Читать книгу Riddles Read - James Edward Muddock - Страница 5

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HUMAN nature, per se, is one of the most complicated problems that the terrestrial globe presents us with. The student who attempts to solve it, finds himself for ever confronted with new aspects, new phases and factors that he never calculated upon, until, with a sense of utter despair, he is inclined to exclaim, "The human brain is utterly incapable of understanding that which is within itself." The world grows old; things and manners change; our mode of life is different to that of our forefathers, as theirs was different to that of primitive man. And yet human nature changes not, except in so far as external signs go; its primordial elements are precisely the same.

The cunning of savage man is replaced by the smirk hypocrisy of civilization, and wickedness is ever with is. It was a dictum of the philosophers of old that money and women were at the root of all evil; and the French, with the incisiveness so characteristic of them, say—when ought goes wrong, "Cherchez la Femme." This is bitter, but it embodies a tremendous truth. And during a long career, in the course of which it has been my duty to see much of the shady side of men and women, I can scarcely recall a case where the impelling influence of women has not been made manifest.

Woman, poor thing, has much to answer for, and as she tempted man to his original fall, it is perhaps in accordance with the eternal fitness of things that she should still lure him with forbidden fruit. And yet, let me hasten to say that, in my opinion, man is frequently more than contemptible for the ready way in which he yields, and as frequently as not, he deserves to be styled the Fool, instead of the Lord of Creation.

I have been induced to begin the story I have to tell with this little introduction, for its appositeness will, I think, be freely admitted, and it carries with it a moral which the story will enforce. For obvious reasons it is undesirable that I should give the real names of the characters who played their part in the remarkable little drama, but many middle-aged people will no doubt recognize the incidents. For though desperate efforts were made to conceal the facts from the public gaze, they leaked out, and the attempted suppression only served to whet the appetite of the curious for more, with the usual result. Garbled, inexact, and altogether incorrect versions found their way into certain public prints, whose conductors are always eager to dish up for their patrons any sensation or scandal, while out of very little they will make very much.

One grain of truth will, according to their views, admit of any amount of adulteration, and if the persons implicated are very high up in the social scale, so much the better, for certain of your journalistic purveyors of garbage is delighted to his heart's core when he can bespatter with his foul ink a lord or a lady. In this instance, it was not a lord exactly, but nevertheless, those with whom I have to deal were conspicuous members of Society.

Without specifying the time too minutely, I may begin by saying that years ago the Austrian Ambassador at the Court of St. James, was Count Blank, a gentleman who was not only distinguished as a diplomatist, but as a scholar. The count was a widower, and one of his attachés was his eldest son, Ferdinand. The count and his son were very popular amongst all classes of society, and being wealthy, they dispensed their hospitality with a princely hand.

One summer's morning I found myself waiting in the count's elegantly furnished reception room, whither I had gone in response to an urgent message he had sent me. But as he was engaged on my arrival with a member of the English Cabinet, I had time to examine some of the exquisite works of art that adorned the room, for the count was famed as a virtuoso, and prided himself on his splendid collection of treasures.

In the course of a few minutes, however, a tall, handsome young fellow entered the room, and with a most graceful bow introduced himself to me as Ferdinand, the count's son. At this time they were both utter strangers to me. Ferdinand was about four and twenty, with a clean-cut face, blue eyes, and light hair, while his lips were shaded by a most artistically trimmed moustache. He was dressed in the height of fashion, but there was a self-consciousness about him that was not altogether pleasing.

It seemed to me that he posed, as it were, and studied effects. These things, however, were the weaknesses of well endowed youth, and though objectionable, could be excused on the grounds that with riper years wisdom would come, and the meanness of vanity would be recognized.

"You haven't seen my father yet," he remarked, with an easy grace, as he leaned his back against the marble mantelpiece, and fixed his blue eyes upon me with a keen searching gaze, as though he was subjecting me to a process of mental analysis.

"No, sir, I have not," I answered.

