Chapter VI: Introduction (6)

It is strong testimony to the wonderful perseverance and patience of the man that every scrap of paper in the basket was carefully examined. Amongst the great mass he found some fragments which attracted his attention. One scrap bore the following words: ‘Door at five.’ It was a coarse, common enough paper, of Russian make, and the formation of the letters indicated that the writer was an uneducated person. With infinite trouble and pains he searched for the corresponding morsels of paper. And if anyone wants to know what a difficult task it was, let him fill a basket with fragments and shreds of paper, shake them well up, and then endeavour to pick out certain pieces and fit them together. No Chinese puzzle, complicated and ingenious as most of them are, was ever harder to do. But human ingenuity, coupled with exemplary patience, will accomplish much, and Danevitch at last succeeded in getting all the scraps together. Then he pasted them in their proper order on a sheet of foolscap, and was thus enabled to read the following:

‘This is the last chance I shall give you. You must see me. I will be
opposite your warehouse door at five on Saturday. We can then discuss
the matter alone and undisturbed. You need not try to shuffle me off.
If you fail to do justice to those you have wronged, I will make the
whole affair public. So stay away at your peril.’

The importance of this discovery could not be overrated; and it not only gave Danevitch a clue, but proved him right in his surmises. The letter was clearly a laboured one. It was a man’s handwriting, and the writer showed that he was not a practised correspondent. There were smudges and smears, and words wrongly spelt, although in the translation given above it has been deemed advisable to give the correct spelling, because in rendering it from the original into English, if the inaccuracies were retained, all sense would be lost to the reader.

It was very evident now to Danevitch that Ferguson had had a secret--the secret of some dark transaction, which placed him so far in the power of an uneducated person that he had obeyed the command to go to the office, after all was closed up for the day, in order to hold an interview with the writer, who neither dated his missive nor signed his name.

Of course Danevitch kept this discovery to himself; and he set to work with all the caution and skill for which he was famed to get some accurate and reliable information of Ferguson’s disposition and his peculiarities of temperament. Everyone spoke highly of him--indeed, there seemed a general desire to belaud him, even beyond his merits, perhaps. In common phraseology, his word was considered as good as his bond. His acts were above suspicion; he was eminently respectable; he was charitable, though there was a feeling that there was a tendency to ostentation in his giving. In other words, he could hardly be ranked amongst that class of men who will not let their right hand know what their left hand gives. His marked peculiarities were an obstinately strong will, and his refusal to budge from a position he had once taken up. In this Danevitch saw a probable cause of the crime, when it was taken in consideration with the letter. The writer had not premeditated the crime, but had been exasperated into madness by Ferguson’s obstinacy. This was the detective’s first deduction, and as he advanced step by step it seemed to receive remarkable confirmation. Finally, as an estimate of Ferguson’s character, he was regarded as a faithful and honourable husband, an affectionate father, a loyal friend. Amongst his workpeople he was looked up to with respect, if not with actual affection. He was, however, thought an exacting master, requiring the full measure of labour he bargained for; but that rendered, he could be considerate enough, and, in fact, did much for the physical and moral welfare of those who served him.

Danevitch had now reached a stage in his investigation when he could congratulate himself on having obtained a clue. It is true it was a slender one, but to such a man it was of great value. He found himself handicapped, however, by the very obvious disadvantage he would be placed in if he had ventured to suggest that there was a flaw in Ferguson’s character--that he had done something or other which had placed him in the power of a person who was far below him in the social scale. Whatever the error was he had committed, it was clearly serious enough to draw him back to his warehouse after business hours, in order to have a clandestine interview with that person. As showing Danevitch’s difficulty, it is worth while recording a conversation he had with Mr. Tauchnitz, who, as his name implies, was a German--a very shrewd, long-headed fellow, who held his partner in the highest estimation. Tauchnitz had been associated with Ferguson in business for a great many years, and he claimed to know and understand him better than anyone else outside his own family.

‘Do you think, Mr. Tauchnitz,’ Danevitch asked--‘do you think that your late lamented partner had by some rash act compromised himself to such an extent with an inferior as to be completely in the power of that inferior?’

Tauchnitz looked as though a thunderbolt had suddenly fallen at his feet, and Danevitch had to repeat his question. The answer was an emphatic, ‘No. Certainly not. I believe that Ferguson was absolutely incapable of anything of the kind.’

‘You had the most perfect faith in him as a business man?’

‘Indeed I had.’

‘His business integrity was above suspicion?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘He concealed nothing from you you were entitled to know?’

‘I have no hesitation in saying he did not.’

‘Nevertheless, he was regarded as a reticent man.’

‘About his own affairs he certainly was reticent.’

‘Now, if I were to suggest he had been guilty of some dishonourable action, what would you say?’

‘I should say you were doing the man a gross injustice,’ replied Tauchnitz warmly.

‘Had you free access to all the books and papers relating to the business?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘But is it possible that Mr. Ferguson had transactions in his office of which you knew nothing?’

‘I won’t admit the possibility at all,’ answered Tauchnitz, waxing wroth.

