Guilty Bonds

“Why did you remain silent so long after my return to England?”

She gazed upon me with loving eyes, and ran her fingers tenderly through my hair as she replied, – “Because I strove to forget you. I was ashamed at the deceit I had been compelled to practise, and felt that you could never forgive me sufficiently to again have confidence in me.”

“But I have done so, Vera.”

“Yes, that is why I am so happy – or – or rather, I shall be happy,” she replied, endeavouring to smile.

“Finish your story, and we shall no longer be alienated.”

“My confession is unpleasant, nay, horrible, but I must continue it,” she sighed. “After your escape from Russia my uncle, from some inexplicable cause, turned against me, and I had but one friend, Demetrius. As the playmate of my youth who had been absent many years, he renewed his acquaintanceship with a kindness and tenderness that caused me to suspect his intentions. My surmise proved correct. He asked me to marry him; and I, having in a manner pledged myself to you, refused.”

“And what did he do?”

“It made but little difference. We were none the less friends; for even though the father is a vile schemer, the son is not.”

“You refused him because you loved me so well?”

“Yes, dear, I did,” she replied.

Then she bent, and our lips met.

Chapter Thirty Four

A Strange Disclosure

The door opened, and Boris Seroff stood before us.

Little introduction was necessary. We grasped each other’s hands.

“My brother! The man of whom you were jealous,” laughed Vera, as she nervously twisted the ribbons of her wrap around her hand.

“Well,” said Boris, heartily, “I’m pleased we are relatives, and that we have at last met. The mystery you have so long tried to solve can now be cleared up.”

“I have just been relating my history,” said Vera, naïvely.

“Then I will explain something of mine, although it is a story not enticing to tell,” Boris exclaimed, a shadow of pain crossing his face.

“Let me know all!” I urged, impatiently. “What I have already heard has almost bewildered me; I can scarcely realise its truth.”

He twirled his moustache and appeared to be lost in thought for a few moments. Then he said: “First, let me make a confession. Like my sister, I am – or rather was – a member of a Nihilist Circle. I joined from the same motive of revenge that prompted Vera, and perhaps she has explained how you unwittingly assisted us in our attempt; how, by the treachery of Hertzen, you were arrested; and how by our exertions you escaped.”

“Yes,” I replied.

“But you do not know all. You remember finding the seal in your cell?”

“Ah – the seal?” I cried, excitedly, for the mention of it brought back terrible memories. “What was its meaning?” I demanded.

“By the merest accident you directed my attention to the hieroglyphics on the wall, and the discovery threw a light upon a phase of the mystery that had hitherto been unintelligible. That cell, I found, was the same in which my father was confined before his exile, and it was he who cut that emblem in the stone, with his initials linked with those of the villain who plotted his destruction.”

“And that villain was – ”

“The man you know as Hertzen. Having obtained control of my sister’s fortune, he schemed to entangle her so that he might be instrumental in securing her exile to the mines, and eventually appropriate the money for his own use. He was unaware, however, that my wound in Georgia had not proved fatal. By concealing my identity I contrived to assist Vera and yourself.”

“But the seal! Tell me; what is its meaning?” I asked, in breathless suspense.

“It is the death symbol. The Nihilist law demands that those who accidentally discover our secret, and refuse to take the oath, must die by the hand of the person from whose lips they learn it. To ensure absolute secrecy, so essential in a country like Russia teeming with police spies, the Executive devised a seal to be affixed to the body of the murdered person, thus showing members of our Cause the reason of the crime and deterring them from betraying us.”

“So the seal, about which there has been so much controversy, is a Nihilist emblem,” I said, bewildered.

“Purely. For the most part the persons upon whose bodies the seal has been discovered are those whom it was found necessary to remove for the preservation of our secret. In some cases where we have been betrayed by members of our Circle, lots have been cast among us, the deed has been committed, and the lips of the traitor silenced forever. The crimes have been regarded as the work of a maniac. You will understand that it was to our interest to make them appear so,” he replied, calmly.

“What is the meaning of those strange symbols around the seal which have been the cause of so much comment?” I asked, eagerly, for this extraordinary revelation was even more mystifying than the secrets.

