A few nights later we went together to a ball at the Russian Embassy. Perhaps of all the functions in London a ball at Chesham House is one of the most brilliant and imposing, for it is always on a scale in keeping with the dignity of the representative of the Tzar.

The spacious state rooms with their great crystal chandeliers and heavy gilding, were filled to overflowing with pretty women and men in uniform of hues as varied as those of the ladies’ dresses, from the black coat of the United States Minister to the bright yellow jacket of the Emperor of China’s representative. All the diplomatic body were present, as well as many personages well-known in English society. At the head of the grand staircase Monsieur Grodekoff, the Russian Ambassador, a striking figure in his spotless white uniform, his breast glittering with orders set in brilliants, including the much-coveted ribbon of St Andrew, stood with his daughter receiving their guests, and as we advanced the courtly, white-haired old gentleman, whom I had met on many occasions in my official capacity, shook me heartily by the hand and congratulated us upon our marriage.

“I heard, Deedes, of your good fortune,” he said, after greeting Ella. “I trust that you and your wife will have long life and every happiness.”

“Thanks, your Excellency,” I answered, smiling contentedly. “There is no doubt, I think, concerning our happiness.”

“You should take madame to St Petersburg,” the aged diplomatist laughed. “She would enjoy it, especially with you, who know our country.”

“I hope to go very soon,” Ella said. “I have heard so much about it, and am longing to see it.”

“Go now,” he urged. “This is just the season; plenty of snow, and skating and sledging and suchlike sports that delight us in the North.”

We both laughed in chorus, while the representative of the White Tzar, dismissing us into the ballroom with a low bow, turned to greet the tall, full-bearded representative of his Imperial master’s ally, the French Republic. In the corridor there was bustle everywhere. Gaily-uniformed servants hurried here and there, young attachés, their breasts decorated with crosses and ribbons of every combination of colour, lounged along with pretty women on their arms, while older diplomats of every shade of complexion from white to black, exchanged greetings as they met.

From the gay cosmopolitan throng in the ballroom rose the mingled odour of a thousand perfumes with the chatter of laughing women, and ere we had entered, Paul Verblioudovitch, erect, spruce and smart in his pale-blue uniform, and wearing many decorations, elbowed his way through the crush towards us.

We had not met since the wedding reception at Pont Street, and as we strolled through the brightly-lit salons, Ella, radiant and enthusiastic, began telling him of our idle days and explorations in the old-world French towns.

“Permit me, madame, to congratulate you,” he exclaimed presently.

“Upon what?” asked Ella, in surprise.

“Upon being the prettiest woman it has ever been our honour to entertain here upon this small square of territory belonging to our Imperial Master,” he said, bowing and smiling with that inborn finesse which was one of his chief characteristics.

“Ah, you diplomatists always flatter,” she laughed lightly behind her fan. “Is it really wise of you to make a woman vain?” she asked, inclining her head slightly.

I felt compelled to admit that Paul had spoken the truth, for as we passed along I had not failed to notice that Ella’s beauty was everywhere remarked. Her gown of cream satin, a trifle décolleté, with the corsage thickly embroidered with pearls and edged with flowers, suited her admirably, and the instant consciousness of success in that brilliant circle of society unfamiliar to her heightened the colour of her cheeks and added lustre to her eyes.

“The majority of the women who honour us with their presence on these occasions are vain enough,” my friend admitted, adding in a low voice, “even though some of them are absolute hags.”

“Mr Verblioudovitch is, I believe, past-master of the art of flattery,” Ella observed, laughing, turning towards me. “He could make a dowager-duchess believe herself as youthful and attractive as a girl of eighteen.”

“It is necessary sometimes, madame,” he answered, amused. “Quite necessary, I assure you.”

At that moment a quietly-dressed elderly lady of pronounced Teutonic type and matronly proportions was struggling to pass us, but, recognised by Paul, was introduced to Ella. It was a woman with whom I was well acquainted, the Countess Landsfeldt, wife of the German Ambassador. She at once joined our little group, and commenced to chat with a strong accent.