‘You must remember, sir,’ said Danevitch severely, ‘I have been instructed to try and unravel the mystery surrounding your late partner’s death----’

‘But I don’t think you are going the right way to work,’ interrupted Tauchnitz.

‘That is a matter of opinion,’ was the quiet rejoinder. ‘But be good enough to tell me if Mr. Ferguson kept any private papers in his office?’

‘Oh yes; I believe he did.’

‘Ah! That is a point gained.’

‘He had a large tin box,’ proceeded Tauchnitz, in explanation, ‘in his own room, in which he kept documents which did not relate to the business.’

‘You don’t know what was in that box, I suppose?’

‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’

‘Could I have access to the box, do you think?’

‘No; I am sure you could not. I have sent it away to his family.’

The opinion expressed by Mr. Tauchnitz of his partner’s probity and honour was but a reflex of that which was held throughout the town--indeed, it is not too much to say throughout the greater part of Russia; for Ferguson belonged to that class of men who understand the art of getting themselves talked about. He had been wonderfully successful as a merchant, and his name was associated with so many public acts, and he had shown so much public spirit, so much enterprise, and had advocated so many measures calculated to benefit the working classes, that he had come to be regarded as a benefactor, a philanthropist.

It is interesting to dwell upon these points, because the sequel will be in the nature of a surprise. Danevitch’s next step was to seek an interview with Donald, Mr. Ferguson’s eldest son, who was also a partner in the business--as, in fact, all the sons were. Danevitch displayed great caution in dealing with Donald. His experience with Tauchnitz impressed him with the necessity of exercising all the diplomacy he was capable of exercising. Donald was much distressed by his father’s sad end, and expressed a desire that no stone should be left unturned to bring his murderer to justice; but he evidently inherited his father’s reticence, and displayed in a very marked manner the Scotch characteristic of so-called caution.

‘Can you make any suggestion as to the motive for the murder?’ asked Danevitch.

‘It isn’t for me to do that,’ was the answer.

‘We know that it wasn’t robbery,’ Danevitch said.

‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘But nothing is missing.’

‘As far as we know at present, nothing is.’

‘Then, do you think something may have been stolen?’

‘I won’t express an opinion one way or the other.’

‘Still, as far as one can judge, nothing was carried off.’

‘So far as we can judge, that is so,’ answered Donald; ‘but the ways of thieves are incomprehensible.’

‘Then, you think that the man who strangled your father was also a common thief?’

‘I cannot say he was, and I cannot say he wasn’t. We have the broad fact before us that my father was murdered. It is for you to try and find out why he was murdered.’

‘I understand, Mr. Donald, that your father kept a box of private papers in his office.’

‘He did.’

‘Where is that box now?’

‘We have it here.’

‘Would you allow me to examine the papers?’

‘Why?’ asked Donald, evincing some surprise.

‘Because it is possible--I only say it is possible--that I might find something amongst them that will help me in my inquiry.’

Something like an ironical smile flitted across Donald’s face as he said:

‘I don’t think that is at all likely.’

‘And yet, in the interest of all concerned, I should like to put it to the test. May I do so?’

‘You may,’ answered Donald, after a pause, ‘if my mother and brother have no objections to your taking that course.’

The mother and brother being consulted, they gave their consent, subject to the two sons being present at the time of the examination. That being agreed to, the box was brought forth and opened. It was not unlike the tin boxes seen in lawyers’ offices, but it was furnished with a peculiar and unusually strong lock, and as the key to fit it could not be found, the services of a blacksmith were secured, and after a great deal of trouble he got the lid open. The very first thing that Danevitch’s eye fell upon was a packet, tied round with red tape, and marked in the corner very legibly, ‘In the event of my death burn this packet unopened.’

By an adroit movement he seized that packet unseen by the others and slipped it into his pocket. He had a feeling that it contained the solution of the mystery, and he considered that, in the interests of justice, he was perfectly entitled to appropriate it and examine it.

It was the law of Russia, at any rate, that any papers or documents, however private, could be seized if justice was to be aided thereby. If he was mistaken in his surmise, then he would certainly carry out the dead man’s request and burn the packet, and any secrets it might reveal to him would never be breathed to a living soul, and the packet once burnt, no one would be any wiser. The other papers in the box were looked through, but there was nothing found that could be of any use--nothing of a compromising character, and the sons seemed gratified and pleased.

An hour or two later, locked in his room at the hotel where he was staying, Danevitch opened the packet, and its contents revealed to him in a very short time an astounding story, and put him on the track of the murderer.

He found, as he had all along suspected, that Donald Ferguson, the upright merchant, the man of unimpeachable honour, the philanthropist, the public-spirited citizen, the defender of the weak, the faithful husband, the good father, had been very human, very weak. From the particulars furnished by the secret packet of papers, Danevitch gradually learnt the following story.