Taking from his breast-pocket a paper upon which was an impression of the seal, similar to that found on the victims, he said, —

“See, the centre, which has proved so puzzling to many, is a representation of the hammer of Thor, the god of thunder. It is symbolical of strength, work, and duty. By the Scandinavians Thor was supposed to be the guardian genius, and representations of his hammer were believed to be charms against every terror. In that sense the organisation has used it. The legend, of which antiquarians have failed to discover the key, is an obsolete Norse rune, the words being, ‘Bith Sithi Gast,’ the equivalent in English to ‘Halt! accursed enemy!’ It is indeed the Seal of Death.”

“Does no one outside the Nihilist Circle know its significance?” I asked, in wonder.

“Not a soul. Remember Vera and I are now no longer members of the organisation. Our oaths are removed, therefore I am able to tell you this.”

“Happily our conspiracy against the Autocrat has been unsuccessful,” broke in Vera, smiling.

“We are not Russians now, but content to be loyal subjects of your Queen.”

“I’m pleased that is so,” I replied, with a sigh of relief; “but there is still one circumstance unexplained.”

“To which do you allude?” Boris asked, plunging his hands into his pockets and leaning against the table opposite me.

I was loth to approach a subject which must be exceedingly painful to him.

“I mean the murder – the tragedy in Bedford Place – ”

“Ah!” he cried, sorrowfully, passing his hand quickly across his forehead, “the remembrance of that terrible night – the white face of my poor dead wife constantly haunts me. But the scoundrel who killed her shall suffer his well-merited punishment,” he added, as he paced the room angrily, muttering some imprecations in Russian.

“Boris dear, calm yourself,” said Vera, persuasively, clutching him by the arm. “Tell Frank everything; he has a right to know.”

“Yes, he has,” replied her brother, turning suddenly towards me. “From the first I knew by whose hand she died, but was unable to act. You will understand, when I say that the villain was a member of our Circle, and that it was believed my wife was removed because she had accidentally discovered that an attempt was to be made at the Winter Palace. Such, however, was the report to the Executive, and the murder was looked upon as a commendable precaution.”

“Did not the Circle know it was your wife?”

“No, I had kept my marriage a secret. The murderer was ignorant of our relationship, otherwise he would not have dared to commit the crime and report it to the Executive.”

“Then you are absolutely certain as to his identity?” I said, breathlessly.

“Yes. At first I could not discover the motive, but since the confession of the servant it is plain he wished to obtain possession of the money, and placed the fatal emblem upon her in order to deceive us and secure our aid in concealing his guilt.”

“You have given the police his name!” exclaimed Vera, anxiously, “quick! tell us who he is.”

“What!” I ejaculated, in surprise, “are you, too, in ignorance of the real culprit?”

“Quite; Boris has refused to disclose his identity,” she said, quietly, in a tone of annoyance.

“No,” replied the Russian, bitterly. “There will be time enough when the police have hunted him down. Hitherto I have been powerless. I dare not denounce him lest he should divulge my connection with the plots, the inevitable result of which would have been my exile to the mines. Now, however, I fear nothing. He has destroyed the only one I loved, and shall suffer the penalty!” he added, fiercely.

“But why not tell us?” I argued. “Surely we may know upon whom rests the guilt?”

“Let the matter remain at present,” he said, petulantly. “When the time arrives I shall be prepared to prove that which will send him to the gallows. Not only did he take my wife’s life, but he also committed a second murder in order to hide the first – ”

“Another?” I cried.

“Yes. Since my poor wife’s maid, Jane Maygrove, returned from Australia and made her confession, I have discovered something even more strange. It seems that Jane had a sister Nell, very similar in feature, and previous to her departure abroad she told this sister all that had happened at Bedford Place on the fatal night. Needless to say, Nell traced the murderer and made excellent use of her information, inasmuch as she levied blackmail upon him to a considerable extent, he, of course, believing her to be the witness of his crime. She had married a man named Grey, and the pair lived upon the money she succeeded in extorting from the murderer. For some time this went on, until one night she was discovered in a court off Drury Lane, stabbed in the neck, and with the seal upon her – ”

“Why, that was the woman who was murdered on the night following my return from Russia!” I remarked, in amazement.

