taking her to the capital—beyond the jurisdiction of the
Governor-General?"
"I am going straight to Petersburg to ascertain," I said. "I have only come
to thank you for your kindness in this matter. Truth to tell, I have been
somewhat surprised that you should have interested yourself on my behalf,"
I added, looking straight at the uniformed official.

"It was not on yours, but on hers," he answered, somewhat enigmatically.
"I know something of the affair, but it was my duty as a man to help the
poor girl to escape from that terrible place. She has, I know, been unjustly
condemned for the attempted assassination of the wife of a General—
condemned with a purpose, of course. Such a thing is not unusual in
Finland."
"Abominable!" I cried. "Oberg is a veritable fiend."
But the man only shrugged his shoulders, saying—
"The orders of his Excellency the Governor-General have to be obeyed,
whatever they are. We often regret, but we dare not refuse to carry them
out."
"Russian rule is a disgrace to our modern civilization," I declared hotly.
"I have every sympathy with those who are fighting for freedom."
"Ah, you are not alone in that," he sighed, speaking in a low whisper, and
glancing around. "His Majesty would order reforms and ameliorate the
condition of his people, if only it were possible. But he, like his officials,
are powerless. Here we speak of the great uprising with bated breath, but
we, alas! know that it must come one day--very soon—and Finland will be
the first to endeavor to break her bonds—and the Baron Oberg the first to
fall."
For nearly an hour I sat with him, surprised to find how, although his
exterior was so harsh and uncouth, yet his heart really bled for the poor
starving people he was so constantly forced to oppress.
"I have ruined this town of Abo," he declared, quite frankly. "To my own
knowledge five hundred innocent persons have gone to prison, and another
two hundred have been exiled to Siberia. Yet what I have done is only at
direct orders from Helsingfors—orders that are stern, pitiless and unjust.
Men have been torn from their families and sent to the mines, women have
been arrested for no offense and shipped off to Saghalien, and mere
children have been cast into prison on charges of political conspiracy with
their elders—in order to Russify the province! Only," he added anxiously, "I
trust you will never repeat what I tell you. You have asked me why I

assisted the English Mademoiselle to escape from Kajana, and I have
explained the reason."
We ate a hearty meal in company at the Sampalinna, a restaurant built
like a Swiss châlet, and at noon I entered the train on the first stage of my
slow, tedious journey through the great silent forests and along the shores of
the lakes of Southern Finland, by way of Tavestehus and Viborg, to
Petersburg.
I was alone in the compartment, and sat moodily watching the panorama
of wood and river as we slowly wound up the tortuous ascents and
descended the steep gradients. I had not even a newspaper with which to
while away the time, only my own apprehensive thoughts of whither my
helpless love was being conducted.

Surely to no man was there ever presented such a complicated problem
as that which I was now trying so vigorously to solve. I loved Elma Heath.
The more I reflected, the deeper did her sweet countenance and tender grace
impress themselves upon my heart. I loved her, therefore I was striving to
overtake her.
The steamer, I learned, would call at Hango and Helsingfors. Would they,
I wonder, disembark at either of those places? Was the man whom I had
known as Hornby, the owner of the Lola, taking her to place her again in the
fiendish hands of Xavier Oberg? The very thought of it caused me to hold
my breath.
Daylight came at last, cold and gray, over those dreary interminable
marshes where game, especially snipe, seemed abundant, and at a small
station at the head of a lake called Davidstadt I took my morning glass of
tea; then we resumed our journey down to Viborg, where a short, thick-set
Russian of the commercial class, but something of a dandy, entered my
compartment, and we left express for Petersburg.
We had passed by a small station called Galitsina, near which were many
villas occupied in summer by families from Petersburg, and were traveling
through the dense gloomy pine-woods, when my fellow-traveler, having

asked permission to smoke, commenced to chat affably. He seemed a
pleasant fellow, and told me that he was a wool merchant, and that he had
been having a pleasant vacation trout fishing in the Vuoski above the falls
of the Imatra, where the pools between the rapids abound with fish.
He had told me that on account of the shore being so full of weeds and
the clearness of the water, fishing from the banks was almost an
impossibility, and how they had to accustom themselves to troll from a boat
so small as to only accommodate the rower and the fisherman.
Then he remarked suddenly—
"You are English, I presume—possibly from Helsingfors?"
"No," I answered. "From Abo. I crossed from Stockholm, and am going
to Petersburg."
"And I also. I live in Petersburg," he added. "We may perhaps meet one
day. Do you know the capital?"
I explained that I had visited it once before, and had done the usual round
of sight-seeing. His manner was brisk and to the point, as became a man of
business, but when we stopped at Bele-Ostrof, on the opposite side of the
small winding river that separates Finland from Russia proper, the Customs
officer who came to examine our baggage exchanged a curious meaning
look with him.
My fellow-traveler believed that I had not observed, yet, keenly on the
alert as I now was, I was shrewd to detect the least sign or look, and I at
once resolved to tell the fellow nothing further of my own affairs. He was,
no doubt, a spy of "The Strangler's," who had followed me all the way from
Abo, and had only entered my carriage for the final stage of the journey.
This revelation caused me some uneasiness, for even though I was able to
evade the man on arrival in Petersburg, he could no doubt quickly obtain
news of my whereabouts from the police to whom my passport must be
sent. I pretended to doze, and lay back with my eyes half-closed watching
him. When he found me disinclined to talk further, he took up the paper he
had bought and became engrossed in it, while I, on my part, endeavored to
form some plan by which to mislead and escape his vigilance.

The fellow meant mischief—that I knew. If Elma was flying in secret and
he watched me, he would know that she was in Petersburg. At all hazards,
for my love's sake as well as for mine, I saw that I must escape him. The
ingeniousness and cleverness of Oberg's spies was proverbial throughout
Finland, therefore he might not be alone, or in any case, on arrival in
Petersburg would obtain assistance in keeping observation upon me. I knew
that the Baron desired my death, and that therefore I could not be too wary
of pitfalls. That fatal chair so cunningly prepared for me in Lambeth was
still vividly within my memory.
As we passed Lanskaya, and ran through the outer suburbs of Petersburg,
my fellow-traveler became inquisitive as to where I was going, but I was
somewhat unresponsive, and busied myself with my bag until we entered
the great echoing terminus whence I could see the Neva gleaming in the
pale sunlight and the city beyond. The fellow made no attempt to follow me
—he was too clever a secret agent for that. He merely wished me
"sdravstvuite" raised his hat politely and disappeared.
A porter carried my bag out of the station, and I drove across the bridge
to the large hotel where I had stopped before, the Europe, on the corner of
the Nevski Prospect and the Michael Street. There I engaged a front room
looking down into the broad Nevski, had a wash, and then watched at the
window for the appearance of the spy. I had already a good four hours
before the steamer from Abo was due, and I intended to satisfy myself
whether or not I was being followed.
Within twenty minutes the fellow lounged along on the opposite side of
the road, just as I had expected. He had changed his clothes, and presented
such a different appearance that at first sight I failed to recognize him. He
knew that I had driven there, and intended to follow me if I came forth. My
position was one of extreme difficulty, for if I went down to the quay he
would most certainly follow me.
Having watched his movements for ten minutes or so I descended to the
big salle-à-manger and there ate my luncheon, chatting to the French waiter
the while. I sat purposely in an alcove, so as to be away from the other
people lunching there, and in order that I might be able to talk with the
waiter without being overheard.

Just as I had finished my meal, and he was handing me my bill, I bent
towards him and asked—
"Do you want to earn twenty roubles?"
"Well, m'sieur," he answered, looking at me with some surprise. "They
would be acceptable. I am a married man."
"Well, I want to escape from this place without being observed. There is
a disagreeable little matter regarding a lady, and I fear a fracas with a man
who is awaiting me outside in the Nevski." Then, seeing that he hesitated, I
assured him that I had committed no crime, and that I should return for my
baggage that evening.
"You could pass through the kitchen and out by the servants' entrance,"
he said, after a moment's reflection. "If m'sieur so desires, I will conduct
him out. The exit is in a back street which leads on to the Catherine Canal."
"Excellent!" I said. "Let us go. Of course you will say nothing?"
"Not a word, m'sieur," and he gathered up the notes plus twenty roubles
with which I paid my bill, and taking my hat I followed him to the end of
the salle-à-manger behind a high wooden screen, across the huge kitchen,
and then through a long stone corridor at the end of which sat a gruff old
doorkeeper. My guide spoke a word to him, and then the door opened and I
found myself in a narrow back slum with the canal beyond.
My first visit was to a clothier's, where I purchased and put on a new
light overcoat and then to a hatter's for a hat of different shape to that I was
wearing. I carried the hat back to a quiet alley which I had noticed, and
quickly exchanged the one I was wearing for it, leaving my old hat in a
corner. Then I entered a café in order to while away the hours until the
vessel from Finland was due.
At four o'clock I was out upon the quay, straining my eyes seaward for
any sign of smoke, but could see nothing. The sun was sinking, and the
broad expanse of water westward danced like liquid gold. The light died out
slowly, the cold gray of evening crept on. A chill wind sprang up and swept
the quay, causing me to shiver. I asked of a dock laborer whether the

