Chapter X: Introduction (10)

‘Great heavens!’ cried Anna, lifting her dark eyebrows in amazement, while she looked at her friend with something like pitying contempt, ‘is it possible that you can cheat yourself into the belief that that is true? You know as well as I do that talent and individualism are not worth a rap without influence to advance them. Kissing goes by favour in this world; and if you’ve no influence you may starve, while some idiot is pitchforked into power and authority. But, there, don’t let us wrangle any more at present. Some day I shall convert you, and bring you round to my views. By the way, I see that our Little Father, the Czar, is to make a yachting cruise round the coast of Finland next month, and that his yacht, the _North Star_, is to be entirely overhauled and refitted.’

‘Yes, that is so.’

‘It’s a very fine yacht, isn’t it, the _North Star?_’

‘I should think so. I’ve never seen it, though.’

‘That’s a wonder. I thought your father could have taken you on board any of the Emperor’s yachts.’

‘So he could, I’ve no doubt; though he has never done so.’

‘But you have the plans of the _North Star_ in this department, haven’t you?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I should like to see them. Would you mind showing them to me? I want to know what this grand vessel is like.’

Catherine hesitated; but failing to see that she would do any harm by complying with her friend’s request, she went to a huge safe, and took therefrom a large roll of cartridge-paper, which she spread out on the desk, and kept it in position by weights at the corners. And then there was revealed to Anna a scale drawing, showing the hull, the sections, the ground-plan, and general design of the Imperial vessel, which was one of several used by his Majesty for pleasure cruises.

This particular one was then in the hands of the Admiralty for refit and overhaul, and was under orders to be at Kronstadt on the 20th of the following month; to receive the royal party, including the Czar, for a trip up the Gulf of Bothnia, and along the coast of Sweden, returning by the coast of Finland.

Anna looked at the plan attentively, critically. Indeed, she studied it; and having an excellent memory, the result of training as an ‘indexer,’ she was enabled to carry the whole of the plan in her mind’s eye.

She would have liked to have made some notes, but did not dare do so, and so she fixed the details in her mind.

‘The Little Father’s apartments seem very spacious,’ Anna remarked carelessly, as though she meant nothing.

‘Oh yes,’ said Catherine; ‘but they are all to be reconstructed, and removed from the after-part of the vessel, where they are now.’

Anna’s dark eyes opened wide, and her ears were all alertness.

‘Indeed! Why?’

‘Well, they are in the extreme stern of the ship now; and as the vessel pitches very much, they are not comfortable.’

‘Then, where are the Czar’s rooms to be placed?’ asked Anna eagerly.

‘A large deckhouse is to be constructed amidships. It will be fitted up like a little palace.’

‘Ah! umph! I understand,’ Anna muttered thoughtfully. ‘Then I suppose that is where the rooms will be?’ and she placed her finger in the centre of the plan.

‘Yes.’

Catherine made a movement to remove the weights from the corners of the paper, when Anna exclaimed:

‘Stop a minute. I just want to look at something. All right. Thanks. It’s most interesting. I wish I were a rich person, that I could have a steam-yacht like that, and go where I liked.’

‘You should marry an emperor; then you would have all you could desire,’ said Catherine with a laugh, as she rolled the draft plan up and restored it to the safe.

‘No; I wouldn’t be an empress if I had the chance,’ Anna replied tartly. ‘Kings, queens, emperors, empresses, and the like, are all tyrants. There should be no crowned heads. I don’t believe in ’em. They are a curse to the world.’

‘Anna, you surprise me!’ said Catherine with a frightened look. ‘I knew you were peculiar, and held remarkable views, but I had no idea you were disloyal.’

‘Hadn’t you, dear?’ answered Anna, with a laugh. ‘Well, well, don’t take me too seriously, you know. I say some queer things sometimes.’

Then, suddenly throwing her arms round her friend’s neck, she kissed her on both cheeks and sped out of the room.

* * * * *

The scene changes. In what is known as the St. Petersburg quarter, which is situated on the north side of the Neva, is an old and lofty house, not unlike some of the old buildings in Edinburgh.

The house is let out in tenements, and there is a common stair for the use of all the tenants, who for the most part are working men, artisans, and the like. At the very top of the building, immediately under the tiles, is a long room with a slanting roof. In this room three men are at work, busily at work, though it is the dead of night. They carry on their work by lamplight.

Two are seated at a bench, which is covered with a miscellaneous lot of tools--pliers, small hammers, pincers, files, tiny saws, screw-drivers, chisels of various shapes, punches, etc. There are also sets of mathematical instruments; and before the men are carefully-prepared diagrams and drawings to scale, and to these the men make constant reference.

They are fitting together an ingenious and clever piece of mechanism in a small oblong box, lined with tin, and divided into compartments. It is a sort of clockwork arrangement they are engaged upon, and it is intended that the motive power of this mechanism shall be a noiseless spring, acting on a solid brass, notched wheel. In the rim of this wheel are forty-eight notches. The wheel can be made to revolve slowly or quickly, as may be desired. As the wheel revolves, every time a notch reaches a given point, mathematically determined, a tiny, but powerful, steel lever drops into it, and this causes a steel rod, something like a miniature shaft of a screw-steamer, to advance at right angles with the wheel towards a partition at the end of the box.

