Chapter I: Foreword (1)

by

W.E. Aughinbaugh, M.D., LL.B., LL.M.

Is the former Czar and his Imperial family still alive? There are millions of people in Europe and America who are asking this question.

European governments have considered the question of sufficient interest to justify the investigation by official bodies of the alleged extinction of this ancient Royal Line. Millions have been expended for that purpose. Commissions have pretended to investigate the subject _after_ the event. Volumes have been returned of a speculative nature to authenticate a mysterious _disappearance_ that has never been explained.

April 5; the Universal Service carried a cable from Paris reading: "Czar Nicholas and all members of the Imperial family of Russia are still alive, according to M. Lassies, former member of the Chamber of Deputies, who has just returned from a mission to Russia." This was several weeks after the manuscript of the following account of the _Czar's Escape_ was in my possession.[A] Yet this confirmation of the manuscript has not sufficiently overcome the universally persistent doubt that has grown out of many previous imposing reports.

In certain Royal quarters the anxiety to disseminate the "reports" of their Commissions is too apparent to authorize a judicial mind to accept their speculative guesswork as convincing evidence of a legal _corpus delicti_ when no identified bodies have ever been produced. This eagerness to convince the world by substituting a mere _disappearance_, or the lack of evidence, for positive proof of the Royal assassination raises very naturally the presumption that certain circles are more interested in misleading than in satisfying the public mind.

To those schooled in the methods and objects of international propaganda during the Great War it is evident that, in a period of revolution, when thrones and dynasties become unpopular within the area of hostility and discontent, the adherents of Royalty may not be unwilling to appease the demand for vengeance by some theatrical display of meeting it with a pretense or an artifice until the passions of the populace have subsided and sober toleration resumes its sway over the sated revolutionary mind.

That such may be the fact will seem convincing from a careful study of the incidents narrated in the following rudimentary story of "Rescuing the Czar." In a technical sense it is not a story. Nevertheless, while partaking of the nature of a simple diary, it reads like a romance of thrilling adventure upon which a skilful novelist may easily erect a story of permanent interest and universal appeal. But it is this very lack of art--this indifference to accomplished technique--that makes "Rescuing the Czar" so interesting and so convincing a rebuttal of the Royal Executioners' Case.

There have been many periods in the progress of society when such an original piece of work as "Rescuing the Czar" would have been welcomed by the historian of serious events. The preservation, discovery and the piecing together of the various scraps of first-hand information by the actual participants in the tragic scenes narrated in these diaries, by the compiler of this book represent a work of so discriminating a judgment that its contribution to the historical wealth of the period involved will assume an increasing, if not a prophetic, value as time goes on, either to explain the mystery or authenticate the evidence revealed. While apparently no connection is evident between the two authors of the First and Second Parts of "Rescuing the _Czar_," the discriminating reader will be impressed by the independent way each of them, operating unconsciously of the other, sustains the manifest conclusion that both are recording international secrets that never were intended for the public eye.

Imbedded in the national consciousness of many European States the historian finds everywhere the shadowy outlines of "nobility" and "aristocracy" delineated on the surface of traditionary pretense and political desire. It forms the inheritance of distributive power in nations ascending from monarchial institutions to theoretical republics or pseudo-democracies, and it imparts a touch of pathos to the lingering hope of Royalty that humanity may some day welcome its return to reverence and power. It forms the superstructure on which the crumbling column of aristocracy sustains its capital pretensions amid the ruins of privileged exemption from the universal law of change. Consequently the reader will not be surprised nor much alarmed when encountering its subterranean methods depicted in these pages. They will merely fortify the accepted impression among students of events that when Time binds up the wounds of Revolutionary Russia the world will discover an Agrarian Democracy, instead of a Soviet Communism or Romanoff Empire, emerging from the cosmos of organized disorder in that land. This seems to be the trend of thought behind "Rescuing the Czar." Yet it does not conceal a fundamental inclination to sympathize with every rank that suffers in this onward sweep of power. Royalty and Rags, throughout these pages, find many mourners over the sacrifices each has made to reconcile the eternal conflict between poverty and pomp. In the abysmal void between the disappearing star and the aspiring glowworm men tramp upon, there seems to be sufficient latitude for the play of gratitude or grief. A Napoleon exiled by the French or a Ney shot down by Frenchmen is unthinkable today. In like manner, when the revolutionary passions of Russia have subsided, there may be men and women of the humblest estate who will wonder how it happened that their Emperor, whose darkest sin, apparently, was loyalty to Russia, could have been murdered by their countrymen in cold blood.

It will never be believed.

In reflecting on the experiments of their Revolution, finding much to be admired and more to be condemned, they will not accept without resentment an accusation from posterity that they lacked both gratitude and pity when the test of national manhood came. In exculpation of such an imputation they will doubtless reverence the tradition of a House that fell only with the ruins of their native land. Viewing as they may the fragments of their once majestic Empire annexed to alien States in compensation of successful perfidy and neglect, they will lament the lot of Nicholas II while reflecting on their fate. If their democracy shall survive their own self-amputation, the lightness of their governmental burdens will stimulate the flow of mercy through their social institutions and direct their thoughts toward pity for the useless sacrifice.