steamer was usually late, whereupon he told me that it was often five or six
hours behind time, depending upon the delay at Helsingfors.
Twilight deepened into night, and the rain fell heavily, yet I still paced
the wet flags in patience, my eyes ever seaward for the light of the vessel
which I hoped bore my love. My presence there aroused some speculation
among the loungers, I think; nevertheless, I waited in deepest anxiety
whether, after all, Elma and Hornby had not disembarked at Helsingfors.
Soon after ten o'clock a light shone afar off, and the movement of the
police and porters on the quay told me that it was the vessel. Then after a
further anxious quarter of an hour it came, amid great shouting and mutual
imprecations, slowly alongside the quay, and the passengers at last began to
disembark in the pelting rain.
One after another they walked up the gangway, filing into the passport-
office and on into the Custom House, people of all sorts and all grades—
Swedes, Germans, Finns, and Russians—until suddenly I caught sight of
two figures—one a man in a big tweed traveling-coat and a golf-cap, and
the other the slight figure of a woman in a long dark cloak and a woolen
tam-o'-shanter. The electric rays fell upon them as they came up the wet
gangway together, and there once again I saw the sweet face of the silent
woman whom I had grown to love with such fervent desperation. The man
behind her was the same who had entertained me on board the Lola—the
man who was said to be the lover of the fugitive Muriel Leithcourt.
Without betraying my presence I watched them pass through the
passport-office and Custom House, and then, overhearing the address which
Martin Woodroffe gave the isvoshtchik, I stood aside, wet to the skin, and
saw them drive away.
At eleven o'clock on the following day I found myself installed in the
Hotel de Paris, a comfortable hostelry in the Little Morskaya, having
succeeded in evading the vigilance of the spy who had so cleverly followed
me from Abo, and in getting my suit-case round from the Hotel Europe.
I was beneath the same roof as Elma, although she was in ignorance of
my presence. Anxious to communicate with her without Woodroffe's
knowledge, I was now awaiting my opportunity. He had, it appeared, taken

for her a pleasant front room with sitting-room adjoining on the first floor,
while he himself occupied a room on the third floor. The apartments he had
engaged for her were the most expensive in the hotel, and as far as I could
gather from the French waiter whom I judiciously tipped, he appeared to
treat her with every consideration and kindness.
"Ah, poor young lady!" the man exclaimed as he stood in my room
answering my questions, "What an affliction! She writes down all her
orders—for she can utter no word."
"Has the Englishman received any visitors?" I asked.
"One man—a Russian—an official of police, I think."
"If he receives anyone else, let me know," I said. "And I want you to give
Mademoiselle a letter from me in secret."
"Bien, m'sieur."
I turned to the little writing-table and scribbled a few hasty lines to my
love, announcing my presence, and asking her to grant me an interview in
secret as soon as Woodroffe was absent. I also warned her of the search for
her instigated by the Baron, and urged her to send me a line in reply.
The note was delivered into her hand, but although I waited in suspense
nearly all day she sent no reply. While Woodroffe was in the hotel I dared
not show myself lest he should recognize me, therefore I was compelled to
sham indisposition and to eat my meals alone in my room.
Both the means by which she had met Martin Woodroffe and the motive
were equally an enigma. By that letter she had written to her schoolfellow it
was apparent that she had some secret of his, for had she not wished to send
him a message of reassurance that she had divulged nothing? This would
seem that they were close friends; yet, on the other hand, something seemed
to tell me that he was acting falsely, and was really an ally of the Baron's.
Why had he brought her to Petersburg? If he had desired to rescue her he
would have taken her in the opposite direction—to Stockholm, where she
would be free—whereas he took her, an escaped prisoner, into the very
midst of peril. It was true that her passport was in order, yet I remembered

that an order had been issued for her transportation to Saghalien, and now
once arrested she must be lost to me for ever. This thought filled me with
fierce anxiety. She was in Petersburg, that city where police spies swarm,
and where every fresh arrival is noted and his antecedents inquired into. No
attempt had been made to disguise who she was, therefore before long the
police would undoubtedly come and arrest her as the escaped criminal from
Kajana.
For several hours I sat at my window watching the life and movement
down in the street below, my mind full of wonder and dark forebodings.
Was Martin Woodroffe playing her false?
Just after half-past six o'clock the waiter entered, and handing me a note
on a salver, said—
"Mademoiselle has, I believe, only this moment been able to write in
secret."
I tore it open and read as follows:—
DEAR FRIEND.—I am so surprised. I thought you were still in Abo.
Woodroffe has an appointment at eight o'clock on the other side of the city,
therefore come to me at 8.15. I must see you, and at once. I am in peril.—
ELMA HEATH.
My love was in peril! It was just as I had feared. I thanked Providence
that I had been sent to help her and extricate her from that awful fate to
which "The Strangler of Finland" had consigned her.
At the hour she named, after the waiter had come to me and announced
the Englishman's departure, I descended to her sitting-room and entered
without rapping, for if I had rapped she could not, alas! have heard.
The apartment was spacious and comfortable, thickly carpeted, with
heavy furniture and gilding. Before the long window were drawn curtains
of dark green plush, and on one side was the high stove of white porcelain
with shining brass bands, while from her low lounge-chair a slim wan
figure sprang up quickly and came forward to greet me, holding out both
her hands and smiling happily.

I took her hands in mine and held them tightly in silence for some
moments, as I looked earnestly into those wonderfully brilliant eyes of hers.
She turned away laughing, a slight flush rising to her cheeks in her
confusion. Then she led me to a chair, and motioned me to be seated.
Ours was a silent meeting, but her gestures and the expression of her eyes
were surely more eloquent than mere words. I knew well what pleasure that
re-encounter caused her—equal pleasure with that it gave to me.
Until that moment I had never really loved. I had admired and flirted
with women. What man has not? Indeed, I had admired Muriel Leithcourt.
But never until now had I experienced in my heart the real flame of true
burning affection. The sweetness of her expression, the tender caress of
those soft, tapering hands, the deep mysterious look in those magnificent
eyes, and the incomparable grace of all her movements, combined to render
her the most perfect woman I had ever met—perfect in all, alas! save
speech and hearing, of which, with such dastard wantonness, she had been
deprived.
She touched her red lips with the tip of her forefinger, opened her hands,
and shrugged her shoulders with a sad gesture of regret. Then turning
quickly to some paper on the little table at her side she wrote something
with a gold pencil and handed to me. It read—
"Surely Providence has sent you here! Mr. Woodroffe must have
followed you from England. He is my enemy. You must take me from here
and hide me. They intend to send me into exile. Have you ever been in
Petersburg before? Do you know anyone here?"
Then when I had read, she handed me her pencil and below I wrote—
"I will do my best, dear friend. I have been once in Petersburg. But is it
not best that we should escape at once from Russia?"
"Impossible at present," she wrote. "We should both be arrested at the
frontier. It would be best to go into hiding here in Petersburg. I believed
Woodroffe to be my friend, but I have found only this day that he is my
enemy. He knew that I was in Kajana, and was in Abo when he learned of
my escape. He went with two other men in search of us, and discovered us
that night when we sought shelter at the wood-cutter's hut. Without making

his presence known he waited outside until you were asleep, and then he
came and looked in at my window. At first I was alarmed, but quickly I saw
that he was a friend. He told me that the police were in the vicinity and
intended to raid the hut, therefore I fled with him, first down to Tammerfors
and then to Abo, and on here. At that time I did not see the dastardly trap he
had laid in order to get me out of the Baron's clutches and wring from me
my secret. If I confess, he intends to give me up to the police, who will send
me to the mines."
"Does your secret concern him?" I asked in writing.
"Yes," she wrote in response. "It would be equally in his interests as well
as those of Baron Oberg if I were sent to Saghalien and my identity effaced.
I am a Russian subject, as I have already told you, therefore with a
Ministerial order against me I am in deadliest peril."
"Trust in me," I scribbled quickly. "I will act upon any suggestion you
make. Have you any female friend in whom you could trust to hide you
until this danger is past?"
"There is one friend—a true friend. Will you take a note to her?" she
wrote, to which I instantly nodded in the affirmative.
Then rising, she obtained some ink and pen and wrote a letter, the
contents of which she did not show me before she sealed it. I sat watching
her beautiful head bent beneath the shaded lamplight, catching her profile
and noticing how eminently handsome it was, superb and unblemished in
her youthful womanhood.
I watched her write the superscription upon the envelope: "Madame Olga
Stassulevitch, modiste, Scredni Prospect, 231, Vasili Ostroff." I knew that
the district was on the opposite side of the city, close to the Little Neva.
"Take a drosky at once, see her, and await a reply. In the meantime, I will
prepare to be ready when you return," she wrote. "If Olga is not at home,
ask to see the Red Priest—in Russian, 'Krasny-pastor.' Return quickly, as I
fear Woodroffe may come back. If so, I am lost."
I assured her I would not lose a single instant, and five minutes later I
was tearing down the Morskaya in a drosky along the canal and across the

Nicholas Bridge to the address upon the envelope.
The house was, I found, somewhat smaller than its neighbors, but not let
out in flats as the others. Upon the door was a large brass plate bearing the
name, "Olga Stassulevitch: modes." I pressed the electric button, and in
answer a tall, clean-shaven Russian servant opened the door.
"Madame is not at home," was his brief reply to my inquiry.
"Then I will see the Red Priest," I said in a lower tone. "I come from
Elma Heath." Thereupon, without further word, the man admitted me into
the long, dark hall and closed the door with an apology that the gas was not
lighted. But striking a match he led me up the broad staircase and into a
small, cosy, well-furnished room on the second floor, evidently the sitting-
room of some studious person, judging from the books and critical reviews
lying about.
For a few minutes I waited there, until the door reopened, and there
entered a man of medium height, with a shock of long snow-white hair and
almost patriarchal beard, whose dark eyes that age had dimmed flashed out
at me with a look of curious inquiry, and whose movements were those of a
person not quite at his ease.
"I have called on behalf of Mademoiselle Elma Heath, to give this letter
to Madame Stassulevitch, or if she is absent to place it in the hands of the
Red Priest," I explained in my best Russian.
"Very well, sir," the old man responded in quite good English. "I am the
person you seek," and taking the letter he opened it and read it through.
I saw by the expression on his furrowed face that its contents caused him
the utmost consternation. His countenance, already pale, blanched to the
lips, while in his eyes there shot a fire of quick apprehension. The thin,
almost transparent hand holding the letter trembled visibly.
"You know Mademoiselle—eh?" he asked in a hoarse, strained voice as
he turned to me. "You will help her to escape?"
"I will risk my own life in order to save hers," I declared.