A woman named Blok had come some years before Ferguson’s murder to reside in Riga. She had spent the greater part of her life in a small town in the far interior of Russia. Her husband had followed the occupation of a boatman on the Volga, being assisted by his two sons, Alex and Peter. He had two daughters, Catherine and Anna. The Blok family were held in high estimation by all who knew them. Although occupying but a comparatively humble position in the social scale, they were eminently respectable, and were regarded as hard-working, honest people. Of course, they were very poor, and were not able to make much, if any, provision for old age or accident. One day Blok and his son Alex were drowned. A steamer laden with convicts on their way to Siberia ran their boat down during a dense fog. At certain seasons of the year fogs are very prevalent on the Volga River. The breadwinner of the family being thus suddenly taken away, the Bloks found themselves without means of support. The youngest son, Peter, was then but eighteen, and unable to earn more than would suffice for his own wants. Under these circumstances, and acting on the advice of a married sister, who resided in Riga with her husband, who was a shipwright, Mrs. Blok removed to Riga with her two daughters, hoping that in the busy seaport they would all be able to find some employment.

Catherine, the younger of the two girls, was noted for her good looks. They were both pretty girls, in fact, but Catherine was exceptionally attractive. Moreover, she was bright, intelligent, and in a certain way clever. They had not been in Riga very long before they both obtained work in the firm of Ferguson, Tauchnitz, and Co. It appears that they very soon attracted the notice of Mr. Ferguson, who displayed great interest in them and improved their position very much. Six months later Anna fell seriously ill through blood-poisoning, caused by pricking her finger at the warehouse, and, in spite of the best medical advice provided for her by Mr. Ferguson, she died.

It was well known that Mr. Ferguson showed the greatest kindness to the family during their trouble, and all the expenses of the funeral were defrayed by him. Peter Blok, the only surviving son, came to Riga at this time to attend his sister’s funeral, and it seemed that Mr. Ferguson took a fancy to him, and gave him employment in the warehouse, where he remained for about three months. At the end of that time he was sent on board a vessel belonging to the firm, and made several voyages, and finally he was placed in command of a river-boat employed in the Astrakhan trade.

About two years after Anna’s death the Blok family, to the surprise of everyone, suddenly left Riga. The reason of their going, and the place where they were going to, were alike kept secret. For a few weeks before they went, Catherine remained at home on the plea of ill-health. She did not seem ill, and nobody thought she was ill, consequently the astonishment of her companions was great, as may be imagined. It would appear that Catherine Blok was a somewhat remarkable girl in this way. She was exceptionally good-looking. She was far above the average peasant in intelligence. Had the opportunity been afforded, her intellectual powers would probably have enabled her to take a superior position in life--that is to say, superior to vast numbers of people occupying the same plane as herself. What is meant by this will be better understood if it is borne in mind that, as a rule, the Russian peasantry are more ignorant and more stupid, probably, than any other peasantry in the world. There are two main causes for this. The primary one is climatic; the secondary the powerful influence of the Church. The climatic conditions are a very long and terribly severe winter, which for a period ranging from seven to eight months prevents the peasant from labouring out of doors; in consequence of this he is reduced to much the same condition as hibernating animals. His winter life, in fact, is one of enforced indolence and inactivity. His house is insanitary, comfortless, and more or less filthy. His whole surroundings are calculated to debase and brutalize him. He has no intellectual enjoyments because he has no intellectual yearnings. He is content to live as his father and grandfather before him lived. What was good enough for them is good enough for him, he says. As regards the influence of his Church, that makes itself felt from his earliest years. He is taught to believe that he has no right to reason or question. Everything must be accepted in blind, implicit faith. Such education as he receives is of the most elementary character; and having inherited from his forefathers dulness of perception and a lethargic temperament, he does not concern himself about anything beyond gratifying his animal wants.

Of course, there are exceptions to all this. Among the teeming millions of Russia this must obviously be the case. The Blok family were a very notable example indeed, and Catherine was the head of them.

It presents a most interesting study in psychology--though it cannot be touched upon here except in a passing way--that Ferguson, the rich merchant, the broad-minded citizen, the respected husband and affectionate father, should have been irresistibly attracted to Catherine Blok, the very humble-born and ignorant peasant. Yet so it was, and when Catherine left Riga, she was influenced thereto by Ferguson, and her object in going was to conceal, as far as could be concealed, the fact that the merchant prince and the peasant girl had met on a common ground; and as is invariably the result under such circumstances, and in such a case, the meeting was fraught with terrible consequences to both of them.

When Mrs. Blok and Catherine left Riga, they retired to Valdai, in the Valdai Hills, in the province of Novgorod, to the south of St. Petersburg. Valdai was a very quiet, out-of-the-way place. Here the mother and daughter took up their quarters in a stone-built house, and enjoyed comfort, convenience, and luxury, which must have been very novel to them. They knew no one, and were utterly unknown; nor did they seek to be known or to know. At regular intervals, about once a month, a man visited them. He was in the habit of going to St. Petersburg. There he posted to Valdai, a distance of nearly a hundred miles. He could have gone quite close to the place by train, but he preferred the round-about way for reasons of his own. He invariably arrived at Valdai at night, and when he left he always went away early in the morning.