In simple justice, therefore, "Rescuing the Czar" is offered in extenuation of this doubtful charge against the entire Russian race. For nothing is better calculated to sanctify a martyrdom and make a race abhorred than a belief in its injustice. Nothing is more potent to dissolve a race and scatter its suspected members from the altar of their fathers than the fable of their unrepentant hostility to the cry of Mercy from the sacrificial Ikon. Nothing so quickly exposes their abandoned fields to the tramp of hostile feet and the subjugation of their soil. Ambitious rivalry has no better ally than unexplained suspicion.

If "Rescuing the Czar" does no more than set at rest the _fable_ of the "Romanoff Execution," it will have done its work by characterizing the source and methods and objects of its inspiration. If it raises the presumption of generosity in quarters generally subject to suspicion, it will be equally praiseworthy for expelling the darkness that has always hovered around Imperial thrones. If it does nothing but portray the dignified composure of Russian womanhood in the presence of unspeakable affronts, it will have justified its publication by adding to the diadem of virtue a few more jewels to glorify the crest of motherhood. If it performs no other service than to place upon the pale face of tragic possibility the red-pink blush of romantic probabilities, it will have justified its presence in the society of the learned by the sincerity of its purpose and the candor of its appeal to the conscience of the world.

New York, 1920.

[Footnote A: February 20, 1920]

RESCUING THE CZAR

I

FROM SPLENDOR TO GLOOM

The ice was breaking up along the river Neva, in 1917. At the Winter Palace, the ladies were rejoicing over the good news. The Czar in the field was reorganizing his dismembered armies. America was severing diplomatic relations with the Central Powers. The Asquith Ministry had dissolved and Lloyd-George was hurling his dynamic personality into organizing Victory for the Allied forces in the field. Kut-el-Amara had fallen to the British--Bagdad had been taken--the Crescent was fleeing before the Cross of Russia--the Grand Duke was driving the Turk from Trebizond. Even Hindenburg was retiring along the Western Front--France with unexampled gallantry was holding back the Juggernaut--America was getting mad and rolling up its sleeves.

The women at the palace did not disguise their happiness over the cheerful events that heralded the approach of Victory. The evening star that poured down its steel-blue rays upon the crosses of St. Isaac's presaged to their encouraged fancies the early dawn of peace. Yet the chilly wind that whistled round their dull-red household was laden with a frosty air that blew from official regions and "froze the genial current of their souls." The icy glances of ambitious princelings, reflecting back the sinister sullenness of designing ministers, fell like a spectral gloom upon their happy hearts. A hollow roar rolled down the Nevskii Prospekt--a guard burst into the palace and put the women under arrest. The pent-up Revolution at last had burst--anarchy howled around the capital--the isolated Czar was captive, and plotting princelings joined hands with puny lawyers to browbeat courageous women and drive the chariot of State!

The miserable fiasco of a delirious Revolution went careering through the giddy maze of treachery and madness until a frenzied wave of rapine and disorder swept all the noblewomen of the Imperial household into a barricaded fortress around which lust and inebriety held unsated and remorseless vigil for the prize. (See Part II: Tumen.)

Among these prisoners of State were five women who realized that the Power which had organized disorder as a feature of its military strategy had also honeycombed the Army, the Navy and the State with its agencies of pillage and so undermined the public conscience that their purity and virtue, more than their jewels and fortune, became an open challenge to the vanity of mob lust.

The younger of these women in their unsullied maidenhood looked longingly and unsuspectingly in the direction of Siberia. They were learning by degrees that the semblance of freedom which offered a pathway to escape was nothing but a strategem employed by pretended friends to entrap them into more cruel and ruthless hands. On every side loomed the evidence of their danger. The villainous stares of foreign interlopers, the ribald jests of guards, the furtive glances of the envious, the scowls of the emancipated underling, the profanity of the domineering agitator who denounced respectability and clamored for possession of the girls,--no moment of their lives was free from ugly threats; no retreat, save the wild jungle or the mountains, offered any liberation from the immodest glare of cruel, licentious eyes. (See Part II: Tobolsk.)

The eldest of the girls was scarcely twenty-two. Like her mother, she was erect and stately and somewhat saddened by the hostile experiences through which the family had just passed. The youngest was a chummy little creature of sixteen years who did not conceal her admiration for her next elder sister, whose courage seemed unfailing through all the trying hours. The next eldest sister, with her little younger brother, was openly planning to outwit the guard and escape to the Siberian wilds. It was doubtless her undisguised activity that ultimately betrayed the Royal prisoners into the unhappy tangle that beset their future lives.

From one camp to another they were carted off like cattle and never for a moment permitted to forget that, if they ever reached a place of safety, they would have to pay the price. Along the frozen pathway of their weary eastern journey there did come, here and there, some slender little byways that offered an escape. Whenever they approached these places and estimated the perils, they found no one to confide in--there were none that they could trust. Treason, like a contagion, lurked in smiles as well as scowls about them, and even their steadfast trust in the Invisible Diplomacy of European Royalty was gradually yielding in their hearts to the dissolving acid of despair. (See Part II: Tobolsk.)