When this rod or shaft has been pushed forward a stage, the lever rises again, until the next notch is reached, when the same thing occurs, and the rod gets a little nearer to the partition, in which, immediately facing the point of the rod, is a circular hole corresponding in circumference to the rod itself, so that ultimately the rod must pass through the hole into a recess between the partition and the end of the box.

The object of this will presently be seen. The two men, who are evidently skilled mechanics of a high class, are both young. Neither of them has yet numbered thirty years.

A third man is engaged in a totally different occupation. He is an old man, tall and thin, with a grave, professional face, small, keen eyes, and a high forehead. He is dressed in a long, dark blouse, and wears a black silk skull-cap. He has a square table before him in the centre of the room; on it are retorts, crucibles, phials, mortars, and pestles.

In a retort, beneath which burns a spirit-lamp, he is compounding something from which most obnoxious vapours arise, but immediately above is a skylight, which is open to give egress to the fumes.

The man watches the retort anxiously and nervously, and every few minutes he plunges a small thermometer into the boiling liquid, and then, withdrawing it, reads by the light of an Argand lamp what the figures indicate. At last he suddenly extinguishes the flame of the spirit, utters a sigh of relief, and straightens his aching back. As he does so, one of the two young men turns towards him, and says:

‘Well, Professor, have you finished?’

‘Yes, thank God, I have, and I am glad.’

It seemed like blasphemy that he should have thanked God, having regard to the deadly objects of his work. But the phrase was either uttered carelessly, or he was a fanatic who believed that what he was doing was blessed of Heaven.

Presently there were three light taps on the door. The men paused in their labours and listened. Then the Professor advanced noiselessly to the door, and gave three raps himself.

This was followed from outside by two quick raps, then two deliberate ones. Instantly on receiving this signal the professor turned the key, opened the door, and admitted a man, who wore a large cloak, which, on entering the room, he threw off, and a handsome, striking young man was revealed, with a strongly-marked face, and a well-shaped head covered with dark, curly hair.

It was a face full of intellectuality. The mouth, which was shaded by a carefully-trimmed moustache, was well shaped, but the lower jaw was heavy, and destroyed the general symmetry of the features. His eyes were almost coal-black, restless, and full of fire. They indicated an intense nervous energy.

There was something--it is really difficult to define it--about the man’s whole appearance which suggested the masterful, commanding spirit--the leader of men. And when he spoke, the full, resonant voice, the rich, decisive tones, accentuated and emphasized this something, and proclaimed that he was one to be feared, to be obeyed. Peter Treskin--that was his name--was in every way a remarkable man. And even at the present day there are parts of Russia where he is referred to with sorrow, and spoken of with reverence.

Peter Treskin came of good family. He was intended for the law, and had studied hard and acquired an immense amount of general knowledge. But somehow he had been attracted to a set of malcontents, who were for revolutionizing everything and everybody.

They believed, or fancied they believed, which was much the same thing, that it was their mission to set the world right; to alter this and change that, to pull down thrones and set up their own forms of government, which would be so perfect, so just, so equitable, that every human wrong and every human sorrow would be done away with.

It was the Utopian dream of lotus-eaters; but fools have dreamed it through all time; they will go on dreaming it until time closes, and instead of ending sorrow, they will, as they have ever done, increase it manifold.

However, these men thought differently, and Peter Treskin’s vanity was gratified, his ambition found a channel, his fiery disposition a means of satisfying it; and as he never played second fiddle to anyone, he was raised to a height, from which he commanded.

In other words, he became the head of a vast conspiracy which had for its object the destruction of the rulers who then ruled. In short, Peter, at the head of a mob, so to speak, opposed himself to the constituted forces of law and order.

It is true those forces were not what they might, and perhaps ought to, have been. They were stern, in many ways oppressive, in some respects unjust, and often ungenerous; but Peter Treskin’s methods were not calculated to change them.

It was astonishing, however, how he was enabled to enlist clever and intellectual men of all sorts and conditions under his banner, which, figuratively speaking, was inscribed with one word of ghastly import--Revolution!

‘Well, friends, how does the work go on?’ he asked, as he entered the room, wiped his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief, and then, with a quick, nervous touch, rolled a cigarette and lit it.

‘We’ve nearly finished,’ answered one of the two men. ‘By to-morrow night the machine will be ready.’

‘Good! excellent! bravo!’ said Treskin. ‘And you, Professor?’

‘My part is also nearly completed. It has been a dangerous operation, but will be successful.’

The man who spoke was Professor Smolski, a clever chemist, whose researches and knowledge, if properly applied, might have been of immense benefit to the world, and have earned him a niche in the gallery of worthies. But he had ranged himself on the side of the malcontents, and for the sake of his craze he was willing to sacrifice the prospects of fame, if not fortune, and to run the almost certain risk of a shameful death. Truly human nature is a mystery.

The other two men were brothers--Jews, Isaac and Jacob Eisenmann. They were born in Russia, but their parents had fled from Germany to avoid persecution, though, in flying from the hornets, they had encountered the wasps; that is to say, they had found no peace in Russia. They had been oppressed, persecuted, harried, and their offspring had vowed vengeance. Isaac and Jacob were sworn foes of the Government. They were clever mechanics, and their cleverness was used to build up a destructive instrument of death, contrived with devilish ingenuity and diabolical cunning.

