Several weeks passed uneventfully. In fulfilment of my promise to Sonia I had obtained the required permit and taken it personally to Pembroke Road on the same evening, but on arrival there discovered that the pretty Russian had been unexpectedly summoned to the bedside of a sick friend. She had, however, left a note with the English maid asking me to enclose the document in an envelope and leave it.

“I regret it is impossible for me to be at home to receive you,” she wrote in French, “but I have every confidence that you will secure me what I require. If you leave it for me I will, in return, write down and send you the facts I promised to reveal. Time presses, therefore kindly excuse my haste. I shall always remember your kindness and be ready to render you any service in return.”

This was disappointing. I had hoped to hear from her own lips her promised revelations, but this being impossible, I enclosed the special permit in an envelope, sealed it and left it, together with a brief note warning her that she was being carefully watched by police agents, and promising to call next day and bid her farewell.

When on the following morning I presented myself at her house, I was informed by the maid that mademoiselle had left early to visit her sick friend, and that she would not return till evening. Inquiry showed that she had received my letter, and when at eight o’clock that night I again called in the expectation of obtaining the fulfilment of her promise to tell me of Ella, I found her still absent, and gathered from the servant that she had taken a travelling-trunk with her. I concluded that she had left secretly for Russia.

From day to day I waited in the expectation of a letter from her, but although I remained in anxiety and doubt for more than a month, none came, and I was at last compelled to admit that I had actually been tricked, as Paul had predicted. He was right after all. Sonia, the innocent-looking girl with the sad, dark eyes and dimpled chin, was a woman internationally notorious, who, soft-voiced, had posed as my friend in order to attain her own ends, and had then departed without carrying out her part of the compact. As the weeks passed I gradually began to realise the force of Paul Verblioudovitch’s words when he had tried to impress upon me the necessity of accepting her statements with caution. Without doubt she was a heartless adventuress, therefore I bitterly reproached myself for having allowed her libellous allegations against Ella to arouse suspicion within me, and at length determined upon regarding all her words as false, uttered merely for the purpose of enlisting my assistance to procure here re-entry into her own country. My anger that I should have allowed myself to fall into such a trap, and make such a demand upon a friend’s goodwill, knew no bounds. I went to the Embassy, and to Paul admitted that my hopes had not been realised. In reply, he laughed heartily, saying, —

“I warned you, my dear fellow, of the kind of woman with whom you were dealing. Thank your stars that she has discarded you so easily, and be careful of pretty refugees in future. No harm has apparently been done, for inquiries I’ve made showed that she crossed the frontier at Verjbolovo without detection.”

“I must confess I doubted the truth of your words before you issued the permit, but of course it is all plain now,” I said.

“You don’t believe her lies about Miss Laing, eh?” he inquired bluntly, but a trifle earnestly, I thought.

“No, I don’t,” I smiled; and then our conversation had drifted into a different channel. It was clear enough now, patent to everybody, that the girl I had fancied so pure, so unworldly – the goddess that sat in the clouds regarding all earth with clear, immaculate eyes – was simply an adventuress, a wretched creature, on the lookout for victims.

The popular excitement consequent from the belief that war was to be declared had died down, although in the Foreign Office the reason of the sudden abandonment of Russia’s intentions remained an inscrutable mystery, while the panic on the Stock Exchange had enriched a few and ruined many. Parliament had risen for the recess, and Beck had taken a party in his yacht to the Norwegian fiords, Ella and Mrs Laing declining his invitation to join them. This course had been adopted at my suggestion. When Ella had spoken to me of their proposed cruise, I at once demurred, for although I had also been asked, I found absence from the Foreign Office impossible, owing to several delicate negotiations at that moment proceeding, and therefore urged her to remain in London. This she did at once, declining the invitation on behalf of both herself and her mother. The latter, who was not a good sailor, secretly thanked me for rescuing her from what she termed “three weeks of misery,” and, truth to tell, although no longer jealous of Beck’s attention to Ella, I was glad to have her remain in town.