From the conflicting rumors that reached them they fully realized that it was the politician in all countries who ignorantly obstructed their relief. The ferocious and misleading propaganda employed to fanaticize the populace as an element of military strategy seemed to sweep its own authors from their feet and drag the prisoners through many months of torture toward a time and place set for their execution by other politicians in the drunken stupor of their power. (See Part II: Tobolsk.)

Under the agitated surface of this tidal wave of fanaticism that threatened to engulf the Royal prisoners there were a few men in Europe and America, as well as in India and Thibet, who were slowly converging in the direction of the victims with a _phrase upon their lips_ that none but Royalty and themselves were privileged to use. It was that ancient secret code transmitted by tradition to the followers of a sturdy Tyrian king. It was made use of by Lycurgus, as well as by Solomon and Justinian; and it was again employed by the partisans of Louis XVIII to save the House of Bourbon. It is that mystic code which binds Royalty together and is given only to those whom Royalty may trust. That ancient code meant freedom if it reached the prisoners in time! It rested with these silent men to pass the scrutiny of a million eyes to liberate the victims from the fury of the mob.

Such a rescue, as time swept by, became nothing but a slender hope with any of the women. They began to realize that their blood would not very greatly shock the nerves of statesmen who had become accustomed to the daily cataract that poured down upon the soil of Europe. They felt abandoned by the diplomats. Their only friends were busy in the red work of war. One chance alone remained. Soldiers might be deceived by men disguised as comrades. The Secret Service might overlook the hysterical entertainers who fluttered under the mask of charitable workers and skipped across forbidden lines protected by a Cross. This was the only possibility, this the phantom hope that stood trembling on the brink of the prisoners' abysmal fear. Thus the sight of a Red Cross driver or an English uniform in the midst of their disaster became a welcome incident in the lives of these affronted women. The appearance of either seemed to carry to the prisoners a spirit of encouragement and reflect a ray of mercy into the dark corners of their hearts. They indulged the hope that some of those foreign uniforms might conceal trustworthy friends. And they recognized a basis for such a hope in the mystifying movements of one of those uniforms that met their notice day by day. It was near them at the palace when they were thrown upon a maddened world. They saw it following onward as they passed through pathless wilds. They could see it hovering near them on that last historic night. They learned about its maneuvers in the morning as it moved among the silent rooms of the pretty mansard cottage that had witnessed their withdrawal from the vision of historical events,--how it had paused to scan without emotion the small blood stain on the floor--how an agitated censor informed the credulous that the prisoners had been murdered in cold blood! Thus they learned that the world had heard with skepticism that, so far as history and international politicians were affected, their _seven lives had been, technically, blotted out_! (See Part II: Petrograd--Tumen--Tobolsk.)

Possibly the Prisoners of Tobolsk may have been willing to suffer what is termed a "technical death" in diplomatic circles in order to elude the hungry bloodhounds of the Revolution. They may have welcomed the many opportunities such an event would furnish to read their own obituary in the letters and official documents which treated of their tragic fate. Who knows? They certainly possessed a saving sense of humor or they would never have left behind them at Ekaterinburg so many little reminders of the tragic romance to which calm investigation hereafter will give birth. For instance, there are a couple of diaries that some men must have kept. Of their existence it seems certain that some of the prisoners knew. Why and just how the hitherto profound State secrets narrated in these diaries come now to light is suggested by a simple little letter that raises the inquiry, "Did the Imperial Russian family escape?"

The letter that started this investigation is little different from others one receives from friends traveling in the Orient. By itself it does not clearly identify the family it describes; but, when the scene it pictures is coupled with the events narrated in the purloined diaries which the hands of some invisible diplomats _have_ left behind, the student of the Russian Revolution will marvel at the skill with which some other Royal hands untied the knot of Fate.

II

WHAT MAY BE READ BETWEEN THE LINES

There may be those in official circles who will suggest that a case of mistaken identity is exhibited in the following quotation from the letter. "It is in a sort of arboreal enclosure, with all sorts of flowers and vigorous vegetation that characterizes this region," the letter reads. "Behind the ivy-covered wall that extends around the gardens and shuts out all intruders, I got a glimpse of that man through the heavy iron gate. He was smooth-shaven, slightly drooped, sprinkled with gray and with a scar upon his forehead near the roots of his hair--a little to one side. He was twirling a pruning knife in his left hand and speaking in _English_ to a boy who scampered up to him ahead of four beautiful girls and a very dignified woman moving leisurely over the lawn in the direction of the gate.

"When the women reached the man's side they paused for a moment and asked a few questions in _Russian_. He seemed to be listening very attentively and answering only in monosyllables.

"Then I noticed the elder of the women unfold a well-known London newspaper and move closer to his side. They began glancing over its pages together and seemed to be deeply moved by an article they, apparently, were reading as they walked slowly toward the gate. Finally, when they were about ten feet from where I stood concealed behind one of the massive palms, the man raised his head from the page and, looking earnestly into the woman's eyes, exclaimed in a skeptical tone: '_Il n'aurait jamais cru le fait si ces messieurs n'avaient pu lui jurer L'avoir vu!... Tout ce que j'ai prédit!... Les faux nobles,--les plagiaires_!' which means in English, "He couldn't have believed the thing unless these gentlemen had sworn they witnessed it!... All that I predicted!... The sham nobles!... the stealing authors!" The comment set me thinking.