These men represented a large party, which included women as well as men; but Treskin was the head, the leading light, the impelling spirit. His influence, his restless energy, his ambition, his vanity, made him one of the most dangerous men in all Russia. He seemed able by some extraordinary power he possessed of swerving men from the paths of rectitude into the tortuous ways of crime. He led women like lambs to the slaughter; he bent even strong men to his will.

Strangely enough, however, up to the time that he is brought under the reader’s notice, he had managed to escape falling under suspicion. It is difficult to say what this immunity was due to; possibly some superior cunning, some extraordinary cautiousness. But whatever it was, Peter was not wanting in courage, and was quite ready to take his share of risk.

His co-conspirators now proceeded to explain to him the result of their labours and their ingenuity. The empty recess at the end of the mechanical box was to be filled with a novel preparation containing a latent explosive power of immense force. This latent power, however, could only be aroused into activity by the combination of a chemical fluid, and in order to bring this about, the mechanism had been arranged with wonderful precision and cleverness. Professor Smolski had produced the necessary fluid, and the two Jews had, between them, constructed the machinery. At the end of the rod or shaft already described a glass tube, hermetically sealed, would be attached by fitting into a socket. As the rod was advanced by the revolving notched wheel, which could be set to do its work in one hour or forty-eight, the glass tube would ultimately be thrust through the hole in the partition, where, coming in contact with an opposing rigid bar of iron, it would break, and then instantly something like a cataclysm would follow.

This, of course, only describes the machine in rough outline, and that is all that is intended to be done. Those who are curious to learn the details of the strange instrument of death and destruction will find drawings of it preserved in the police archives of St. Petersburg. It was, at the time, the most perfect and certain thing of its kind that man’s devilishness had been able to create. And in some respects it is doubtful if it has been improved upon up to the present day.

Four o’clock was striking when Peter Treskin stole forth from that reeking den of evil designs, and made his way into the sweet, fresh air. Overhead the stars burned with an effulgency only seen in a Northern climate. Peace and silence reigned in the sleeping city. The clear, pellucid waters of the Neva glistened and glinted as they flowed to the sea, emblematic of the Stream of Time, which silently but surely sweeps all men into the great ocean of eternity, and obliterates even their memory.

Man’s life is a little thing indeed when compared with the stupendousness of Time and Eternity. The bright stars shine, the rivers roll for ever; but man is born to-day; to-morrow he is dust and forgotten. No such feeling or sentiment, however, stirred Peter Treskin’s emotion as he hurried along to his lodgings. He was elated, nevertheless, and full of a fierce, wicked joy, for his designs seemed to be going well. He had that night seen the completion, or almost the completion, of an instrument of destruction which was calculated and intended to strike terror into the hearts of tyrants, and he even believed that the hour was at hand when constituted power and authority, as it then existed, would be shattered into the dust, and from its ruins a new order of things would arise, in which he would figure as a supreme ruler.

Fools have dreamed these dreams before, and awakened with the curses of their fellow-men ringing in their ears; and then, having died a shameful death, have been thrust, unhonoured and unwept, into a nameless grave. But Treskin was not disturbed by any gloomy forebodings, and having reached his lodgings, he hurried to bed.

* * * * *

The scene shifts once more, and shows us Kronstadt, a busy, thriving seaport, arsenal, and naval and military town, at the head of the Gulf of Finland, exactly thirty-one miles west from St. Petersburg. The town is built on an island, and is so strongly fortified that it is called the ‘Malta of the Baltic.’ The greater portion of the Imperial navy assembles here, and there are armour and appliances, not only for repairing vessels, but building men-of-war. There are three great harbours. Two are used exclusively for the Imperial ships, and the third is a general harbour capable of accommodating seven hundred vessels. In the winter no trade with the outer world is carried on, owing to the ice; but during the summer months the flags of various nationalities may be seen, but by far the largest number of foreign vessels visiting Kronstadt sail under the British flag.

At this place, one summer afternoon, a man and woman arrived, and made their way to a tavern near the entrance to the general harbour. The woman was young, good-looking, very dark, but her features wore a careworn expression, and she seemed to glance about her with a nervous fear, as though she was in dread of something. The man was of middle height; he had an iron-gray beard and iron-gray hair. Judging from his grayness, he was advanced in years; but his step was firm, his eyes, which were very dark, were the eyes of youth--they were restless and full of fire. He carried a leather hand-bag, which he deposited on a chair beside him as he and the woman seated themselves at a table outside of the tavern and ordered refreshment, which was served by the tavern-keeper himself. The stranger got into conversation with the landlord, and asked him many questions.

‘Where is the Little Father’s yacht, the _North Star_, lying?’ he asked.

‘Out there, moored to that big buoy. You will see she has the Imperial flag flying.’ As he spoke, the landlord pointed to the outside of the harbour, where a large steam-yacht, painted white, was moored. A thin film of smoke was issuing from her funnels, and a little wreath of steam from her steam-pipes. ‘She has been outside into the roadstead this morning to adjust her compasses. I see a bargeload of stores has just gone off to her.’