This sort of thing went on for something like three years. Then the visits of the man ceased, but correspondence passed between him and Catherine, who was the mother of a son about two and a half years old. The man had looked after her and her offspring, but not as liberally as he might and ought to have done. At last differences arose between them. These differences were traceable to Mrs. Blok. She thought, probably not without some justification, that her daughter had not been treated well. In the end the man exacted from Catherine a document, which was signed by herself and counter-signed by her mother. In this document, which was very artfully drawn up, and was not, it is needless to say, Catherine’s composition, the man was represented as having been the victim of extortion and blackmailing, and the girl stated that it was impossible for her to fix the parentage of her son. It need hardly be said that the man who was in the habit of visiting Catherine at Valdai, and who took such extraordinary precautions to prevent his visits being known to anyone else, was Donald Ferguson, the merchant of Riga.

By means of the papers found in the packet which he took from Ferguson’s private box, aided and supplemented by many and patient inquiries, Danevitch was enabled to work out the foregoing pitiable little story. During the time he was so engaged--it extended over several weeks--there was an outcry against him. He was expected to do so much; and those who ought to have known better thought he was doing so little. Of course the general public did not know that he was engaged in the business at all, and, with the pig-headedness and stupidity peculiar to a mob, they railed against the authorities, saying it was shameful that so popular, upright, and true a man as Mr. Ferguson should be strangled to death in a place considered to be so well policed and watched as Riga; and yet all the vigilance and all the cleverness of the police were powerless alike to stay the crime and to bring the criminal to justice when the crime had been committed.

‘Our lives and property are not safe,’ exclaimed the rabble. ‘The police are supine; they are useless; they are in league with the knaves who prey upon honest citizens. If this is not so, how is it they have not brought Mr. Ferguson’s murderer to book?’

This was the tone adopted by a low Radical anti-Government paper, which styled itself the organ and the mouthpiece of the people. Although as a rule it was opposed to the moneyed and privileged classes, it was pleased in this instance--because it gave it a _raison d’être_ for hurling abuse at the heads of the authorities--to place Mr. Ferguson upon a pinnacle of greatness, and to speak of him almost as if he were a martyred saint. The rulers in Russia are peculiarly sensitive to, and intolerant of, criticism, and the authorities in Riga, stung by the lashings of the local organ, lunged out, so to speak, and grabbed the first person they could lay their hands on. The Russian police have a habit of doing this when driven to desperation.

In the Riga case the arrests were made so indiscriminately and fatuously that the unfortunate suspects, after enduring much misery and indignity, were set at liberty with a growl that was not unlike a curse, and the local paper hurled more thunderbolts at the heads of the police, and showed a disposition to canonize the murdered man at the expense of the authorities. During all the time that this agitation was going on, Danevitch was working slowly but surely at his task of drawing aside the curtain and revealing the mystery. But those in authority above him, in spite of his record, considered that he was fumbling in the dark, and looking for clues in impossible places. But having learnt something about Mr. Ferguson’s skeleton from that packet of private papers, which was to be destroyed unopened in the event of Mr. Ferguson’s death, he proceeded on his own lines. It would not be easy to give a reason that would satisfy all minds why Mr. Ferguson kept those incriminating documents; but no doubt he thought that as long as he lived the confession--if it could be so called--which he had exacted from Catherine Blok would effectually protect him against any further claims she might be inclined to make against him; because he could confront her with that document, and say, ‘Look here, you acknowledge certain things. Here is your confession in black and white signed with your name. Therefore, if you don’t leave me alone I will charge you with blackmailing me.’

This, of course, was the weapon of a cunning and artful man which he used to menace and subdue the ignorant, the weak and wronged woman. He knew well enough in his own mind that he dare not make that document public; for though part of the girl’s statement might be believed, he would not come off scot-free, for would not people say, ‘If you had nothing to fear, why did you get that confession from her?’

The first step which Danevitch took after reading the contents of the sealed packet was to learn something of the Blok family; and to that end, in the character of an old vagrant man, he visited the mother and the daughter in their retreat at Valdai. It took him some time to gather the materials for the little family history already narrated. Necessarily, before he could do that, he had to worm himself into their confidence, and he would not have succeeded in doing that had he not laid a pretended claim to occult powers, which enabled him to read the past and divine the future. With such people as the Bloks this went a long way. They, in common with their class, had a fixed belief in charms, fortune-telling and spells.

When Danevitch saw the infant son of Catherine, he exclaimed:

‘Ah, that is a fine child! but alas for his future!’

‘How so? What mean you?’ asked the young mother in alarm.

‘The child that knows not his father is ill-starred.’

‘Knows not his father!’ echoed Catherine, with flashing eyes, and a voice tremulous with indignation. ‘How dare you say that?’ she added menacingly, as she stamped her foot.

‘Think you,’ asked the pseudo-seer, ‘that I can be deceived? I see with eyes different to yours. That child knows not his father, and never will know him, for he is dead.’

Here Catherine burst into tears, and between her sobs she exclaimed:

‘It’s true, it’s true, it’s true!’

‘Of course it is,’ said Danevitch, with an air of triumph.

Catherine recovered herself, and in an irascible tone said:

‘No doubt you are very clever; but I doubt if you can tell me how his father died.’

Danevitch closed his eyes for some moments, and drew his hand down his face like one deeply immersed in thought. Then, suddenly starting up, he answered solemnly:

‘He was done to death foully. He was strangled.’

Catherine was terribly distressed, and, sinking into a chair, she covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly.