“We have not met, madame, for quite an age – three months, is it?” Paul exclaimed presently. “You have been away, I believe.”

“Ah! yes. For a month I was in Berlin, and afterwards, just as I was returning to London, my youngest daughter fell ill, and I was compelled to spend two months with her in Ehrenburg, our schloss on the Mosel.”

“The Ehrenburg!” exclaimed Ella, enthusiastically. “I know it quite well. How romantic and charming it looks perched high up upon its solitary rock. My mother and I drove from Brodenbach along the valley to see it last year.”

“Ah, you did not enter?”

“No,” my wife answered, smiling. “I had not then the honour of madame’s acquaintance.”

“Inside, we are back in mediaeval days, with dungeons, torture-chambers, and all sorts of relics of barbarism; while the legends connected with the place are legion. Some day, if you are interested in ancient castles, you and your husband must visit me in Germany.”

“It is the most carefully preserved stronghold of the middle ages extant,” Paul observed.

“Ah, yes,” replied the Countess, “but it is gloomy and dull – ugh!” and, shrugging her shoulders, she pulled a little grimace. “I prefer Berlin – or even London.”

“You say even London, Countess,” exclaimed Paul. “I quite agree. London is triste after Vienna or St Petersburg. Is his Excellency with you this evening?”

“No. My husband is – oh, so busy. We only returned from Lord Maybury’s this morning, and dispatches accumulate so fast in his absence.”

“He has received another decoration from the Emperor, I hear,” Verblioudovitch observed.

“Yes, the Iron Cross,” replied the Countess, looking at him sharply. Then she added quickly, —

“But who told you? He only received His Majesty’s intimation three days ago, and I thought for the present it was a profound secret.”

Upon Paul’s face there spread that imperturbable smile that he could assume at will, as he answered, —

“It is the object of a diplomatist to ascertain the nature of all secrets.”

The Countess gave vent to a forced laugh as she exclaimed, “My husband, I think, fully deserved the honour.”

“Certainly, madame,” replied the Tzar’s official, courteously, his hands clasped behind his back. “The completion of the secret convention with England was, I admit, a master-stroke, and even though directed against us, the rapidity and cleverness with which it was effected were worthy of reward.” And he smiled at her mysteriously.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, fanning herself slowly with a sudden hauteur; “no secret seems safe from you, m’sieur. Nothing escapes the Embassy of Russia.” And bowing slightly, her stiff silks swept past us, and a moment later she became lost in the chattering, well-dressed crowd.

“You see, my dear Geoffrey,” laughed Paul, when the Countess was out of hearing, “we are accredited with the omnipotence of the Evil One himself quite unduly. I particularly desired to learn whether her husband had been decorated by his Emperor for that convention which nearly cost Europe a war; therefore I hazarded a single remark. Whereupon she at once told me all about it, and having done so, in her next breath denounced us and all our works. But, there,” and he gave his shoulders a shrug, “women are such strange creatures.”

“How cleverly you managed to ascertain what you desired,” observed Ella.

But the fine Viennese orchestra had struck up, and my wife, being engaged to him for a dance then commencing, he led her off, and I failed to overhear his reply.

For the next hour I did not dance, but wandering about the rooms I exchanged greetings and chatted with those I knew, until at length I came across Lady Farringford, the wife of Sir Henry Farringford, our Minister in Washington, sitting with her daughter Mabel. We were old friends, and Mabel quickly responded to my invitation to waltz. She was a smart girl, and rumour said that she had become engaged to a wealthy American, a statement which, in reply to my inquiry, she frankly confirmed. As we waltzed and lounged together I noticed Ella dancing first with Paul, and afterwards with several young attachés of my acquaintance. Once or twice we exchanged smiles, and I knew by the expression on her face how thoroughly she was enjoying her first night in the diplomatic circle. The scene was brilliant and full of colour, the music excellent, and the scent of exotics almost overpowering. Everyone seemed intoxicated with gaiety. In that cosmopolitan crowd hearts were lighter and talk more free than in the ordinary London ballroom, although experienced ones knew that here, amid this brilliant assembly, there were many strange undercurrents affecting the prestige of monarchs and the welfare of nations.