‘At what hour will the Imperial party arrive to-morrow?’

‘They are timed, I understand, to be here at nine o’clock,’ said the landlord.

‘The Czar is a stickler for punctuality, isn’t he?’ asked the stranger.

‘Yes. I understand he is seldom behind time if he can help it. Well, his Majesty will have a good trip, I hope. The weather promises to be fine. God protect him!’

‘She is a fine yacht, is the _North Star_, I suppose?’

‘Splendid! Magnificent! I once had the honour of going on board by the courtesy of one of the officers, who gave me an order. But she was laid up then, and partly dismantled. Now would be the time to see her, when she is all ready for the Little Father’s reception. But that is impossible. No one not connected with the vessel would be allowed on board.’

The stranger smiled, as he remarked:

‘I am not connected with the vessel, and yet I am going on board.’

‘You are!’ cried the host in astonishment. ‘Impossible!’

‘By no means impossible. I have official business.’

‘Oh, well, of course, that’s another thing. Well, I envy you.’

When the landlord had gone about his affairs, the girl said to her companion, speaking in low tones:

‘You are a fool to talk about your intentions in that way. You are simply directing attention to yourself.’

‘Tut! hold your tongue! What does it matter? There is nothing to fear from this thick-headed publican.’

‘But you ought to be more careful--you ought indeed,’ urged the girl tearfully. ‘You are far too reckless. Remember the tremendous risks you are running--we are running--for if you sacrifice yourself you sacrifice me too.’

‘Are you beginning to funk?’ asked the man irritably.

‘No. But there is no reason why the risks should be made greater than they are. We have a great task to accomplish, and every possible caution should be exercised.’

‘Well, now what have I done that is wrong?’ demanded the man angrily.

‘You told the landlord you were going on board the yacht. It was foolish to do that. You drew attention to yourself.’

‘Possibly you are right--possibly you are right,’ her companion returned thoughtfully. ‘It was a little bit of vanity on my part, but it slipped out. However, all will be well. Our plans are so well laid it is impossible for them to miscarry.’

‘Nothing is impossible; nothing should be counted upon as certain until it is accomplished,’ the girl said.

‘You are a nice sort of Job’s comforter. Do, for goodness’ sake, keep quiet!’ answered the man snappishly. He was evidently in a highly nervous state, and very irritable. ‘Well, I must go. Be sure, now, that you don’t stir from here until I return.’

‘I understand,’ said the girl. ‘But, remember, the suspense will be awful. Don’t be away from me a minute longer than you can help.’

He promised that he would not. Then, taking up his hand-bag, he embraced his companion and went out. Making his way down to the quay, he hired a boat, and instructed the boatman to row him to the Imperial yacht.

On reaching the vessel, he was challenged by the sentry on duty at the gangway, and he replied that he had come on official business, and had a Government order. Whereupon he was allowed to get on to the lower grating of the steps, where an officer came to him, and he produced a Government document, stamped with the official seal, and setting forth that his name was Ivan Orloff, that he was one of the naval clockmakers, and had been sent down to adjust all the clocks on board the _North Star_ preparatory to the Czar’s arrival. Such an order could not be gainsaid, so he was admitted on board, but an armed sailor was told off to accompany him about the ship, and show him where the various clocks were situated. There were a good many clocks, as every officer had one in his cabin.

The man came at last to the Czar’s suite of apartments in the newly-constructed deckhouse. The sailor paused at the entrance to cross himself before a sacred picture that hung on the bulkhead, but Orloff pushed on, and, passing beneath costly and magnificent curtains, he reached the Czar’s sleeping-cabin, which was a dream of splendour. With quick, hurried movements he took from his bag an oblong box, turned a handle on an index dial, and placed the box beneath the royal bed. He scarcely had time to recover his position, and get to a chest of drawers on which stood a superb clock, when the sailor entered, and said gruffly:

‘You ought to have waited for me.’

‘I’m in a hurry, friend,’ said Orloff. ‘I want to get my work finished and return to St. Petersburg to-night.’

As he lifted the glass shade off the clock, his hands trembled and his face was as white as marble, but the sailor did not notice it.

Half an hour later Orloff had completed his task, and took his departure, and landing once more on the quay, he made his way to the tavern and joined the girl.

‘Have you succeeded?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Yes. But a sailor kept guard over me, and I was afraid the plan would have miscarried; I racked my brains trying to find an excuse for freeing myself from him. But fortune favoured me. He stopped to mumble a prayer before an ikon, and I seized the opportunity to get into the Tsar’s bed-chamber, where I planted the machine. It is set for thirty-three hours, and will go off to-morrow night when the Tsar has retired to his couch.’

The girl looked frightened, and said nervously:

‘Well, let us leave here, and get back without a moment’s delay.’

‘Don’t worry yourself, my child; there is plenty of time. I am going to dine first.’

He ordered dinner for two and half a bottle of vodka beforehand by way of an appetizer, and, having drunk pretty freely, he and the girl strolled out while the dinner was being prepared.

It was a glorious evening. The sun was setting. The heavens were dyed with crimson fire. In the clear atmosphere the masts and rigging of the vessels stood out with a sharpness of definition that was remarkable. There was no wind. The water of the gulf was motionless.