"Who _is_ he? I asked myself. Inside of five minutes I had heard him speak in English, in Russian and in French! I am certain that he is not a Frenchman,--although his accent would have proclaimed him a native of the Avenue des Champs Elysées. He had a Danish countenance, the eyes of English Royalty and the forehead of an early Christian martyr.

"No one I have talked to on the island seems certain of his identity. Some take the view that he is a retired millionaire, judging from the refined simplicity of his family and the strict guard the Government has furnished to protect his undisturbed retirement. Others hint that he may be, possibly, some very high dignitary, judging from the almost Royal homage that some people in the city pay to his person and family.

"The only reliable information I got about him was that he arrived upon the island aboard a man-o'-war accompanied by one of the richest tea merchants in the Empire. He declines all membership in any of the clubs, apparently satisfied to spend the time among his orchids and the lovely white-robed debutantes I saw blooming in that fascinating garden.

"Naturally I was very curious about the identity of this secluded family. But the only information given out about them by the chivalrous tea merchant or the Government officials is simply, 'Oh, the family have friends in India and are living in retirement.'"

One would be very bold to say, after reading the foregoing, that the personages described were the same people who had been driven out of the Winter Palace upon the ebb-tide of their Imperial splendor a few months before. Yet a long and somewhat intimate interest in the underground diplomacy of the world will lead one thus engaged to piece together stray bits of gossip that come from different sources to check up the information that some others may possess. In this way will the letter of an American who was held incommunicado at Geneva by the Swiss Government in the latter part of 1919, be found exceedingly persuasive in the process of reconstructing the tragic comedy which struts around the vacant Russian throne. The American was en route to Turkestan under proper credentials from the United States; yet there were certain powerful combinations sufficiently interested in his mission to cause his imprisonment for a time sufficiently lengthy to enable their emissaries to precede him beyond the Caspian, where other secret combinations were incubating that American foreign traders would have given much to understand.

It was during this period of restraint that the American, whose name we will call Fox, wrote to a friend in the United States: "You have often heard me speak of my brother who was in Turkestan when the Russian Revolution burst upon the world. He is now resting in Tasmania after going through one of the most remarkable experiences ever given to an ordinary _tea merchant_ intrusted with some secrets of _the greatest land monopoly in the world_. You may call it a fairy tale; and if you did not know me as a business man of ordinary sense, I should hesitate to intimate that Nicholas R---- and all the family are quite well, I thank you, not a million miles distant from my brother."

Fox had learned from his experience at Geneva that governments are sometimes cajoled by diplomatic pressure to do undreamed-of things. The dispatch of an expeditionary force to Siberia by the United States without a declaration of war against the Revolutionists struck him as an instance of this kind, and he knew his correspondent to be sufficiently versed in the underground politics of Europe to look for a connection between some member of that expedition and the subject mentioned in the two foregoing letters. This connection was innocently revealed by a newspaper report from a Western city concerning a wounded soldier who had recently returned to an American Army hospital. The particular name being given, it was easy enough for Fox's correspondent to meet the soldier on some errand of mercy and to obtain the revelations that are hereinafter made.

The soldier was a young commissioned officer who was having an artificial jaw supplied to replace the one shot off in a Bolshevik encounter. He had greatly recovered when the call was made and an opening naturally presented for the soldier to recount the part he played in the adventure of his country in the Revolutionary drama of that hour.

"I'm as certain as I'm living," the wounded soldier said, "that a Bolshevik is as 'nutty' as a rabbit. The fellow I had by the neck before my lights went out was putting up a holler, in German, and claiming to be a personal friend of some personal friend of the missing Czar. Before he finally passed in his chips he gave me a bundle of paper _diaries_ he had stolen down in China, and he asked me to return them to their rightful owner so that he might die without a sin upon his conscience. Honestly, that chap was dead in earnest in this matter of his conscience. I took the stuff, of course; but I never thought about them until the other day. Since then they seem to haunt me. I wonder if you'd mind looking them over if the nurse'd get them out?"

"With pleasure," was the reply.

The nurse brought in an old leather bag, from which the Captain extracted two begrimed and blood-smeared rolls written in a very small but strong and vigorous hand.

While looking over the documents in a casual way a loose leaf fell to the floor. Upon picking it up, there was found to be written on one side in bold underscored letters:

"Make no belief in the evidence that was manufactured to
satisfy some bloodthirsty men in Russia. What I have seen with
my own eyes I know is true. For the sake of Russia I stoled
these papers from the man come from the West who was with them
all the way from 'Yekaterinburg to Chunking. What he write is
true.

"DONETSKY"

"That's his name," the Captain said, "and if you don't find that he was as crazy as a bedbug I'll say I'm General Graves."

"This diary seems to be written in very good English."

"Yes," said the Captain, "all those fellows keep one. They're like the Germans--give 'em a pencil and a piece of paper and they'll scribble all day."

"Did he say who wrote this?"

"No; he cashed in, as I told you; but you'll see the name of Fox here and there through the diary that's written in the small hand."

"_Fox_--who was 'Fox'?"

"Search me! Some Johnny, I suppose."

"May I take these with me?"

"Sure thing! I'll make you a present of 'em. All I ask is, if you find out whether that fellow 'Fox' grabs the peacherino from the Métropole or the one called 'Maria' you'll send me an invitation."