"And your devotion to her is prompted by what?" he inquired
suspiciously.
I was silent for a moment. Then I confessed the truth.
"My affection."
"Ah!" he sighed deeply. "Poor young lady! She, who has enemies on
every hand, sadly needs a friend. But can we trust you—have you no fear?"
"Of what?"
"Of being implicated in the coming revolution in Russia? Remember I
am the Red Priest. Have you never heard of me? My name is Otto Kampf."
Otto Kampf!
I stood before him open-mouthed. Who in Russia had not heard of that
mysterious unknown person who had directed a hundred conspiracies
against the Imperial Autocrat, and yet the identity of whom the police had
always failed to discover. It was believed that Kampf had once been
professor of chemistry at Moscow University, and that he had invented that
most terrible and destructive explosive used by the revolutionists. The
ingredients of the powerful compound and the mode of firing it was the
secret of the Nihilists alone—and Otto Kampf, the mysterious leader, whose
personality was unknown even to the conspirators themselves, directed
those constant attempts which held the Emperor and his Government in
such hourly terror.
Rewards without number had been offered by the Ministry of the Interior
for the betrayal and arrest of the unseen man whose power in Russia,
permeating every class, was greater than that of the Emperor himself—at
whose word one day the people would rise in a body and destroy their
oppressors.
The Emperor, the Ministers, the police, and the bureaucrats knew this, yet
they were powerless—they knew that the mysterious professor who had
disappeared from Moscow fifteen years before and had never since been
seen was only waiting his opportunity to strike a blow that would stagger

and crush the Empire from end to end—yet of his whereabouts they were in
utter ignorance.
"You are surprised," the old man laughed, noticing my amazement.
"Well, you are not one of us, yet I need not impress upon you the absolute
necessity, for Mademoiselle's sake, to preserve the secret of my existence. It
is because you are not a member of 'The Will of the People,' that you have
never heard of 'The Red Priest'—red because I wrote my ultimatum to the
Czar in the blood of one of his victims knouted in the fortress of Peter and
Paul, and priest because I preach the gospel of freedom and justice."
"I shall say nothing," I said, gazing at the strangely striking figure before
me—the unknown man who directed the great upheaval that was to
revolutionize Russia. "My only desire is to save Mademoiselle Heath."
"And you are prepared to do so at risk of your own liberty—your own
life? Ah! you said you love her. Would not this be a test of your affection?"
"I am prepared for any test, as long as she escapes the trap which her
enemies have set for her. I succeeded in saving her from Kajana, and I
intend to save her now."
"Was it you who actually entered Kajana and snatched her from that
tomb!" he exclaimed, and he took my hand enthusiastically, adding—"I
have no further need to doubt you." And turning to the table he wrote an
address upon a slip of paper, saying, "Take Mademoiselle there. She will
find a safe place of concealment. But go quickly, for every moment places
you both in more deadly peril. Hide yourself there also."
I thanked him and left at once, but as I stepped out of the house and re-
entered the drosky I saw close by, lurking in the shadow, the spy of "The
Strangler of Finland," who had traveled with me from Abo.
Our eyes met, and he recognized me, notwithstanding my light overcoat
and new hat.
Then, with heart-sinking, the ghastly truth flashed upon me. All had been
in vain. Elma was lost to me.

CHAPTER XIV
HER HIGHNESS IS INQUISITIVE

Instantly the danger was apparent, and instead of driving back to the
hotel, I called out to the man to take me to the Moscow railway station, in
order to put the spy off the scent. I knew he would follow me, but as he was
on foot, with no drosky in sight, I should be able to reach the station before
he could, and there elude him.
Over the stones we rattled, leaving the lurking agent standing in the deep
shadow, but on turning back I saw him dash across the road to a by-street,
where, in all probability, he had a conveyance in waiting.
Then, after we had crossed the Neva, I countermanded my order to the
man, saying—
"Don't go right up to the station. Turn into the Liteinoi Prospect to the
left, and put me down there. Drive quickly, and I'll pay double fare."
He whipped his horses, and we turned into that maze of dark, ill-lit,
narrow streets that lies between the Vosnesenski and the Nevski, turning
and winding until we emerged at last into the main thoroughfare again, and
then at last we turned into the street I had indicated—a wide road of
handsome buildings where I knew I was certain to be able to instantly get
another drosky. I flung the man his money, alighted, and two minutes later
was driving on towards the Alexander Bridge, traveling in a circle back to
the hotel. Time after time I glanced behind, but saw nothing of the Baron's
spy, who had evidently gone to the station with all speed, expecting that I
was leaving the capital.
I found Elma in her room, ready dressed to go out, wearing a long
traveling-cloak, and in her hand was a small dressing-case. She was pale

and full of anxiety until I showed her the slip of paper which Otto Kampf
had given me with the address written upon it, and then together we hurried
forth.
The house to which we drove was, we discovered, a large one facing the
Fontanka Canal, one of the best quarters of the town, and on descending I
asked the liveried dvornick for Madame Zurloff, the name which the "Red
Priest" had written.
"You mean the Princess Zurloff," remarked the man through his red
beard. "Whom shall I say desires to see her?"
"Take that," I said, handing to him the piece of paper which, beside the
address, bore a curious cipher-mark like three triangles joined.
He closed the door, leaving us in the wide carpeted hall, the statuary in
which showed us that it was a richly-furnished place, and when a few
minutes later he returned, he conducted us upstairs to a fine gilded salon,
where an elderly gray-haired lady in black stood gravely to receive us.
"Allow me to present Mademoiselle Elma Heath, Princess," I said,
speaking in French and bowing, and afterwards telling her my own name.
Our hostess welcomed my love in a graceful speech, but I said—
"Mademoiselle unfortunately suffers a terrible affliction. She is deaf and
dumb."
"Ah, how very, very sad!" she exclaimed sympathetically. "Poor girl!
poor girl!" and she placed her hand tenderly upon Elma's shoulder and
looked into her eyes. Then, turning to me, she said: "So the Red Priest has
sent you both to me! You are in danger of arrest, I suppose—you wish me to
conceal you here?"
"I would only ask sanctuary for Mademoiselle," was my reply. "For
myself, I have no fear. I am English, and therefore not a member of the
Party."
"The Mademoiselle fears arrest?"

"There is an order signed for her banishment to Saghalein," I said. "She
was imprisoned at Kajana, the fortress away in Finland, but I succeeded in
liberating her."
"She has actually been in Kajana!" gasped the Princess. "Ah! we have all
heard sufficient of the horrors of that place. And you liberated her! Why,
she is the only person who has ever escaped from that living tomb to which
Oberg sends his victims."
"I believe so, Princess."
"And may I take it, m'sieur, that the reason you risked your life for her is
because you love her? Pardon me for suggesting this."
"You have guessed correctly," I answered. Then, knowing that Elma
could not hear, I added: "I love her, but we are not lovers. I have not told
her of my affection. Hers is a long and strange story, and she will perhaps
tell you something of it in writing."
"Well," exclaimed the gray-haired lady smiling, leading my love across
the luxurious room, the atmosphere of which was filled with the scent of
flowers, and taking off her cloak with her own hands, "you are safe here,
my poor child. If spies have not followed you, then you shall remain my
guest as long as you desire."
"I am sure it is very good of you, Princess," I said gratefully. "Miss Heath
is the victim of a vile and dastardly conspiracy. When I tell you that she has
been afflicted as she is by her enemies—that an operation was performed
upon her in Italy while she was unconscious—you will readily see in what
deadly peril she is."
"What!" she cried. "Have her enemies actually done this? Horrible!"
"She will perhaps tell you of the strange romance that surrounds her—a
mystery which I have not yet been able to fathom. She is a Russian subject,
although she has been educated in England. Baron Oberg himself is, I
believe, her worst and most bitter enemy."
"Ah! the Strangler!" she exclaimed with a quick flash in her dark eyes.
"But his end is near. The Movement is active in Helsingfors. At any

moment now we may strike our blow for freedom."
She was an enthusiastic revolutionist, I could see, unsuspected, however,
by the police on account of her high position in Petersburg society. It was
she who, as I afterwards discovered, had furnished the large sums of money
to Kampf for the continuation of the revolutionary propaganda, and indeed
secretly devoted the greater part of her revenues from her vast estates in
Samara and Kazan to the Nihilist cause. Her husband, himself an enthusiast
of freedom, although of the high nobility, had been killed by a fall from his
horse six years before, and since that time she had retired from society and
lived there quietly, making the revolutionary movement her sole
occupation. The authorities believed that her retirement was due to the
painful loss she had sustained, and had no suspicion that it was her money
that enabled the mysterious "Red Priest" to slowly but surely complete the
plot for the general uprising.
She compelled me to remove my coat, and tea was served by a Tartar
footman, whose family she explained had been serfs of the Zurloffs for
three centuries, and then Elma exchanged confidences with her by means of
paper and pencil.
"Who is this man Martin Woodroffe, of whom she speaks?" asked the
Princess presently, turning to me.
"I have met him twice—only twice," I replied, "and under strange
circumstances." Then, continuing, I told her something concerning the
incidents of the yacht Lola.
"He may be in love with her, and desires to force her into marriage," she
suggested, expressing amazement at the curious narrative I had related.
"I think not, for several reasons. One is because I know she holds some
secret concerning him, and another because he is engaged to an English girl
named Muriel Leithcourt."
"Leithcourt? Leithcourt?" repeated the Princess, knitting her brows with a
puzzled air. "Do you happen to know her father's name?"
"Philip Leithcourt."

