CHAPTER XV. THE TZAR’S SPY.

A chaos of terrible recollections bewilders me. I have the sense of having trodden a stony highway during long years, but have now taken my last step for the present in the blood-spotted pathway to Revolution.

The windows at the rear of the Château de Trélatête, a quaint old-world place, near the high road from St. Germain to Paris, look out upon a wide, well-kept lawn, flanked by dark yew hedges, and backed by the winding Seine, on the opposite bank of which a sparsely timbered slope leads up to a small farm. Zigzag up this slope runs a path—probably it has so run for centuries, for at the foot of it is a ford across a small stream—which in spring is almost invisible, but in autumn is brown and rutty.

Two men strolled down this path one September evening not long ago. One, a young fellow under thirty, fair-haired and pink-cheeked, was something of a fop, while the other was a tall man, about fifty-five, of military bearing, with a pair of keen eyes, sharply cut features, and hair and moustache turning grey. Attired in a rather shabby velvet coat and gaiters, he looked like a gamekeeper, but was, in fact, General Martianoff, late Governor of Mstislavl, and now Chief of the Russian Secret Police in Paris.

“I really can’t make you out, Gaston,” he said, as they sighted the Château; and, shifting his gun to the other shoulder, he took occasion to glance searchingly at his companion. “How confoundedly glum you are!”

The younger man laughed, but not very merrily, and there was a touch of sullenness in his tone as he answered—

“How absurd! A man cannot be always grinning.”

“No; but pâté de foie gras is not man’s ordinary meat,” retorted the General imperturbably. “My dear Guéneau.”

“Well?” said the other snappishly.

“You are in a mess; that is my opinion! Now, take my advice, and make a clean breast of the matter. You have some tie or other which weighs upon your mind and of which we are ignorant.”

The young man turned his face to his companion, and General Martianoff, albeit a very cool personage, was taken aback by the change which anger or some other emotion had worked in it. Even Gaston Guéneau’s voice was altered.

“And what if I have?” he asked hoarsely, stopping short so suddenly that the pair confronted one another. “What if I have, m’sieur?”

The chief spy twirled his moustache thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said, outwardly unmoved, “you must break it—get rid of it. That is all, Guéneau.”

“And if I am unable?”

“Unwilling, you mean.”

“No, cannot, cannot!” declared the younger man with vehemence.

“But you must. You hear! you must! Otherwise it will be your ruin.”

“Bah! Don’t talk like that. Come with me to the Château?”

“No!” answered the General violently. And without more, without a word of farewell, he turned his back and strode away through the long grass to a point half a mile higher up the river, where a wooden bridge gave access to the station of Le Pecq, whence he returned to Paris.

I had followed the pair, and overheard their conversation.

The news that M. Lozé, the Préfect of Paris Police, had called and had a prolonged interview with the Tzar’s spy had caused considerable excitement in the Revolutionist settlement at La Glacière. It was anticipated that the General and the Préfect were putting their heads together for the purpose of getting the worst-noted of the refugees entrapped by the Russian police. In order, therefore, to watch Martianoff’s movements closely, I had been sent to Paris with instructions to ascertain, if possible, who were the suspected persons and what system of espionage was being adopted.

Was it surprising that upon this brutal agent of his Imperial Majesty, who had wrecked the careers of my sister and myself, I kept a watchful eye? He was a ferret in human shape, and with the dozen Russian detectives under him, he had a keen scent for Revolutionists and criminating circumstances. Since his resignation from the governorship of Mstislavl he had graduated at the Bureau of Secret Police in Petersburg.

He lived in the Boulevard Haussmann, at the corner of the Avenue de Messine, where he occupied an entresol which looked out into the courtyard, leading the life of a man with an adequate income. He only had two saddle horses, with a groom of all-work brought by him from Russia, and he contented himself with a hired brougham. He breakfasted in his rooms, dined at the fashionable restaurants, showed himself in the Bois of an afternoon, at theatrical first-nights, knew all Paris—the “tout Paris” of the Boulevard—and was received in a very exclusive set. Yet he had few intimate friends, he seldom received his habitual acquaintances at his rooms, and often absented himself for several days without saying where he was going.