Through the hot, stifling August days, when London was what is termed “empty,” Mrs Laing and her daughter still lived in Pont Street. During the first three weeks following my visit to Sonia I called only twice, but meantime Ella was, I know, suffering tortures of doubt and anxiety. She had been trained in a school of self-repression, and it now stood her in good stead. She could not, however, prevent her cheeks being pale, neither could she help her eyes looking dilated and odd. Speech was difficult and smiles impossible; otherwise she held her own, and only I felt the difference, and knew that there lay a deep gulf of suspicion between us.

On the two occasions on which I had called we had no confidential chat, and the formal hours went by almost in silence. I had received positive proof from Renouf that she had been a constant visitor to Sonia, and it was impossible to talk with frivolity in that oppressive atmosphere of doubt. Mrs Laing, I noticed, hung her gold pince-nez high upon her nose in wonder. Ella was thus consuming herself with anxiety, while I, struggling along from day to day, saw my last hope growing thinner and yet more shadowy, and looming through it – despair.

Then at last, five weeks after Sonia’s flight, I called at Pont Street and demanded of Ella the reason she had visited the house in Pembroke Road. Her reply was quite unexpected. She told me quite calmly that they had been schoolfellows at Neuilly, and that, finding Sonia had lost both her parents, she went to Pembroke Road each day to bear the bereaved girl company. She was in ignorance regarding Sonia’s life since she had left the French school, and expressed surprise that she should have departed suddenly without telling her of her destination. Her replies to my inquiries set my mind at rest upon several points. It appeared quite plain that Ella herself had told Sonia of her engagement to me and had described the tragic incident at Staines, therefore the pretty refugee had been enabled to drop those ingenious hints at mystery that had so sorely puzzled me, and had cleverly secured my interests on her behalf.

When I realised how artfully I had been tricked, I ground my teeth, and Ella, standing statuesque on the opposite side of the drawing-room in strong relief against a background of dark, glossy palms and broad-leaved tropical plants, noticed my anger. The light fell upon her red-brown hair and upon her slightly upturned face, showing its delicate modelling in its almost childish roundness. Her profile was quite as charming as her full face, perhaps more so, as it had the advantage of the curl and sweep of the eyelashes and of the fine line of the upper lip.

She eyed me gravely, but spoke no word.

Yet in that instant I knew I had misjudged her, that through those long, anxious weeks while I had entertained dark suspicions she had nevertheless still loved me honestly and truly. I know not what words I uttered, but a few moments later I found her sobbing in my fond embrace. Her tears were tears of joy.

The silence was long. We had so much to think about that we forgot to speak, but presently, when she dried her blue eyes with her flimsy lace handkerchief and seated herself, I took the tiny hand lying idly in her lap and laid my cheek down on the tender, rosy palm.

“How I wish that this night could last for ever,” I said, with a sigh of supreme contentment. “In my memory it will live always.”

“Always?” she echoed, looking tenderly into my face; then for the first time she put her arms around me and held me tightly pressed against her heart.

“Yes, always,” I said. “Until I die.”

“Ah! Don’t speak of death,” she whispered. “If you died, I – I should die also, Geoffrey. I could not live without you. How I have endured these dark, weary weeks I scarcely know.”

Together we remained a long time, while I reproached myself for entertaining suspicion that her friendliness with Dudley or with Beck was anything but platonic, declaring that my love had ever been unwavering, that my recent actions had been due to a mad and unjust jealousy for which I craved her forgiveness.

With her eyes still wet she told me how fondly she had always loved me, and urged me to think no more of the strange events that had led to Dudley’s tragic end.

“It is my duty to ascertain the truth and clear up the mystery,” she said. “I have promised you a solution of the enigma, and you shall have it some day.”

“For the present, dearest, I am content to wait,” I answered, and in the same breath repeated the question I had asked her months ago – whether she would be my wife.

“Alas! I fear you do not trust me sufficiently, Geoffrey,” she answered in a low, intense tone, tears still welling in her blue eyes.

“I do,” I cried. “I know that all the time I have been a jealously brutal fool you have loved me as truly as ever.”

“I told you long ago that I loved you,” she answered earnestly.

“Yes, I believe it now, darling,” I said. “That is why I ask you to become my wife. Tell me once more that you will.” In a whisper, as her handsome head pillowed itself upon, my arm, she repeated her promise, then burst into a torrent of tears, while I, in joyful ecstasy, still held her in my arms.