“That is so. Here is her photograph,” and he handed me a faded carte-de-visite, which he took from his pocket.

It was similar to that which had been given me by the man who had died in the garret.

“Jane Maygrove,” he continued, “is none other than the wife of your club-friend, Rivers.”

“Ted Rivers’s wife?” I repeated, incredulously. He replied in the affirmative, adding, “Does not that account for his consternation when you produced a photograph of her twin sister? He believed it to be that of his own wife.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked, my interest in the solution of this extraordinary problem increasing more than ever.

“On the day you left Elveham, after discovering Vera and myself in the Dene, you came to London, and outside the Junior Garrick you were met by an old man named Grey, the husband of Nell Maygrove, were you not?”

“That’s true,” I admitted. “But how came you aware of this?”

“Simply because I followed you,” he replied, laughing. “I had an object in doing so; it was in your own interest, as you will know later.”

“How could your espionage affect me?” I asked, with a sudden feeling of resentment at having been “shadowed.”

“You shall know very soon. On the day to which I refer, you went to Grey’s room. He told you, before he died, how he discovered his murdered wife, and how he had taken the seal from her breast. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Your conversation was overheard by the sister of the dead woman, who, until then, was unaware that the significant sign had been found upon her, she being abroad at the time the accounts were published in the newspapers. When she heard Grey’s declaration she at once knew that the man who had killed her sister was the murderer of my wife. Prompted by revenge, she determined to track the villain, and bring him to justice, even at the risk of being prosecuted for theft herself. It was in consequence of this that she materially assisted us by giving evidence in your favour to-day.”

“To her, to Vera, and to yourself, I owe my present liberty,” I exclaimed deeply moved. “I am indeed grateful to you all for your efforts.”

“You have little to thank me for, dear,” said Vera tenderly. “Fate seemed against me in everything I did.”

“I understand how you must have suffered, dearest, and how circumstances precluded you from telling me the truth. You did your best, and in future I shall trust you implicitly,” I said, while her arm stole gently around my neck, and she looked lovingly into my eyes.

Wringing Boris’s hand heartily, I expressed my gratitude to him, adding, “There is one thing needful to completely solve the enigma – the name of the man who committed the crimes.”

“When I gave the police the information I promised I would not divulge until they made the arrest; otherwise I would tell you,” he replied, with a tantalising smile.

“Do tell us! We must know the whole truth now,” urged Vera earnestly.

“His name – but – hark! – what’s that?” he ejaculated, with bated breath.

We listened. It was the sound of hurrying footsteps in the corridor.

“I must see Mrs Burgoyne at once. Do you hear? Quick! Tell me; which is her room?” a voice shouted excitedly.

“It’s here! first on the left, sir,” was the reply.

A second later the door was flung open without warning.

Chapter Thirty Five

The Vantage-Ground of Truth

Demetrius burst abruptly into the room.

His wild appearance startled us. His face was pale and haggard; his eyes bloodshot, his collar torn, and his coat rent at the shoulder.

He stopped suddenly, stepping back a few paces when he saw Vera was not alone.

“Why, good Heavens! What’s the matter?” I exclaimed, in utter astonishment; for he and I had been the closest friends.

“Matter! Diable! You should know!” he cried, his foreign accent being more pronounced in his excitement.

“No. What is it?” asked Vera, who had risen and was standing close to him. “Are you mad?”

“Yes, imbecile – if you like,” he shouted hoarsely. Pointing to Boris, he added, his face distorted by a look of intense hatred, “That traitor is the cause! He has set the police upon me. They have followed me and are hunting me down. But they shall not arrest me —Sacré– at least not yet!”

“Come; enough of this!” commanded Boris, sternly, advancing and clutching him by the shoulder.

“Hands off, you devil!” he cried fiercely, shaking himself free. “Listen, first, to what I have to say!”

“Now, it’s useless to struggle,” Boris declared firmly. “I shall detain you here and send for the police.”

“No you won’t. Curse you! They are following me now. They saw me enter the hotel. Hark! they’re on the stairs. But I have something – something to say.”

There was a sly, crafty look in his distended eyes.

“Well; what is it?” I asked, at the same time glancing at Vera, and noting that her delicate face was firm-set and pale.

