The Red Symbol. Ironside John

himself!”

      Southbourne dropped his cigarette and stared at me, a dusky flush rising under his sallow skin. That is the only time I have ever seen any sign of emotion on his impassive face.

      “I apologize, Mr. Wynn,” he said stiffly. “I ought not to have insinuated that you were afraid to undertake this commission. Your past record has proved you the very reverse of a coward! And, I assure you, I had no intention of sneering at poor Carson or of decrying his work. But from information in my possession I know that he exceeded his instructions; that he ceased to be a mere observer of the vivid drama of Russian life, and became an actor in it, with the result, poor chap, that he has paid for his indiscretion with his life!”

      “How do you know all this?” I demanded. “How do you know—”

      “That he was not in search of ‘copy,’ but in pursuit of his private ends, when he deliberately placed himself in peril? Well, I do know it; and that is all I choose to say on this point. I warned him at the outset,—as I need not have warned you,—that he must exercise infinite tact and discretion in his relations with the police, and the bureaucracy which the police represent; and also with the people,—the democracy. That he must, in fact, maintain a strictly impartial and impersonal attitude and view-point. Well, that’s just what he failed to do. He became involved with some secret society; you know as well as I do—better, perhaps—that Russia is honeycombed with ’em. Probably in the first instance he was actuated by curiosity; but I have reason to believe that his connection with this society was a purely personal affair. There was a woman in it, of course. I can’t tell you just how he came to fall foul of his new associates, for I don’t know. Perhaps they imagined he knew too much. Anyhow, he was found, as I have said, stabbed to the heart. There is no clue to the assassin, except that in Carson’s clenched hand was found an artificial flower,—a red geranium, which—”

      I started upright, clutching the arms of my chair. A red geranium! The bit of stuff dangling from Cassavetti’s pass-key; the hieroglyphic on the portrait, the flower Anne had given to Cassavetti, and to which he seemed to attach so much significance. All red geraniums. What did they mean?

      “The police declare it to be the symbol of a formidable secret organization which they have hitherto failed to crush; one that has ramifications throughout the world,” Southbourne continued. “Why, man, what’s wrong with you?” he added hastily.

      I suppose I must have looked ghastly; but I managed to steady my voice, and answer curtly: “I’ll tell you later. Go on, what about Carson?”

      He rose and crossed to his desk before he answered, scrutinizing me with keen interest the while.

      “That’s all. Except that this was found in his breast-pocket; I got it by to-night’s mail. It’s in a horrid state; the blood soaked through, of course.”

      He picked up a small oblong card, holding it gingerly in his finger-tips, and handed it to me.

      I think I knew what it was, even before I looked at it. A photograph of Anne Pendennis, identical—save that it was unframed—with that which was in the possession of the miserable old Russian, even to the initials, the inscription, and the red symbol beneath it!

CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

THE RIVER STEPS

       Table of Contents

      “

      This was found in Carson’s pocket?” I asked, steadying my voice with an effort.

      He nodded.

      I affected to examine the portrait closely, to gain a moment’s time. Should I tell him, right now, that I knew the original; tell him also of my strange visitant? No; I decided to keep silence, at least until after I had seen Anne, and cross-examined the old Russian again.

      “Have you any clue to her identity?” I said, as I rose and replaced the blood-stained card on his desk.

      “No. I’ve no doubt the Russian Secret Police know well enough who she is; but they don’t give anything away,—even to me.”

      “They sent you that promptly enough,” I suggested, indicating the photograph with a fresh cigarette which I took up as I resumed my seat. I had managed to regain my composure, and have no doubt that Southbourne considered my late agitation was merely the outcome of my natural horror and astonishment at the news of poor Carson’s tragic fate. And now I meant to ascertain all he knew or suspected about the affair, without revealing my personal interest in it.

      “Not they! It came from Von Eckhardt. It was he who found poor Carson; and he took possession of that”—he jerked his head towards the desk—“before the police came on the scene, and got it through.”

      I knew what that meant,—that the thing had not been posted in Russia, but smuggled across the frontier.

      I had met Von Eckhardt, who was on the staff of an important German newspaper, and knew that he and Carson were old friends. They shared rooms at St. Petersburg.

      “Now why should Von Eckhardt run such a risk?” I asked.

      “Can’t say; wish I could.”

      “Where was he when poor Carson was done for?”

      “At Wilna, he says; he’d been away for a week.”

      “Did he tell you about this Society, and its red symbol?”

      “’Pon my soul, you’ve missed your vocation, Wynn. You ought to have been a barrister!” drawled Southbourne. “No, I knew all that before. As a matter of fact, I warned Carson against that very Society,—as I’m warning you. Von Eckhardt merely told me the bare facts, including that about the bit of geranium Carson was clutching. I drew my own inference. Here, you may read his note.”

      He tossed me a half-sheet of thin note-paper, covered on one side with Von Eckhardt’s crabbed German script.

      It was, as he had said, a mere statement of facts, and I mentally determined to seize an early opportunity of interviewing Von Eckhardt when I arrived at Petersburg.

      “You needn’t have troubled to question me,” resumed Southbourne, in his most nonchalant manner. “I meant to tell you the little I know,—for your own protection. This Society is one of those revolutionary organizations that abound in Russia, but more cleverly managed than most of them, and therefore all the more dangerous. Its members are said to be innumerable, and of every class; and there are branches in every capital of Europe. A near neighbor of yours, by the way, is under surveillance at this very moment, though I believe nothing definite has been traced to him.”

      “Cassavetti!” I exclaimed with, I am sure, an excellent assumption of surprise.

      “You’ve guessed it first time; though his name’s Vladimir Selinski. If you see him between now and Monday, when you must start, I advise you not to mention your destination to him, unless you’ve already done so. He was at the Savage Club dinner to-night, wasn’t he?”

      One of Southbourne’s foibles was to pose as a kind of “Sherlock Holmes,” but I was not in the least impressed by this pretension to omniscience. He was a member of the club, and ought to have been at the dinner himself. If he had looked down the list of guests he must have seen “Miss Anne Pendennis” among the names, and yet I believed he had not the slightest suspicion that she was the original of that portrait!

      “I saw him there,” I said, “but I told him nothing of my movements; though we are on fairly good terms. Do you think I’m quite a fool, Lord Southbourne?”

      He looked amused, and blew another ring