Mrs. Blok, who was present, was indignant, and said angrily to Danevitch:

‘Get you out of the house. You distress my daughter. She is an honest woman, and we do not want to hear anything more from you.’

‘Be not angry, good mother,’ said Danevitch. ‘Your daughter questioned, and I answered.’ Then, with sudden and startling abruptness, he asked, ‘Where is your son?’

The mother’s face grew pale, and, with evident distress and emotion, she said:

‘He is dead.’

‘Yes, one is; he moulders at the bottom of the Volga; but the living one, the living one, where is he?’

Mrs. Blok looked appalled, and drew back from this strange old man from whom nothing seemed hidden, and before she could answer, Catherine started up, passionate and flushed, and cried excitedly:

‘Leave us, leave us! in the name of the Great Father, go! My brother is far away; hundreds of versts of sea divide him from his native land, and mayhap he will come back no more.’

‘It were well for him if he stayed away,’ remarked Danevitch with solemnity. ‘But why grow angry with me, my child? I have sorrow for you; I have tears for you. You have been ensnared, deluded, cheated; and he who ensnared you and cheated you stood high in the estimation of men. The penalty of his folly was his life. He has paid it. For your weakness blood lies at your door, and nothing can ever wash it away.’

At these words Catherine uttered a smothered cry, and fell into her mother’s arms, and Mrs. Blok, excited and enraged, screamed at him:

‘Out of the house, I tell you, out of the house! You lay murder to our charge, and you lie. Go away! I command you in God’s name to go.’ She crossed herself as she spoke, and with her finger drew an imaginary cross between herself and the prophet of evil, murmuring as she did so: ‘We are defenceless women; God shield us!’

The painful and dramatic scene affected Danevitch, and he silently withdrew; but he felt that he had got confirmation of his surmises, for as soon as he learnt the story of the family, he came to the conclusion in his own mind that the man who had deprived Ferguson of his life was Catherine’s unhappy brother. The young fellow, proud-spirited and honest, flamed up at his sister’s wrong, and, taking the matter in his own hands, had penned that letter to Ferguson demanding an interview. It was obvious there had been other letters written, because the writer said, ‘This is the last chance I shall give you.’ Who could have written that letter--which Danevitch so patiently pieced together from the shreds picked out of the waste-paper basket--if it had not been the broken-hearted brother? He knew Ferguson, he had been employed in the warehouse; and the great wrong his sister had suffered made him desperate--made him forget the social division which separated him from his sister’s wronger. He went to him, not with robbery in his heart--he was too proud for that--not with murder in his heart, but to demand that the false statement which had been wrung from poor Catherine should be given up to him, and that Ferguson should recognise the claims the girl and the child had upon him.

It was easy to work out the sequel. Peter went to the office; he wanted the paper his sister had signed. He probably grew angry, and threatened his employer. The employer was obstinate, stubborn, perhaps insulting, until, stung into frenzy, the unhappy youth flew at him, and, blinded by his passion, Peter had crushed the life out of the man before he knew it. Youthful strength and fury made Peter Blok a murderer, although he may have had no wish to slay his victim. Finding, to his dismay, that death had silenced for ever the lips of his sister’s betrayer, he made a frantic effort to discover the paper which he knew was in Ferguson’s possession. But his search proving fruitless, he fled with remorse, no doubt, gnawing at his heart.

Danevitch says that never throughout his career did he start to hunt down a man with greater reluctance than he did in the case of Peter Blok. With the exception of Danevitch himself, no one suspected Peter, and as it had taken him some weeks to learn what he had learnt, the young fellow had got a start which would probably save him from the law’s vengeance.

Danevitch, proceeding with great caution and tact, found out that Peter had been second in command of a river-boat engaged in bringing furs down from Astrakhan. The boat was one of the river fleet belonging to Ferguson, Tauchnitz, and Co. Three weeks before the crime in Riga, Peter obtained leave of absence in order to visit his mother, who was sick. As it was a long journey to where his mother was living, his lengthened absence did not arouse any suspicion. After the commission of the crime, there was every reason to believe he quitted Riga at once, and Danevitch satisfied himself that Peter had not gone to Valdai again. As he had already spent several days there with his mother and sister, had he returned he must have been noticed, for it was a small place, and a stranger was spotted immediately.

From what Danevitch had gathered during his interview, in the character of a gipsy, with Catherine and her mother, he inferred that Catherine, at any rate, if not Mrs. Blok, knew that Peter was going to see Ferguson. And from what Catherine said during the interview--‘My brother is far away; hundreds of versts of sea divide him from his native land, and maybe he will come back no more’--the deduction was Peter had gone to sea. Being a sailor, he would probably experience no difficulty in obtaining a ship. And it was equally feasible to suppose that before going he wrote to his sister, telling her he was going far beyond the seas.