The bargain was struck. Then the question was asked: "Any idea who wrote this diary--the one written in a quick running hand?'

"Sounds like some fellow with a grouch against Kerensky and Lvov. I know enough Russian to make out that much--"

"Evidently one of the Revolutionary officials?"

"Seems so," the Captain said. "You'll notice what he has to say about the mixup with the Russian Royal family at Tobolsk and Tumen. There's a lot of our fellows who don't take any stock in that assassination business at 'Katerinburg."

"I began to read: 'I had walked from Euston Station to Madame Tussaud's, when the messenger jumped from his motorcycle and rushed up to me--' Your diarist starts out in London, I see."

"Yes, he is some globe trotter--"

"'"Go to Birdcage and walk slowly back to Queen Victoria Memorial. As you pass Buckingham, observe the heavily veiled lady wearing white lace wristlets who will follow on behind. Let her overtake you. If she utters _the correct phrase_, go with her at once to Admiralty Arch and follow the Life Guard to the War Office. Meet number ... there; receive a small orange-colored packet, _wear the shirt he gives you_, and cross the Channel at once"'--I see! From Buckingham Palace to the War Office; sounds interesting."

"It is; that fellow is all there!" complimented the Captain.

"'The meeting at the _Huis ten-Bosch_ points to Wilhelmstrasse. Nothing can be done here. They suspect Downing Street.'--Ah, at The Hague, and at the _ten-Bosch_ too, where the Czar and Andrew Carnegie held their first Peace Conference in 1899; this looks significant!"

"Keep going," said the Captain; "that fellow's got 'The Man in the Iron Mask' brushed off the map."

"Here is something singular about Berlin. Your man walks through the lines like a wraith--"

"Not always. As you get into his stuff you'll hear things sizzle."

And thus the Imperial dead return to life through the pages of these stolen diaries.

While the temptation is great to revise the manuscript, so as to make it read more smoothly, it has been decided not to alter a line or letter. Truth will be better served by publishing what is prudent, under the complicated political circumstances of our times, _word_ for _word_ as it was written by its daring author.

III

WHAT HAPPENED AT BERLIN

For certain persuasive reasons it is deemed prudent to omit that part of the diary which details the writer's experiences in England, Belgium and Holland. Those who recognize the incidents hereafter given will appreciate this act of censorship. The discerning reader will gain all the information necessary by following the "Invisible Diplomat" and author from Berlin to the end of the diary.

The first entry reads:

"Today I called on Count R---- at Thiergartenstrasse 23 and handed him the yellow packet. Then I went with him to the race track at Hoppegarten.... On the way out R. inquired about the incident at Buckingham and asked me if I were willing to continue the adventure.... I assured him that nothing would please me better, providing the _lady_ was good-looking.... He said that there were more than ONE lady as well as a couple of men involved in the affair.... I replied that if there were enough to go around and the men didn't become too meddlesome, their presence wouldn't spoil the 'adventure.'... He assured me that the men were 'fine fellows,' the ladies the loveliest on earth, but the 'adventure' was one that might mean decapitation for me if I failed in the undertaking.... I told him that just suited me.... 'I expect to meet Colonel Z---- S---- von T---- at the track. If he takes a liking to you he'll invite you to Koenigergratzerstrasse for a quiet little talk,' Count R---- replied after I had climbed up on the box with him.... We had just reached the old saddle paddock when a man saluted us in a very _knowing_ manner.... It was Colonel Z---- S----, who put some pointed questions to me about my recent travels and my knowledge of Oriental languages.... Before returning to the hotel tonight the Colonel asked me to call on him tomorrow.... I feel that his request amounts to a positive command.... I shall call early in the morning...."

4. On the same page the following entry was made:

"There were guards everywhere when I called at K-70. Even the doorkeeper was a non-com, who took my name, entered it in a book with the precise time I called, took down his telephone, merely mentioned my name, hung up the receiver, called an orderly who conducted me through a corridor and three anterooms full of civilian clerks and finally landed me in the private office of Colonel Z---- S----. He wore the undress uniform of the Imperial Army, greeted me pleasantly, offered me a cigar and tactfully asked: 'Have you _positively_ made up your mind to continue in this service?'

"I wanted to know a little more fully what was required of me before answering; but he did not say. He insisted, rather, on my answering his question FIRST.... To be perfectly frank I was not anxious to commit myself unreservedly without knowing ALL he expected of me, but it sounded cowardly ... so with a mental _reservation_ I finally said: 'You don't look like a man who would ask another to commit suicide. Go ahead! I've decided to take a chance.'... Colonel Z---- S---- looked me straight in the eye and said: 'We expect you to use the same tactics that are used against you. We can't be squeamish.... The interests at stake are too _sacred_ to allow personal considerations to affect your conduct.... You will be required to undertake a journey in the capacity of a guide.... How you make it will be left entirely to yourself ... _but we expect results_.... Every resource will be placed at your disposal, but if YOU get into _trouble_ you'll have to get yourself out without calling on us for help.... We _must not_ be known in the matter. And understand this--the assignment is dangerous from start to finish; no official help can be given you under ANY circumstances.'... To get a line on things I asked, casually, what my compensation would be.... He replied: 'You will be allowed a regular retainer fee, an allowance for daily expenses and a _bonus_ sufficiently attractive to make the undertaking worth while, as _you_ should know.' I thought a little while before asking, 'When do I start?'... 'There's another thing,' he said. 'I suppose you know we _retain_ one-third of your fee for the benefit of your family in the event of any trouble.'... I merely nodded and said, 'All right.'"