"I am sorry you have to wait, but just before you came the count had to give audience to a Cabinet Minister, though I don't think he will be long. Did my father tell you in his letter why he wished to see you?"

"No. He gave no indication as to the nature of the business."

"Well, it's very important, and no less mysterious. By the way, Mr. Donovan, you have been mixed up in a good many mysterious cases in your time, have you not?"

"I think I may answer that in the affirmative."

"And I hear that you have some special faculty which enables you to get at the bottom of things which puzzle ordinary men." I bowed. "Well," added the young man, with a little laugh, as he drew out a cigarette from an elegant silver case, and proceeded to light it, "as far as I can understand this business, I fancy you will be baffled. It seems to me to be quite out of the ordinary."

"Possibly for that very reason it may prove less difficult. Riddles that on the first blush seem very complicated, generally, after a little consideration, show themselves to be very easy."

Ferdinand laughed again, displaying his white teeth, and toying carelessly with his watch-chain. "Ah," he remarked, "you deucedly clever fellows never like to admit that you are mastered. But even a Napoleon in the art of detection is not infallible, you know."

"Quite true," I replied; "but I believe, with Edgar Allan Poe, that the human mind cannot invent a problem that is beyond human comprehension."

"Well, yes, I suppose that is true," muttered the young fellow, reflectively; and then after a slight pause he added, "And yet, think of the number of crimes that have gone unpunished. The inventors must be cleverer than the solvers."

I had no time to reply to this remark, as the door opened, and a liveried footman entered, and said that the count was ready to receive me. Bowing to Ferdinand, who did not seem inclined to throw his cigarette away, or change the easy position in which he had placed himself, I said—

"I'll wish you good morning, sir."

"Oh, we shall meet again," he answered jauntily, "and we'll renew the discussion, it interests me."

Following the footman, I was ushered into a large and spacious chamber, with a gilded ceiling and draped walls, that were adorned with some magnificent etchings. Seated at a large desk that was strewn with papers, was a tall, patriarchal-looking man, with iron-grey hair, and a silvery moustache. It was the count, and, rising with easy grace, he greeted me affably, and then requested that I would be seated, at the same time apologising for having kept me waiting.

"I have sent for you, Mr. Donovan," he began, "in the hope that you may prove of service in recovering for me some highly important documents that have mysteriously disappeared. I may at once tell you that the stolen papers are a secret draft treaty between this country and my own country, and from a political point of view are of great value."

A troubled expression swept across the count's mobile and finely cut features as he said this, and he twisted his white hands one about the other as if the action was due to some keen mental distress.

"They were to have been transmitted to Austria by a special courier two days hence. But though I saw them myself safely locked up last night, they have disappeared during the night-time. Of course, a new copy of the draft can be prepared, but that is not the point. The papers have been purloined with a very sinister motive."

"You are quite sure, I presume, that they have really been stolen?" I asked.

"Oh dear yes," exclaimed the count, with an emphasized expression of trouble and concern on his face. "There cannot be a doubt about that."

"And what object do you think the thief had in view?"

"But one object. The treaty is framed against Russia, and some one in the pay of Russia has carried it off."

"I grasp the seriousness of the matter now," I answered, "for though, as you say, a new treaty can be drafted, the loss of the original one shows that there is a traitor in your camp, and that which it was important to keep secret from the powerful State of Russia will now become known—"

"Yes," interrupted the count, wringing his hands again, "and it may be the means of causing very serious complications between Austria and her neighbour, even if it does not lead ultimately to war."

"You say the papers were stolen last night, count?"

"Yes. They were abstracted from my despatch-box between the hours of midnight and eight o'clock this morning."

"Where was the despatch-box kept?"

"In my own bedroom."

"Who took it there?"

"I did myself. I carried it up with my own hand, when I retired for the night."

"And are you quite sure, count, that the papers were in the box when you took it to your bedroom?"

"Absolutely certain. I had occasion to open the box a few minutes before retiring, and in doing so I glanced over the documents. I then locked the box and placed the key, which was one of a bunch, in a secret drawer in my escritoire."

"How was the box opened?"