“So, you are to marry, Mabel,” I observed when, after waltzing, I led her into an ante-room, and she sat down to eat an ice.

“Yes, at last,” she sighed, looking up at me with a pair of mischievous dark eyes. She was about twenty-two, and rather pretty. “I’m to be married in June, and we are coming to Europe for a twelve months’ tour. You are married already. I’d so much like to meet your wife. Since I’ve been here this evening I’ve heard nothing but admiration of her. You’re the envy of all your male friends, Geoffrey.”

I laughed. I confess that by the sensation Ella had caused I felt flattered.

“I’ll introduce you when I have a chance,” I said. “Our congratulations are mutual. You are to have a husband; I have already a wife.”

“I hope you’ll find the Biblical quotation correct,” she laughed, peering at me over her gauzy fan. “Do you know the words?”

“No,” I replied, “I’m not good at remembering quotations.”

“Well, the Bible says, ‘Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing.’ I hope you’ll be no exception to that rule.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “I don’t know what it says about husbands, but, however it may be worded, you have my heartiest wishes for long life and good luck.”

At that instant Ella, on the arm of a young Italian marquis, possessed of a longer title than his rent-roll, entered. I sprang up at once and introduced her, and soon we all four were chatting merrily. When, a quarter of an hour later, we rose to return to the ballroom, Ella, radiant and happy, walked beside me. In reply to my question, she declared that she was enjoying herself immensely, but as we were re-entering the salon she clutched my arm, and in a half-frightened whisper exclaimed, —

“Look! Geoffrey. Look at that servant in uniform over there. Why, it’s our man, Helmholtz!”

I glanced in the direction she had indicated, and sure enough there was the detective Renouf, who, in the Laing household, posed as Carl Helmholtz, in the handsome blue-and-gold livery of the Embassy, handing an ice to a lady. Instantly I grasped the situation.

“It is a striking resemblance, dearest,” I said; “nothing more.”

“But I’m certain it’s Helmholtz,” she declared excitedly. “Take me closer to him.”

“When we were at Pont Street this afternoon, Helmholtz was there, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He brought tea into the drawing-room.”

“Well, no doubt he is at home now. This fellow may be his brother, or something.”

For a moment we stood watching, and saw him make a servile bow. Fortunately he turned his back upon us, hastening to execute some command, otherwise he must have come towards us and met us face to face.

“I’m certain it is Helmholtz,” Ella exclaimed, in a tone of conviction.

“Without doubt it is a very striking resemblance,” I admitted. “But the servants of an Embassy are not recruited from the nearest registry office. Besides, they would never employ a German here.”

At that moment Paul approached and claimed her for the next dance, while I wandered on alone amid the crowd, my mind full of strange thoughts.

Presently, while watching the dancers, I chanced to glance aside and recognised a sparse, well-known figure approaching. It was the Earl of Warnham. Attired in plain evening dress of a rather antiquated cut, he wore no decorations, save the broad blue ribbon across his narrow strip of shirt-front, the highest honour his Sovereign had bestowed upon him. I was surprised to find him there, for I had believed him to be at Osborne in attendance on Her Majesty.

“Ah, Deedes,” he exclaimed in a low voice, with a slight smile upon his colourless, wizened face. “In the enemy’s camp – eh?”

“Yes, my wife wished to come,” I explained.

“Of course. Women like this sort of thing. I have never met her. You must introduce her presently.”

“She will esteem it an honour,” I said, adding, “She is over there in a cream dress, dancing with Verblioudovitch.”

