Chapter Twenty Three. A Terrible Truth.

Ella’s cold, formal adieu stunned me. I stood open-mouthed, petrified. We had parted on the best of terms, she kissing me affectionately, and with wifely solicitude bidding me hasten back; yet in my absence she had departed, evidently carrying out some pre-arranged plan. Her maid, Roberts, had noticed her packing her trunks three days before, therefore it was certain that she meant to desert me as soon as opportunity offered.

Unaccountable and astounding as was her sudden flight, the discovery I had made among the papers in her escritoire was even more amazing. It held me stupefied and aghast.

The paper I held in my hand was the original of the secret convention between England and Germany; the document which had been stolen from me, transmitted by telegraph to the Russian Foreign Office, and had nearly caused a terrible and disastrous European war.

When I took it from among the letters and saw its neat, formal writing and sprawly signatures, I gazed upon it in blank amazement, unable at first to realise the startling truth. There was, however, no room for doubt. It was the actual document which had been so ingeniously purloined, for it reposed in the escritoire still in its official envelope. The great black seal affixed by the Earl of Warnham had been broken, and both envelope and document had the appearance of having at some time or other been folded small, besides being sadly crumpled.

Beneath the shaded light I examined the envelope carefully, and detected a faint carmine streak upon it; then, placing it to my nostrils, found that it exuded a stale odour of sampaguita. In an instant the truth was plain. The pink discolouration had been caused by rouge; the scent was Ella’s favourite perfume, which she always procured from Paris. No doubt the document had been carried for a considerable period in her pocket for safety, and become crumpled, as papers will if carried in a woman’s dress. While the envelope might easily have absorbed the odour of that unmistakable perfume from her handkerchief, the streak of rouge puzzled me, for I had never suspected her of an artificial complexion, nor had I ever seen the hare’s foot and carmine among her toilet articles.

“Tell Roberts I wish to speak to her,” I said, turning to Juckes, who had stood by in silence, puzzled at my strange action of breaking the top of the escritoire.

He obeyed, and in a few moments the neat, dark-eyed maid entered.

“Roberts,” I exclaimed, “I want you to tell me something. Does my wife use any carmine to give artificial colour to her cheeks?”

“Oh, no, sir,” the girl assured me. “Madame is very averse to the use of such things. Once or twice, when she has been going out at night, and looked unusually pale, I have suggested a little additional colour, but she has always refused.”

“Did she have any rouge or anything of that sort in her possession?” I inquired.

“No, sir, I am quite certain she hadn’t.”

“Why are you so confident?”

“Because only the other day, when I was ill with a sick headache, madame urged me to use some colour, as my face was so pale. Visitors were coming, she said, and she didn’t want me to look like a ghost. I told her that I had no carmine, and she remarked that she had none, therefore nothing could be done.”

“When did my wife pack those two trunks she took with her this evening?”

“Last Monday, sir,” the girl answered, slowly twisting her befrilled apron in her hands. “She received a note by boy-messenger, and immediately set about packing the boxes.”

“Did she tell you anything?” I asked, adding confidentially, “I have reason to believe that my wife has left us, therefore anything you tell me may assist me in tracing her.”

The girl glanced at me in genuine surprise.

“Do you mean, sir, that madame has—has run away?” she gasped.

“No—well, not exactly,” I stammered. “But did she tell you anything?”

With eyes downcast the girl paused in hesitation, answering at last, “She didn’t actually tell me anything.”

“But what do you know about her intentions?”

“Nothing,” she answered. Then, after a pause, she added, “Well, to tell you the truth, sir, I had suspicions.”

“Of what? Do not fear to speak because I am her husband,” I said reassuringly. “I may as well know the worst at once.”

“She used frequently to receive notes from a gentleman. They were brought by a commissionaire or by a man-servant, who waited for the answer. When they came I always knew that on the following day she would be absent many hours.”

“You believe that she met this mysterious individual—eh?” I asked huskily.