"By means of a duplicate key; but it evidently did not fit well, and the lock was partially damaged. In fact, to some extent the lid has been forced."

"Do you suspect anybody?"

"No. I don't know who to suspect."

"But the robbery must have been committed by some member of your household?"

"Possibly—probably, I should say."

"How many persons slept in the house last night?"

"I should think a dozen at least, exclusive of the servants."

"I suppose, count, that among the entourage in contact with an ambassador, spies and traitors may sometimes be found?"

"I am sorry to say that is so, though less frequently than an outsider might imagine. But, of course, we take all necessary precautions. Yet, in spite of our efforts, State secrets will sometimes leak out."

"And State papers of great importance be stolen," I added.

"Yes, yes," he replied, with the troubled look again in his face. "In this instance, I am very much afraid a traitor has crept into the camp. Although I doubt if the papers can be recovered, and if they are, the secret they contain will be known, I deem it highly necessary that the traitor should be detected, and I rely upon you bringing him to light."

"I will do my best, count, though it is probable I may fail. Now I presume that it goes without saying that the person who has carried off these State papers must be directly or indirectly interested in Russia, or else some one in your household has been corrupted by Russian agents?"

"No doubt that is so. Russia has her spies everywhere. And it is a question now, Mr. Donovan, what steps you propose to take."

"It will be necessary, of course, for me to have a list of all the people who were in the house last night, and I must make the personal acquaintance of those people."

"But that is almost out of the question," exclaimed the count, in alarm. "If I were to introduce you to them their dignity would be wounded and their pride offended, for they would think that they were all lying under suspicion."

"Which, as a matter of fact, they are," I remarked. "Well, no, I wouldn't go quite that length," answered the count, a little haughtily. "There is my own son, for instance—I couldn't suspect him. And intimate and dear friends of mine—I couldn't suspect them."

"Have you made it known to all your suite that these documents have been stolen?"

"No. With the exception of my son, my confidential secretary, and my business secretary, nobody in the house knows anything at all about it."

"So far as you are aware, count."

"So far as I am aware," he answered.

"Well, count, in spite of what you have said, I repeat that it will be necessary for me to make the acquaintance of every person in your suite, as well as every member of your household. But you need not let this disturb your mind. I shall know them without their knowing me. I must be your guest for a day or two, and you may rest assured that I shall not betray you nor betray myself."

"I do not like your scheme," answered the count with some warmth. "It seems to me that it is hardly in accordance with those high notions of honour which—"

"Pardon me, count," I exclaimed, with a shrug of the shoulders as I rose from my chair. "If that is your view there is an end of the business. You yourself are no doubt a model of chivalry, of honour, of all that is noble. But will you pledge yourself that every one about you is the same? You have to deal with the hard fact that a very serious robbery has been committed; not by a common and ignorant thief, because a common and ignorant thief does not usually steal State papers. He would not know what to do with them. Now, if your house was not broken into on the night of the robbery, the person who carried off the papers must have been numbered amongst those who slept under the roof that night. How is it possible for me to trace the thief unless I have some knowledge of those people? The black sheep is probably amongst them, and must be weeded out. But how is he to be detected unless some special means are taken to find him? Black sheep of this kind are very cunning, I assure you."

The count put his hand over his eyes and rested his elbow on his desk, and in a voice that plainly told how troubled he was, he said—

"You must excuse me; I did not see the affair in the light in which you now put it before me. You, of course, are right, and I am wrong. I place myself, therefore, unreservedly in your hands. What do you suggest?"

"I will make a suggestion a little later on. In the mean time I should like to see your bedroom and the position in which the box was placed on the night of the theft."

"Certainly, certainly. My valet shall take you upstairs and show you the rooms." The count was about to ring his bell when I stopped him, by saying—

"I should prefer, count, that you did not send your valet with me, nor any one else. If you will permit me to trouble you, I will ask you to go with me yourself."