He glanced in their direction, and started perceptibly. For some moments his keen eyes followed her. Then I noticed that his grey brows contracted, and his usually expressionless face wore a strange, ominous look such as I had never before detected upon it.

“Is that your wife?” he asked huskily, turning and eyeing me curiously.

“Yes.”

“Was it she who alleged that your friend Ogle was the victim of foul play?” he inquired with emphasis, in a voice that betrayed dismay.

“It was,” I replied.

The Foreign Minister sighed. As he again turned his eyes upon the pair at that moment gliding down the room to the strains of the latest fashionable refrain his brow darkened, and his teeth were firmly set. A silence fell between us.

Chapter Twenty One
In Kensington Gardens

On our return home in the early hours, Ella sat before the fire in her cosy boudoir, her opera-cape still about her shoulders, resting her tired head upon a cushion, and staring thoughtfully into the dying embers, while I lounged near, smoking a final cigarette. Times out of number I tried to account for the Earl’s agitation when he had encountered her. It was evident they were not strangers, although when I had introduced them he treated her with studied courtesy. There were, I remembered, many suspicious incidents connected with her as yet unexplained, nevertheless, from that memorable evening when Dudley and I had dined at “The Nook” and we had become reconciled, I had never doubted that she loved me. Perhaps I had been foolish, I told myself. I ought to have obtained full explanation of the several circumstances that had caused me such uneasiness before marriage, yet I had abandoned all active effort to ascertain the truth, because of the intensity of my passion. Her beauty had captivated me; her voice held me spellbound, and because I loved her I could not bring myself to suspect her. For a long time she sat, reflecting gravely upon the events of the evening; then, shivering slightly, rose and went to her room, leaving me alone to ponder over her sudden seriousness.

Sometimes a slight shadow of suspicion would flit across my mind, as it often had on finding her absent, yet when she spoke caressingly to me I at once found myself laughing at the foolishness of my thoughts, basking in the sun of her brilliant beauty, heedless and content. Prior to our marriage, I had been madly jealous of every slight attention paid to her by one of my own sex, of whatever age, but now, recognising how marvellously fair she was, and that wherever she went she became the centre of attraction, I was no longer angry with any of our guests who paid court to her. Beck dined with us frequently, always gay and amusing, while once or twice Verblioudovitch had also accepted our invitation, and treated Ella with the courtliness of the polished diplomatist. I did not invite the latter often, because of her antipathy towards him. When, after his first visit, I had asked her what she thought of him, she had replied, —

“There is something about him I don’t like, dearest. I cannot explain what it is. Perhaps it is his excessive politeness; or it may be his profuse flattery that bores me; nevertheless, I seem to have a feeling that I ought to avoid him.”

“He’s one of the best of fellows, darling,” I said, laughing at her misgivings. “In my bachelor days we were very close friends.”

“I don’t like him,” she answered frankly. “I hate all Russians.”

“I thought you said once you would like to go to Russia?”

“Yes, I am anxious to see the country, but the Russians I have met I have always detested,” she said, adding, with seriousness, “Now that I am your wife I may speak plainly, may I not?”

“Of course, darling.”

“Then, in your own interests, promise me to avoid Paul Verblioudovitch as much as possible.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised.

“Because – well,” she answered in hesitation; “because I have some curious, inexplicable feeling that he is not your friend.”

Then it occurred to me that they had been sitting together that evening in a cosy-corner in the drawing-room, deep in conversation, and it might be that Paul had uttered some compliments meant to be polite, but which she had misconstrued into flirtation. In that case, it was only natural that, loving me so deeply as she did, she should warn me that Paul was not my friend.

“In what way do you suspect him of being my enemy?” I inquired.

“He is untrustworthy,” she replied, an answer that tended to confirm my supposition. On several other occasions I laughed at her fears, but she always made the same reply, that she believed he was not straightforward, and even went so far as to ask me not to invite him to our house in future. This caused me some little annoyance, for of all men Paul Verblioudovitch was one of my most valued friends; and, further, while she had conceived a violent dislike towards him, she nevertheless allowed herself to be flattered by the man of whom I had once been madly jealous – Andrew Beck.