“Yes, for she always told me never to admit to you that she had been long absent. Therefore I had suspicion that she met somebody clandestinely.”

“What was his name?”

“I have never been able to ascertain. Once I glanced at a note lying on madame’s dressing-table. It merely announced the writer’s intention to attend Lady Pearson’s ‘at home,’ and was signed ‘X.’”

“Well,” I said hoarsely, after a long silence. “What else?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “That is all I know, sir.”

“Has my wife taken her jewels?” I inquired.

“No. She has left her jewel-case unlocked, but everything is there. She has even left behind her wedding-ring.”

“Her wedding-ring!” I echoed, astounded and dismayed. “Then she has discarded me completely.”

“Unfortunately it appears so, sir,” the girl observed gravely.

“Very well, Roberts,” I said in a broken voice. “Thank you. You may go.”

The girl glanced at me for an instant, with a sad, pitying look, then turned and left, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

Alone, I sank into the chair utterly broken down, still holding in my nervous, trembling fingers the secret document that secured the peace and welfare of the two most powerful nations on earth. I had at last discovered the hideous truth. Ella, the woman whose grace and beauty had held me enmeshed, and whom I had loved with an intensity of passion that was all-consuming, was, after all, base and worthless. Although making a hollow pretence to love me, she had cast me aside for this mysterious man who signed himself with an initial, and who met her secretly almost daily. I had been a blind, devoted idiot, I knew, but until I had watched her in Kensington Gardens I had never suspected her of infamy. It seemed, however, that she had no sense of shame, and cared nought for my dishonour or despair. Her perfidy was now revealed in all its painful reality. Ella, whom I had always regarded as pure, honest and trusting, was a woman of tarnished repute. The fact that she had the secret convention in her possession was, in itself, sufficient evidence that the mystery surrounding her was deep, and of no ordinary character. Sonia had warned me that she was my enemy, and this fact was now indeed vividly apparent.

How she had become possessed of the stolen treaty was inexplicable. Full well she knew all the terrible anxiety its loss had caused me, and the sensation that its revelation had created throughout Europe. Times without number I had mentioned to her how anxious my chief was to recover the original, so that our enterprising friends in St Petersburg could have no tangible proof that it had actually existed, yet she had given no sign that she knew anything of it, much less that it actually reposed in my own drawing-room. I did not fail, in those moments of my despair, to recollect that she had been on the most intimate terms with Dudley Ogle, the man suspected to have been in the service of the Tzar’s Government, and as I sat in wonderment it became gradually impressed upon me that through those many months I had been basely tricked, and that Ella herself, charming and ingenuous as she seemed, was actually a secret agent of the enemies of England.

Several facts that I recollected combined to produce this startling belief. Because of my confidential position as secretary to the Earl of Warnham, it was apparent that Ella, with the assistance of my whilom friend Dudley and the encouragement of her mother, had conspired to hold me beneath her spell. She had become my wife, not because she had ever loved me, but because she could feign affection or hatred with equal impunity, and had some ulterior motive in obtaining my confidence. Her firm resolve to ascertain the true facts regarding Dudley’s mysterious end showed plainly that if they were not lovers they had acted in complete accord, and what was more likely than that he, having stolen the secret convention, had on that memorable night at “The Nook” handed it to her, the instigator of the ingenious theft. Yet an hour or so later he died from some cause that neither doctors nor police had been able to determine.

To her, the tragic occurrence was a mystery, as to all, and her refusal to render me any explanation of her suspicious actions was, I now saw, quite natural. Held beneath the iron thraldom of her masters in St Petersburg, she dared not utter one word; hence I had remained in the outer darkness of doubt and ignorance.

However it might be, one thing was certain. She had been unexpectedly parted from me, either by choice or compulsion. Perhaps it was that to pose as my wife was no longer necessary; yet if she were actually a spy, was it not curious that in departing she should overlook this document, of which the Ministry at St Petersburg were so anxious to possess themselves.