It was an idyllic evening, this first one of love and trust; a brief dream such as one has in the moment before waking. Bowing before my idol, I had humbly acknowledged myself wrong, and my well-beloved had frankly forgiven and forgotten. There was a long silence, deep and impressive, broken only by the confused sound from the street that came in through the open window. Then, when she stirred again and raised her head, I told her of my position at the Foreign Office, and the probability of my appointment to a diplomatic post abroad.

She listened, her clear, trusting eyes fixed upon me. She, too, was ambitious.

“It’s a great responsibility for any woman,” she said at last, “to think she is to be part of a career. I will help you, my darling,” then she buried her face again in my coat-collar, protesting fervently, “I will never, never allow myself to hinder you; but will do my utmost to help you to success, only you must have patience with me.” Suddenly she raised her head again, continuing, “I know there is one strange episode in my past that is a mystery to you, nay, to all. My misfortune is that I am unable yet to reveal the truth, because I fear the consequences of such disclosure. Some day you shall know everything, but until then think only of me as the woman who loves you with all her soul.”

She spoke with a terrible earnestness, her slim fingers clutching my arm convulsively, and as I gave my promise to regard her always as a pure and upright woman, and forget the mystery surrounding her, I sealed our compact with a long, passionate kiss.

Mrs Laing, stiff and stately in black satin, entered the room a few moments later, and Ella, having whispered and obtained my consent, forthwith made a full and complete statement to her mother of the position of affairs. The old lady listened attentively in silence, inclining her head now and then with a gesture indicative of approbation, but when her daughter had concluded her face brightened.

“I am indeed glad to think that dear Ella is to marry you after all, Geoffrey,” she said. “Once, not so very long ago, I feared that you two would never again be reconciled, for Ella moped day after day, crying, and quite spoiling her complexion. But the old saying about the course of true love contains much truth, and now that your little differences are readjusted, there can be no cause for any further regret. That Ella loves you dearly, I, as her mother, have had better opportunity for knowing than anyone else and were it not for the fact that I am convinced you both will be happy, I should never give my consent to your marriage. But I am absolutely sure that this marriage is one that Ella’s father would have approved, therefore you have my entire consent and heartiest congratulations.”

“Thank you, Mrs Laing,” I answered. “I, too, am convinced that we love each other sufficiently well, and I can only promise to be a sympathetic and devoted husband.”

Ella, who, standing beside her mother’s chair, had entwined her arms affectionately around her neck, slowly released her, and walked across the room to turn the lamp higher. Then, deeming it but just that they both should know the reason of my recent coolness and suspicion, I told them in confidence of the mysterious theft of the secret convention, the strange and tragic events that followed, the discovery of the seal on the body of Dudley Ogle, and my absurd belief that Ella had, in some way, been implicated in the ingenious efforts of the spy.

“Do you actually suspect poor Dudley of having been in the pay of the Russian Government?” Mrs Laing asked, open-mouthed, in dismay.

“I do,” I was constrained to reply. “There is no shadow of doubt that he was a spy. He tricked you as he did myself. I was his best friend, yet he nearly ruined all my prospects in the Service.”

While we had been speaking the door had opened, and as I glanced from Ella across to Mrs Laing, I saw a grey-haired man-servant in the act of handing her a letter.

As he turned from her to leave he glanced at me suddenly. Our eyes met in mutual recognition, and I think I must have started perceptibly, for his brows suddenly contracted as if commanding me to silence; then he made his exit, closing the door noiselessly behind him.

“You haven’t seen my new man Helmholtz before, Geoffrey,” Mrs Laing exclaimed when he had gone. “He seems a perfect treasure, although he is a German. But, after all, German servants are more useful, and quite as trustworthy as English. I should certainly advise Ella to have one.”

“Yes,” I answered mechanically.

The man was none other than Ivan Renouf, the great Russian detective.

Chapter Nineteen
A Blade of Grass

Nearly three months had slipped away. It was mid-November. The cloud that had darkened my days had lifted, the sun shone out, and life and hope sprang up and ran riot in my heart. The long, anxious weeks were over, for Ella was now my wife, and our lives were full of joy and love. With utter contempt for the warning words of the ingenuous Russian who left so mysteriously without fulfilling her promise, I had taken the dearest other half of my soul, happy in the knowledge that I would be a solitary wretch no more.