Thus the early days of our married life proceeded, blissful and full of love, but with one tiny cloud of mystery that, although growing no larger, still cast its ominous shadow ever between us. Sometimes when alone I pondered deeply, wondering whether my confidence had after all been ill-placed, puzzled over one or two incidents such as I have already described. Trifling as they were in themselves, they nevertheless caused me much uneasiness, yet when Ella entered, bright and radiant, greeting me with an affectionate caress, I could not doubt her. I knew that, however suspicious her actions might appear in my eyes, she loved me honestly, with a passion as fierce and uncontrollable as my own.

Meanwhile Renouf, who explained his absence on the night of the Embassy ball to Ella’s complete satisfaction, still continued to remain in service at Pont Street, and each time we dined there he hovered about us noiselessly and ever watchful, like a spirit of evil. When our eyes met, I saw in his a cold glance of contemptuous triumph, for he had already seen that I feared to denounce him for Paul’s sake, and he was pursuing his mysterious investigations, whatever they were, without let or hindrance. Mrs Laing, sighing as stout ladies will, was always loud in his praise, declaring him to be the most steady and attentive servant that had ever been in her service, while Ella expressed a wish that we could meet with a man possessed of similar virtues. A dozen times I longed to take my wife and her mother into my confidence, but dared not, for the silence imposed upon me was absolutely imperative.

One day, early in January, I had received a message from Lord Warnham to call at his house in Berkeley Square, but when I arrived found a note stating that he had been compelled unexpectedly to go down to Lord Maybury’s seat in Hertfordshire to consult him. Therefore I left, and it being a cold but invigorating afternoon I resolved to walk home. Proceeding along Piccadilly and Knightsbridge, I skirted the Park, and entering Kensington Gardens by the Alexandra Gate, strolled towards Kensington in the full enjoyment of a cigar. Ella had, I knew, gone to Pont Street, her mother being rather unwell, therefore I walked leisurely beneath the leafless, smoke-blackened trees. The short, gloomy day was now fast drawing to a close, and, with the falling gloom, a chill wind had sprung up, whistling mournfully through the bare branches, causing me to turn up my coat-collar and draw on my gloves. I fancied myself alone, for at four o’clock in winter the place is dismal and deserted. Having passed Queen’s Gate, I was approaching the Broad Walk, when I was attracted by two figures strolling slowly together in front of me, a man and a woman. At first I took no heed, and would in a few moments have overtaken them, when it occurred to me that the silhouette of the woman was familiar even in the dusk. Again I looked, and noticed that she was fashionably dressed in a dark-brown tailor-made gown, a sealskin cape and close-fitting hat. Next second I realised the amazing truth.

The woman walking before me was Ella.

Her companion, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, wore a long drab overcoat of distinctly “horsey” cut, a silk hat of the latest shape, and displayed a good deal of shirt cuff. He was evidently a fop, and his whole exterior, from his varnished boots to the velvet cuffs of his overcoat, pronounced him to be a cad. Leisurely he strode by her side, smoking a cigarette, and earnest in conversation, now and then emphasising his words by striking the palm of one gloved hand with his fist.

Once, as I dogged their footsteps, my teeth clenched in fierce anger, I heard her give vent to a rippling peal of laughter that echoed among the black, gaunt tree trunks. I knew by that laugh she was tantalising him. My first impulse was to rush up to them and demand an explanation, but my second thought had been to hold my anger in control, and ascertain the true extent of her perfidy. Was not this the second time I had detected Ella walking alone with a man in lover-like attitude?

