Guilty Bonds

“Oh, yes; he’s her uncle, I believe,” replied my friend, placidly. “It was not surprising that he was – and is – assuming another patronymic, because, being a Russian exile – ”

“An exile!”

“My dear fellow, do not keep interrupting. Yes, I say, being a Russian exile, for some offence or other, it was quite a reasonable deceit to practise. But, while it was almost certain that Hertzen was not his real name, it was equally certain that he was some relation of Vera’s, for he lavished a vast amount of care and attention on her which could not be accounted for on any other supposition. At the same time it was very curious that my informant would not say who he believed Hertzen to be, so on that point I am still quite ignorant.”

“Go on, go on, please; and remember that I want to know about Vera,” I said, with some impatience.

“Listen, then. Your wife’s father was a Russian Count, a man of great wealth, who lived at Warsaw! Vera, his daughter, developed into the beautiful girl we met. Count Nicholas Seroff, her father, was a brave and loyal soldier, and when the Turko-Russian War broke out in 1877 was placed in a responsible position. He had previously served with great distinction in the Crimea, where he gained the sky-blue ribbon of St. Andrew ‘For Faith and Loyalty.’” Bob paused.

“After the war, the count retired to his house in the Njazlov at Warsaw, where he bestowed all his paternal affection on Vera. The two became inseparable, and for a long time, I hear, lived together as one soul.”

“For a long time, you hear – what happened then?”

“We met them at Genoa.”

“But do you mean to say your information ended abruptly at this point? Have you learned nothing since?”

“Nothing whatever. I did not trouble after my return to think any more about the matter. It was only while we were both interested in her that I was interested. You don’t think,” added he, in a half-jesting manner, “that I have nothing else to do but to run after every pretty girl who appears to have a romantic mystery about her, do you?”

“Are you speaking seriously?” I asked, my hopes sinking as rapidly as they had risen.

“Quite,” was his reply.

“Why did you not tell me this on my return, when we saw her at the theatre, together? You knew all about it then, and you also knew how anxious I was.”

“True, but you did not broach the subject, and as soon as we caught sight of her you seemed fascinated, leaving me almost at once, so that I had no chance.”

“But there were plenty of occasions afterwards,” I contended impatiently.

Bob did not seem perturbed in the least. He merely lit another cigarette, as he replied, —

“Whenever I saw you afterwards you were so distant and uncommunicative that it appeared as if you knew far more than you apparently did. As you were still interested in her and her movements it was not my place to take the initiative.”

“And even if you had,” I rejoined, speaking rather warmly, for my disappointment was galling, “it would not have greatly mattered; you don’t seem to know a great deal, after all. It does not make very much difference.”

“Look here, Burgoyne, it is no use attempting to hide your thoughts from me in this matter. It appears as if you wish me to think you are sorry I know so little. Perhaps you are secretly glad that such is the case, eh? It would be awkward for some of your wife’s relations to find that photograph in your pocket, under these circumstances – what is your opinion? Those hot-blooded counts are very jealous relatives, I believe, and – ”

“By Heaven! you wrong me there, Bob,” I retorted, touched to the quick by the sneer. “In spite of all Vera’s treachery – in spite of our quarrels, I have never, for an instant been untrue to her – never!”

“Very well,” was his cool reply, “let us admit that. Can you, however, honestly explain your confusion – to say nothing of Rivers’ amazement – when it was produced?”

This direct question nonplussed me entirely. To explain all the facts without exposing Vera – which I was determined not to do – at first appeared a sheer impossibility. Bob watched my vain endeavours to think it out with clearness for several minutes.

Neither of us spoke. Leaning back in his chair he watched the smoke from his cigarette curl upwards. Then he rose again, and said in a tone of voice very sad for me to hear:

“Well, don’t trouble to reply to that last query of mine, Frank, if it causes you pain. I was a fool to make it. Good-bye,” and he held forth his hand.

“Stay,” I urged, “I’ll explain it as well as I can, if you’ll have patience.”

I had made up my mind to tell Bob as much as I could of the mystery surrounding the dead man, and ask his assistance.

Silently and almost incredulously he listened to my statement, as I briefly ran over the events of the night I had spent with the stranger. When I had finished, he asked, —

“And did you leave the body there, and not utter a word to any one? That was scarcely like yourself, was it?”

“But what was I to do? I should have been mixed up in the scandal again; and the question arises, where would it have ended?”

“And did you not search that box for further proof of his assertion? There might have been valuable evidence there.”

“There might! What an idiot I must have been not to think of that at the time. Supposing there were letters from – from – ”

“From the murderer? That is quite possible. Why not go and look at once?”

After discussing the matter at some length, it was decided that as soon as night fell I should go to the house alone, so as to lessen the risk of detection, and search the box. With this arrangement we separated, a load having been taken off my mind by this even partial confession to Bob.

Chapter Twenty Five

A Midnight Search

The hours crept on very slowly that day. To me they seemed interminable. A thousand times I glanced at the little clock that ticked so sharply on the mantelshelf, but its small hand sullenly, as it seemed, refused to move any faster.

Feeling that the suspense was becoming unbearable, I tried a short walk in the Strand. Scarcely had I gone a hundred yards along that busy thoroughfare before I espied Demetrius. He was strolling along in the same aimless fashion as myself. At first my impulse was to go and salute him, for his cheerful companionship might do much to arrest my melancholy feelings, and make the time pass rapidly. My next thought, however, was to avoid him, for he would be certain to notice my preoccupation, and might put me to trouble in framing evasive answers.

While I was thus debating with myself, he settled the point by catching sight of me and coming cheerfully up.

“Hey-day! and why so cheerless?” he cried, as he clasped me warmly by the hand. It was a favourite expression of his, and one which he very frequently used, in spite of its antiquated ring.

“Did I look cheerful?” I responded, purposely answering his inquiry oppositely. “The fact is I’ve come out to kill an hour or two, and when one is seeking amusement it’s not difficult to find it in the streets of this great city of ours, is it?”

He glanced at me with a curious expression in his eyes, and I wondered whether he saw through the forced flippancy of my reply.

“That’s it, is it?” he remarked. “Well, come along, and we’ll do our best to destroy some of your dread enemy, Time, for a while,” and forthwith he hurried me along several miles of streets, bustling among the people right and left, and keeping up a constant chatter which did much to relieve me, as all I need do was to return a fragmentary answer when occasion offered.

Presently, when we had reached a quiet corner, where conversation was much easier, I said, —

“By the way, now I think of it; where are you ‘hanging out’?”

He burst into a loud laugh as he asked, —

“Is it possible you don’t know?”

“’Pon my honour, it never occurred to me to inquire till this moment. Where are you staying?”

“Number 171,” he answered, still laughing.

“Number 171 where – why don’t you speak plainly, and not keep a fellow waiting when he wants to get to his hotel to keep an appointment?”

“What! another engagement! – with the lady whose photograph you were passing to the fellows at the Junior Garrick last night, eh? I heard about it, old fellow,” he exclaimed, evidently thinking he had a fine chance to chaff me. Seeing my frown at the reference, he continued: “Seriously, it is curious you did not know of my whereabouts. My room is 171 at the Charing Cross Hotel, and yours is 172 – now do you see why I laughed?”