The most diligent and careful inquiries in Riga failed to elicit any sign that Peter had sailed from that port, and it was likely enough that he had made his way to some other port on the Baltic Sea, or else to Cronstadt. Anyway, he could not be found; and as Danevitch could not entertain a doubt that Peter had killed Ferguson, he felt bound, as a matter of duty, to circulate a description of him. This description, however, was not made public, but placed in the hands of the police and their thousand and one spies. A whole year passed, however, and no trace of Peter was obtained. The crime had died out of the public memory, though not out of that of the police. They have long memories, and thus it came to pass that one day it was announced that the supposed murderer of Donald Ferguson, the merchant of Riga, had been arrested in St. Petersburg. Although he had grown a beard and whiskers, he was soon identified as Peter Blok, and a ship’s discharge upon him showed that he had come from New York to Cronstadt in an American ship.

Up to this point Danevitch had kept his knowledge of Ferguson’s wrong-doing to himself, but now that Peter Blok was under lock and key he was bound to make the matter public. To the people of Riga it was like a bombshell suddenly dropped in their midst. Everywhere where Ferguson’s name was known, it was a shock. At first doubts were thrown upon it; then there were open and loud expressions of disbelief; but the damning documents were produced, and could not be gainsaid. Then many sympathizers with Peter came forward when the reaction set in, and he was provided with funds for his defence; and, of course, at the trial the whole miserable story was pitilessly unfolded, until everyone knew it. It was a bitter, terrible blow to the Ferguson family. It redounds to their credit, however, that they unostentatiously made the most ample provision for Catherine and her mother, and the boy was provided for in such a way that it was not likely he would ever want, and it was stated that he was to be well educated and well brought up.

The trial of young Blok clearly proved that nearly all Danevitch’s surmises and deductions were correct. The lad had heard through his mother of his sister’s wrong, and from his sister herself he learnt how Ferguson, in order to save himself, had wrung from the unhappy girl that false confession, which, when she signed, she knew very little about. It was not until later that she realized how she had belied herself. Naturally that incensed her, and her brother--smarting with shame and broken pride--placed himself in communication with Ferguson, who at first tried to ignore him, until at last, threatened with exposure, he granted that interview which proved fatal to him.

When the story was all told, a revulsion of feeling in the prisoner’s favour took place, and he received the mild sentence of seven years’ banishment in Siberia.

THE GREAT CONSPIRACY.

Count Obolensk had resided in London for a good many years. He occupied a magnificent house in the neighbourhood of Hyde Park, where he lived in almost regal style. He kept a retinue of servants. The furnishings and appointments of his princely abode were said to be unique; and he dispensed hospitality with a lavish hand. He was known to be wealthy, to be a member of a very old and influential Russian family, and at one time to have held a high political position in his own country. Here the general knowledge of his affairs ended; but there were vague and ill-defined impressions in the public mind that he had been expelled or had fled from Russia owing to some of those political causes which in Russia count for so much, but which in most other countries, or at any rate in England, would be treated with contempt. But whatever the reasons were which had induced the Count to take up his residence in London, those who enjoyed his acquaintance and hospitality did not allow themselves to be troubled by them. In his own country he might have been regarded as little short of Satanic in his iniquity for aught that the throngs of people who attended his receptions, his at-homes and parties, knew or cared. The majority of mankind, in its concrete selfishness and gluttony, thinks little and cares less about the personal qualities of those who minister to its sensuous gratifications; what most concerns it is the quality and nature of the giver’s gifts. Let these be liberal and lavish, and nothing more is asked. In Count Obolensk’s case it was universally admitted that he excelled as a host, that his benevolence knew no bounds, and he dispensed charity with a cosmopolitan open-handedness which was worthy of all praise. Personally he was a handsome man, with the tact and refinement of a courtier, and the delicacy and deference of a true-bred gentleman. He was a widower, with two grown-up daughters--Catherine and Nathalia--both handsome young women; while at the head of his household, as general manageress, was an English lady, known as Mrs. Sherard Wilson, who, it was generally understood, had lived in Russia for a good many years. She was a fine-looking woman, of commanding presence and strong personality. She invariably presided at the Count’s social functions, and acted as chaperon to his daughters. Of her history no one knew anything, and nobody seemed concerned about it. She was a power in the Count’s household; and while she proved herself to be a woman of exceeding great tact, and one who had made the art of finesse a study, there was a tacit understanding that anyone who offended her ever so slightly could never hope to enjoy again the hospitality of the house over which she presided. Her general characteristics could be summed up thus: she was clever beyond the ordinary, well educated, a good linguist, a tasteful and excellent hostess; she was well informed, had more than a passing taste for politics, and appeared to have been acquainted with many of the leading statesmen of her time. Of them she would talk freely; about herself she was silent, and he would have been a bold man indeed who would have made the attempt to ‘draw her out’; he would most certainly have come to grief. She was frequently absent from London; sometimes for a few days, at others for weeks. But where she went to, why she went, and what she did, were mysteries, and the eye of vulgar curiosity was unable to penetrate them. One thing was noted as peculiar: the Count’s daughters never accompanied her.

One night at the end of January, a night that, according to Russian reckoning, was New Year’s Eve, and usually celebrated with great ceremony in Russia, there was a reception at the Count’s house. It was one of the few occasions when every nationality save Russian was excluded. It had been one of those trying and maddening days, peculiar to the English climate in January. A leaden sky, a choking, foggy atmosphere, a general gloominess, and a sense of that awful depression which seems to justify all the hard things said about our climate by foreigners.