Suddenly there was a tremendous shock as if a great gun had been fired, and in a few moments a cry arose from a hundred throats that something had happened on board the Imperial yacht. The air about her was filled with splinters of wood. Men could be seen running along her decks in a state of great excitement, and she appeared to be heeling over to the starboard side. ‘Her boilers have burst,’ cried the people, as they rushed pell-mell to the quay, while from all parts of the harbour boats were hurriedly making their way to the _North Star_, as it was thought that she was foundering.

THE SECOND ACT--THE UNRAVELLING OF THE PLOT.

When the explosion on board the Imperial yacht occurred, Orloff and the girl were strolling along one of the quays which commanded a full view of the harbour, and, attracted by the tremendous report, they turned their eyes seaward to behold a dense column of vapourish smoke rising upwards, and wreckage of all kinds filling the air. The girl staggered, and reeled against her companion, and he, clapping his hand suddenly to his forehead, exclaimed:

‘My God! what have I done? The machine has gone off before its time. I must have set the index wrong.’

The excitement both on shore and in the harbour was tremendous, otherwise Orloff and the woman would surely have drawn attention to themselves by the terror and nervousness they displayed.

‘We are lost! we are lost!’ wailed the woman.

At this the man seemed to suddenly recover his self-possession.

‘Peace, fool!’ he muttered savagely between his teeth. ‘We are not lost.’

He glanced round him anxiously for some moments; then, seeing a boat containing a solitary boatman about to put off from the quay, he said hurriedly to his companion, ‘Stop here for a little while; I will return shortly.’

She was so dazed and stupefied that she made no attempt to stop him, and he hurried away, rushed down a flight of stone steps, and hailed the boatman.

After a few words of haggling and bargaining, Orloff sprang into the little craft and the boatman rowed rapidly out towards the _North Star_.

The girl waited and waited in a fever of anxiety and impatience. She paced the quay--up and down, up and down. To and fro she went. Her face was as white as bleached marble. Her dark flashing eyes bespoke the fear she felt. Her hands opened and shut spasmodically from the extreme nervous tension she felt.

All the light of day faded out of the sky. A blood-red streak did linger in the western sky for a time, but was suddenly extinguished by the black robe of Night. The girl still paced the quay, but Orloff did not return. She heard the gossip of people as they returned to the shore from the harbour, and from this she gathered that the Imperial yacht had been partially destroyed, and many lives had been lost. The prevailing opinion was that the mischief was due to the bursting of a boiler.

Unable longer to endure her misery, the girl went back to the tavern. The landlord came to her, and asked if she had been off to the wreck.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘My husband has gone. It’s an awful business, isn’t it? They say the boiler of the steamer blew up, and that there have been many lives lost.’

‘I heard that half the crew are killed,’ said the landlord. ‘God be praised that the accident occurred before our Little Father arrived! It’s a Providential escape.’

‘Yes,’ answered the girl sullenly.

The landlord asked her if she would have dinner, as it was all ready. She replied that she would wait for her husband. She drank some vodka, however, to steady her nerves, and smoked a cigarette.

Presently she went forth again, and paced the quay, going back to the tavern after a time to learn that Orloff had not returned. It was then a little after nine. And as the last train to St. Petersburg started at half-past nine, she settled the bill at the tavern, and, taking the leather bag with her, hurried to the station and got back to town. She was full of nervous apprehension, and puzzled to account for the strange disappearance of Orloff. Had he deserted her? Had he been apprehended? The suspense was horrible. It almost drove her mad.

* * * * *

When the news of the disaster on board the Czar’s yacht reached St. Petersburg, the consternation was tremendous, and a special train filled with Government officials, including Michael Danevitch, started at once for Kronstadt to investigate the affair on the spot.

Several bodies had been recovered and brought on shore. They were laid out in a shed on the quay. The shed was lighted by oil-lamps, and their feeble glimmer revealed a ghastly sight. The bodies were all more or less mutilated. Some were unrecognisable. There were nine altogether, including the chief officer and the chief engineer.

The captain arrived with the Government officials. He had been in town, and was to have travelled down the next day in the Emperor’s suite.

In mustering his ship’s company, he found that twenty-three were missing altogether. Nine of that number were lying in the shed. The rest were being searched for by boats. Several were recovered, but some drifted out with the currents and were seen no more.

Investigations soon proved that the destruction was not due to the bursting of a boiler. The boilers were intact. The cause of the disaster, therefore, was a mystery, until somebody on board, having recovered his presence of mind after the dreadful shock, referred to the visit of the Government clock-winder.

That sounded suspicious. As far as the officials knew, no one had been sent down to wind the clocks. But still, as the fellow had come furnished with Government-stamped credentials, it was probably all right.

Owing, however, to some strange oversight or stupid blunder, nothing could be ascertained then, as no one was at the telegraph-office in St. Petersburg to receive messages, and so the night wore itself out, and many hours’ start was given to Orloff and his co-conspirators.

During this time Danevitch was not idle. He knew, perhaps better than anyone else, how the Emperor was encompassed round about with enemies who sought his destruction, and the wily detective smelt treason in the air.