His concierge revered him, and never expressed astonishment when he saw rather seedy-looking people climb the stairs leading to the apartments of this rich and respectable tenant. General Martianoff made a show of philanthropy, and, according to the hall-porter, his reputation as a charitable gentleman exposed him to the visits of needy-looking individuals.

I did not return to Paris by the same train as the spy, but lingered in order to make inquiries regarding the companion he had so unceremoniously quitted. With that object I remained at a small estaminet on the road which runs through the Bois de Vésinet to Montesson, chatting to an old wood-cutter, and eliciting some facts regarding the Guéneau family. The Château belonged to Count Jules Guéneau, a wealthy old gentleman, who, according to the wood-cutter’s statement, had held important Government offices under the Empire, but who was now on the verge of senile imbecility, and lived in seclusion with his son Gaston. The latter had travelled a great deal, and had quite recently settled down at the Château, at the old Count’s request.

The sun had set, and it was growing dusk as I left the estaminet. I had just emerged from the wood and turned into the high-road when I perceived, about a hundred paces from me, a figure rapidly approaching. I slipped behind a tree and watched its progress. It was that of a tall, slender girl, exquisitely graceful, with rounded throat and arms, her dark, wavy hair drawn back from her brow, a flawless complexion, and handsome brown eyes. As she passed I recognised her as Natalya Lebedeff, daughter of a prominent member of our Organisation, who, about four years before, had fled from Russia and taken refuge in Paris, where he now kept a tobacconist’s in the Rue d’Amsterdam, close to the St. Lazare terminus.

The road that she followed was bordered with oak-trees and quickset hedges. I walked after her cautiously, for I was curious to know what had brought her to St. Germain.

After making several turns, the road sloped gently towards a stone bridge thrown across the small stream. Close by was a hamlet built upon the side of a hill, and surrounded by walnut-trees, while the green waters, bubbling over the pebbles that formed its bed, rushed onwards towards the Seine.

Upon the bridge stood Gaston, and she moved directly towards him.

When they met she did not take the hand he offered. Withdrawing it quickly, he said, “You are right, Natalya, I am a villain!” The words seemed to come from his inmost heart. Then he continued, “Spurn me from you, as I deserve. I scarcely expected that you would come from Paris to keep the appointment. Here are the papers; do what you please with them.”

As he finished speaking she shook her head.

“I have forgiven all,” the girl said. Eagerly seizing the papers, and folding them small, she placed them in the pocket of her dress.

She shivered slightly as they walked together. The path they entered followed the course of the stream and led down to the river. They were silent, absorbed in thought. One seemed filled with grief, remorse, and expectation; the other felt her destiny weighing heavily upon her, and thought she heard within the woods the agitated beating of a heart which was kept in motion only by its fears.

From my hiding-place I watched them disappear in the fast-falling gloom; then I turned and hurried to Le Pecq, where I arrived just in time to catch a train for Paris.

An hour later, while walking down the Rue de Monceau on my way to my unpretentious hotel in the Rue de Lisbonne, I passed General Martianoff. He was in evening dress, and walking away from the house in which he lived, evidently on his way to dine.

Then a thought suddenly occurred to me, and, after a moment’s hesitation, I turned down the Avenue de Messine to the corner house on the boulevard.

Ascending the stairs unnoticed by the sleepy concierge, I knocked at the door of the General’s apartments. Replying to my inquiry in Russian, the man-servant, a thin, cadaverous-looking fellow, informed me that his Excellency was out, and his return was uncertain.

“But I have to see him upon official business,” I said, at the same time slipping a ten-franc piece into his ready palm. “Show me to his room, and I will wait.”

Conducting me along the hall, he showed me into a large well-furnished room, the two windows of which looked out upon the boulevard. The heavy curtains were drawn, a large brass lamp burned brightly under a shade of crimson silk, and the spacious saddle-bag armchairs gave the apartment an air of cosiness. It was half library, half sitting-room, and the littered writing-table that stood in a recess near the fireplace showed that the ex-Governor had considerable correspondence.

It was to ascertain the nature of his communications that I had ventured into the spy’s sanctum. When the servant had withdrawn and closed the door, I immediately commenced my investigations. Rapidly glancing at the open letters and memoranda, I saw they related to various persons suspected of Nihilism, resident in Paris.