In a moment a clerk brought in a check for 400, which Colonel Z---- S---- gave me, saying: 'This is your first month's allowance for expenses; your retainer will be paid quarterly.'... 'How do you KNOW I won't swindle you?' I asked, being a perfect _stranger_ to him. 'I am taking my ORDERS from above,' he answered.... '_Who?_' I asked. 'Young man!' he thundered, 'learn this QUICK--don't ask questions; keep your ears and eyes open and your mouth SHUT.... _Be here_ at 10 tomorrow.'

5. The next entry of interest read as follows:

"I met Colonel Z---- S---- at 10 today. My head was not clear. Guess I had too much at Kempinsky's last night.... A saturnalia of spending on the theory that the Allies will pay.... Even the ride in the Grunewald this morning didn't clear the cobwebs away. I was constantly thinking of that girl at the Métropole with her long eyelashes and dimpling smile; resembles the veiled lady at Buckingham,--and I was trying to make out why she managed to occupy a seat at the next table to mine at the Admiral's Palace an hour or two later. She seems to know some of the performers who mingled in the audience, especially the energetic dark-eyed Circe with the Greek nose, and said to be some sort of a Baroness, who so often approached my table. I wonder what the connection is between these two.... There is _certainly_ some sympathetic tie between those girls! This I know, for when I had breakfast at the Cafe Bauer, U.d.L., they were BOTH there, slightly disguised, and occupying _the same_ table!... Who is Syvorotka? Her lover?... I wonder what the game is.... Come to think about it, the titled performer of the Métropole looks like a twin sister of Marie Amelia, Countess of [Cszecheny] Chechany, a perfect composite of Juno and Venus and Hebe all rolled into one.... These enigmatical personages crowded everything else out of my mind as I walked into Colonel Z---- S----'s office....

"... Without any preliminaries he said, 'Come with me!'... We entered a cab and a few minutes later I entered the Wilhelmstrasse and was in the presence of that tall, iron-gray, wiry gentleman with eyes like a searchlight and the manners of a Chesterfield. 'Thank you, Colonel,' he said. The Colonel sprang to attention, bowed, saluted and backed away. We were ALONE!... 'In ten minutes,' he said, 'you will be conducted to another room. When you arrive advance to the middle, make a right wheel and stand at attention facing the portière. Maintain perfect silence, answer all question,--make NO inquiries--understand?'... I was taken downstairs, along a wide corridor to a solid-oak door guarded by two sentries and an attendant in the Royal livery. The door was opened by an officer of the Erste Garde; I entered a large room, advanced to the center and faced the divided portières of an adjoining chamber! There sat the man whose nod shook the earth!... Behind a heavy, old-fashioned desk, in a dim light, apparently absorbed in writing, sat a deeply tanned, lean-faced, blue-gray-eyed counterpart of Frederick the Great,--the very embodiment of Majesty!... Eyes that blazed in their defiant depths with a steady and consuming fire--the kind of eyes that seem to defy the world.... I stood there fully five minutes before I heard the sharp, high-pitched voice pierce through the portière saying: 'Adell, I will see the C----'... I was conducted to within six feet of the man at the desk and in the same shrill voice asked how familiar I was with Russia, with Turkestan, India, and the Far East.... My answers seemed to convince my questioner.... Handing me a note he said: 'No one besides ourselves is to know that you are to undertake the mission outlined in that note.' Then he sat forward abruptly, his elbows resting on the desk, his head between his hands, his eyes fixed on space.... I began to study the note.... I was dumfounded!... I had thought all along that this man was the mortal enemy of the persons this note commanded me to rescue from danger.... I could not understand HOW there could be the slightest co-operation between this man and the other great ones of the earth that note commanded me to call upon for assistance in case I should need it. It was utterly incomprehensible! Yet THERE were the directions in plain black and white.... And I could not ask a solitary question!... In the same shrill voice the man asked: 'Have you memorized it?' I had! It was burned into my very soul. I could not forget a syllable of it!... Without another word he took the note, struck a match and watched it curl into shapeless ashes.... Then making a quick gesture he plunged into the documents before him.... I backed away until the door closed and shut out the sight of the lonely figure enveloped in a green light, his face illuminated against the shadowy background of an underground chamber of the Foreign Office.... On the way to Friedrichstrasse depot I met that girl of the Métropole again!"