Again, as I sat alone before the cheerless grate, I reflected that if she were in the pay of Russia, surely Monsieur Grodekoff, the Ambassador, would have been acquainted with her. Besides, what reason could Renouf have had in making such careful inquiries, or why did Paul Verblioudovitch discredit the truths uttered by Sonia and urge me to marry the woman I loved? Nevertheless if, as I supposed, my position in the Foreign Office had caused me to be the victim of a clever and deeply-conceived conspiracy, it was scarcely surprising that the Tzar’s representative should disclaim all knowledge of the sweet-faced agent, or that Paul had praised her and cast obloquy upon Sonia in order that their plans, whatever they were, should be achieved. Of the actions of Renouf, and his strange disregard for detection, I could form no satisfactory conclusion. All I knew was that Ella’s career had been an unscrupulous and inglorious one, and that she had cast me aside as soon as her infamous ends had been attained.

The only person who could elucidate the mystery was Sonia, the pretty girl who had been denounced by Renouf as a murderess, and who was now in hiding in far-off Russia, in some out-of-the-world place where I could never hope to find her. If she were clever enough to elude the combined vigilance of the detective force of Europe, as undoubtedly she had done, there was but little hope that I could ever run her to earth.

The mystery had, by Ella’s flight, been increased rather than explained, for the more I pondered the more deeply-rooted became the conviction that she had decamped because she had cause to fear some strange development that would lead to her exposure and shame.

After a time I roused myself, and taking from the broken escritoire the other letters it contained, five in number, examined them eagerly beneath the light.

All were in the same hand, a heavy masculine one, written evidently with a quill. One by one I read them, finding that they contained appointments, which fully bore out her maid’s suspicions.

“My dear Ella,” one ran, “to-morrow I shall be on the departure platform at King’s Cross Station at 11:30. I have good news for you. Come.—X.”

Another regretted the writer’s inability to keep an appointment, as he had been called unexpectedly to Paris, and was compelled to leave by the night mail from Charing Cross. He, however, promised to return in three days, and gave her the Grand Hotel as his address if she found it necessary to telegraph.

Strangely enough, the letters contained no endearing terms either at their commencement or conclusion. Formal and brief, they all related to appointments at various places in London where two persons might meet unnoticed by the crowd, and all were signed by the single mysterious initial. I stood with them in my hand for a long time, puzzled and hesitating, then placing them carefully in my pocket, together with the secret document I had so unexpectedly unearthed, I crammed on my hat and hastily drove to Pont Street.

The house was in darkness, save for a light in the basement, and in answer to my summons, after a lapse of some minutes a tall, gaunt, woman in rusty black appeared in the area below.

I was surprised at being thus met by a stranger, but inquired for Mrs Laing.

“Mrs Laing ain’t at ’ome, sir,” answered the woman, looking up and speaking with a strong Cockney twang.

“Not at home?” I exclaimed, surprised. “Where is she?”

“She’s gone abroad somewheres, but I don’t know where,” the woman answered. “She’s sold all her valuables, discharged the servants, and left me ’ere as ’ouse-keeper.”

“When did she go?” I asked.

“This morning. I answered an advertisement in the Chronicle yesterday, and entered on my duties ’ere to-day. Quick, ain’t it?”

The rapidity of her engagement I was compelled to admit, but proceeded to make further inquiry whether Mrs Laing’s daughter had been there.

“No, sir. No one’s been ’ere to-day, except a foreign-looking gentleman who asked if madame had left, and when I said that she had, he went away quite satisfied.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“Tall and thin, with a longish dark beard.”

The description did not correspond with anyone of my acquaintance; therefore, after some further questions regarding Mrs Laing’s mysterious departure, I was compelled to wish the worthy woman good evening. She knew nothing of Mrs Laing’s movements, not even the name of the terminus to which she had driven, such pains had Ella’s mother taken to conceal the direction in which she intended to travel.

Some secret undoubtedly existed between mother and daughter; its nature held me perplexed and bewildered.