Presently I took up a large folded blue paper and opened it. The document revealed how closely Russian suspects were being watched. It was the report of a Secret Police agent who had been told off to keep observation upon Israel Lebedeff, the father of Natalya. In order that my readers may fully understand the manner in which the “Security Section” carries out its system of espionage, I give the following copy of the printed questions:—

IMPERIAL POLICE DEPARTMENT.

THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS TO BE FILLED IN WEEKLY:—

1. What is the Christian name, paternal name, and family name of the person under observation?

2. Where is his (or her) residence? In what district, street, and house? What is the number of the room? How many rooms?

3. Where did you first see him, and under what circumstances? Has he seen you?

4. How long has he resided at his present address? Whence did he come? Give particulars of his last place of residence.

5. Does he live alone, or with some one? In the latter case with whom? State particulars of such person.

6. Has he any servants? If so, what are their names? If not, who looks after his room, or rooms? What things has he in his rooms? To whom is his dirty linen sent? State name and residence of his laundress?

7. Does he have his meals at home, or elsewhere? In the latter case, where?

8. Does he visit any library, and if so, which one? State what books he has borrowed in the course of the week.

9. At what o’clock does he leave his rooms, and when does he return?

10. How does he spend his time at home?

11. Has he a wife, or children? If the latter, how many?

12. Is he paying attention to any woman? If so, who is she and where does she live? Where do they meet?

13. Who has visited him in the course of the week? At what times? a.m. or p.m.?

14. Has any one (male or female) spent the night in his rooms? If so, what person or persons? Their residence?

15. Has he ever been in a state of intoxication?

16. Does he receive letters or papers from Russia?

17. What hour is best for his arrest?

All these questions were answered with a minuteness of detail that was astounding, the document being signed by the officer of surveillance, and countersigned by General Martianoff. Absorbed in the perusal of the report, I did not notice the presence of the servant, who had entered stealthily, and suddenly stood before me, causing me to start and replace the paper hurriedly.

“Anton Prèhznev,” he said, “you had better leave before the General returns.”

“You know me?” I gasped in bewilderment.

For answer he smiled, and gave me the sign of our Order.

“How came you in the spy’s service?” I asked. “What is your name?”

“I’m Paul Shiryàlov. The General engaged me as his servant when he visited Petersburg last year.”

“You know the contents of the papers brought here by the spies?”

“I make copies of them all and forward them to the Petersburg Circle.”

“Has Lebedeff been warned?”

“Yes. He has sold his business, and is arranging to leave Paris for London.”

“And what of Natalya, his daughter?”

“Hark!—the General has returned. Quick!”

He almost dragged me through a door which led into an adjoining room, whence I passed out upon the staircase.

I hurried downstairs, and a few moments afterwards was walking along the Rue de la Pepinière towards my hotel.

A loud knocking at the door of my bedroom and a voice demanding admittance aroused me.

When I unlocked the door, Paramòn Pouzàtov, a refugee, rushed in.

“They have arrested Lebedeff!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Last night four sergents de ville went to the house, searched, and discovered some bombs in course of manufacture and some literature from the secret press. He was arrested and taken to the Prefecture.”

“But he was warned in time to escape,” I said.

“Yes, but he is now in their grip.”

“Where is Natalya?”

“She went out yesterday afternoon, and has not yet returned.”

“Very well,” I said. “But we must secure his release at all hazards.”

Paramòn seated himself and chatted to me while I dressed. It puzzled me that the Paris police should have found explosives on the tobacconist’s premises, especially after the ample warning that Shiryàlov had given.

Several days passed. Lebedeff was detained for inquiries, and nothing had been heard of Natalya. Although our Organisation exerted every effort to trace the girl, no clue to her whereabouts could be discovered. She had mysteriously disappeared, and we were seriously handicapped in our search by the fact that it was not considered wise policy to inquire of Gaston Guéneau, as he evidently had some secret understanding with General Martianoff.