Although it was night, Kronstadt kept awake, for people were too excited to sleep, and a messenger was despatched to St. Petersburg on an engine, whose driver was ordered to cover the distance in an hour--a fast run for Russia. The messenger was furnished with a description of Orloff--at this time it was not known that a woman had been with him; it will be remembered she did not go on board--and was told to lose not a moment in circulating that description.

Then Danevitch began inquiries on his own account in Kronstadt. From the survivors on board the yacht he ascertained at what time Orloff went on board; an hour and a half before he presented himself a train had arrived from St. Petersburg.

He had probably arrived by that train. The boatman who took him off to the yacht was found. He said the supposed clock-winder carried a black bag with him both going and coming.

After his return to the shore only two trains left for St. Petersburg. By neither of those trains did he travel, so far as could be ascertained.

The sailor who had been told off to accompany Orloff over the vessel was amongst the missing; but it was gathered that when the clock-winder had gone the sailor mentioned to some of his companions that he had been much annoyed by the stranger rushing forward to the Emperor’s bed-chamber, while he (the sailor) was mumbling a prayer before an ikon (sacred picture) which hung at the entrance.

When he got into the room, he noticed that the stranger was pale and flurried, as if he had received a shock. Those who heard the story thought the sailor’s imagination had run away with him, and so no importance or significance was attached to what he said.

The destructive force of the explosion on board the _North Star_ had been tremendous. Not only had the whole of the Czar’s rooms been completely destroyed, but a large section of the ship’s decks and bulwarks had been shattered, and one of her plates started, so that the water came in so fast that the pumps had to be kept going, while preparations were made to tow her into the docks, for her own engines being damaged, they would not work.

Soon after six in the morning, the engine that had been sent to the capital returned and brought some more officials. They stated that, from inquiries made, no one by the name of Orloff had been sent down to regulate the clocks on board the Czar’s yacht.

All the clocks on board the Imperial fleet were kept in order by contract, and no special warrant had been supplied to anybody of the name of Orloff.

This information made it clear that a dastardly conspiracy was at work, and it was easy to surmise that the explosion on board the yacht was premature. The intention evidently was that it should take place after the Czar had embarked; but the cowardly wretches, by some blundering, had allowed their mine to go off too soon, and though many innocent people had been sacrificed, and immense damage done to valuable property, the life of the Emperor had been spared.

It was not long before Danevitch found out that the man calling himself Orloff, and a female companion, had put up at a tavern near the quay, and the landlord gave all the information he could.

He stated that Orloff told him he was going on board the vessel, and started off for that purpose, leaving the woman behind him. He returned later, and ordered dinner, and then he and the woman went off again for a stroll.

After the explosion the woman returned alone, and hurried away by herself, taking the black bag with her, to catch the last train.

This was instructive, but it was also puzzling. It was established that the woman did go up by the last train, but not Orloff. What had become of him?

Danevitch took measures to have every outlet from Kronstadt watched. Then he set off for St. Petersburg. In reasoning the matter out, it was clear to him that several, perhaps many, persons had had a hand in the conspiracy.

The infernal machine carried on board the _North Star_ by the man calling himself Orloff was hardly likely to be the work of one man. Any way, a woman was mixed up in the business.

The official document that Orloff had presented was written on Government paper, and it bore the Government seal. The officer of the _North Star_ who had examined it before admitting the pseudo-clock-regulator, and who was amongst those who escaped without hurt from the explosion, testified to that.

Such being the case, and the order being written on what was known as ‘Admiralty’ paper, it followed that it must have been stolen from the Admiralty office. It struck Danevitch that the thief was probably a female employé in the Admiralty Palace, and that it was she who accompanied Orloff to Kronstadt.

This was a mere surmise, but it seemed feasible, and with Danevitch all theories were worth testing. Whoever it was, in the hurry of leaving the tavern at that town she had left behind her a glove.

It was a black silk-thread glove, ornamented at the back with sprigs worked in white silk. With this glove in his possession, Danevitch proceeded to the Admiralty Palace. But as soon as he arrived he learnt that Miss Catherine Snell had made a statement about Anna Plevski having visited Room 12 and requested to look at the plans of the _North Star_.

Anna was at once confronted with Danevitch. Asked where she had been the night before, she replied indignantly, ‘At home, of course.’

Did she know a person named Orloff? No, she did not. Why did she go to Catherine Snell and ask her to show her the plans of the _North Star?_ Simply to gratify her curiosity, nothing else. She was next asked if she had worn gloves the day previous. She replied that she had. What sort were they? Kid gloves, she answered. Had she those gloves with her? No; she had left them at home, and had come to the office that morning without gloves.

After a few more inquiries she was allowed to return to her duties, but was kept under strict surveillance, while poor Catherine Snell was suspended for dereliction of duty.

In the meantime Danevitch proceeded to Anna’s lodgings, and a search there brought to light the fellow to the glove left in the tavern at Kronstadt. It had been thrown carelessly by the girl on the top of a chest of drawers. This glove was a damning piece of evidence that Anna had accompanied Orloff to Kronstadt the day before, and that established, it was a logical deduction that she had stolen the stamped paper on which he had written, or caused to be written, the order which had gained him admission on board of the _North Star_. All this, of course, was plain sailing. Catherine Snell’s statement had made matters easy so far. But there was a good deal more to be learnt, a great deal to be sifted before the truth would be revealed.