However, the weather notwithstanding, there was a large gathering at the Count’s house. Russians had come from France, from Germany, from Switzerland, in order to be present, and they made up a brilliant assembly. According to Russian custom, there was a religious ceremony first of all. Then followed a sumptuous repast, which included almost every known Russian dish. After that the Count and his guests retired to a large, heavily-curtained room, which, compared with other apartments in the house, was plainly furnished. It was lighted by three long windows on the east side, but each of these windows was screened by massive velvet curtains, which completely shut out the fog and the gloom, while a very handsome twelve-light gaselier, with tinted, rose-coloured shades, diffused a soft and agreeable light throughout the apartment. The floor was covered with an unusually thick carpet laid on very stout felt. Not only was this most comfortable to the feet, but it deadened sound, and the footfalls of the heaviest person walking across the room could not be heard. At one end of the room was a deep angle or recess, and placed diagonally in this recess was a large carved oak bureau or writing-desk. The entrance to the chamber was by a panelled doorway, closed by an ordinary door, masked by a second door lined with thick red felt or baize. This excluded draught as well as sound. And assuming that anyone had been prompted by curiosity or other cause to play eavesdropper, he would have needed an abnormally acute sense of hearing to have gathered any of the conversation carried on in the room. At the opposite end of the apartment--which was oblong--was another door, giving access to a small anteroom, the walls of which were lined with shelves filled with books.

On the evening in question, when the Count and his guests retired to the large chamber described, they made it evident that they wished to be free from any possibility of interruption, for the baize-covered door was locked inside, and so was its companion door. The curtains at the windows were so closely drawn that human eye could not by any possible means have discerned from the outside what was going on in the inside.

In this room the Count and his visitors remained for over two hours. They talked much, but not loudly nor excitedly. Nearly everyone smoked, until the atmosphere became heavy and thick, in spite of a large ventilator in the ceiling. But nobody seemed to mind the heat or the fœtidness. Every man appeared to be very earnest and absorbed with what was going on, and when he rolled a new cigarette, he generally did it in a preoccupied and automatic sort of way. Occasionally the host, who sat at the large desk in the recess, made notes, and read them out to the company. Sometimes what had been written was approved of; at others dissent was expressed, and discussion ensued. Then the writing would either be altered or allowed to remain as first written, according to the wishes of the majority.

It was two o’clock in the morning when the meeting broke up. Then the Count carefully locked his desk, and placed the keys in his pocket. He unlocked the doors, and led his guests to the spacious dining-room, where light refreshments were provided. A quarter of an hour or twenty minutes later a man very cautiously rose up in the recess in the room where the meeting had been held, and where he had been concealed behind the bureau or writing-desk, and, stretching his cramped limbs, he got out, crept towards the door, listened intently, and, having assured himself that the coast was clear, hurried out. At three o’clock such of the guests as were not staying in the house began to take their departure, a few in broughams, the majority in cabs, which had been waiting through the bitter night.

As most people know, the Russian New Year time is kept up with great festivity; and, hospitable though he was at all times, the Count, if possible, excelled himself on this occasion, and those who were privileged to be present went away with a feeling that they might have travelled the wide world over without meeting with such princely entertainment so delicately and gracefully dispensed. Host, hostess, and the host’s daughters were always voted perfect, and very lavish praise was uttered when Mrs. Sherard Wilson was referred to, the English people particularly, who had the _entrée_ to the Count’s rooms during the festive gatherings, expressing their admiration in no measured terms.

At last the series of New Year receptions and entertainments came to an end, and there was a lull, which was taken advantage of by the Misses Obolensk to make their arrangements for a forthcoming ball, which they intended to give on a grand scale. The organizing of this ball was left entirely to the young ladies, as Mrs. Sherard Wilson was on the eve of departure on a journey to the Continent. The Count never concerned himself about his domestic or social arrangements; he left everything to the ladies. He was a great reader, and he wrote a good deal. Such exercise as he took he got either in his carriage or on horseback. He did not visit much, but was passionately fond of music, and went to all the principal concerts, and occasionally attended the theatres. His was a routine life; he was very regular in his habits, and one day was much like another with him. His position in every way seemed an enviable one, and apparently he lived in amity with all men. All those who knew him respected and honoured him.

About a fortnight after the gathering of Russians at his house to celebrate the New Year’s Eve, Miss Nathalia Obolensk was descending the main stairway in a white satin evening dress, with a magnificent red camellia in her hair, for she was going to a grand concert with her father, and the carriage was waiting at the door. Coming after her was a liveried man-servant bearing a large tray full of tea-things, including a kettle of hot water, a silver teapot with the remains of the tea in it, a large jug of cream, and other things, that he had just brought from the drawing-room. He was a stolid, stupid-looking man, and suddenly he justified his looks by stumbling and scattering the contents of the tray over the young lady, tea, hot water, jelly, being poured over her splendid dress, to its ruin. She uttered a shrill cry of alarm, which quickly brought her father, Mrs. Wilson, and some of the other servants into the hall, and a very dramatic scene ensued. The shock to her nerves, and the realization that the mishap had not only spoilt her pretty frock, but would prevent her going to the concert, had such an effect upon Nathalia that she flew down the few remaining stairs, flung her arms about her father’s neck, and fainted.