One morning, a fortnight after Lebedeff’s arrest, I was present at the Correctional Court of the Seine, when he was charged with being in the possession of explosives, contrary to the Code. Evidence was given by several detectives, while Martianoff, disguised as an honest-looking workman, stood at the rear of the Court watching the proceedings.

When the evidence regarding the bombs was complete the Public Prosecutor made an application. He stated that the prisoner had been identified by police agents from Petersburg as one who was “wanted” in that city in connection with the laying of a mine of dynamite under the Norwinski Strasse, in order to make an attempt upon the life of the Tzar. Further evidence was then given by an attaché of the Russian Embassy and two agents of the Secret Police, the prisoner eventually being formally committed for extradition to Russia.

I left the court with a conviction that the escape of my compatriot was hopeless, and that Siberian hard labour would inevitably be his sentence.

While walking along the Boulevard des Italiens, immersed in my own thoughts, Paramòn Pouzàtov accosted me, and dragged me into a quiet café.

“Look,” he exclaimed in a low tone, producing from his pocket a soiled and crumpled copy of that day’s Gaulois; “Read that!” and he pointed to a paragraph.

The few lines were as follows:—

“Last night a bargeman, named Hovelacque, while steering his craft on the Seine near Croissy, noticed a dark object floating in the water. He grappled it with his boat-hook, and when he drew it on board was horrified to find that it was the body of a well-dressed young girl. Nothing was found upon her whereby her identity could be established, and the body was conveyed to the Morgue.”

“Well?” I said, interrogatively, after I had read it.

“Do you think it can be Natalya Lebedeff?”

“Ah!” I ejaculated, suddenly recollecting her mysterious disappearance. “We will go to the Morgue and ascertain.”

We at once left the Boulevard and proceeded to the house of the dead behind Notre Dame.

It needed not a second glance at the rigid body lying upon its cold slate slab to tell that Pouzàtov’s surmise was correct. The body was that of the pretty Natalya. Instantly my thoughts reverted to Gaston Guéneau. Could he be her murderer?

Half an hour afterwards I called at General Martianoff’s, when Shiryàlov handed me secretly a sheet of paper folded small, which I quickly transferred to my pocket. It was a detailed account of the movements of the Chief of Secret Police during the last twenty-four hours.

At midnight the prominent members of the Circle of Paris met at a house in La Glacière. I produced reports and papers which conclusively showed that General Martianoff was the head of the Russian spies in the French capital, and Shiryàlov, who also attended, made a statement. The manner in which Lebedeff had been watched, arrested, and sent back to Petersburg had aroused the ire and hatred of every man present, and it was unanimously agreed that the ex-Governor of Mstislavl, being a sworn enemy of Russian freedom, should be sentenced to death.

The president of the Tribunal then took a number of pieces of paper, and upon one sketched roughly the death-emblem of our Order. The papers were then folded carefully, placed in a box, and every man drew one. The drawing was carried on in silence. The one to whose lot it fell to strike the fatal blow made no sign, and none in that assembly were aware who had been selected to carry out the sentence. Silence is always preserved in such cases in order to ensure absolute secrecy, and to give the murderer a better chance of evading the police.

That night, as Shiryàlov and I were returning to Paris together, I noticed he appeared thoughtful and morose, and asked the reason.

“I must leave the General’s service to-morrow,” he replied. “There is an urgent reason that I should do so.”

“Could I not apply for the situation?” I suggested, as a scheme suddenly entered my mind.

“Yes, why not?” he said, brightening. “You could then continue watching.”

“Very well,” I replied. “Give notice to-night, and I will apply at mid-day to-morrow. I already have a recommendation as a valet and trustworthy servant,” I added, laughing.

“Who from?”

“A Captain of Cossacks with whom I travelled a few years ago.”

Then he smiled and once more assumed his usual gaiety.

A week afterwards I was duly installed as valet to the General, while Shiryàlov had been engaged as messenger to the Franco-Russian Club in the Rue Royale. My work was not particularly heavy, for the chief mouchard was out for greater part of each day, which gave me opportunities for investigating and making copies of the reports of espionage that arrived daily from male and female secret agents.