When a person in Russia is suspected of crime, the law gives the police tremendous power, and there are few of the formalities to be gone through such as are peculiar to our own country; and in this instance Danevitch was in a position to do almost absolutely whatever he thought fit and proper to do.

The finding of the glove carried conviction to his mind that Anna Plevski was mixed up in this new plot for the destruction of the Emperor. So, without any ceremony, he proceeded to rummage her boxes and drawers for further evidence. The want of keys did not deter him; chisels and hammers answered the same purpose. His search was rewarded with a bundle of letters. These were hastily scanned; they were all, apparently, innocent enough; the majority of them were love letters. A few of these were signed ‘Peter Treskin’; the rest simply bore the initial ‘P.’ There was nothing in any of these letters calculated to cause suspicion, with the exception of the following somewhat obscure passage in a letter written a few days before the explosion:

‘The time is at hand when your faith and love will be put to a great test. The serious business we have in hand is reaching a critical stage, and success depends on our courage, coolness, and determination. You and I must henceforth walk hand-in-hand to that supreme happiness for which we have both toiled. We love each other. We must unite our destinies in a bond that can only be severed by death.’

Having learnt so much, Danevitch once more confronted Anna. She confessed she had a lover named Peter Treskin; they had quarrelled, however, and he had gone away; but she knew not where he had gone to, and she did not care if she never saw him again.

‘Perhaps you will be able to remember things better in a dungeon,’ suggested Danevitch, as he arrested Anna, and handed her over to the care of a gendarme.

She turned deathly white, but otherwise appeared calm and collected, and declared that she was the victim of a gross outrage, for which everyone concerned would be made to suffer.

Danevitch’s next move was to go to Treskin’s lodgings. He found that gentleman had been absent for three days. Here also a search was made for compromising papers. A good many letters from Anna Plevski were brought to light. They all breathed the most ardent love and devotion for the man; and the writer declared that she could not live a day without him, that for his sake she was prepared to peril her soul. But there were other letters--love letters--written to Treskin by a woman who signed herself Lydia Zagarin. This person not only betrayed by her writing that she was desperately, madly in love with Treskin also, but from her statements and expressions it was obvious that he had carried on an intrigue with her, and was as much in love with her as she was with him. She wrote from a place called Werro, in the Baltic provinces. Danevitch took possession of these letters, and continued his search, during which he came across a slip of paper which bore the printed heading, ‘The Technical School of Chemistry, St. Petersburg.’ On it was written this line: ‘Yes, I think I shall succeed.--SMOLSKI.’

Apparently there was not much in this, but what there was was quite enough for Danevitch under the circumstances, and he had Professor Smolski arrested. It was a summary proceeding, but in times of excitement in Russia anyone may be arrested who may possibly turn out to be a guilty person. It is not necessary that there should be a shadow of a shade of evidence of guilt in the first instance; it is enough that there is a possibility of the police being right. But if they are wrong what does it matter? The person is released, and the police are not blamed. Danevitch, however, did not often go wrong in this respect; and in this instance, Smolski being a Professor in the Technical School of Chemistry, there were probabilities that he might be able to afford some valuable information respecting Treskin.

Smolski was one of those extraordinary types of men who, having conceived a certain thing to be right, are willing to risk fame, fortune, life itself, for the sake of their opinions. Smolski was undoubtedly a gentle, high-minded man; nevertheless he believed that the ruler of his country was a tyrant; that his countrymen were little better than slaves, whose social and political rights were ignored; that the ordinary means--such as are familiar to more liberally-governed countries--being useless to direct attention to their wrongs, violent measures were justified, and the removal of the tyrant would be acceptable in God’s sight. Holding these views--and though he was a family man and one respected and honoured--Smolski had allied himself with a band of arch-conspirators, whose head was Peter Treskin. He was calm, dignified, and collected under his arrest, and when he was interrogated, in accordance with Russian law, by a judge of instruction, he frankly admitted that he had been concerned in an attempt to bring about a better form of government; but he steadfastly refused to denounce any of his accomplices. He could die bravely, as became a man, but no one should say he was a traitor.

All this would have been admirable in a nobler cause; as it was, he simply proved that he had allowed his extreme views to blind him to the difference between legitimate constitutional agitation and crime--crime that, whether committed in the name of politics or not, was murder, and an outrage against God’s ordinance. Smolski, in common with most men, neglected the safe rule that letters should be destroyed when they are calculated to compromise one’s honour or betray one’s friends. And thus it came about that when the Professor’s papers were examined, not only were Isaac and Jacob Eisenmann brought into the police net, but many others; and in a diary he had kept there was a record of his experiments with the deadly compound which was destined to blow the monarch of the Empire into eternity, but which, owing to an accident or a blunder, had failed in its object so far as the Czar was concerned, though it had cruelly cut short the lives of many hard-working and worthy men. Under any circumstances, even if the Czar had been involved in the destructive influences of the infernal machine, many others must have perished with him. Such conspirators never hesitate to destroy nine hundred and ninety-nine inoffensive people if they can only reach the thousandth against whom they have a grievance.