In the meantime the author of the mischief presented a very sorry spectacle. He seemed thoroughly ashamed of himself, and undecided whether to bolt at once or gather up the wreckage. Nor was his confusion and distress lessened by the torrent of abuse and passionate scolding which fell from Mrs. Sherard Wilson’s lips. In the choicest of Russian she told him he was a ‘dolt,’ an ‘idiot,’ a ‘fool,’ a ‘brute beast.’

‘Leave the things, you stupid!’ she exclaimed fierily. ‘Ever since you entered the house, you have done nothing but make mistakes and smash things up. But it’s the last chance you’ll have of doing mischief here. In ten minutes you’ll be out. Do you mark what I say? Ten minutes only, and if you are not out of the house, then the other servants shall kick you out.’

‘If you please, my lady,’ whined the man, ‘I am entitled to a month’s notice or a month’s wages.’

‘You will get neither, you blockhead!’ replied the lady. ‘Why, your month’s wages won’t pay for the things you’ve broken. And what business had you coming down the main staircase. It was your place to use the servants’ staircase.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ moaned Andrey, ‘and beg your pardon----’

‘Sorry, you wretch! well you may be!’ exclaimed the irate lady, unappeased by the culprit’s penitence; ‘but get out of my sight, and in ten minutes you must have left the house. Paul’--this to the head-butler--‘Paul, I charge you to see the fellow is off the premises in ten minutes.’

With this peremptory command, she hastened to the reception-room, whither the Count had had his daughter conveyed. He was much annoyed, but did not allow his annoyance to find expression, as Mrs. Wilson did.

Nathalia had by this time recovered from her faint, and was bewailing her woe-begone condition, and the blighted prospects of an evening’s enjoyment. Her father was urging her to go upstairs and change her dress, saying that they could still be in time for the concert, but she said it was impossible; she was too much upset, and had neither energy nor inclination to perform her toilet over again, notwithstanding that she had two maids to wait upon her. Finding that she was inflexible on this point, her father expressed a hope that she would soon regain her composure, and that he would see her at supper-time, and leaving her to the care of Mrs. Wilson, he retired to his study. In a little more than ten minutes the butler came to Mrs. Wilson and announced that Andrey had gone.

‘Thank goodness!’ exclaimed the lady. ‘I am sure I never had such a stupid person in my service before. Whatever were you doing to engage such a dolt?’

‘He came to me very well recommended, madame.’

‘Then, those who recommended him ought to be ashamed of themselves; that’s all that I’ve got to say. It’s really shameful that people who call themselves honest should recommend incompetent servants in order to get them off their hands.’

‘I am afraid it’s frequently done, madame,’ the butler remarked.

‘That is no excuse.’

‘I do not offer it as an excuse, madame. I agree with you that it is shameful.’

‘But surely when you engaged Andrey you might have seen that he was a fool.’

‘No, madame, I did not,’ answered the butler with some show of wounded dignity. ‘He seemed sharp enough at first. His stupidity set in afterwards. I fancy he is a little given to drink, though I’ve never missed anything, and have never seen him really the worse for liquor.’

‘How long is it since he came here?’ demanded the lady warmly.

‘Just six weeks, I think.’

‘That’s six weeks too long. Take good care that the next man you engage knows his business.’ The butler bowed and was retiring, when Mrs. Wilson called him back. ‘Stay a minute. You are aware that I am leaving London to-morrow, and may be absent three or four weeks. You had better not engage anyone else until I return.’

‘But, madame, we shall be short-handed, and----’

‘I don’t care whether you are short-handed or not. You will do as I tell you.’

Paul knew that it would be fatal to his interests to attempt to argue with his mistress when she was in a bad temper, so he made his bow and discreetly withdrew.

‘Now, Nathalia,’ said Mrs. Wilson, when the man had left them, ‘away you go upstairs, change your dress and take your father to the concert. You know how disappointed he will be if he doesn’t go, and as I am leaving to-morrow, I don’t wish to see him miserable and unhappy. You know what a sensitive man he is, and though he doesn’t say much, he feels the more.’

This appeal had its effect. Nathalia’s ruffled feelings had smoothed down.

‘Very well, I will go,’ she said; ‘but it’s an awful nuisance having to change my things in a hurry.’

She rang for her maids, and while Mrs. Wilson gave orders that the carriage was to be kept at the door, Nathalia hurried to her room, reappearing in about twenty minutes, looking, as far as personal appearance was concerned, as if nothing had happened, though there was still an expression of worry and concern on her handsome face. Mrs. Wilson had already warned the Count not to settle himself to his reading, as he would still be able to go to the concert. He was delighted at this, for he did not like to have his plans changed, and he was waiting in the hall when his daughter came downstairs.

‘Well, my dear,’ he said to her in complimentary strains, ‘you look charming in spite of the little contretemps. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and I suppose the spoilt dress means a fresh order to your dressmaker, and a further lightening of my purse.’

He laughed pleasantly, and, following his daughter into the carriage, they drove off, and after all were in time to hear the best part of the concert.