After a quiet wedding at St Peter’s, Eaton Square, at which, however, a large number of our friends were present, including Paul Verblioudovitch, the reception had been held at Pont Street, and we left to spend our honeymoon on the Continent while our house in Phillimore Gardens, Kensington, was being prepared. I loved my wife with the whole strength of my being. Her beauty was incomparable, her grace charming, and I could not doubt that she loved me with her whole soul, and that her vows came direct from her heart.

The reason of Renouf’s presence in Mrs Laing’s household was an enigma. Since the night when I had first seen him there I had visited Pont Street each day, and on several occasions had managed to speak with him alone. To all my inquiries, however, he remained dumb.

One night, when I had called and found Ella and her mother had gone to the theatre, I closed the door of the room into which I had been ushered, and asked him point-blank whether his presence there was not calculated to arouse suspicions in my mind. With an imperturbable smile he replied, —

“There is no allegation whatever against mother or daughter, therefore set your mind entirely at rest. We desire to ascertain something. That is all.”

His manner angered me.

“If I were to denounce you as a spy you would be thrown out of this house very quickly,” I said, indignant that this ill-featured man should, for some mysterious reason, watch every action of my well-beloved.

He glanced at me with an amused expression, as he answered in a half whisper, —

“By betraying me, m’sieur would betray one of his closest friends.”

“Oh! How’s that?”

“A word from you to either of these women,” he exclaimed, with brows slightly knit, “and the department in St Petersburg will know the reason that Sonia Korolénko was enabled to pass the frontier at Verjbolovo; they will know that Paul Verblioudovitch, the Secretary of Embassy, has assisted a criminal to escape.”

“You scoundrel!” I cried, facing him fiercely. “You listened to our conversation!”

He shrugged his shoulders, and with the same grim smile, answered, —

“My ears are trained, m’sieur. It is part of my profession.”

“But why do you remain here, in a peaceable household?” I demanded. “Surely neither Mrs Laing nor Ella have incurred the Tzar’s displeasure or the hatred of those in authority! They know nothing of Russia; they have never set foot in the country.”

The man’s features relaxed, and turning from me, he busied himself among some bottles on the sideboard.

“I desire an answer,” I continued.

“I have my instructions,” he replied, without looking towards me.

“From whom?”

“From headquarters.”

“Well,” I exclaimed. “We are not in Russia, therefore, when the ladies return, I shall explain who and what you are.”

“You dare not,” he said, regarding me suddenly with dark, penetrating gaze.

“Miss Ella will soon be my wife, and I will not allow her actions to be noted upon one of those formidable forms of yours that are too often the death-warrants of your victims.”

“These ladies are not my victims, as you are pleased to term them,” he protested, laughing at my anger.

“Victims or friends, they shall no longer remain under your accursed surveillance,” I cried hotly. “You may practice your espionage upon your suspected compatriots; but I will never allow you to keep observation upon my friends here in England.”

“Very well,” he said, quite calmly, with that cynical expression that was so tantalising. “Act as you think fit. We, of the secret service, take no step before due consideration of its consequences, a policy it would be wise for you also to adopt.” Then, with a show of mock politeness, he opened the door of the dining-room, and, bowing, exclaimed, “Madame is out, will m’sieur remain, or call again?”

Our eyes met, and I saw in his a look of triumph.

“I’ll call again,” I replied, and walked out into the hall, gaining the street a moment later.

The first passing hansom I hailed, and drove at once to Chesham House, where I was fortunate to find Paul. When we were closeted together, I told him of the police officer’s threat, and my announcement caused him considerable astonishment.

“Curious,” he repeated, as if to himself. “Very curious that Renouf should be installed in that family, above all others.”

“Above all others,” I echoed. “Why?”

“I – I mean that Mrs Laing could not possibly have done anything to offend our Government,” he said, quickly correcting himself. “It is certainly very strange. Renouf is not a man to be trifled with,” he added quickly. “There must be some very strong reason, known only to himself, that has induced him to act in this manner. If the motive were not a strong one, he would delegate the menial position he has had to assume to one of his subordinates. I know he has his hands full of important inquiries just now, and it therefore surprises me that he is calmly reposing as butler in Mrs Laing’s service.”

“But knowing him to be a spy, I cannot allow him to remain longer in daily contact with those two defenceless women,” I exclaimed.

“Have they ever been in Russia?”

“Never!” I replied. “Only the other evening they were asking me about St Petersburg, and both expressed a wish to visit your country.”

Paul, with his hands behind his back, and head bent in thought, paused for a moment, and then said, —

“From what I know of Ivan Renouf, I believe that were you to do him an evil turn, and obtain his dismissal from Pont Street, he would at once expose to the Ministry of the Interior how Sonia Korolénko obtained her passport. If he did so, the result would be disastrous to me, especially just at a time when our frontier regulations are extremely rigid.”

“What, then, is the best course to pursue?” I asked.

He was silent, looking moodily into the fire. Then turning with a sudden movement, he said, with emphasis, – “You are my friend, Geoffrey. My future is in your hands.”

“Which means that my silence is imperative,” I observed reflectively.

Paul Verblioudovitch nodded, but uttered no word. If I denounced Renouf it was plain that my friend who had seriously imperilled his position at my urgent request, must undoubtedly suffer. In order to shield him I must therefore remain silent. With intense chagrin I saw myself ingeniously checkmated.

I dared not allow one single syllable of suspicion regarding the German servant, who was, according to Mrs Laing, “a treasure,” to escape my lips, and thus, as the weeks passed preceding my marriage, I was compelled to watch and wait without any outward sign.

The reason of his vigilance was an inscrutable mystery. With Ella as my wife I had passed six blissful weeks, visiting many of the quaint, old-world towns in Central France. It had been Ella’s fancy to do this. She hated the glare and glitter of Paris, and would only remain there the night on our outward and homeward journeys; indeed, cities had no charm for her, she preferred the lethargic provincial towns, from which we could make excursions into the country and spend the bright autumn days at old-fashioned inns. Fearing that she was becoming bored, I endeavoured to induce her to go to Biarritz or Pau, but to no avail. The crowded table-d’hôte, of the popular resort possessed no attraction, and I rejoiced in secret, for we spent a far happier time wandering through the country than if installed in some garish hotel in the neighbourhood of a casino.

Once, and only once since our marriage, had I made any mention of the death of Dudley Ogle. We were driving into the ancient town of Chateauroux, in the Indre, on the lumbering, dusty, old diligence that has performed the same daily journey for perhaps a century, when I chanced to incidentally utter his name, and express wonder when the mystery would be solved.

We were speaking in English, not a word of which could be understood by our driver, but instantly she turned to me with a look of reproach, and, placing her little gloved hand on my mouth in haste, exclaimed, —

“No, Geoffrey. Do not recall that terrible tragedy. Promise never again to mention his name; it only brings sadness to both of us, while the mystery surrounding the crime is irritating and puzzling. You have already told me that he was not your friend, although he posed as such, therefore forget him. I have not forgotten; nor shall I ever cease to think and to strive towards the solution of the problem.”

“But cannot I help you to search and investigate?” I suggested. “Why should you strive to elucidate this mystery alone, now that you are my wife?”

“Because it is my ambition,” she answered, regarding me earnestly with clear, trusting eyes. “You will, I know, allow me to retain one object in life apart from you.”

“Certainly,” I answered, surreptitiously pressing her hand, although puzzled at her strange words. In the few weeks we had been together I had discovered that she was a woman of moods and curious fancies. Once or twice she had exhibited a strong desire to walk alone at night when the moon shone, and because I objected she had pouted prettily, scorning the idea that she was not able to take care of herself. Except when in this mood she was always eager to fulfil my every wish, and I had quickly arrived at the conclusion that her strange desires were but natural to one of a slightly hysterical temperament, and therefore troubled myself but little about them.

Thus after an enjoyable trip through one of the most beautiful districts of France, unknown to the average Briton, we returned and settled comfortably at our new home in Kensington. My duties at the Foreign Office took me away the greater part of the day, but Ella was not lonely, for she drove out frequently with her mother, who visited her almost daily. Of interference or maternal influence I had nothing whatever to complain, yet Ella’s desire to wander about alone, aimless and absorbed, soon again seized her. We had been settled about a month when I made this discovery from the servants, who, on my arrival home earlier than usual on several occasions, told me, in answer to questions, that their mistress had gone out by herself. But on her return she betrayed no surprise, mentioning quite incidentally that she had been shopping in High Street, or that she had been to her milliner’s in Bond Street, or elsewhere.

So frequently did this occur that at last I became puzzled, and on making further inquiries found that on many occasions she had been absent the whole day, returning only just in time to change her dress and receive me with that bright, winning smile that always held me entranced.

One bright December afternoon I returned at three o’clock, and found she had been absent since eleven that morning. I took a cab to Pont Street, but ascertaining she had not been there, returned home, and impatiently awaited her until nearly six. As soon as I heard her light footstep I seized a book that lay nearest and pretended to read. She burst in like a ray of sunshine, her face aglow with laughter, and in her hand an immense bunch of sweet-smelling violets.

The book chanced to be a Koran in Arabic. She came across to kiss me, but I waved her off with dignity, and went on translating the Word of the Prophet.

Ella stood back indignant, and with her flowers in front of her waited at the other side of the table.

After a pause I commenced, “You went out this morning ten minutes after I had gone; it is now six o’clock. You have been absent seven hours.”

Ella nodded.

“And how have you employed your time?” I asked. “Have you been shopping, as usual?”

Ella again nodded.

“Seven hours is a long time. Where did you get those flowers?” I asked, sniffing contemptuously at the huge bunch of sweet-smelling blossoms she had let fall before me.

“I bought them at Scott’s.”

“That is a bunch specially made up for presentation,” I said. “Someone gave them to you.”

“Yes, the shopman,” she laughed. “I gave him two shillings for them.” Then she took off her hat and, impaling it with a long pin, cast it heedlessly upon the table.

“It has not occupied seven hours to buy a bunch of violets,” I said ruthlessly. “Where have you been?”

Ella looked round laughing, and said in a quiet voice, “I have been to see a friend.”

“Another aunt – eh?” I asked, suspiciously.

She took a chair and sat down opposite; then, with her head leaning upon her hands, she said demurely, “Yes, it was an aunt.”

There was silence. Ella had picked up her bunch of violets, and every time I looked up she was watching me over them.

“Well,” I exclaimed at last, “where does this aunt live – at Highgate?”

“No, not that one. She is poor. She lives in Camberwell.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said, standing up suddenly.

Ella raised her eyebrows in interrogation. There was an ominous look in her blue eyes, and I put forth my hand to snatch the flowers and cast them into the fire. Instead, I sat down again and turned over another hundred pages of my Koran.

“Geoffrey,” she said at length in a low, timid voice I perused my book with stolid indifference.

“Geoffrey,” she repeated, “why are you angry with me without cause?”

Raising my head, I saw that her fine eyes were dimmed by tears, and almost unconsciously I reached, took her hand, and pressed it. Then Ella, rising slowly, came round and sat upon my knee.

“You see,” she whispered, with her arms around my neck, “this is how it was. Last night I said to myself, —

“This poor, dear Geoffrey – he is so busy with his country’s affairs, and works so hard – he will be away all day; therefore I will go over to call upon my aunt in Camberwell and take her a bottle of wine and some tea, for she is a great invalid and in poverty. Since my marriage I haven’t seen her, and as she is in great straits I know dear Geoffrey will not object.”

Here Ella stopped to nestle closer to me, and went on, —

“And to-day I took a cab down to Camberwell, to a dreary row of drab, mournful-looking houses, and all day long I have sat by her bedside trying to cheer her. Ah! she is so ill, and so sad. Then on my return I called at Scott’s and bought these flowers for my darling, serious old boy who has been working all day in his dreary office with its window overlooking the dismal grey quadrangle. And I am so tired, and it was not at all amusing for me without him.”

The flowers smelt so sweet in front of me; and Ella was so sweet, childlike and full of happiness, that I took her soft face between my hands, as was my habit, and kissed her.

But later that evening, on going to her room alone to fetch something for her, I noticed that her high-heeled French boots, thrown aside, as she had cast them off, were unusually muddy, although, strangely enough, it had been a dry day. I took them up, and upon examining the soles found them caked with damp clay in which were embedded some blades of grass.