IV

WHEN ROYALTY GETS DOUBLE-CROSSED

6. The next entry was:

"On the Orient Express, or what was the O.E. before the '_Grosse General Stab_' took over the whole job of mixing up these schedules.... Well, well, well, the veiled lady of the Métropole and Buckingham is in trouble in the next compartment ... at least so she says!... She just came into my compartment and said she had been insulted by the man who is sharing it with her.... Confound him!... BUT ... Now I've heard of such 'plants' before.... While I'd like to go in there and kick the brute through the partitions I believe discretion is the better part of valor.... Let her call the guard if the case needs attention.... The guard is a reservist and I believe she _knows_ it.... Furthermore, I must be at Donaustrasse 24, Budapest, tomorrow, and meet Colonel Shuvalov at the Hotel de Paris, Belgrade, the day after.... I wonder if that petit Paris looks the same as when I met my old friend Count Arthur Zu Weringrode and Kazimir Galitzyn coquetting with Cecilia Coursan, Mlle. Balniaux and the Petite Valon at the card tables after our sparkling dinners a few years ago.... And where is that fire-eating Prince now?... He was a great friend of Grey and Churchill at Monte Carlo.... and notwithstanding that meeting in the Taunus they MUST BE friends YET.... The Monte Carlo combination HOLDS good today.... The Taunus meeting so far as Haldane and Winston Spencer were concerned was a _frame-up_ to catch Waechter and 'His Whiskers' (both the Admiral and the General).... That's where the Wilhelmstrasse FELL DOWN!... and yet I am on a mission of mercy, in behalf of one of the principal double-crossers, today!... _Must see Kovalsky at Donau 24 sure_.... Mademoiselle must take care of herself today...."

The next entry read:

"This is a great combination--Roumania is sidestepping Wilhelmstrasse.... _Greece_ is tying up with Servia, Bulgaria is likely to form a wedge between a complete coalition of these mutually hating and suspicious grafters.... Montenegro is the only honest combination in the whole bunch.... In another hour I will see Kovalsky and _astonish_ him with the news I bring."

7. Then the following entry: "_K---- is absolutely opposed_ to taking any part in this business.... Will not raise a hand without the sanction of CHARLES.... Looks as though I'll have to bring pressure on these despairing creatures.... They wanted the Balkans,--that was the deal in the Black Forest,--and because some one doesn't hand it to them on a silver platter they complain of der Grosse General Stab's neglect!... At two I get my answer.... If O.K. I'll be in Odessa in 48 hours unless that veiled minx of the Métropole sticks a knife under my fifth rib.... Her conduct is becoming _mighty suspicious_!... Watch me give her a run for her money!"

8. Then there was this entry: "Charles refuses to see me but tells K----_not_ to put any obstacles in my way.... this is a pretty mess!... How in the devil am I to slip through the lines with those devilish English and French officers scattered around everywhere?... If Roumania had only listened to reason!... I think that Mackinzen will be able to help me out,--I might as well ask Envir Pasha as these dervishes of Sofia to lend a hand in this affair!... Yet I _must_, simply _MUST_ be in Odessa in time to meet Vladimir K before the order of execution!... Either that--or jump into the Danube!"

9. The following entry is significant: "I have been deaf, dumb and blind for the last 24 hours! The veiled lady was responsible.... She had me kidnapped and carried out into these infernal hills, wherever they are.... Never saw them before.... Looks as if a cyclone hit them.... One can pick up enough shells and scrap iron to stock a foundry.... The trees are all shot off--nothing but stumps and slivered trees and broken wheels and boxes littered around.... Looks like SOME FIGHT had taken place in this _strong-smelling_ hopyard among these hummocks.... Apparently the hogs have been rooting up the ground all around here.... There isn't a sign of a living thing in sight ... and not a drop of water to be had!... WHO was that woman?... The Baroness, who?... Must find out more about Syvorotka."

10. "... Been tramping all day in the direction of the rising sun.... Mud, mud, mud everywhere.... It may have been a good thing that I wrote my brother Fox at Mendocino about this trip before I set out.... If I am lost and this comes into a white man's hands who understands America he will know what to do with it.... Hunger and thirst are delirious bed-fellows.... Seems like a hundred years since I heard that Métropole woman's voice when they were choking me in the carriage.... She was saying, 'Search him, search him; I know he ran away with it; it belonged to the Princess!' Then that deep heavy voice: 'What did it look like?' Every word he uttered seemed to add pneumatic pressure to his grip on my neck.... 'It was almost a light purple, the size of a hickory nut, shaped like a pyramid and gives out the reflection of a cluster of stars,' she cried like a wench.... 'Worth a great deal of money,' the deep voice grunted as his hand pressed harder against my windpipe.... 'Priceless!' she shrieked. 'It couldn't be duplicated for 100,000 rubles; the most gorgeous sapphire in the world!'... 'Are you sure this man has it?'... 'Certainly!' she insisted; 'didn't I see that little wasp Kerensky give it to his cousin, and didn't I see that cousin give it to this man in America?'... 'Who is this man?' he asked, tightening his grip until my tongue hung out.... 'They call him Fox on the west coast of America; but THAT is NOT his name,' was the last I remember until I found myself lying on the roadside among the hills back yonder.... I certainly DO resemble my brother slightly and am hoping that if he has a sapphire the size mentioned by that hissing vixen he will keep it for the honor and glory of the family of Foxes.... And to think that a few days ago I was falling in love with her at the Métropole!... If man is a meditating atom, WOMAN must be a _premeditating subterfuge!_... I see smoke rising over the hills away to the east.... Yes, it's the smoke of guns.... I can hear the hoarse roar of heavy artillery to the right and the spitting hollow barking and coughing of lighter pieces on the left and I feel the ground quiver as I write these lines."

