The Red Symbol. Ironside John

to the chief of the police, and he laughed at me. There are so many murders in Petersburg, and what is one Englishman more or less? I went to the British Embassy. They said the matter was being investigated, and they emphatically snubbed me. They are so insular, so narrow-minded; they could not imagine how strong was the bond of friendship between Carson and me. He loved our Shakespeare, even as I love him.”

      “You wrote to Lord Southbourne,” I interrupted bluntly. “And you sent him a portrait, – a woman’s portrait that poor Carson had been carrying about in his breast-pocket. Now why did you do that? And who is the woman?”

      His answer was startling.

      “I sent it to him to enable him to recognize her, and warn her if he could find her. I knew she was in London, and in danger of her life; and I knew of no one whom I could summon to her aid, as Carson would have wished, except Lord Southbourne, and I only knew him as my friend’s chief.”

      “But you never said a word of all this in the note you sent to Southbourne with the photograph. I know, for he showed it me.”

      “That is so; I thought it would be safer to send the letter separately; I put a mere slip in with the photograph.”

      Had Southbourne received that letter? If so, why had he not mentioned it to me, I thought; but I said aloud: “Who is the woman? What is her name? What connection had she with Carson?”

      “He loved her, as all good men must love her, as I myself, who have seen her but once, – so beautiful, so gracious, so devoted to her country, to the true cause of freedom, – ‘a most triumphant lady’ as our Sha – ”

      “Her name, man; her name!” I cried somewhat impatiently.

      “She is known under several,” he answered a trifle sulkily. “I believe her real name is Anna Petrovna – ”

      That conveyed little; it is as common a name in Russia as “Ann Smith” would be in England, and therefore doubtless a useful alias.

      “But she has others, including two, what is it you call them – neck names?”

      “Nicknames; well, go on.”

      “In Russia those who know her often speak of her by one or the other, – ‘La Mort,’ or ‘La Vie,’ it is safer there to use a pseudonym. ‘La Mort’ because they say, – they are superstitious fools, – that wherever she goes, death follows, or goes before; and ‘La Vie’ because of her courage, her resource, her enthusiasm, her so-inspiring personality. Those who know, and therefore love her most, call her that. But, as I have said, she has many names, an English one among them; I have heard it, but I cannot recall it. That is one of my present troubles.”

      “Was it ‘Anne Pendennis,’ or anything like that?” I asked, huskily.

      “Ach, that is it; you know her, then?”

      “Yes, I know her; though I had thought her an English woman.”

      “That is her marvel!” he rejoined eagerly. “In France she is a Frenchwoman; in Germany you would swear she had never been outside the Fatherland; in England an English maiden to the life, and in Russia she is Russian, French, English, German, – American even, with a name to suit each nationality. That is how she has managed so long to evade her enemies. The Russian police have been on her track these three years; but they have never caught her. She is wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove – ”

      I had to cut his rhapsodies short once more.

      “What is the peril that threatens her? She was in England until recently; the Secret Police could not touch her there?”

      “It is not the police now. They are formidable, – yes, – when their grasp has closed on man or woman; but they are incredibly stupid in many ways. See how often she herself has slipped through their fingers! But this is far more dangerous. She has fallen under the suspicion of the League.”

      “The League that has a red geranium as its symbol?”

      He started, and glanced round as if he suspected some spy concealed even in this, his own room.

      “You know of it?” he asked in a low voice.

      “I have heard of it. Well, are you a member of it?”

      “I? Gott in Himmel, no! Why should I myself mix in these Russian politics? But Carson was involved with them, – how much even I do not know, – and she has been one of them since her childhood. Now they say she is a traitress. If possible they will bring her before the Five – the secret tribunal. Even they do not forget all she has done for them; and they would give her the chance of proving her innocence. But if she will not return, they will think that is sufficient proof, and they will kill her, wherever she may be.”

      “How do you know all this?”

      “Carson told me before I left for Wilna. He meant to warn her. They guessed that, and they condemned, murdered him!”

      He began pacing up and down the room, muttering to himself; and I sat trying to piece out the matter in my own mind.

      “Have you heard anything of a man called Cassavetti; though I believe his name was Selinski?” I asked at length.

      Von Eckhardt turned to me open-mouthed.

      “Selinski? He is himself one of the Five; he is in London, has been there for months; and it is he who is to bring her before the tribunal, by force or guile.”

      “He is dead, murdered; stabbed to the heart in his own room, even as Carson was, four days ago.”

      He sat down plump on the nearest chair.

      “Dead! That, at least, is one of her enemies disposed of! That is good news, splendid news, Herr Wynn. Why did you not tell me that before? ‘To a gracious message an host of tongues bestow,’ as our Shakespeare says. How is it you know so much? Do you also know where she is? I was told she would be here, three days since; that is why I have waited. And she has not come! She is still in England?”

      “No, she left on Sunday morning. I do not know where she is, but she has been seen at Ostend with – the Russian Grand Duke Loris.”

      I hated saying those last words; but I had to say them, for, though I knew Anne Pendennis was lost to me, I felt a deadly jealousy of this Russian, to whom, or with whom she had fled; and I meant to find out all that Von Eckhardt might know about him, and his connection with her.

      “The Grand Duke Loris!” he repeated. “She was with him, openly? Does she think him strong enough to protect her? Or does she mean to die with him? For he is doomed also. She must know that!”

      “What is he to her?”

      I think I put the question quietly; though I wanted to take him by the throat and wring the truth out of him.

      “He? He is the cause of all the trouble. He loves her. Yes, I told you that all good men who have but even seen her, love her; she is the ideal of womanhood. One loves her, you and I love her; for I see well that you yourself have fallen under her spell! We love her as we love the stars, that are so infinitely above us, – so bright, so remote, so adorable! But he loves her as a man loves a woman; she loves him as a woman loves a man. And he is worthy of her love! He would give up everything, his rank, his name, his wealth, willingly, gladly, if she would be his wife. But she will not, while her country needs her. It is her influence that has made him what he is, – the avowed friend of the persecuted people, ground down under the iron heel of the autocracy. Yet it is through him that she has fallen under suspicion; for the League will not believe that he is sincere; they will trust no aristocrat.”

      He babbled on, but I scarcely heeded him. I was beginning to pierce the veil of mystery, or I thought I was; and I no longer condemned Anne Pendennis, as, in my heart, I had condemned her, only an hour back. The web of intrigue and deceit that enshrouded her was not of her spinning; it was fashioned on the tragic loom of Fate.

      She loved this Loris, and he loved her? So be it! I hated him in my heart; though, even if I had possessed the power, I would have wrought him no harm, lest by so doing I should bring suffering to her. Henceforth