The count readily consented to this, and, leading the way, he ascended a private staircase, and conducted me to his bedroom. It was a nobly proportioned chamber, furnished richly and with great taste. The room was about thirty-eight feet long, with several recesses in it. It was lighted by four windows, all on one side. The bed stood between two of these windows.

At one end of the apartment was a dressing and bath room; but they could only be reached through the main apartment. At the other end a door gave access to a smaller chamber, which the count informed me was his son's bedroom. The floor of both rooms was covered with an exceedingly rich and thick carpet, which deadened every footfall. The count's bed was a heavy, old-fashioned four-poster, draped with most costly silk-lined curtains.

Any one lying in the bed would have but a limited view of the room. The despatch-box had been placed on a table that stood against the wall, and between the bed and Ferdinand's room. I ascertained that the count always locked his door after his valet de chambre had retired, and he kept a light burning all night. But strangely enough, the previous night, when the papers were stolen, the door was not locked. When the count went to his room he was exceedingly tired, for he had had an excessively fatiguing and harassing day.

On attempting to lock his door after his valet de chambre had gone, he found there was something the matter with the key. He was too fatigued and too much absorbed to let this trouble him. He looked into his son's room, but he had not yet come up. So the count got into bed, thinking his son would not be long, and when he heard him he intended to call out to him. However, he fell asleep, and slept soundly until he was awakened by his valet bringing him his morning coffee. He did not discover that the box had been tampered with until he was fully dressed, and about to go downstairs.

On making the discovery he rushed to his son's room, but Ferdinand was sleeping heavily, and he had to arouse him. The young man had been out on the previous evening, and did not return until two o'clock.

Having gathered these details, I proceeded to examine the key of the door, but found there was nothing the matter with it nor with the lock. It was therefore evident that whatever temporary obstruction had been introduced it had since been removed.

The count's valet de chambre was an Austrian, a sedate, middle-aged man, who had been in the count's service for many years. All the other servants were Austrians, with the exception of the chef, who was a Frenchman, distinguished in his particular line.

Having so far completed my examination of the bedchambers, I returned in company with the count to his room, where Ferdinand was sitting waiting.

"Well, what success have you had?" the young fellow asked of me as we entered.

"None. Have you any theory, sir, of your own?"

"My only theory is this. Somebody tampered with the key of the count's chamber door, so that the door could not be locked. That showed an exceeding artfulness. Of course, the person who tampered with the key was either bribed to do so, or he was the person who stole the papers."

"Whom do you suspect of having tampered with the key?"

"I don't suspect any one in particular."

"But you must have an idea?"

"Perhaps I have."

"May I then ask you, sir, to name the person you think might possibly have done this thing?"

"No; I'll do nothing of the sort," he answered decisively. "I have no right to cast suspicion on any one unless I had some good grounds for believing that I might be right."

"But I understand you to say that you had some idea," I remarked.

"So I have, but I decline to shape it in words. Mere suspicion is not proof, and my idea might be wrong."

"I agree with you quite," I remarked, "and yet there should be no false delicacy in this matter. It is a very serious business, and no obstacle should be thrown in the way of trying to get at the truth."

During this short dialogue the count had remained silent, but after my last remark he said to his son—

"I think, Ferdinand, that if you have the slightest reason for suspecting any particular individual, you need not hesitate to mention the name of the person to Mr. Donovan."

The son bowed to his father, and said—

"I must decline, sir, to clothe my thought with words." Then, addressing me, he asked, "What course are you going to pursue?"

"I have decided on no particular course at present. In matters of this kind I allow myself to be very largely guided and influenced by circumstances."

"But have no circumstances influenced you in this instance?"

"To some extent they have."

"Then have you not decided what you are going to do?"

"I have not," I replied, in a tone which I meant should indicate that I did not wish to be further questioned on my plans.

The young man no doubt understood me, for he said nothing more, and intimating that I would probably return in the course of two hours, I took my leave, but I purposely remained away only about twenty minutes. Then I returned and sent a little note to the count, in which I asked him to grant me five minutes' interview unknown to any one. He came to me at once in the ante-room, looking somewhat surprised.