One morning, about three weeks after the meeting of the Circle at La Glacière, I chanced to take up a paper, and my eyes fell upon a telegram from Petersburg, stating that Israel Lebedeff had been tried by court-martial, found guilty of an attempt upon the life of the Emperor, and had been sentenced to hard labour for life in Siberia.

Soon afterwards the door bell rang, and I admitted a short, stout, shabbily attired Frenchman, who, without addressing me, walked straight through to the room in which the General was sitting, closing the door after him.

The fact that he had a newspaper in his hand aroused my curiosity, and by placing my ear at the keyhole I was enabled to catch part of the conversation.

“Ah! So they found him guilty, eh?” I heard the General exclaim. “Well, we shall be commended by his Majesty for our shrewdness.”

“Shrewdness!” observed the visitor, with a hollow laugh. “True, we may call it so, but entre nous, I do not like the aspect affairs might assume if all the facts were known.”

“What do you mean? One Nihilist, more or less, surely cannot matter!”

“The arrest was made at the cost of the girl Natalya’s life.”

“She committed suicide,” replied the Tzar’s agent quickly. “And what is more, her body has been buried without identification.”

“She did not commit suicide,” said the detective calmly. “She was murdered!”

“How are you aware of that?”

“The spies of the Secret Police are everywhere. One was present when she was flung into the river—it was I.”

“Hush! speak lower,” urged the General. “My servant might overhear.” Then he added: “Listen, and I will prove to you that our action was justifiable. Gaston Guéneau, who was an attaché at Petersburg, and whose father owns the Château, was likely to be of service to Russia, and for that reason I carefully courted his companionship. I was not long in discovering that he entertained Nihilistic views, and that he was an old friend of Lebedeff’s. Gaston and Natalya, although not lovers, frequently met clandestinely in the interests of the revolutionary movement. Natalya, by some unaccountable means, discovered that I was connected with the Imperial Police, and on informing Gaston, prevailed upon him to steal some papers relating to our investigations regarding her father. He called upon me one day, and I was incautious enough to leave him here alone for a few moments, during which time he purloined a most important letter, one, that if ever produced, would be most damning evidence against us, and probably cause our expulsion from France. It exposed our little plot against Lebedeff, and explained the manner in which the bombs were to be introduced into his house. Of course, you quite understand that the Bureau at Petersburg was growing impatient, and we were bound to arrest some one.”

“One Nihilist is as good as another, providing you can fasten a conspiracy upon him, eh?” remarked the visitor with sarcasm.

“Just so,” continued Martianoff. “When I found the letter was missing, I had strict watch kept upon both Guéneau and the girl, by which means I discovered that he handed her the papers without reading them himself, for she had asked him not to do so. It was clear that, when she read them, she would place her father upon his guard, and there was also a possibility of us being caught like rats in a trap. Hence it was imperative, both for the success of our plans and the prestige of the Imperial Police, that we should secure her silence. There was but one way to do this—death! I returned to St. Germain that night——”

“I know the rest,” interrupted the spy; “I followed you, thinking you might require assistance. You met the girl on the river bank, after she had left Gaston, and having taken the papers from her pocket, gripped her by the throat and threw her into the river.”

“Bah! she was only a Jewess,” said Martianoff unconcernedly. “Had she escaped she would have probably taken the papers to one of the Socialist Deputies, an interpellation would have been made in the Chamber, and the letter produced. With what result? Disaster, disgrace, and public opinion so strong against us that we should be compelled to quit France.”

“Instead of which we shall receive commendation, and perhaps decoration, from the Tzar,” observed the Frenchman. “Ah! you were right, M’sieur le Général. You are always right. His Majesty should, indeed, be gratified at possessing such a diplomatic agent as yourself. The murder shall not be mentioned again between us.”

At that moment there were sounds as of some one walking across the room, therefore I left the door abruptly and consequently heard no more.

After the departure of the stout Frenchman I was sent to deliver a letter in the Avenue de l’Opéra, and after an absence of half an hour returned and continued my work in my own room.

Scarcely had I resumed when the door-bell again rang. Opening it, I was confronted by Paul Shiryàlov, who held a letter in his hand.

“An invitation to a ball at the Franco-Russian Club; to be delivered personally,” he whispered significantly, as he passed me and entered the General’s room unannounced. There was nothing unusual in this, for he frequently brought messages, therefore I returned to my work of dusting books.