I loved her with all my heart, and had believed implicitly that she reciprocated my affection, yet here, in this single moment, the cup of happiness was dashed from my lips. I knew I had been the victim of base deception. While I, fool that I had been, had fondly imagined that she loved me; she had abandoned all self-respect and allowed herself to walk in a public garden with a chance-met acquaintance. Sonia’s ominous words recurred to me, and I saw how I had been tricked and betrayed. The pretty refugee was right, notwithstanding the denunciations of the diplomatist and the spy, both of whom had some motive in discrediting her statements.

With eager eyes and heavy heart I followed the pair cautiously, fearing each moment lest either should turn and detect my presence. Apparently they were too deeply engrossed in each other’s talk, which, although carried on in a tone so low that I could catch no single word, seemed scarcely of an amatory nature, judging from the man’s gestures. To me it appeared rather as if he were urging her to do something from which she shrank. Once, while he spoke, she stopped short and stretched out both hands towards him in an attitude of supplication. But he did not heed her, for, giving vent to a low laugh, he continued, emphasising his words as before. Then, clenching her hands, she stamped her foot in anger, and tossing her head in contempt, walked forward again, heedless of her companion’s threatening attitude.

From that moment both grew calmer, for the man, uttering words of forgiveness, snatched up her hand and imprinted a kiss upon it. For a brief second she allowed her hand to linger in his grasp, then withdrew it gently, but firmly, regarding him with earnestness the while. This action aroused my anger to a fierce, murderous hatred. With difficulty I managed to preserve an outward calm, because, in my state of mind, I felt compelled to watch and wait. Yet, if I had had a weapon ready to my hand at that moment, I verily believe that I must have thrown myself upon this arrogant cad, and mercilessly killed him.

The manner in which his hat was set upon his head, slightly askew, in the manner of the London “’Arry,” and his over-burdening mannerism, were in themselves sufficient to show the type of lover my wife cultivated. As I stepped softly behind them in the gloom, I told myself that she must leave my house that night, or I should. I felt in my throat a choking sensation, for I had loved her so fervently that this discovery of her falseness had utterly unnerved me, and even in those moments of fierce anger and hatred I confess that tears welled in my eyes. Ella was the only woman I had ever loved, yet she who had taken her marriage vows only a few short months before had already discarded me for this overdressed idiot, who would be termed in vulgar parlance a “bounder.”

Perhaps he did not know her to be married. This thought took possession of me. When their quarrel ended it became manifest that Ella herself was endeavouring to fascinate and hold him, just as she had charmed me, by the softness of her speech, her exquisite grace, and her wonderful beauty. She spoke quietly, with her dainty finger-tips laid lightly upon his arm, while he listened, gazing earnestly into her face, enchanted.

To-night, I told myself, the bonds uniting me to Ella should be for ever severed. I remembered the many occasions when she had been absent, visiting imaginary friends; I recollected the evening she brought home the violets and preserved them carefully in water until they smelt so faint that she was compelled to throw them away; I had not forgotten the fact that blades of grass did not grow in the squalid, overcrowded streets of modern Camberwell. I glanced around at the grass on every side. Perhaps she frequented that place, and took clandestine walks daily with her lover beneath those leafless trees. The thought provoked my bitter hatred, and I know not how I refrained from facing the pair. I managed, however, to hold myself back, watching them exchange a tender farewell at the gate that led into Kensington High Street, next the Palace Hotel, and while the man raised his hat politely and, turning, walked away in the direction of Knightsbridge, Ella, her face radiant and happy, bowed and set out homeward in the opposite direction.

Beneath the lamp in the gateway I had, in those brief seconds, obtained a glimpse of his face. It was that of a young man of about two-and-twenty, with strongly marked features, fair-haired, and of quite a different type than I had conjectured. The features were rather refined, by no means those of a cad, but rather those of a well-bred young idler, who affected the dress and manners of that class of youths who frequent the Café Monico on Sunday evenings, the slaves of the counter.

Once he glanced back to Ella, but she did not turn; then he went on and was lost in the darkness, while I followed my wife’s neat figure through the bustling throng of foot-passengers.