Piece by piece the whole story as set forth in the first part of this chronicle was put together, and the plot laid bare; but though many had been brought under the iron grip of the law, the arch-conspirator, to whose ruling spirit and genius the plot was due, was still at large, and no trace of him was at that time forthcoming; but Danevitch did not despair of hunting him down, of bringing him to his doom. And no one whose mind was not distorted could say his life was not forfeited. His whole career had been one of plotting and deceit. His commanding presence and masterful mind had given him such an influence over many of those with whom he came in contact--especially women--that he had proved himself more than ordinarily dangerous, while his reckless and cowardly wickedness in carrying the infernal machine on board the Czar’s yacht, and thereby causing the sudden and cruel death of something like two dozen people, stamped him at once as a being against whom every honest man’s hand should be raised.

In the meantime, while Danevitch was trying to get a clue to Treskin’s whereabouts, his co-conspirators--they might truly be described as his dupes--were tried, found guilty, condemned, and executed. Smolski, the two Eisenmanns, and four others, were ignominiously hanged in the presence of an enormous crowd. Smolski met his end with a perfect resignation, a calm indifference. He firmly believed he was suffering in a good cause. He died with the words ‘Khrista radi’ (For Christ’s sake) upon his lips. He posed as a martyr.

Anna Plevski had been cast for Siberia, but before starting upon the terrible journey, the prospects of which were more appalling than death, she would have to spend many months in a noisome dungeon in the Russian Bastile, Schlusselburgh, in Lake Ladoga.

But a circumstance presently arose which altered her fate. Danevitch had kept his eye on Lydia Zagarin, of Werro. He found she was the daughter of a retired ship-master, who had purchased a little property in the small and pleasantly-situated town of Werro. He was a widower. Lydia was his only daughter. On her father’s death she would succeed to a modest fortune. Treskin had borrowed money from her, and it was probable that he had singled her out from his many female acquaintances as one to whom he would adhere on account of her money. Four months after the fateful day when the Czar’s yacht was partially destroyed and many people were killed, Treskin wrote to this young woman, renewing his protestations of regard for her, and asking her to send him money, and to join him with a view to his marrying her. He gave his address at Point de Galle, Ceylon, where, according to his own account, he had started in business as a merchant. He stated that, though he had taken no active part in the destruction of the _North Star_, he happened to be in Kronstadt on the night of the crime, and as he knew he was suspected of being mixed up in revolutionary movements, he deemed it advisable to go abroad; and so he had bribed a boatman to convey him to a Swedish schooner which was on the point of leaving the Kronstadt harbour on the night of the explosion, and he bribed the captain of the schooner to convey him to the coast of Sweden. By this means he escaped. From Sweden he travelled to England; from England to Ceylon, where he had a cousin engaged on a coffee plantation.

This letter came into the hands of Danevitch before it reached Lydia. How that was managed need not be stated; but Danevitch now believed he saw his way to capture Treskin. He knew, of course, that, as a political refugee, claiming the protection of the British flag, he could not be taken in the ordinary way. The British flag has over and over again been disgraced by the protection it has afforded to wretches of Treskin’s type, and it was so in this instance. To obtain his extradition was next to impossible. He was a wholesale murderer, but claimed sanctuary in the name of politics, and he found this sanctuary under the British flag.

Danevitch, however, resolved to have him, and resorted to stratagem. He visited Anna Plevski in her dungeon. She knew nothing at this time of the fate of her lover, though she did know that he had not been captured. Danevitch, by skill and artifice, aroused in her that strongest of all female passions--jealousy. He began by telling her that Treskin had deserted her in a cowardly and shameful manner on the night of the crime, and did not care whether she perished or lived. Then he laid before her Lydia Zagarin’s letters to Treskin, which had been seized at Treskin’s lodgings, and he watched the effect on the girl as she read them. Finally he showed her the letter sent from Ceylon.

That was the last straw. Her feelings burst from the restraint she had tried to impose upon them, and she cursed him again and again. She declared solemnly that she was his victim; that she was innocent and loyal until he corrupted her, and indoctrinated her with his revolutionary ideas. He had sworn to be true to her, and used to say they would live and die together. On the night of the crime he had persuaded her to go with him to Kronstadt, because he declared that he could not bear her to be out of his sight. They had arranged that on the morrow they were to quit St. Petersburg, and travel with all speed to Austrian soil. But not only had he basely deceived her, but treacherously deserted her. She was furious, and uttered bitter regrets that she could not hope to be revenged upon him.

In this frame of mind she was left for the time. A week later, however, Danevitch once more visited her. She was still brooding on her wrongs and her hard fate. To suffer Siberia for the sake of a man who had so cruelly deceived her and blighted her young life was doubly hard.

‘Would she be willing, if she had the chance, to bring him to justice?’ Danevitch asked.

Her dark eyes filled with fire, and her pale face flushed, as she exclaimed with passionate gesture that she would do it with a fierce joy in her heart, and laugh at him exultingly as he was led to his doom.

She was told that the chance would be given to her to betray him into the hands of justice. She would be set free on sufferance, and allowed to proceed to Ceylon, and, provided she succeeded in her task and was faithful to the trust reposed in her, she would, on returning to Russia, receive a full pardon, and be supplied with a considerable sum of money to enable her to live abroad if she desired it.