"And has he actually been living in Scotland?"
"Yes," I answered in quick anxiety. "He rented a shoot called Rannoch,
near Dumfries. A mysterious incident occurred on his estate—a double
murder, or murder and suicide; which is not quite clear—but shortly
afterwards there appeared one evening at the house a man named Chater,
Hylton Chater, and the whole family at once fled and disappeared."
Princess Zurloff sat with her lips pressed close together, looking straight
at the silent girl before her. Elma had removed her hat and cloak, and now
sat in a deep easy chair of yellow silk, with the lamplight shining on her
chestnut hair, settled and calm as though already thoroughly at home. I
smiled to myself as I thought of the chagrin of Woodroffe when he returned
to find his victim missing.
"Your Highness evidently knows the Leithcourts," I hazarded, after a
brief silence.
"I have heard of them," was her unsatisfactory reply. "I go to England
sometimes. When the Prince was alive, we were often at Claridge's for the
season. The Prince was for five years military attaché at the Embassy under
de Staal, you know. What I know of the Leithcourts is not to their credit.
But you tell me that there was a mysterious incident before their flight.
Explain it to me."
At that moment the long white doors of the handsome salon were thrown
open by the faithful Tartar servitor, and there entered a man whose hair fell
over the collar of his heavy overcoat, but whom, in an instant, I recognized
as Otto Kampf.
Both Elma and I sprang to our feet, while advancing to the Princess he
bent and gallantly kissed the hand she held forth to him. Then he shook
hands with Elma, and acknowledging my own greetings, took off his coat
and threw it upon a chair with the air of an accustomed visitor.
"I come, Princess, in order to explain to you," he said. "Mademoiselle
fears rearrest, and the only house in Petersburg that the police never suspect
is this. Therefore I send her to you, knowing that with your generosity you
will help her in her distress."

"It is all arranged," was her Highness's response. "She will remain here,
poor girl, until it is safe for her to get out of Russia." Then, after some
further conversation, and after my well-beloved had made signs of heartfelt
gratitude to the man known from end to end of the Russian empire as "The
Red Priest," the Princess turned to me, saying:
"I would much like to know what occurred before the Leithcourts left
Scotland."
"The Leithcourts!" exclaimed Kampf in utter surprise. "Do you know the
Leithcourts—and the English officer Durnford?"
I looked into his eyes in abject amazement. What connection could Jack
Durnford, of the Marines, have with the adventurer Philip Leithcourt? I,
however, recollected Jack's word, when I had described the visit of the Lola
to Leghorn, and further I recollected that very shortly he would be back in
London from his term of Mediterranean service.
"Well," I said after a pause, "I happen to know Captain Durnford very
well, but I had no idea that he was friendly with Leithcourt."
The Red Priest smiled, stroking his white beard.
"Explain to her Highness what she desires to know, and I will tell you."
My eyes met Elma's, and I saw how intensely eager and interested she
was, watching the movement of my lips and trying to make out what words
I uttered.
"Well," I said, "a mysterious tragedy occurred on the edge of a wood near
the house rented by Leithcourt—a tragedy which has puzzled the police to
this day. An Italian named Santini and his wife were found murdered."
"Santini!" gasped Kampf, starting up. "But surely he is not dead?"
"No. That's the curious part of the affair. The man who was killed was a
man disguised to represent the Italian, while the woman was actually the
waiter's wife herself. I happen to know the man Santini well, for both he
and his wife were for some years in my employ."

The Princess and the director of the Russian revolutionary movement
exchanged quick glances. It was as though her Highness implored Kampf to
reveal to me the truth, while he, on his part, was averse to doing so.
"And upon whom does suspicion rest?" asked her Highness.
"As far as I can make out, the police have no clue whatever, except one.
At the spot was found a tiny miniature cross of one of the Russian orders of
chivalry—the Cross of Saint Anne."
"There is no suspicion upon Leithcourt?" she asked with some undue
anxiety I thought.
"No."
"Did he entertain any guests at the shooting-box?"
"A good many."
"No foreigners among them?"
"I never met any. They seemed all people from London—a smart set for
the most part."
"Then why did the Leithcourts disappear so suddenly?"
"Because of the appearance of the man Chater," I replied. "It is evident
that they feared him, for they took every precaution against being followed.
In fact, they fled leaving a big party of friends in the house. The man
Woodroffe, now at the Hotel de Paris, is a friend of Leithcourt as well as of
Chater."
"He was not a guest of Leithcourt when this man representing Santini
was assassinated?" asked Kampf, again stroking his beard.
"No. As soon as Woodroffe recognized me as a visitor he left—for
Hamburg."
"He was afraid to face you because of the ransacking of the British
Consul's safe at Leghorn," remarked the Princess, who, at the same
moment, took Elma's hand tenderly in her own and looked at her. Then,
turning to me, she said: "What you have told us to-night, Mr. Gregg, throws

a new light upon certain incidents that had hitherto puzzled us. The mystery
of it all is a great and inscrutable one—the mystery of this poor unfortunate
girl, greatest of all. But both of us will endeavor to help you to elucidate it;
we will help poor Elma to crush her enemies—these cowardly villains who
had maimed her."
"Ah, Princess!" I cried. "If you will only help and protect her, you will be
doing an act of mercy to a defenseless woman. I love her—I admit it. I have
done my utmost: I have striven to solve the dark mystery, but up to the
present I have been unsuccessful, and have only remained, even till to-day,
the victim of circumstance."
"Let her stay with me," the kindly woman answered, smiling tenderly
upon my love. "She will be safe here, and in the meantime we will endeavor
to discover the real and actual truth."
And in response I took the Princess's hand and pressed it fervently.
Although that striking, white-headed man and the rather stiff, formal
woman in black were the leaders of the great and all-powerful movement in
Russia known through the civilized world as "The Terror," yet they were
nevertheless our friends. They had pledged themselves to help us thwart our
enemies.
I scribbled a few hasty words upon paper and handed it to Elma. And for
answer she smiled contentedly, looking into my eyes with an expression of
trust, devotion and love.

CHAPTER XV
JUST OFF THE STRAND

A week had gone by. The Nord Express had brought me posthaste across
Europe from Petersburg to Calais, and I was again in London. I had left
Elma in the care of the Princess Zurloff, whom I knew would conceal her
from the horde of police-agents now in search of her.
The mystery had so increased until now it had become absolutely
bewildering. The more I had tried to probe it, the more inexplicable had I
found it. My brain was awhirl as I sat in the wagon-lit rushing across those
wide, never-ending plains that lie between the Russian capital and Berlin
and the green valleys between the Rhine-lands and the sea. The maze of
mystery rendered me utterly incapable of grasping one solid tangible fact,
so closely interwoven was each incident of the strange life-drama in which,
through mere chance, I was now playing a leading part. I was aware of one
fact only, that I loved Elma with all my soul, even though I knew not whom
she really was—or her strange life story. Her sweet face, with those soft,
brown eyes, so tender and intense, stood out ever before me, sleeping or
waking. Each moment as the express rushed south increased the distance
between us, yet was I not on my way back to England with a clear and
distinct purpose? I snatched at any clue, however small, with desperate
eagerness, as a drowning man clutches at a straw.
The spy from Abo had seen me on the railway platform on my departure
from Petersburg. He had overheard me buy a ticket for London, and
previous to stepping into the train I had smiled at him in glad triumph. My
journey was too long a one for him to follow, and I knew that I had at last
outwitted him. He had expected to see Elma with me, no doubt, and his
disappointment was plainly marked. But of Woodroffe I had neither seen
nor heard anything.

It was a cold but dry November night in London, and I sat dining with
Jack Durnford at a small table in the big, well-lit room of the Junior United
Service Club. Easy-going and merry as of old, my friend was bubbling over
with good spirits, delighted to be back again in town after three years
sailing up and down the Mediterranean, from Gib. to Smyrna, Maneuvering
always, yet with never a chance of a fight. His well-shaven face bore the
mark of the southern suns, and the backs of his hands were tanned by the
heat and the sea. He was, indeed, as smart an officer as any at the Junior, for
the Marines are proverbial for their neatness, and his men on board the
Bulwark had received many a pleasing compliment from the Admiral.
"Glad to be back!" he exclaimed, as he helped himself to a "peg." "I
should rather think so, old chap. You know how awfully wearying the life
becomes out there. Lots going on down at Palermo, Malta, Monte Carlo, or
over at Algiers, and yet we can never get a chance of it. We're always in
sight of the gay places, and never land. I don't blame the youngsters for
getting off from Leghorn for two days over here in town when they can.
Three years is a bigger slice out of a fellow's life than anyone would
suppose. But, by the way, I saw Hutcheson the other day. We put into
Spezia, and he came out to see the Admiral—got despatches for him, I
think. He seems as gay as ever. He lunched at mess, and said how sorry he
was you'd deserted Leghorn."
"I haven't exactly deserted it," I said. "But I really don't love it like he
does."
"No. A year or two of the Mediterranean blue is quite sufficient to last
any fellow his lifetime. I shouldn't live in Leghorn if I had my choice. I'd
prefer somewhere up in the mountains, beyond Pisa, or outside Florence,
where you can have a good time in winter."
Then a silence fell between us, and I sat eating on until the end of the
meal, wondering how to broach the question I so desired to put to him.

"I shall try if I can get on recruiting service at home for a bit," he said
presently. "There's an appointment up in Glasgow vacant, and I shall try for
it. It'll be better, at any rate, than China or the Pacific."
I was just about to turn the conversation to the visit of the mysterious
Lola to Leghorn, when two men he knew entered the dining-room, and,
recognizing him, came across to give him a welcome home. One of the
newcomers was Major Bartlett, whom I at once recollected as having been a
guest of Leithcourt's up at Rannoch, and the other a younger man whom
Durnford introduced to me as Captain Hanbury.
"Oh, Major!" I cried, rising and grasping his hand. "I haven't seen you
since Scotland, and the extraordinary ending to your house-party."
"No," he laughed. "It was an amazing affair, wasn't it? After the
Leithcourts left it was like pandemonium let loose; the guests collared
everything they could lay their hands upon! It's a wonder to me the
disgraceful affair didn't get into the papers."
"But where's Leithcourt now?" I asked anxiously.
"Haven't the ghost of an idea," replied the Major, standing astride with
his hands in his pockets. "Young Paget of ours told me the other day that he
saw Muriel driving in the Terminus Road at Eastbourne, but she didn't
notice him. They were a queerish lot, those Leithcourts," he added.
"Hulloa! What are you saying about the Leithcourts, Charley?"
exclaimed Durnford, turning quickly from Hanbury. "I know some people
of that name—Philip Leithcourt, who has a daughter named Muriel."
"Well, they sound much the same. But if you know them, my dear old
chap, I really don't envy you your friends," declared the Major with a laugh.
"Why not?"
"Well, Gregg will tell you," he said. "He knows, perhaps, more than I do.
But," he added, "they may not, of course, be the same people."
"I first met them yachting over at Algiers," Jack said. "And then again at
Malta, where they seemed to have quite a lot of friends. They had a steam-

yacht, the Iris, and were often up and down the Mediterranean."
"Must be the same people," declared the Major. "Leithcourt spoke once
or twice of his yacht, but we all put it down as a non-existent vessel,
because he was always drawing the long bow about his adventures."
"And how did you first come to know him?" I asked of the Major
eagerly.
"Oh, I don't know. Somebody brought him to mess, and we struck up an
acquaintance across the table. He seemed a good chap, and when he asked
me to shoot I accepted. On arrival up at Rannoch, however, one thing struck
me as jolly strange, and that was that among the people I was asked to meet
was one of the very worst blacklegs about town. He called himself Martin
Woodroffe up there—although I'd known him at the old Corinthian Club as
Dick Archer. He was believed then to be one of a clever gang of
international thieves."
"When I first met him he gave me the name of Hornby," I said. "It was in
Leghorn, where he was on board a yacht called the Lola, of which he
represented himself as owner."
"He left Rannoch very suddenly," remarked Bartlett. "We understood that
he was engaged to marry Muriel. If so, I'm sorry for her, poor girl."
"What!" cried Durnford, starting up. "That man to marry Muriel
Leithcourt?"
"Yes," I said. "Why?"
But his countenance had turned pale, and he gave no answer to my
question.
"If these same Leithcourts are really friends of yours, Durnford, old
fellow, I'm sorry I've said anything against them," the Major exclaimed in
an apologetic tone. "Only the end of my visit was so abrupt and so
extraordinary, and the company such a mixed one, that—well, to tell you
the truth, the people are a mysterious lot altogether."

"Perhaps our Leithcourts are not the same as those Jack knows," I
remarked, in order to escape from a rather difficult situation; whereupon
Durnford, as though eager to conceal his surprise, said with a forced laugh,
"Oh! probably not," and reseated himself at table. Then the Major quickly
changed the topic of conversation, and afterwards he and his friend passed
along to their table and sat down to eat.
I could not help noticing that Jack Durnford was upset at what he had
learnt, yet I hesitated just then to put any question to him. I resolved to
approach the subject later, so as to allow him time to question me if he
wished to do so.
After smoking an hour we went across to the Empire, where we spent the
evening in the grand circle, meeting many men we knew and having a
rather pleasant time among old acquaintances. If a man who had lived the
club life of London returns from abroad, he can always run across someone
he knows in the circle of the Empire about ten o'clock at night. Jack was,
however, not his old self that he had been before dinner. His brow was now
heavy and thoughtful, and he appeared deeply immersed in some intricate
problem, for his eyes were fixed vacantly when opportunity was afforded
him to think, and he appeared to desire to avoid his friends rather than to
greet them.
After the theater I induced him to come round to the Cecil, and in the
wicker chair in the big portico before the entrance we sat to smoke our final
cigars. It is a favorite spot of mine when in London, for at afternoon, when
the string band plays and the Americans and other cosmopolitans drink tea,
there is a continual coming and going, a little panorama of life that to a
student of men like myself is intensely interesting. And at night it is just as
amusing to sit there in the shadow and watch the people returning from the
theaters or dances and to speculate as to whom and what they are. At that
one little corner of London just off the Strand you see more variety of men
and women than perhaps at any other spot. All grades pass before you, from
the pushful American commercial man interested in a patent medicine, to
the proud Indian Rajah with his turbaned suite; from the variety actress to
the daughter of a peer, or the wife of a millionaire pork-butcher doing
Europe.

"You've been a bit down in the mouth to-night, Jack," I said presently,
after we had been watching the cabs coming up, depositing the home-
coming revelers from the Savoy or the Carlton.
"Yes," he sighed. "And surely I have enough to cause me—after what I've
heard from Bartlett."
"What! Did the facts he told us convey any bad news to you?" I inquired
with pretended ignorance.
"Yes," he said hoarsely, after a brief pause. Then he added: "Bartlett said
you could tell me what happened up in Scotland, where Leithcourt had
shooting. Tell me everything," he added with the air of a man in whom all
hope is dead.
"Well," I began, "the Leithcourts took Rannoch Castle, close to my
uncle's place, near Dumfries. I got to know them, of course, and often shot
with his party. One day, however, I was amazed to notice in one of the
rooms the photograph of a lady, the exact counterpart of that picture which,
I recollect, I told you when in Leghorn I had found torn up on board the
Lola. You recollect what I narrated about my strange adventure, don't you?"
"I remember every word," was his answer. "Go on. What did you do?"
"Nothing. I held my tongue. But when I discovered that the fellow who
called himself Woodroffe—the man who had represented himself as the
owner of the Lola, and who, no doubt, had had a hand in breaking open
Hutcheson's safe in the Consulate—was engaged to Muriel, I became full of
suspicion."
"Well?"
"Woodroffe, after meeting me, disappeared—went to Hamburg, they
said, on business. Then other things occurred. A man and woman were
found murdered up in the wood about a mile and a half from the castle. The
man was made up to represent my man Olinto--I believe you've seen him in
Leghorn?"
"What! They've killed Olinto?" he gasped, starting from his chair.

"No. The fellow was made up very much like him. But his wife Armida
was killed."
"They killed the woman, and believed they had also killed her husband,
eh?" he said bitterly through his teeth, and I saw that his strong hands
grasped the arms of his chair firmly. "And Martin Woodroffe is engaged to
Muriel Leithcourt. Are you certain of this?"
"Yes; quite certain."
"And is there no suspicion as to who is the assassin of the woman Santini
and this mysterious man who posed as her husband?"
"None whatever."
For some time Jack Durnford smoked in silence, and I could just
distinguish his white, hard face in the faint light, for it was now late, and the
big electric lamps had been turned out and we were in semi-darkness.
"That fellow shall never marry Muriel," he declared in a fierce, hoarse
voice. "What you have just told me reveals the truth. Did you meet Chater?"
"He appeared suddenly at Rannoch, and the Leithcourts fled precipitately
and have not since been heard of."
"Ah, no wonder!" he remarked with a dry laugh. "No wonder! But look
here, Gordon, I'm not going to stand by and let that scoundrel Woodroffe
marry Muriel."
"You love her, perhaps?" I hazarded.
"Yes, I do love her," he admitted. "And, by heaven!" he cried, "I will tell
the truth and crush the whole of their ingenious plot. Have you met Elma
Heath?" he asked.
"Yes," I said in quick anxiety.
"Then listen," he said in a low, earnest voice. "Listen, and I'll tell you
something.
"There is a greater mystery surrounding that yacht, the Lola, than you
have ever imagined, my dear old chap," declared Jack Durnford, looking

me straight in the face. "When you told me about it on the quarter-deck that
day outside Leghorn, I was half a mind to tell you what I knew. Only one
fact prevented me—my disinclination to reveal my own secrets. I loved
Muriel Leithcourt, yet, afloat as I was, I could never see her—I could not
obtain from her own lips the explanation I desired. Yet I would not prejudge
her—no, and I won't now!" he added with a fierce resolution.
"I love her," he went on, "and she reciprocates my love. Ours is a secret
engagement made in Malta two years ago, and yet you tell me that she has
pledged herself to that fellow Woodroffe—the man known here in London
as Dick Archer. I can't believe it--I really can't, old fellow. She could never
write to me as she has done, urging patience and secrecy until my return."
"Unless, of course, she desired to gain time," I suggested.
But my friend was silent; his brows were deep knit.
"Woodroffe is at the present moment in Petersburg," I said. "I've just
come back from there."
"In St. Petersburg!" he gasped, surprised. "Then he is with that villainous
official, Baron Oberg, the Governor-General of Finland."
"No; Oberg is living shut up in his palace at Helsingfors, fearing to go
out lest he shall be assassinated," was my answer.
"And Elma? What has become of her?"
"She is in hiding in Petersburg, awaiting such time as I can get her safely
out of Russia," and then, continuing, I explained how she had been maimed
and rendered deaf and dumb.
"What!" he cried fiercely. "Have they actually done that to the poor girl?
Then they feared that she should reveal the nature of their plot, for she had
seen and heard."
"Seen and heard what?"
"Be patient; we will elucidate this mystery, and the motive of this terrible
infliction upon her. Muriel wrote to me saying that poor Elma, her friend,
had disappeared, and she feared that some evil had also happened to her. So

Oberg had sent her to his fortress—his own private Bastille—the place to
which, on pretended charges of conspiracy against Russia, he sends those
who thwart him to a living tomb."
"I have seen him, and I have defied him," I said.
"You have! Man alive! be careful. He's not a fellow who sticks at trifles,"
said Jack warningly.
"I don't fear," I replied. "Elma's enemies are also mine."
"Then I take it, old fellow, that notwithstanding her affliction, you are
actually in love with her?"
"I intend to rescue, and to marry her," I answered quite frankly.
"But first we must tear aside this veil of mystery and ascertain all the
facts concerning her," he said. "At present I only know one or two very
vague details. The baron is certainly not her uncle, as he represents himself
to be, but it seems certain that she is the daughter of Anglo-Russian parents,
and was born in Russia and brought to England when a child."
"But from whom do you expect I can obtain the true facts concerning her,
and the reason of the baron's desire to keep her silent?"
"Ah!" he said, twisting his mustache thoughtfully. "That's just the
question. For a solution of the problem we must first fathom the motive of
the Leithcourts and the reason they fled in fear before that fellow Chater.
That Muriel is innocent of any complicity in their plot, whatever it may be,
I feel convinced. She may be the victim of that blackleg Woodroffe, who, as
Bartlett has told you, is one of the most expert swindlers in London, and
who has already done two terms of penal servitude."
"But what was the motive in breaking open the Consul's safe, if not to
obtain the Foreign Office or Admiralty ciphers? Perhaps they wanted to
steal them and sell them to a foreign government?"
"No; that was not their object. I've thought over it many, many times
since you told me, and I feel convinced that Woodroffe is too shrewd a
fellow not to have known that no Consul goes away on leave and allows his
ciphers to remain behind. When he leaves his post he always deposits those

precious books either at the Foreign Office here or with his Consul-General,
or with a Consul at another port. They'd surely ascertain all that before they
made the raid, you bet. The affair was a risky one, and Dick Archer is
known as a man of many precautions."
"But he is on extremely friendly terms with Elma. It was he who
succeeded in finding her in Finland, and taking her beyond Oberg's sphere
of influence to Petersburg."
"Then it is certainly only an affected friendship, with some sinister
motive underlying it."
"She wrote a letter from her island prison to an old schoolfellow named
Lydia Moreton, asking her to see Woodroffe at his rooms in Cork Street,
and tell him that through all she was suffering she had kept her promise to
him, and that the secret was still safe."
"Exactly. And now the fellow fears that as you are so actively searching
out the truth, she may yield to your demands and explain. He therefore
intends to silence her."
"What! to kill her, you mean?" I gasped, in quick apprehension.
"Well, he might do so, in order to save himself, you see," Jack replied,
adding: "He certainly would have no compunction if he thought that it
would not be brought home to him. Only he, no doubt, fears you, because
you have found her, and are in love with her."
I admitted the force of his argument, but recollected that my dear one was
safe in concealment, and that the Princess was our friend, even though I, as
an Englishman, had no sympathy with the doctrine of the bomb and the
knife.
I tried to get from him all that he knew concerning Elma, but he seemed,
for some curious reason, disinclined to tell. All I could gather was that
Leithcourt was in league with Chater and Woodroffe, and that Muriel had
acted as an entirely innocent agent. What the conspiracy was, or what was
its motive, I could not discern. I was as far off the solution of the problem
as ever.

"We must first find Muriel," he declared, when I pressed him to tell me
everything he knew. "There are facts you have told me which negative my
own theories, and only from her can we obtain the real truth."
"But surely you know where she is? She writes to you," I said.
"The last letter, which I received at Gib. ten days ago, was from the Hotel
Bristol, at Botzen, in the Tyrol, yet Bartlett says she has been seen down at
Eastbourne."
"But you have an address where you always write to her, I suppose?"
"Yes, a secret one. I have written and made an appointment, but she has
not kept it. She has been prevented, of course. She may be with her parents,
and unable to come to London."
"You did not know that they had fled, and were in hiding?"
"Of course not. What I've heard to-night is news to me—amazing news."
"And does it not convey to you the truth?"
"It does—a ghastly truth concerning Elma Heath," he answered in a low
voice, as though speaking to himself.
"Tell me. What? I'm dying, Jack, to know everything concerning her.
Who is that fellow Oberg?"
"Her enemy. She, by mere accident, learned his secret and Woodroffe's,
and they now both live in deadly fear of her."
"And for that reason she was taken to Siena, where some villainous
Italian doctor was bribed to render her deaf and dumb."
He nodded in the affirmative.
"But Chater?"
"I know very little concerning him. He may have conspired with them, or
he may be innocent. It seems as though he were antagonistic to their
schemes, if Leithcourt and his family really fled from him."

"And yet he was on board the Lola. Indeed, he may have helped to
commit the burglary at the Consulate," I said.
"Quite likely," he answered. "But our first object must be to rediscover
Muriel. Paget says she is in Eastbourne. If she is there, we shall easily find
her. They publish visitors' lists in the papers, don't they, like they do at
Hastings?" Then he added: "Visitors' lists are most annoying when you find
your name printed in them when you are supposed officially to be
somewhere else. I was had once like that by the Bournemouth papers, when
I was supposed to be on duty over at Queenstown. I narrowly escaped a
terrible wigging."
"Shall we go to Eastbourne?" I suggested eagerly. "I'll go there with you
in the morning."
"Or would it not be best to send an urgent wire to the address where I
always write? She would then reply here, no doubt. If she's in Eastbourne,
there may be reasons why she cannot come up to town. If her people are in
hiding, of course she won't come. But she'll make an appointment with me,
no doubt."
"Very well. Send a wire," I said. "And make it urgent. It will then be
forwarded. But as regards Olinto? Would you like to see him? He might tell
you more than he has told me."
"No; by no means. He must not know that I have returned to London,"
declared my friend quickly. "You had better not see him—you understand."
"Then his interests are—well, not exactly our own?"
"No."
"But why don't you tell me more about Elma?" I urged, for I was eager to
learn all he knew. "Come, do tell me!" I implored.
"I've told you practically everything, my dear old fellow," was his
response. "The revelation of the true facts of the affair can be made only by
Muriel. I tell you, we must find her."
"Yes, we must—at all hazards," I said. "Let's go across to the telegraph
office opposite Charing Cross. It's open always." And we rose and walked

out along the Strand, now nearly deserted, and despatched an urgent
message to Muriel at an address in Hurlingham Road, Fulham.
Afterwards we stood outside on the curb, still talking, I loth to part from
him, when there passed by in the shadow two men in dark overcoats, who
crossed the road behind us to the front of Charing Cross station, and then
continued on towards Trafalgar Square.
As the light of the street lamp fell upon them, I thought I recognized the
face of one as that of a person I had seen before, yet I was not at all certain,
and my failure to remember whom the passer-by resembled prevented me
from saying anything further to Jack than:
"A fellow I know has just gone by, I think."
"We seem to be meeting hosts of friends to-night," he laughed. "After all,
old chap, it does one good to come back to our dear, dirty old town again.
We abuse it when we are here, and talk of the life in Paris, and Vienna, and
Brussels, but when we are away there is no place on earth so dear to us, for
it is 'home.' But there!" he laughed, "I'm actually growing romantic. Ah! if
we could only find Muriel! But we must to-morrow. Ta-ta! I shall go around
to the club and sleep, for I haven't fixed on any diggings yet. Come in at ten
to-morrow, and we will decide upon some plan. One thing is plainly certain;
Elma must at once be got out of Russia. She's in deadly peril of her life
there."
"Yes," I said. "And you will help me?"
"With all my heart, old fellow," answered my friend, warmly grasping
my hand, and then we parted, he strolling along towards the National
Gallery on his way back to the "Junior," while I returned to the Cecil alone.

CHAPTER XVI
MARKED MEN

"Captain Durnford?" I inquired of the hall-porter of the club next
morning.
"Not here, sir."
"But he slept here last night," I remarked. "I have an appointment with
him."
The man consulted the big book before him, and answered:
"Captain Durnford went out at 9:27 last night, sir, but has not returned."
Strange, I thought, but although I waited in the club nearly an hour, he
did not put in an appearance. I called again at noon, and he had not come in,
and again at two o'clock, but he had not even then made his appearance.
Then I began to be anxious. I returned to the hotel, resolved to wait for a
few hours longer. He might have altered his mind and gone to Eastbourne in
search of Muriel; yet, had he done so, he would surely have telegraphed to
me.
About four o'clock, as I was passing through the big hall of the hotel, I
heard a voice behind me utter a greeting in Italian, and turning in surprise,
found Olinto, dressed in his best suit of black, standing hat in hand.
In an instant I recollected what Jack had told me, and regarded him with
some suspicion.
"Signor Commendatore," he said in a low voice, as though fearing to be
overheard, "may I be permitted to speak in private with you?"
"Certainly," I said, and I took him in the lift up to my room.

"I have come to warn you, signore," he said, when I had given him a seat.
"Your enemies mean harm to you."
"And who are they, pray?" I asked, biting my lips. "The same, I suppose,
who prepared that ingenious trap in Lambeth?"
"I am not here to reveal to you who they are, signore, only to warn you to
have a care of yourself," was the Italian's reply.
"Look here, Olinto!" I exclaimed determinedly, "I've had enough of this
confounded mystery. Tell me the truth regarding the assassination of your
poor wife up in Scotland."
"Ah, signore!" he answered sadly in a changed voice, "I do not know. It
was a plot. Someone represented me—but he was killed also. They believed
they had struck me down," he added, with a bitter laugh. "Poor Armida's
body was found concealed behind a rock on the opposite side of the wood. I
saw it—ah!" he cried shuddering.
"Then you are ignorant of the identity of your wife's assassin?"
"Entirely."
"Tell me one thing," I said. "Did Armida possess any trinket in the form
of a little enameled cross—like a miniature cross of cavaliere?"
"Yes; I gave it to her. I found it on the floor at the Mansion House, where
I was engaged as odd waiter for a banquet. I know I ought to have given it
up to the Lord Mayor's servants, but it was such a pretty little thing that I
was tempted to keep it. It probably had fallen from the coat of one of the
diplomatists dining there."
I was silent. The faint suspicion that Oberg had been at that spot was now
entirely removed. The only clue I had was satisfactorily accounted for.
"Why do you ask, Signor Commendatore?" he added.
"Because the cross was found at the spot, and was believed to have been
dropped by the assassin," I said.

The police had, it seemed, succeeded in discovering the unfortunate
woman after all, and had found that she was his wife.
"You know a man named Leithcourt?" I asked a few moments later.
"Now, tell the truth. In this affair, Olinto, our interests are mutual, are they
not?"
He nodded, after a moment's hesitation.
"And you know also a man named Archer—who is sometimes known as
Hornby, or Woodroffe—as well as a friend of his called Chater."
"Si, signore," he said. "I have met them all—to my regret."
"And have you ever met a Russian—a certain Baron Oberg—and his
niece, Elma Heath?"
"His niece? She isn't his niece."
"Then who is she?" I demanded.
"How do I know? I have seen her once or twice. But she's dead, isn't she?
She knew the secret of those men, and they intended to kill her. I tried to
prevent them taking her away on the yacht, and I would have gone to the
police—only I dare not."
"Why?"
"Well, because my own hands were not quite clean," he answered after a
pause, his eyes fixed upon mine the while. "I knew they intended to silence
her, but I was powerless to save her, poor young lady. They took her on
board Leithcourt's yacht, the Iris, and they sailed for the Mediterranean, I
believe."
"Then the name and appearance of the yacht was altered on the voyage,
and it became the Lola," I said.
"No doubt," he smiled. "The Iris was a steamer of many names, and had,
I believe, been painted nearly all the colors of the rainbow at various times.
It was a mysterious vessel, but she exists no more. They scuttled her
somewhere up in the Baltic, I've heard."

"And who is this Oberg?" I inquired, urging him to reveal to me all he
knew concerning him.
"He stands in great fear of the poor young lady, I believe, for it was at his
instigation that Leithcourt and his friends took her on that fatal yachting
cruise."
"And what was your connection with them?"
"Well, I was Leithcourt's servant," was his reply. "I was steward on the
Iris for a year, until I suppose they thought that I began to see too much,
and then I was placed in a position ashore."
"And what did you see?"
"More than I care to tell, signore. If they were arrested I should be
arrested, too, you see."
"But I mean to solve this mystery, Olinto," I said fiercely, for I was in no
trifling mood. "I'll fathom it if it costs me my life."
"If the signore solves it himself, then I cannot be charged with revealing
the truth," was the man's diplomatic reply. "But I fear that they are far too
wary."
"Armida has lost her life. Surely that is sufficient incentive for you to
bring them all to justice?"
"Of course. But if the law falls upon them, it will also fall upon me."
I explained the terrible affliction to which my love had been subjected by
those heartless brutes, whereupon he cried enthusiastically:
"Then she is not dead! She can tell us everything!"
"But cannot you tell us?"
"No; not all. The secret she knows has never been revealed. They feared
she might be incautious, and for that reason Oberg made the villainous
suggestion of the yachting trip. She was to be drowned—accidentally, of
course."

"She is in St. Petersburg now. I left her a week ago."
"In Russia! Ah, signore, for her sake, don't allow the young lady to
remain there. The Baron is all-powerful. He does what he wishes in Russia,
and the more merciless he is to the people he governs, the greater rewards
he receives from the Czar. I have never been in Russia, but surely it must be
a strange country, signore!"
"Well," I said, sitting upon the edge of the bed and looking at him. "Are
you prepared to denounce them if I bring the Signorina Heath here, to
England?"
"But what is the use, if we have no clear proof?" was his evasive reply. I
could see plainly that he feared being himself implicated in some
extraordinary plot, the exact nature of which he so steadfastly refused to
reveal to me.
We talked on for fully half an hour, and from his conversation I gathered
that he was well acquainted with Elma.
"Ah, signore, she was such a pleasant and kind-hearted young lady. I
always felt very sorry for her. She was in deadly fear of them."
"Because they were thieves?" I hazarded.
"Ah, worse!"
"But why did they induce you to entice me to that house in Lambeth?
Why did they so evidently desire that I should be killed?"
"By accident," he interrupted, correcting me. "Always by accident," and
he smiled grimly.
"Surely you know their secret motive?" I remarked.
"At the time I did not," he declared. "I acted on their instructions, being
compelled to, for they hold my future in their hands. Therefore I could not
disobey. You knew too much, therefore you were marked down for death—
just as you are now."

"And who is it who is now seeking my life?" I inquired gravely. "I only
returned from Russia yesterday."
"Your movements are well known," answered the young Italian. "You
cannot be too careful. Woodroffe has been in Russia with you, has he not?"
I replied in the affirmative, whereupon he said:
"I thought so, but was not quite sure."
"And Chater?" I inquired; "where is he?"
"In London."
"And the Leithcourts?"
He shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of ignorance, adding: "The
Signorina Muriel returned to London from Eastbourne this morning."
"Where can I find her?" I inquired eagerly. "It is of the utmost
importance that I should see her."
"She is with a relation, a cousin, I think, at Bassett Road, Notting Hill.
The house is called 'Holmwood.'"
"You have seen her?"
"No. I heard she had returned."
"And her father is still in hiding from Chater?"
"He is still in hiding, but Chater is his best friend."
"That is curious," I remarked, recollecting the hurried departure from
Rannoch. "They've made it up, I suppose?"
"They never quarreled, to my knowledge."
"Then why did Leithcourt leave Scotland so hurriedly on Chater's
arrival? You know all about the affair, of course?"
He nodded, saying with a grim smile, "Yes; I know. The party up there
must have been a very interesting one. If the police could have made a raid

on the place they would have found among the guests certain persons long
'wanted.' But the arrival of Chater and the flight of Leithcourt had an
ulterior object. Chater had never been Leithcourt's enemy."
"But I can't understand that," I said. "Why should Leithcourt have
attacked Chater, rendered him unconscious, and shut him up in the
cupboard in the library?"
"Was it Leithcourt who did that?" he asked dubiously. "I think not. It was
another of the guests who was Chater's bitterest enemy. But Philip
Leithcourt took advantage of the fracas in order to make believe that he had
fled because of Chater's arrival. Ah!" he added, "you haven't any idea of
their ruses. They are amazing!"
"So it seems," I said, nevertheless only half convinced that the Italian was
telling me the truth. If it was really, as he had said, that the arrival of Chater
and the flight was merely a "blind," then the mystery was again deepened.
"Then who was the man who attacked Chater?" I asked.
"Only Chater himself knows. It was one of the guests, that is quite
evident."
"And you say that the flight had been prearranged?" I remarked.
"Yes, with a distinct motive," he said; then, after a pause, he added, with
a strange, earnest look in his dark eyes, "Pardon me, Signor Commendatore,
if I presume to suggest something, will you not?"
"Certainly. What do you suggest?"
"That you should remain here, in this hotel, and not venture out."
"For fear of something unfortunate happening to me!" I laughed. "I'm
really not afraid, Olinto," I added. "You know I carry this," and I drew out
my revolver from my hip-pocket.
"I know, signore," he said anxiously. "But you might not be afforded
opportunity for using it. When they lay a trap they bait it well."

"I know. They're a set of the most ingenious scoundrels in London, it is
very evident. Yet I don't fear them in the least," I declared. "I must rescue
the Signorina Heath."
"But, signore, have a care for yourself," cried the Italian, laying his hand
upon my arm. "You are a marked man. Ah! do I not know," he exclaimed
breathlessly. "If you go out you may run right into—well, the fatal
accident."
"Never fear, Olinto," I said reassuringly. "I shall keep my eyes well open.
Here, in London, one's life is safer than anywhere else in the world, perhaps
—certainly safer than in some places I could name in your own country,
eh?" at which he grinned.
The next moment he grew serious again, and said:
"I only warn the signore that if he goes out it is at his own peril."
"Then let it be so," I laughed, feeling self-confident that no one could
lead me into any trap. I was neither a foreigner nor a country cousin. I knew
London too well. He was silent and shook his head; then, after telling me
that he was still at the same restaurant in Westbourne Grove, he took his
departure, warning me once more not to go forth.
Half an hour later, disregarding his words, I strode out into the Strand,
and again walked round to the "Junior." The short wintry day had ended, the
gas-lamps were lit, and the darkness of night was gradually creeping on.
Jack had not been to the club, and I began now to grow thoroughly
uneasy. He had parted from me at the corner of the Strand with only a five
minutes' walk before him, and yet he had apparently disappeared. My first
impulse was to drive to Notting Hill to inquire of Muriel if she had news of
him, but somehow the Italian's warning words made me wonder if he had
met with foul play.
I suddenly recollected those two men who had passed by as we had
talked, and how that the features of one had seemed strangely familiar.
Therefore I took a cab to the police-station down at Whitehall, and made
inquiry of the inspector on duty in the big bare office with its flaring gas-

jets in wire globes. He heard me to the end, then turning back the book of
"occurrences" before him, glanced through the ruled entries.
"I should think this is the gentleman, sir," he said. And he read to me the
entry as follows:
"P.C. 462A reports that at 2.07 a.m., while on duty outside the National
Gallery, he heard a revolver shot, followed by a man's cry. He ran to the
corner of Suffolk Street, where he found a gentleman lying upon the
pavement suffering from a serious shot-wound in the chest and quite
unconscious. He obtained the assistance of P.C.'s 218A and 343A, and the
gentleman, who was not identified, was taken to the Charing Cross
Hospital, where the house-surgeon expressed a doubt whether he could live.
Neither P.C.'s recollect having noticed any suspicious-looking person in the
vicinity.
"JOHN PERCIVAL, Inspector."
I waited for no more, but rushed round to the hospital in the cab, and
was, five minutes later, taken along the ward, where I identified poor Jack
lying in bed, white-faced and unconscious.
"The doctor was here a quarter of an hour ago," whispered the sister.
"And he fears he is sinking."
"He has uttered no words?" I asked anxiously. "Made no statement?"
"None. He has never regained consciousness, and I fear, sir, he never
will. It is a case of deliberate murder, the police told me early this
morning."
I clenched my fists and swore a fierce revenge for that dastardly act. And
as I stood beside the narrow bed, I realized that what Olinto had said
regarding my own peril was the actual truth. I was a marked man. Was I
never to penetrate that inscrutable and ever-increasing mystery?

CHAPTER XVII
THE TRUTH ABOUT THE "LOLA"

Throughout the long night I called many times at the hospital, but the
reply was always the same. Jack had not regained consciousness, and the
doctor regarded his case as hopeless.
In the morning I drove in hot haste to Bassett Road, Notting Hill, and at
the address Olinto had given me found Muriel. When she entered the room
with folding doors into which I had been shown, I saw that she was pale
and apprehensive, for we had not met since her flight, and she was, no
doubt, at a loss for an explanation. But I did not press her for one. I merely
told her that the Italian Santini had given me her address and that I came as
bearer of unfortunate news.
"What is it?" she gasped quickly.
"It concerns Captain Durnford," I replied. "He has been injured in the
street, and is in Charing Cross Hospital."
"Ah!" she cried. "I see. You do not explain the truth. By your face I can
tell there is something more. He's dead! Tell me the worst."
"No, Miss Leithcourt," I said gravely, "not dead, but the doctors fear that
he may not recover. His wound is dangerous. He has been shot by some
unknown person."
"Shot!" she echoed, bursting into tears. "Then they have followed him,
after all! They have deceived me, and now, as they intend to take him from
me, I will myself protect him. You, Mr. Gregg, have been in peril of your
life, that I know, but Jack's enemies are yours, and they shall not go
unpunished. May I see him?"

"I fear not, but we will ask at the hospital." And after the exchange of
some further explanations, we took a hansom back to Charing Cross.
At first the sister refused to allow Muriel to see the patient, but she
implored so earnestly that at last she consented, and the distressed girl in
the black coat and hat crept on tiptoe to the bedside.
"He was conscious for a quarter of an hour or so," whispered the nurse
who sat there, "He asked after some lady named Muriel."
The girl at my side burst into low sobbing.
"Tell him," she said, "that Muriel is here—that she has seen him, and is
waiting for him to recover."
We were not allowed to linger there, and on leaving the hospital I took
her back again to Notting Hill, promising to keep her well informed of
Jack's condition. He had returned to consciousness, therefore there was now
a faint hope for his recovery.
Day succeeded day, and although I was not allowed to visit my friend, I
was told that he was very slowly progressing. I idled at the Hotel Cecil
longing daily for news of Elma. Only once did a letter come from her, a
brief, well-written note from which it appeared that she was quite well and
happy, although she longed to be able to go out. The Princess was very kind
indeed to her, and, she added, was making secret arrangements for her
escape across the Russian frontier into Germany.
I knew what that meant. Use was to be made of certain Russian officials
who were secretly allied with the Revolutionists in order to secure her safe
conduct beyond the power of that order of exile of the tyrant de Plehve. I
wrote to her under cover to the Princess, but there had been no time yet for
a reply.
I saw Muriel many times, but never once did she refer to Rannoch or
their sudden departure. Her only thought was of the man she loved.
"I always believed that you were engaged to Mr. Woodroffe," I said one
day, when I called to tell her of Jack's latest bulletin.

"It is true that he asked me to marry him," she responded. "But there
were reasons why I did not accept."
"Reasons connected with his past, eh?"
She smiled, and then said:
"Ah, Mr. Gregg, it is all a strange and very tragic story. I must see Jack.
When do you think they will allow me to go to him?"
I explained that the doctor feared to cause the patient any undue
excitement, but that in two or three days there was hope of her being
allowed to visit him. Several times the police made inquiry of me, but I
could tell them nothing. I could not for the life of me recollect where I had
before seen the face of that man who had passed in the darkness.
One afternoon, ten days after the attempt upon Jack, I was allowed to sit
by his bedside and question him.
"Ah, Gordon, old fellow!" he said faintly, "I've had a narrow escape—by
Jove! After I left you I walked quickly on towards the club, when, all of a
sudden, two scoundrels sprang out of Suffolk Street, and one of them fired a
revolver full at me. Then I knew no more."
"But who were the men? Did you recognize them?"
"No, not at all. That's the worst of it."
"But Muriel knows who they were!" I said.
"Ah, yes! Bring her here, won't you?" the poor fellow implored, "I'm
dying to see her once again."
Then I told him how she had looked upon him while unconscious, and
how I had taken the daily bulletin to her. For an hour I talked with him,
urging him to get well soon, so that we could unite in probing the mystery,
and bringing to justice those responsible for the dastardly act.
"Muriel knows, and if she loves you she will no doubt assist us," I said.
"Oh, she does love me, Gordon, I know that," said the prostrate man,
smiling contentedly, and when I left I promised to bring her there on the

morrow.
This I did, but having conducted her to the bed at the end of the ward I
discreetly withdrew. What she said to him I am not, of course, aware. All I
know is that an hour later when I returned I found them the happiest pair
possible to conceive, and I clearly saw that Jack's trust in her was not ill-
placed.
But of Elma? No further word had come from her, and I began to grow
uneasy. The days went on. I wrote twice, but no reply was forthcoming. At
last I could bear the suspense no longer, and began to contemplate returning
to Russia.
Jack, when at last discharged from the hospital, came across to the Cecil
and lived with me in preference to the "Junior." He was very weak at first,
and I looked after him, while every day Muriel came and ate with us,
brightening our lives by her smart and merry chatter. She knew that I loved
Elma and was also aware of the exciting events in Russia, Jack having told
her of them during their long drives in hansoms when he went out with her
to take the air.
One day I received a brief note from the Princess in Petersburg, urging
me to remain patient and saying Elma was quite safe and well. There were
reasons, however, why she was unable to write, she added. What were they,
I wondered? Yet I could only wait until I received word to travel back to
Russia and fetch her home. The Princess had promised to arrange
everything.
December came, and we still remained on at the hotel. Once Olinto had
written me repeating his warning, but I did not heed it. I somehow
distrusted the fellow.
Jack, now thoroughly recovered, called almost daily at Bassett Road, and
would often bring Muriel to the Cecil to tea or to luncheon. Often I inquired
the whereabouts of her father and of Hylton Chater, but she declared herself
in entire ignorance, and believed they were abroad.
One afternoon, shortly before Christmas, as we were idling in the
American bar of the hotel, my friend told me that Muriel had invited us to

tea at her cousin's that afternoon, and accordingly we went there in
company.
The drawing-room into which we were ushered was familiar to me as the
apartment wherein I had told Muriel of the attempt upon her lover's life.
As we sat together Muriel, a smart figure in a pale blue gown, poured tea
for us and chatted more merrily, I thought, than ever before. She seemed
quick and nervous and yet full of happiness, as she should indeed have
been, for Jack Durnford was one of the best fellows in the world, and his
restoration to health little short of miraculous.
"Gordon," he said to me with a sudden seriousness when tea had ended
and we had placed down our cups. "I want to tell you something—
something I've been longing always to tell you, and now I have got dear
Muriel's consent. I want to tell you about her father and his friends."
"And about Elma, too?" I said in quick eagerness. "Yes, tell me
everything."
"No, not everything, for I don't know it myself. But what I know I will
explain as briefly as I can, and leave you to form your own conclusions. It
is," he went on, "a strange—most amazing story. When I myself became
first cognizant of the mystery I was on board the flagship the Renown,
under Admiral Sir John Fisher. We were lying in Malta when there arrived
the English yacht Iris, owned by Mr. Philip Leithcourt, and among those on
board cruising for pleasure were Mr. Martin Woodroffe, Mr. Hylton Chater,
and the owner's wife and daughter Muriel.
"Muriel and I met first at a tennis-party, and afterwards frequently at
various houses in Malta, for anyone who goes there and entertains is soon
entertained in return. A mutual attachment sprang up between Muriel and
myself," he said, placing his hand tenderly upon hers and smiling, "and we
often met in secret and took long walks, until quite suddenly Leithcourt said
that it was necessary to sail for Smyrna to pick up some friends who had
been traveling in Palestine. The night they sailed a great consternation was
caused on the island by the news that the safe in the Admiral
Superintendent's office had been opened by expert safe-breakers, and
certain most important secret documents stolen."

"Well?" I asked, much interested.
"Again, two months later, when the villa of the Prince of Montevachi, at
Palmero, was broken into and the whole of the famous jewels of the
Princess stolen, it was a very strange fact that the Iris was at the moment in
that port. But it was not until the third occasion, when the yacht was at
Villefranche, and our squadron being at Toulon I got four days' leave to go
along the Riviera, that my suspicions were aroused, for at the very hour
when I was dining at the London House at Nice with Muriel and a
schoolfellow of hers, Elma Heath—who was spending the winter there with
a lady who was Baron Oberg's cousin—that a great robbery was committed
in one of the big hotels up at Cimiez, the wife of an American millionaire
losing jewels valued at thirty thousand pounds. Then the robberies,
coincident with the visit of the yacht, aroused my strong suspicion. I
remarked the nature of those documents stolen from Malta, and recognized
that they could only be of service to a foreign government. Then came the
Leghorn incident of which you told me. The yacht's name had been changed
to the Lola, and she had been repainted. I made searching inquiry, and
found that on the evening she was purposely run aground in order to strike
up a friendship at the Consulate, a Russian gunboat was lying in the
vicinity. The Consul's safe was rifled, and the scheme certainly was to
transfer anything obtained from it to the Russian gunboat."
"But what was in the safe?" I asked.
"Fortunately nothing. But you see they knew that our squadron was due
in Leghorn, and that some extremely important despatches were on the way
to the Admiral—secret orders based upon the decision of the British
Cabinet as to the vexed question of Russian ships passing the Dardanelles—
they expected that they would be lodged in the safe until the arrival of the
squadron, as they always are. They were, however, bitterly disappointed
because the despatches had not arrived."
"And then?"
"Well, the only Russian who appeared to have any connection with them
was Baron Oberg, the Governor-General of Finland, whose habit it was to
spend part of the winter in the Mediterranean. From Elma Heath's
conversation at dinner that evening at Nice I gathered that she and her uncle