The Czar's Spy. Le Queux William

started. His mouth was, I saw, hard set. He knew something concerning that mysterious craft, but would not tell me.

      The sound of a bugle came from the further end of the ship, and immediately men were scampering along the deck beneath as some order or other was being obeyed with that precision that characterizes the "handy man."

      "Why are you silent?" I asked slowly, my eyes fixed upon my friend the officer. "I have told you what I know, and I want to discover the motive of the visit of those men, and the reason they opened Hutcheson's safe."

      "How can I tell you?" he asked in a strained, unnatural voice.

      "I believe you know something concerning them. Come, tell me the truth."

      "I admit that I have certain grave suspicions," he said at last, standing astride with his hands behind his back, his sword trailing on the white deck. "You say that the yacht was called the Lola—painted gray with a black funnel."

      "No, dead white, with a yellow funnel."

      "Ah! Of course," he remarked, as though to himself. "They would repaint and alter her appearance. But the dining saloon. Was there a long carved oak buffet with a big, heavy cornice with three gilt dolphins in the center—and were there not dolphins in gilt on the backs of the chairs—an armorial device?"

      "Yes," I cried. "You are right. I remember them! You've surely been on board her!"

      "And there is a ladies' saloon and a small boudoir in pink beyond, while the smoking-room is entirely of marble for the heat?"

      "Exactly—the same yacht, no doubt! But what do you know of her?"

      "The captain, who gave his name to you as Mackintosh, is an undersized American of a rather low-down type?"

      "I took him for a Scotsman."

      "Because he put on a Scotch accent," he laughed. "He's a man who can speak a dozen languages brokenly, and pass for an Italian, a German, a Frenchman, as he wishes."

      "And the—the man who gave his name as Philip Hornby?"

      Durnford's mouth closed with a snap. He drew a long breath, his eyes grew fierce, and he bit his lip.

      "Ah! I see he is not exactly your friend," I said meaningly.

      "You are right, Gordon—he is not my friend," was his slow, meaning response.

      "Then why not be outspoken and tell me all you know concerning him? Frank Hutcheson is anxious to clear up the mystery because they've tampered with the Consular seals and things. Besides, it would be put down to his credit if he solved the affair."

      "Well, to tell you the truth, I'm mystified myself. I can't yet discern their motive."

      "But at any rate you know the men," I argued. "You can at least tell us who they really are."

      He shook his head, still disinclined, for some hidden reason, to reveal the truth to me.

      "You saw no woman on board?" he asked suddenly, looking straight into my eyes.

      "No. Hornby told me that he and Chater were alone."

      "And yet an hour after you left a man and a woman came ashore and disappeared! Ah! If we only had a description of that woman it would reveal much to us."

      "She was young and dark-haired, so the detective says. She had a curious fixed look in her eyes which attracted him, but she wore a thick motor veil, so that he could not clearly discern her features."

      "And her companion?"

      "Middle-aged, prematurely gray, with a small dark mustache."

      Jack Durnford sighed and stroked his chin.

      "Ah! Just as I thought," he exclaimed. "And they were actually here, in this port, a week ago! What a bitter irony of fate!"

      "I don't understand you," I said. "You are so mysterious, and yet you will tell me nothing!"

      "The police, fools that they are, have allowed them to escape, and they will never be caught now. Ah! you don't know them as I do! They are the cleverest pair in all Europe. And they have the audacity to call their craft the Lola—the Lola, of all names!"

      "But as you know who and what the fellows are, you ought, I think, in common justice to Hutcheson, to tell us something," I complained. "If they are adventurers, they ought to be traced."

      "What can I do—a prisoner here on board?" he argued bitterly. "How can I act?"

      "Leave it all to me. I'm free to travel after them, and find out the truth if only you will tell me what you know concerning them," I said eagerly.

      "Gordon, let me be frank and open with you, my dear old fellow. I would tell you everything—everything—if I dared. But I cannot—you understand!" And his final words seemed to choke him.

      I stood before him, open-mouthed in astonishment.

      "You really mean—well, that you are in fear of them—eh?" I whispered.

      He nodded slowly in the affirmative, adding: "To tell you the truth would be to bring upon myself a swift, relentless vengeance that would overwhelm and crush me. Ah! my dear fellow, you do not know—you cannot dream—what brought those desperate men into this port. I can guess—I can guess only too well—but I can only tell you that if you ever do discover the terrible truth—which I fear is unlikely—you will solve one of the strangest and most remarkable mysteries of modern times."

      "What does the mystery concern?" I asked, in breathless eagerness.

      "It concerns a woman."

      CHAPTER III

      THE HOUSE "OVER THE WATER"

      The Mediterranean Squadron, that magnificent display of naval force that is the guarantee of peace in Europe, after a week of gay festivities in Leghorn, had sailed for Gaeta, while I, glad to escape from the glaring heat, found myself back once more in dear old London.

      One passes one's time in the south well enough in winter, but after a year even the most ardent lover of Italy longs to return to his own people, be it ever for so brief a space. Exile for a whole year in any continental town is exile indeed; therefore, although I lived in Italy for choice, I, like so many other Englishmen, always managed to spend a month or two in summer in our temperate if much maligned climate.

      London, the same dear, dusty old London, only perhaps more dear and more dusty than ever, was my native city; hence I always spent a few weeks in it, even though all the world might be absent in the country, or at the seaside.

      I had idled away a pleasant month up in Buxton, and from there had gone north to the Lakes, and it was one hot evening in mid-August that I found myself again in London, crossing St. James's Square from the Sports Club, where I had dined, walking towards Pall Mall. Darkness had just fallen, and there was that stifling oppression in the air that fore-tokened a thunderstorm. The club was not gay with life and merriment as it is in the season, for everyone was away, many of the rooms were closed for re-decoration, and most of the furniture swathed in linen.

      I was on my way to pay a visit to a lady who lived up at Hampstead, a friend of my late mother's, and had just turned into Pall Mall, when a voice at my elbow suddenly exclaimed in Italian—

      "Ah, signore!—why, actually, my padrone!"

      And looking round, I saw a thin-faced man of about thirty, dressed in neat but rather shabby black, whom I instantly recognized as a man who had been my servant in Leghorn for two years, after which he had left to better himself.

      "Why, Olinto!" I exclaimed, surprised, as I halted. "You—in London—eh? Well, and how are you getting on?"

      "Most excellently, signore," he answered in broken English, smiling. "But it is so pleasant for me to see my generous padrone again. What fortune it is that I should pass here at this very moment!"

      "Where are you working?" I inquired.

      "At the Restaurant Milano, in Oxford Street—only a small place, but we gain discreetly, so I must not complain. I live over in Lambeth, and am on my way home."

      "I heard you married after