"I have come back, count, for a special purpose. You lunch, I believe, in about an hour and a half's time?"

"That is so."

"Then I shall return when you are at lunch. And I want you to give your valet de chambre special instructions to receive me, and at once conduct me to your bed-chamber, where I am to be left entirely alone for half an hour."

The count stared at me with a puzzled, anxious, and troubled look. Then he stammered—

"Really—I—that is, upon my word, I don't quite gather your meaning."

"Surely, count, my request is sufficiently clear," I remarked.

"Oh yes, the request itself is free from any ambiguity. But it seems to me so extraordinary that I venture to say you should explain why you make it."

"I make it in the hope that I may get a clue to the person who has stolen the State papers."

"But how, in the name of common sense, do you expect to get a clue by being shut up in my bedroom for half an hour?"

"It is not for me to answer that question now. Indeed, I must respectfully decline to answer it. And unless you allow me to proceed in my own way, and according to my lights, I shall have to retire from the case altogether."

For two or three minutes the count seemed unable to make up his mind; but at last said—

"Very well, your request shall be complied with, although it seems to me an eccentric one. But I have no right to dictate to you how you should conduct your own business. Therefore I will instruct my valet to receive you, and show you upstairs."

"I have one more request," I added. "It is this. I must particularly impress upon you the necessity of keeping this arrangement from coming to the knowledge of any living soul except your valet, and I beg that you will order him to keep the secret."

"Well, of course, since I have gone so far, I suppose I must humour you in this," he answered. "You will find the valet an intelligent and excellent fellow, and if he can be of service to you, I am sure he will be."

"But I gather from what you have told me that he knows nothing about the robbery?"

"No. He has not been told."

"Then please let him be kept in ignorance."

The count consented to this, but from the expression on his face, and the strange look in his eyes, I fancy he thought I was not possessed of such an amount of intelligence and reasoning power as would entitle me to be regarded as absolutely sane. If any such thought as this really flitted through his mind, he would probably have justified himself by saying that I was acting in a way that was quite beyond his comprehension. No doubt I was; but he did not consider that the ways of the trained detective are not the ways of the layman. He was very polite, however, and bowed to me as I withdrew.

At luncheon-time I returned. The footman who admitted me seemed a little surprised when I asked for the count's valet da chambre, and showed a disposition to inquire my business, for I had not seen this man before. But the valet, who, of course, was expecting me, appeared on the scene, and as I followed him up the grand staircase, the flunkey looked as though his pride had been rather severely hurt. In obedience to his instructions the valet led me to his master's room, where he lingered, as though he did not quite like the idea of leaving me there. So I reminded him that I could dispense with his service for the time being, and accordingly he withdrew. Then I locked the door, and remained shut up in the apartment for something like half an hour. At the end of that time I had obtained the clue which I anticipated I should get, and, throwing open the door, I found the valet waiting for me on the landing. He regarded me curiously, and his face indicated that he was burning to question me; but my bearing and manner towards him gave him no encouragement. He therefore remained silent, and led the way downstairs, where I requested him to supply me with writing materials, as I wished to address a note to the count. He showed me into a small waiting-room, where I penned the following letter:—

"YOUR EXCELLENCY,

"I have obtained an important clue, which I am desirous of following up with your assistance. To this end I must ask you to receive as your guest this evening a person with whom I am very intimately acquainted—a French priest, named Paul Verney. He does not speak English, and is a singularly reserved man. You will be good enough to allow him to dine at your table, and kindly take no notice of anything he may do or say, however eccentric it may seem. If he wishes to go out he must be free to do so; and should he desire to remain all night I pray that you will let him have a room. Your excellency's strict observance of these details will probably facilitate the recovery of the missing State papers. But, should my friend's movements be hampered in any way, my attempts to solve the mystery will be entirely thwarted. Subject to the report made to me by my friend, the priest, I will call upon you myself in the course of to-morrow or the following day.

"I have the honour to be your excellency's most obedient servant,

"DICK DONOVAN."