11. The next entry read:

"What a somersault has taken place in the general slippery coalitions of these capricious provinces! Every Potsdammer, a little while ago, was counting on Roumania!... The breaking up of the confederation of the Balkan States under Russian influence was what the Central Powers required; while the Allies desired a broken Turkey and a strong Balkan federation under Russian sway able to throw a million men into the field against Turkey's northwestern frontier so as to keep Austria in check and allow an easy glide of forces toward the Dardanelles.... Then Roumania was with the Wilhelmstrasse, and Bulgaria was an ally of the Quay d'Orsay and the Neva, but now the Osmanlian and the Bulgar and his cousin Fritz are in the same bed snoring at the Romans who look greedily toward Transylvania!... From what I can see I'm sure these Bulgars will be first to give up the ghost, although when I talk to Kovalsky and hear the whine of these Wienfloss Kwabins I feel sure that they will be first to snap for peace!... I am writing this in a elaborately furnished dugout that has been abandoned by some German officers--I KNOW this because I found several tubes of _Erbswurst_ tucked in one of the berths. With a little water I managed to make a good meal which saved my life,--blessed be the Goths or whoever it was who invented those compressed sausages!"

12. The next entry: "I'm becoming worried about the size of this diary ... getting so bulky as to almost prevent concealment in case of capture.... Yet I know a way to prevent detection ... so simple!... Usually the most elaborate effort at concealment leads to detection while the most obvious and simple will be entirely overlooked.... I'll try it and if it goes through I'll patent it!... SOMEONE IS COMING--sounds like a dozen auto-trucks!... No, it's an _aeroplane_ skirmishing mighty close to my headquarters.... They've _landed_ and are coming this way!... I'll be READY for them...."

V

WHEN TITLED WOMEN STOOP TO CONQUER

13. The next entry:

"My ammunition was no good!... But I am at a loss to understand what they are trying to do with ME.... Certainly I don't look like a very important personage in my present state.... Yet my captors are not treating me very badly ... aside from being locked up in this deserted villa with its broken chairs and vacant picture frames and general air of hasty abandonment there's nothing to disturb the tranquillity of my reflections except the recurring tramp of the muffled sentry below my broken window ... this building has a sort of Byzantine cut in its architectural design.... On the other side of the valley there's a minaret or two visible through the smoky haze.... Off to the left I can make out quite distinctly the outlines of a Greek Cross.... The road leading toward that Cross looks like the work of a Muscovite engineer,--which speaks well for it.... It's built of the same material as the one over the mountains from Tiflis to Vladicaucaz and Kislovodsk.... I MUST BE ON RUSSIAN SOIL!... But what is _mystifying_ to me is, _how did that veiled girl_ of the Métropole manage to know the SENTRY who is guarding my person so methodically down below?... She has been here twice, now, and talks to him very confidentially.... QUATSCH! if she thinks to find _any_ jewelry clinging to my person she'll have to fry me to get it out."

14. Then this entry:

"The veiled Métropole Nemesis was to see the sentry today.... She seemed to be quite happy about something and looked up in the direction of my window a number of times.... She was eating some of those champagne-colored rose leaves that are crystallized by the firm of Demitrof at Moscow and sold as confections to the ladies of the Court!... What does it mean?... Furthermore, if that _sentry_ is not the same man who acted as valet to Prince Galitzyn at Monte Carlo when Delcassé, Grey and Galitzyn (otherwise "Count Techlow") were gliding about the Grand Hôtel de Londres!

"The mystery is solved....

"That Métropole woman was the companion to Countess C---- at the Nouvel Hôtel Louvre the day I met her at Monte Carlo!... and this man was the _same_ fellow she was supping her café Turc and smoking her Medijeh cigarettes with out on the Terrace Gardens of the Hôtel de Londres the night I was waiting for an American millionaire to break away from the Hungarian noblewoman at the table decorated with La France roses and the same kind of roses pinned to her corsage.... The American, if he ever sees this in print, will remember the lady with the wonderful jewels flashing from her wrists and neck and whom the man with the Boulanger moustache at the adjoining table was trying hard to flirt with ... the same dark-eyed Juno that same American met in the Salle des Étrangers at the Casino, the following day about noon.... Well, that is the connection!... But I did not observe that that wonderful lady wore any large SAPPHIRE that night ... nor when she changed her quarters from the _Nouvel_ to the _London_ did she need any such jewelry to have all the spendthrifts of Europe at her feet.... If she was a 'Princess' then I was completely fooled.... I never saw a real Princess, except _Eulalia_, who knew how to be democratic enough to select an American for a quiet exchange of ideas ... the rest, no matter how desperately they may want to be free from Court _restraint_ and bodyguards, remind me of the poor little caged girls at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Seville!... Well, so my captors have some connection with the Countess C----([Cszecheny] Chechany)--with the Tolna Festetics of Hungary.... And this is _strange_, for I had surmised that SHE, at least, would be _friendly_ to MY mission, if she knows anything at all about its origin.... _She_ should _aid_ me to reach Odessa instead of having me sandbagged and cooped up here in this Soviet cage.... I'm certain this Métropole lady is a TRAITOR to the Countess now, and will have me murdered if I don't produce that sapphire of the princess."

15. This entry may serve to identify the author of the diary: