Chapter Twenty Nine. Presents another Problem.

On returning to Petersburg that evening and entering the Embassy, I found a telegram from Hartwig, summoning me back to London immediately. There were no details, only the words: “Return here at once.” All my letters to the club I had ordered to be sent to him during my absence, so I wondered whether he had received any communication from the missing pair. With the knowledge that any telegrams to me would be copied and sent to the Bureau of Secret Police, he had wisely omitted any reason for my return to London. I sent him, through the Bureau of Detective Police, the message to wire me details to the Esplanade Hotel in Berlin, and at midnight left by the ordinary train for the German frontier.

Four eager anxious days I spent on that never-ending journey between the Neva and the Channel. At Berlin, on calling at the hotel, I received no word from him, only when I entered the St. James’s Club at five o’clock on the afternoon of my arrival at Charing Cross did I find him awaiting me.

“Well,” I asked anxiously, as I entered the square hall of the club, “what news?”

“She’s alive,” he said. “She saw your advertisement and has replied!”

“Thank heaven!” I gasped. “Where is she?”

“Here is the address,” and he drew from his pocket-book a slip of paper, with the words written in Natalia’s own hand: “Miss Stebbing, Glendevon House, Lochearnhead, Perthshire.” And with it he handed the note which had come to the club and which he had opened—a few brief words merely enclosing her address and telling me to exercise the greatest caution in approaching her. “I have been watched by very suspicious persons,” she added, “and so I am in hiding here. When you can come, do so. I am extremely anxious to see you.”

“What do you make of that?” I asked the famous police official.

“That she scented danger and escaped,” he replied. “My first intention was to go up to Scotland to see her, but on reflection I thought, sir, that you might prefer to go alone.”

“I do. I shall leave Euston by the mail to-night and shall be there to-morrow morning. She has, I see assumed another name.”

“Yes, and she has certainly gone to an outlandish spot where no one would have thought of searching for her.”

“Drury suggested it, without a doubt. He knows Scotland so well,” I said.

Therefore yet another night I spent in a sleeping-car between Euston and Perth, eating scones for breakfast in the Station Hotel at the latter place, and leaving an hour later by way of Crieff and St. Fillans, to the beautiful bank of Loch Earn, lying calm and blue in the spring sunshine.

At the farther end of the loch the train halted at the tiny station of Lochearnhead, a small collection of houses at the end of the picturesque little lake, where the green wooded banks sloped to the water’s edge. Quiet, secluded, and far from the bustle of town or city it was. I found a rural little lake-side village, with a post-office and general shop combined, and a few charming old-world cottages inhabited by sturdy, homely Scottish folk.

Of a brown-whiskered shepherd passing near the station I inquired for Glendevon House, whereupon he pointed to a big white country mansion high upon the hill-side, commanding a wide view across the loch and surrounding hills; a house hemmed in by tall firs, fresh in their bright spring green.

A quarter of an hour later, having climbed the winding road leading to it, I entered the long drive flanked by rhododendrons, and was approaching the house when, across the lawn a slim female figure, in a white cotton gown, with a crimson flower in the corsage, came flying toward me, crying:

“Uncle Colin! Uncle Colin! At last!”

And a moment later Natalia wrung my hand warmly, her cheeks flushed with pleasure at our encounter.

“Whatever is the meaning of this latest escapade?” I asked. “You’ve given everybody a pretty fright, I can tell you.”

“I know, Uncle Colin. But you’ll forgive me, won’t you? Say you do,” she urged.

“I can’t before I know what has really happened.”

“Let’s go over to that seat,” she suggested, pointing to a rustic bench set invitingly on the lawn beneath a spreading oak, “and I’ll tell you everything.”

Then as we walked across the lawn she regarded me critically and said: “How thin you are! How very travel-worn you look!”

“Ah!” I sighed. “I’ve been a good many thousand miles since last I saw Your Highness.”

“I know. And how is poor Marya? You found her, of course.”

“Alas!” I said in a low voice, “I did not. My journey was of no avail. She died a few hours before my arrival in Yakutsk!”

“Died in Yakutsk,” she echoed in a hoarse whisper halting and looking at me. “Poor Marya dead! And Luba?”

“Luba is well, but still in prison.”

“Dead!” repeated the girl, speaking to herself, “and so your long winter journey was all in vain!”

“Utterly useless,” I said. “Then, on returning to London a fortnight ago, I learned that you had mysteriously disappeared. I have been back to Petersburg and informed the Emperor.”

“And what did he say? Was he at all anxious?” she asked quickly.

“It is known that Drury has also disappeared, and therefore His Majesty believes that you have fled together.”

“So we did, but it was not an elopement. No, dear old Uncle Colin, you needn’t be horribly scandalised. Mrs Holbrook, the owner of this place, is Dick’s aunt, and he brought me here so that I might hide from my enemies.”

“Then where is he?”

“Staying at the hotel over at St. Fillans, at the other end of the loch, under the name of Gregory. Fortunately his aunt has only recently bought this place, so he has never been here before. She is extremely kind to me.”

“Then you often see Drury—eh?”

“Oh, yes, we spend each day together. Dick comes over by the eleven o’clock train. It is such fun—much better than Brighton.”

“But the London police are searching everywhere for you both,” I said.

“This is a long way from London,” she replied with a bright laugh; “they are not likely to find us, nor are those bitter enemies of ours.”

“What enemies?”

“The revolutionists. There is a desperate plot against me. Of that I am absolutely convinced,” she said as she sank upon the rustic garden seat beneath the tree. The sunny view over loch and woodland was delightful, and the pretty garden and fir wood surrounding were full of birds singing their morning song.

“But you told neither Hartwig nor Dmitri of your fears,” I remarked. “Why not?” and I looked straight into her beautiful face, lit by the brilliant sunshine.

“Well, I will tell you, Uncle Colin,” she said, leaning back, putting her neat little brown shoe forth from the hem of her white gown, and folding her bare arms as she turned to me. “Dick one day discovered that wherever we went we were followed by Dmitri, and, as you may imagine, I had considerable difficulty in explaining his constant presence. But Dick loves me, and hence believes every word I tell him. He—”

“I know, you little minx,” I interrupted reprovingly, “you’ve bewitched him. I only fear lest your mutual love may lead to unhappiness.”

“That’s just it. I don’t know exactly what will happen when he learns who I really am.”

“He must be told very soon,” I said; “but go on, explain what happened.”

“Ah! no,” cried the girl in quick alarm; “you must not tell him. He must not know. If so, it means our parting, and—and—” she faltered, her big, expressive eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Well—you know, Uncle Colin—you know how fondly I love Dick.”

“Yes, I know, my child,” I sighed. “But continue, tell me all about your disappearance and its motive.” Now that I had found her I saw to what desperate straights Markoff must be reduced. He had, after all, no knowledge of her whereabouts.

“It was like this,” she said. “One evening we had walked along the cliffs to Rottingdean together. Dmitri had not followed us, or else he had missed us before we left Brighton. But just as we were coming down the hill, after passing that big girls’ college, Dick noticed that we were being followed by a man, who he decided was a foreigner. He was, I saw, a thin-faced man with a black moustache and deeply-furrowed brow, and then I recognised him as a man whom I had seen on several previous occasions. I recollected that he followed us that night on the pier when you first saw Dick walking with Doctor Ingram.”

“A man of middle height, undoubtedly a Russian,” I cried. “I remember him distinctly. His name is Danilo Danilovitch—a most dangerous person.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “I see you know him. Well, at the moment I was not at all alarmed, but next day I received an anonymous letter telling me to exercise every precaution. There was a revolutionary plot to kill me. It was intended to kill both Dick and myself. I showed him the letter. At first he was puzzled to know why the revolutionary party should seek to assassinate a mere girl like myself, but again he accepted my explanation that it was in revenge for some action of my late father, and eventually we resolved to disappear together and remain in hiding until you returned. Then, according to what Marya de Rosen had told you, I intended to act.”

“Alas! I learnt nothing.”

“Ah!” she sighed. “That is the unfortunate point. I am undecided now how to act.”

“Explain how you managed to elude Dmitri’s vigilance in Eastbourne.”

“Well, on that evening in Eastbourne I induced Miss West, Gladys Finlay and Dmitri to walk on to the station, and I entered a shop. When I came cut, Dick joined me. We slipped round a corner, and after hurrying through a number of back streets found ourselves again on the Esplanade. We walked along to Pevensey, whence that night we took train to Hastings, and arrived in London just before eleven. At midnight we left Euston for Scotland, and next morning found ourselves in hiding here. I was awfully sorry to give poor Miss West such a fright, and I knew that Hartwig would be moving heaven and earth to discover me. But I thought it best to escape and lie quite low until your return. I telegraphed to you guardedly to the British Consulate in Moscow, hoping that you might receive the message as you passed through.”

“I was only half an hour in Moscow, and did not leave the station,” I replied. “Otherwise I, no doubt, should have received it.”

“To telegraph to Russia was dangerous,” she remarked. “The Secret Police are furnished with copies of all telegrams coming from abroad, and Markoff is certainly on the alert.”

“No doubt he is,” I said. “As you well know, he is desperately anxious to close your lips. Now that poor Marya is dead, you alone are in possession of his secret—whatever it may be.”

“And for that reason,” she said slowly, her fine eyes fixed straight before her across the blue waters of the loch, “he has no doubt decided that I, too, must die.”

“Exactly; therefore it now remains for Your Highness to reveal to the Emperor the whole truth concerning those letters and the secret which resulted in Marya de Rosen’s arrest and death. It is surely your duly! You have no longer to respect the promise of secrecy which you gave her. Her death must be avenged—and by you—and you alone,” I added very quietly and in deep earnestness. “You must see the Emperor—you must tell him the whole truth in the interests of his own safety—in the interests, also, of the whole nation.” My dainty little companion remained silent, her eyes still fixed, her slim white fingers toying nervously with her skirt.

“And forsake Dick?” she asked presently in a low voice which trembled with emotion. “No, Uncle Colin. No, don’t ask me!” she urged. “I really can’t do that—I really can’t do that. I—I love him far too well.”

I sighed. And of a sudden, ere I was aware of it the girl, torn by conflicting emotions, burst into a flood of tears.

There, at her side I sat utterly at a loss what to say in order to mitigate her distress; for too well I knew that the pair loved each other truly, nay, madly. I knew that the love of an Imperial Grand Duchess of the greatest family in Europe is just as intense, just is passionate, just as fervent as that of a commoner, be she only a typist, a seamstress, or a serving-maid. The same feelings, the same emotions, the same passionate longings and tenderness; the same loving heart bests beneath the corsets of the patrician as beneath those of the plebeian.

You, my friendly readers, each of you—be you man or woman, love to-day, or have loved long ago. Your love is human, your affection firm, strong and undying, differing in no particular to the emotions experienced by the peasant in the cottage or the princess of the blood-royal.

I looked at the little figure on the rustic seat at my side, and all my sympathy went out to her.

I have loved once, just as you have, my reader; and I knew, alas! what she suffered, and how she foresaw opened before her the grave of all her hopes, of all her aspirations, of all her love.

She was committing the greatest sin pronounced by the unwritten law of her Imperial circle. She loved a commoner! To go forward, to speak and save her nation from the depredations of that unscrupulous camarilla, the Council of Ministers, would mean to her the abandonment of the young Englishman she loved so intensely and devotedly—the sacrifice, alas! of all she held most dear in life by the betrayal of her identity.