A moment later, however, I heard a low exclamation of surprise, followed by a peculiar noise as if some heavy article had fallen upon the floor, and I saw Shiryàlov, with pale, affrighted face, hurrying out.

I rushed into Martianoff’s room to ascertain what had happened, but at first saw nothing unusual. On the opposite side of the writing-table, however, a horrifying sight met my gaze.

Lying upon the rug before the fireplace was the General. Blood was upon his hands, and a brief examination showed that he had been shot in the breast with a revolver. He was still breathing, and as I lifted his head upon my arm he gasped the one word in Russian, “Revenge!”

The respiration immediately became fainter, and in a few seconds he died.

The chief spy had been assassinated. His papers were in disorder, and the fact that a bureau had been broken open showed that the murderer had searched for something he particularly desired.

I quickly summoned medical aid, and was afterwards closely examined by the juge d’instruction, but as I kept Shiryàlov’s identity a secret, and could throw no light upon the mysterious crime, I was set at liberty.

The tragedy created a great sensation throughout Paris, especially when it became known that General Martianoff, who was popular in society and supposed to be a retired officer possessed of ample means, was in reality Chief of the French Section of Secret Police. The funeral took place at Père Lachaise a week afterwards, but neither the mouchards of M. Goron nor the spies of the Tzar discovered the murderer.

Information by some means, however, reached the police that Shiryàlov had not returned to the club in the Rue Royale. He was at once suspected, especially when it was discovered that immediately after the murder he had left for Brussels. But the far-reaching influence of Nihilism had already been set in motion, and although the police of Europe were watching for the fugitive, yet they were baffled at every turn. He moved from place to place with an alacrity almost incredible. Secret information we received showed that after leaving Paris he fled to Namur, thence to Brussels, Antwerp, London, Palermo, Malta, and Gibraltar. While at the latter place he became despondent, and a fiasco nearly resulted. So rapidly had he travelled that the money collected for him in Geneva and London did not reach him, consequently he found himself at the “Rock” penniless and starving. In this condition he was walking the streets and had determined to give himself up to the English authorities, when a delegate from the Paris Circle found him, and supplied him with funds, by which he was enabled to sail for America.

For several months nothing further was heard of him, although a member of the La Glacière colony, who was connected with the Havas Press Agency, from time to time circulated reports as to the movements of the fugitive, in order to place the police on false scents.

One morning, however, the papers published what appeared to be an authentic account of Shiryàlov’s suicide, which had taken place in a remote village in Texas. The pistol with which he had shot himself bore the name of a well-known Paris politician, who was known to have aided the criminal in his flight. Photographs that were afterwards forwarded to France were those of Shiryàlov. Moreover, some of the lists of Revolutionists resident in the French capital, which were abstracted from the spy’s bureau, were found upon the body, together with a written confession of the crime.

No doubt was therefore entertained by the police as to the suicide’s identity, and the search for the assassin was consequently relinquished.

One winter’s afternoon several months afterwards, I was sitting at home, in London, when I received an unexpected visit from Mascha.

“Congratulate me, Anton,” she said gaily, after we had exchanged warm greetings. “I have married!”

“Married!” I ejaculated.

“Yes, our wedding took place in Paris yesterday. Although you know my husband by sight, you have never spoken to him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gaston Guéneau.”

“The son of Count Jules Guéneau?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes,” she replied, laughing. “I knew him when he was an attaché at the French Embassy at Petersburg, and although after poor Ivan’s death we became engaged, we resolved to keep the matter a secret. He joined our Circle, but his revolutionary tendency was discovered by the police, and he was recalled to France. In one of his letters he told me that he had become friendly with a General Martianoff. Knowing that our enemy, the ex-Governor of Mstislavl, was in the service of the ‘Third Section,’ I suspected that he was being drawn into the cleverly-woven web. Therefore I proceeded to Paris in order to keep watch upon the spy, and warn Gaston against him. I had no idea that you were engaged in the same matter, or that you had discovered who murdered Natalya Lebedeff until one day, quite recently, when they were talking of it at a meeting at La Glacière.”

“But you were aware that Shiryàlov had killed the General?”

“Ah! there, even you are mistaken,” she said, with a smile. “Paul was innocent.”

“How can that be?” I asked. “I was present when he entered the room, and when he left the house after the assassination.”

“Exactly. But although he sought the spy intending to carry out the sentence of death that had been passed, he did not commit the deed. It was through me that the tyrant of Mstislavl was killed. On the night previous to the tragedy I was with Paramòn Pouzàtov who, as you know, was one of my admirers. I related to him the story of my life at Mstislavl, and the brutal treatment you and I had received at the hands of Martianoff. My description of his brutality, coupled with the vile conspiracy against Lebedeff, so incensed him that he swore he would remove the Tzar’s chief spy with his own hand. I did not regard his words seriously, but on the following morning, while I was waiting in the Boulevard in order to follow Martianoff when he emerged from his house, he approached me. He was wild-looking and haggard-eyed. ‘I have killed him!’ he whispered, at the same time handing me some papers. Then he hurried along the Boulevard and was quickly lost to view. The next I heard was that Shiryàlov was suspected.”

“But Paul fled to America.”

“True. But only in order to baffle the police. He has not committed suicide, for I have here a letter which he wrote from New York to my husband only a week ago.”

I took the note and read it. There was no doubt it was from him, for I recognised the handwriting.

Subsequent inquiries I made fully confirmed Mascha’s solution of the mystery. It had fallen to Paul Shiryàlov’s lot to encompass the death of General Martianoff, but prompted by vengeance Pouzàtov—one of the most desperate of the Terrorists—had entered the room and assassinated the Chief of Secret Police while I was absent delivering the letter in the Avenue de l’Opéra.

After Shiryàlov had made good his escape, and Pouzàtov considered himself secure, he pressed Mascha to marry him. But she refused, and kept her promise to Gaston.

Count Guéneau having died, she now lives happily at the Château with her husband. Both are still enthusiastic and sanguine as to the ultimate success of the struggle for freedom, and being possessed of an ample fortune, contribute generously to the Revolutionary Fund.

The Terrorists are now pausing. They believe that the ravages caused by recent famines in Russia can never be repaired. The vast Empire of the Tzar has now no alternative but to resign herself and gradually sink to the position of a decaying power like Turkey, or to throw open her gates to European progress, that goes hand in hand with freedom. At present there is no corner in the Russian Empire where the moujik is not moaning. In the fields and along the highways, in prisons and dungeons, at the mines in shackles of iron, by the side of hayricks and empty barns, under the waggons and on the steppes, the air is everywhere filled with groaning—groaning in hovels, cursing even the sunlight, groaning before the palaces of justice, and buffeted at the entrance of garish mansions, groaning alike in town and village, the wretched moujik is even ready to rise and strike a desperate blow for liberty. Sounds of woe float over the mighty Russian rivers from Archangel to the Caspian. They call it a song, the chant of the bourlaki (workmen) dragging the boats along, but alas! it is the sorrowful dirge of an endless agony.

Until the new era dawns—as it certainly must ere long—the Great White Terror will continue its deadly combat with the cruel and despotic Autocracy; its Damoclean force becoming even stronger and more irresistible, until it brings another disaster upon the House of the Romanoffs that will startle the world. Then a time will follow like that under Ivan the Terrible. When the day will come no man knows; but none the less sooner or later—and perhaps the time is not far distant—the people will shake their limbs, and Russia will tremble to her very foundations. The people who vainly awaited liberation at the hands of their rulers will then free themselves. They will demand an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The sins of the past will be visited on the guilty with all the horrors to which the oppressed in time past have been subjected by them. Then the Polish revolution will be mere child’s play in comparison with the great drama on the day of vengeance, and that such a day will surely come is inevitable.

The Russian people will judge who insulted them, who mistrusted them, who enslaved them, who spilt their blood. They will act in the manner of the French nation, and amid the ruins of wrecked palaces and the débris of a fallen dynasty, the condemned torturers will cry for mercy. The burning scene at Moscow will be repeated on a larger scale, not for the purpose of killing French soldiery, but of serving as a beacon fire to proclaim to Russians the Day of Redemption.

UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.