Sealing this letter up I marked it "Private and confidential," and, handing it to the servant, bade him deliver it to his master without a moment's delay, as the letter was of very great importance. That bit of business finished, I took my departure.

The count evidently followed out my requests to the letter, for when in the course of the afternoon my friend Paul Verney called and sent up his card he was at once admitted to the ambassador's presence, and later on he dined with the count and his friends. Verney was a smooth-faced man, with flowing silvery hair that gave him a venerable appearance. Having very weak eyes, he wore smoke-coloured glasses. His clerical attire was faultless, and from his neck was suspended a little golden crucifix. The dinner-party consisted of fourteen persons, including the count's son and two ministers of the English cabinet.

It was nine o'clock before his excellency rose from the table, and the party began to separate. Almost immediately the priest stepped out of the room, and a little while afterwards he was driving in a hansom cab that was following another cab, both of them going west. He alighted near Hyde Park Corner, and disappeared in the darkness.

I was unable to call upon the count the following day, but the day after that I did so. He received me at once.

"I am glad you have come," he said; "but I confess that you are altogether mystifying me. Why in the name of goodness did you consider it necessary that I should entertain your friend Verney?"

"I hope he did not do anything or say anything that was not strictly in accordance with etiquette," I exclaimed anxiously.

"Oh dear no," answered the count. "On the contrary, he was the pink of politeness, and exceedingly good company. I honestly confess I was taken with the fellow, but when we were about to retire to the smoking-room he suddenly slipped away without saying a word to me, and I saw him no more."

I broke out into a laugh, as I remarked—

"Detectives are curious fellows, and frequently the exigencies of their calling place them in trying situations."

"But you don't mean to say that the priest was a detective—"

"Yes, your excellency, I do mean to say so."

"Well, you astonish me. But perhaps the priest was not a priest at all?"

"Your conjecture is right. He was not a priest. The character was assumed."

"By whom?"

"Your humble and obedient servant."

At this announcement the count seemed inclined to be angry; but, with a cold smile, he said stiffly—

"Permit me to congratulate you, Mr. Donovan, on the excellency of your acting, the perfectness of your disguise. I hadn't the remotest idea that Paul Verney, the French priest, was yourself."

"I feel highly complimented, count," I answered, with a profound bow.

"But pray, sir, what has come out of this masquerading?" demanded the ambassador.

"It has enabled me, count," I answered, "to have the satisfaction of restoring to your excellency the stolen papers."

As I spoke I laid a small brown-paper parcel before him. He looked at me for some moments in a dazed kind of way. Then, with trembling hands, he untied the red tape that bound the parcel, and opening out the documents it contained, he found that they were the identical papers that had been taken from his despatch-box.

It was some time before he could sufficiently command his voice to speak; then rising, he laid one hand on my shoulder, and with the other he grasped my hand, shaking it cordially.

"This is wonderful—wonderful!" he exclaimed. "But tell me who is the thief. Who is the villain?"

"Before I answer that question, count, permit me to retire for a few minutes," I said.

The count bowed an assent, and I left the room. In a few minutes I returned, accompanied by Ferdinand, who, hurrying across the room, fell at his father's feet, and covering his face with his hands, exclaimed in German—

"Father, father, I am the guilty person!"

An ashen paleness spread over the count's face, and he looked as if he had been stricken with some mortal illness. I felt that I had no business to be present during the painful scene between the father and son, nor can I gratify my reader's curiosity by recounting what took place. But I may tell how I was enabled to solve the problem, and restore the missing papers.

At my very first interview with Ferdinand I was struck with his apparent want of sincerity, and when I went to the count's bedroom and found that his son's adjoined I began to think it was within the bounds of possibility that the son himself was the guilty person. It must be remembered that I particularly inquired of the count how many people were in his confidence with regard to the papers, and his answer was, only his private and business secretaries besides his son. My first thought was that one of these two persons was, or perhaps both, were guilty. But when I found that Ferdinand's room communicated with his father's my suspicion fell upon him.

