Chapter XXXII: Back to Russia Once More

Two days later I saw Lord Southbourne, and resigned my position as a member of his staff. I felt myself mean in one way, when I thought of how he had backed me right through that murder business,--and before it, when he set Freeman on my track.

He showed neither surprise nor annoyance; in fact he seemed, if anything, more nonchalant than usual.

"Well, of course you know your own affairs best. I haven't any use for men who cultivate interests outside their work; and you've done the straight thing in resigning now that you 'here a duty divided do perceive,' as I heard a man say the other day."

"Von Eckhardt!" I exclaimed.

"Guessed it first time," he drawled. "Could any one else in this world garble quotations so horribly? If he would only give 'em in German they would be more endurable, but he insists on exhibiting his English. By the way, he has relinquished his vendetta."

"That on Carson's account?"

"Yes, he believes the murderer, or murderers, must have been wiped out in that affair where you came to grief so signally. He had heard about it before he saw your stuff, though no official account was allowed to get through; and he gave me some rather interesting information, quite gratuitously."

"Does it concern me, or--any one I know?" I asked, steadying my voice with an effort.

"Well, not precisely; since you only know the lady by repute, and by her portrait."

I remembered that Von Eckhardt was the one person besides myself who was aware of Anne's identity, which I had betrayed to him in that one unguarded moment at Berlin, for which I had reproached myself ever since. True, before I parted from him, I had exacted a promise that he would never reveal the fact that he knew her English name; never mention it to any one. But he was an erratic and forgetful individual; he might have let the truth out to Southbourne, but the latter's face, as I watched it, revealed nothing.

"Oh, that mysterious and interesting individual," I said indifferently. "Do you mind telling what he said about her?"

"Not at all. It appears that he admires her enthusiastically, in a quite impersonal sort of way--high-flown and sentimental. He's a typical German! He says she is back in Russia, with her father or uncle. She belongs to the Vassilitzi family, Poles who have been political intriguers for generations, and have suffered accordingly. They're actively engaged in repairing the damage done to their precious Society in that incident you know of, when all the five who formed the executive, and held and pulled the strings, were either killed or arrested."

This was startling news enough, and it was not easy to maintain the non-committal air of mild interest that I guessed to be the safest. Still I think I did manage it.

"That's queer," I remarked. "He said the Society had turned against her, condemned her to death."

Southbourne shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"I'm only repeating what he told me. Thought you might like to hear it. She must be an energetic young woman; wish I had her on my staff. If you should happen to meet her you can tell her so. I'd give her any terms she liked to ask."

Was he playing with me,--laughing at me? I could not tell.

"All right, I'll remember; though if she's in Russia it's very unlikely that I shall ever see her in the flesh," I said coolly. "Did he say just where she was? Russia's rather vague."

"No. Shouldn't wonder if she wasn't Warsaw way. McIntyre--he's at Petersburg in your place--says they're having no end of ructions there, and asked if he should go down,--but it's not worth the risk. He's a good man, a safe one, but he's not the sort to get stuff through in defiance of the censor, though he's perfectly willing to face any amount of physical danger. So I told him not to go; especially as we shan't want any more sensational Russian stuff at present; unless--well, of course, if you should happen on any good material, you can send it along; for I presume you are not going over to Soper, eh?"

"Of course I'm not!" I said with some warmth. Soper was chief proprietor of several newspapers in direct opposition to the group controlled by Southbourne, and he certainly had made me more than one advantageous offer,--the latest only a week or two back, just after my Russian articles appeared in _The Courier_.

"I didn't suppose you were, though I know he wants you," Southbourne rejoined. "I should rather like to know what you are up to; but it's your own affair, of course, and you're quite right to keep your own counsel. Anyhow, good luck to you, and good-bye, for the present."

I was glad the interview was over, though it left me in ignorance as to how much he knew or suspected about my movements and motives. I guessed it to be a good deal; or why had he troubled to tell me the news he had heard from Von Eckhardt? If it were true, if Anne were no longer in danger from her own party, and was again actively associated with it, her situation was at least less perilous than it had been before, when she was threatened on every side. And also my chances of getting into communication with her were materially increased.

I related what I had learned to Mishka, who made no comment beyond a grunt which might mean anything or nothing.

"Do you think it is true?"

"Who knows? It is over a fortnight since I left; and many things may happen in less time. Perhaps we shall learn when we return, perhaps not."

In some ways Mishka was rather like a Scotsman.

A few days later his preparations were complete. The real or ostensible object of his visit to England was to buy farm implements and machinery, as agent for his father, who, I ascertained, was land steward of part of the Zostrov estates, and therefore a person of considerable importance. That fact, in a way, explained Mishka's position, which I have before defined as that of "confidential henchman." I found later that the father, as the son, was absolutely devoted to their master, who in his turn trusted them both implicitly. They were the only two about him whom he could so trust, for, as he had once told me, he was surrounded by spies.

Mishka's business rendered my re-entry into the forbidden land an easily arranged matter. Several of the machines he bought were American patents, and my role was that of an American mechanic in charge of them. As a matter of fact I do know a good deal about such things; and I had never forgotten the apprenticeship to farming I had served under my father in the old home. Poor old dad! As long as he lived he never forgave me for turning my back on the farm and taking to journalism, after my college course was over. He was all the more angry with me because, as he said, in the vacation I worked better than any two laborers; as I did,--there's no sense in doing things by halves!

It would have been a very spry Russian who had recognized Maurice Wynn, the physical wreck that had left Russia in the custody of two British police officers less than three months back, in "William P. Gould," a bearded individual who spoke no Russian and only a little German, and whose passport--issued by the American Minister and duly _vised_ by the Russian Ambassador in London--described him as a native of Chicago.

Also we travelled by sea, from Hull to Riga, taking the gear along with us; which in itself minimized the chance of detection.

We were to travel by rail from Riga to Wilna, via Dunaburg; and the rest of the journey, rather over than under a hundred and twenty miles, must be by road, riding or driving. From Wilna the goods we were taking would follow us under a military escort.

"How's that?" I asked, when Mishka told me of this. "Who's going to steal a couple of wagon-loads of farm things?"

His reply was enigmatic.

"You think you know something of Russia, because you've seen Petersburg and Moscow, and have never been more than ten miles from a railroad. Well, you are going to know something more now; not much, perhaps, but it may teach you that those who keep to the railroad see only the froth of a seething pot. We know what is in the pot, but you, and others like you, do not; therefore you wonder that the froth is what it is."

A seething pot. The time soon came when I remembered his simile, and acknowledged its truth; and I knew then that that pot was filled with hell-broth!