This suspicion was strengthened when, unknown to any one, I picked up in Ferdinand's room a small piece of wax, on which was a faint impression of the wards of a key. When my request to be left alone in the room was granted I made a thorough examination of Ferdinand's room. In the drawer of a cabinet I found some letters written in Russian. They were from a lady, and addressed to the young man, and here at once was suggested a reason for the evil deed. Cherchez la femme! The woman was found, so it seemed. My want of knowledge of Russian prevented my reading them, but I was acquainted with a few of the endearing epithets used by Russian lovers, and from this I was enabled to make out that they were F love letters. In the same drawer was the photograph of a most beautiful woman. On the back of the photograph was the name and address of the photographer.

The name was Russian, the address St. Petersburg. All the letters were signed with a Christian name only, so that I had no means of knowing who the writer was; but I guessed she was represented by the photograph which I took the liberty of temporarily appropriating, and from the inquiries I subsequently made I found the original of the photo was the daughter of a Russian lady well-known in London society, where she was regarded as a spy and an intriguer of exceptional cleverness. This discovery strengthened my hand, and, disguised as a French priest, I managed to sit next to Ferdinand at his father's dinner-table; when the wine had circulated I led him into conversation, and incidentally asked if he could tell me if a certain Russian lady, the one I have referred to, resided in London. He became confused, and turned the conversation, without directly answering my question.

Determined to keep him under close surveillance, I followed him when he left the room. He had previously wished me good night, saying he was going out. He did go out, and, hailing a hansom, drove to the Grosvenor Mansions; and the house he went to, I learnt, was the residence of the Russian lady and her daughter. They rented the house furnished. They were rich, lived in good style, and were noted for their princely receptions.

The following day I called, and requested to see the daughter on a matter of urgent business. She was very handsome, but older than Ferdinand by four or five years. After a short conversation I came to the conclusion that she was as unprincipled as she was clever; but when I had made sure of my ground I unhesitatingly accused her of having instigated the count's son to purloin the State papers. At first she denied this with a display of passionate indignation, but it was too insincere to deceive me; and, telling her who I was, I pointed out that if she wished to avoid a public scandal, which would probably be the social ruin of herself and the young man, she would give up the papers.

After much denial, many protestations, and ineffectual attempts to wriggle off the horns of the dilemma on which I had impaled her, she burst into tears, and, finding that they did not affect me, she gave in at last, confessed that she had the papers, but declared that Ferdinand voluntarily brought them to her. I need scarcely say I did not believe that. She, acting no doubt under her mother's prompting, lured him to his fall.

I left that house with the papers in my possession, and my next step was to see Ferdinand and get him to realize how terribly serious the position was in which he had placed himself. When he learnt how much I knew, he made a clean breast of it. He said that the lady had perfectly fascinated him, and since he had made her acquaintance he had been like one in a trance. So madly was he infatuated that he believed he would have hesitated at nothing that would have won him his charmer's favour. At that time it was pretty well known that, owing to certain menacing movements on the part of Russia, directed principally against Hungary, the Austrian ambassador had managed to enter into a treaty with England, bearing upon the point. The Russian adventuress—for she was little better than that—had used the silly young man as a means of betraying the secrets to the Russian Government, and had I not been fortunate enough to make the discovery I did, those papers would very soon have been on their way to Russia.

I felt that it was far better that the erring young man should, if possible, settle the affair with his father without any interference on my part. I have reason to know, however, that the count was furious. To be deceived by his own son in such a way was heartbreaking, and he banished him from his sight. A day or two later Ferdinand returned to Austria in disgrace, and subsequently went to India, where he remained until his father's death, which occurred five years later. To the last the count refused to be reconciled to him. Since then Ferdinand has spent many years of his life in the consular service of his country, and elected to bury himself in an obscure second-rate French post. That evil act of his unbridled youth, when he sullied his honour and betrayed the great confidence his father reposed in him, cast a shadow over his life which nothing in this world could remove. Fletcher uttered a tremendous truth when he wrote—

"Our acts our angels are for good or ill,

Our fatal shadows that walk by us still."