“You – you robbed me of her, and, by Heaven, some satisfaction is due to me. I demand it – do you understand?” he screamed with an imprecation, addressing me.

“It is I who protected my sister, and assisted her to evade the clutches of a heartless villain – the man who murdered my wife!” interposed Boris, infuriated, emphasising his words with a foreign oath.

“Is it this man?” I demanded, bewildered.

“Yes,” he answered, angrily. “This is the scoundrel who murdered two defenceless women.” Turning towards him, he added quickly, “Ah! Demetrius Orselska, the revenge I have so long sought is now near at hand.”

“It is – it is,” hissed the other. “But, ma foi! if you think I will be trapped, you are mistaken!” he laughed harshly. “No – you, Frank Burgoyne – you English cur! – you took Vera from me. Though she is your wife, you shall no longer enjoy her beauty. Dieu! you shan’t?”

I saw him plunge his hand nervously into his pocket, but had not the slightest idea of his intention.

As I turned to look at Vera she covered her blanched face with her hands, screaming, – “Look, Frank – he has a pistol!”

His movements were of lightning-like rapidity. Before I could wrest the weapon from his murderous grasp he had levelled it at her.

There was a flash – a loud report – and a puff of smoke curled between us.

For a second I feared to glance at her, but when I lifted my eyes, it was with joy I saw that the bullet had sped harmlessly past, shattering a great mirror at the opposite end of the room.

Shrieking wildly and hysterically, she staggered fainting to a chair, while Boris and I struggled with the murderer to obtain possession of the weapon.

“Stand back!” he shouted, his dark flashing eyes starting from their sockets, and his even row of white teeth prominently displayed. “Touch me, and I’ll blow your brains out! Sacré! I warn you!”

The mad excitement seemed to have filled him with fiendish strength, and by an agile movement he again freed himself.

With a muttered oath he advanced several steps towards the spot where Vera was sitting, now rendered utterly unconscious by the sudden shock.

I saw his intention. I detected the terrible expression of revenge that passed over his features; and sprang towards him.

Another second, and I should have been too late.

The muzzle of the revolver was again pointed at her; his finger was upon the trigger, nevertheless as he pulled it I knocked his arm upwards.

The weapon discharged, but the bullet imbedded itself in the ceiling.

I had saved Vera’s life!

At this moment there were loud shouts in the corridor, and a few seconds later a police inspector, accompanied by two detectives and several waiters, dashed into the room.

“Demetrius Orselska, we have a warrant for your arrest for murder!” announced the officer, sharply, and turning to his men, added, “arrest him?”

Like some hunted animal who is brought to bay, the scoundrel glanced quickly around for means of escape, but finding none, turned and faced them.

A moment’s reflection had decided him.

“You – you shall not take me,” he hissed. “I – I confess I am guilty of the crimes – but —Diable! I will take my own life, and – and you can take my body if it’s any use – you can can do what you like with that, you bloodhounds!”

Before the detectives could obey the orders of the inspector, he had placed the revolver to his forehead.

The plated barrel flashed in the light only for an instant – then there was a loud explosion.

The officers recoiled, startled by its suddenness; for it all took place so rapidly that for the moment they apparently did not comprehend his intention.

As the pistol fell from the unhappy man’s grasp he uttered a loud moan, staggered, and then wheeled slowly round, as if on a pivot. His bloodshot eyes caught sight of Boris, and frightful convulsions of every feature proclaimed his terror. He did not utter another cry but fell forward to the floor where he quivered for a few moments in death agony.

It was an awful tableau; the last act of a terrible game that had for its stakes riches, or the grave.

Boris, with livid face, was resting his right hand against the wall, while he pressed his left to his breast as if to stay the beating of his heart. He watched the dying struggles of his wife’s murderer, seeming fascinated by the frightful spectacle.

There was an awful silence.

Amid this terrible scene Vera regained consciousness. Struggling to her feet she walked with uneven steps towards us. All at once her face assumed a look of inexpressible horror, as she gazed down upon the body of the murderer, and gradually realised the truth.

“It is he! And he tried to kill me! It all seems like some horrible dream,” she gasped, clutching my arm and uttering a low cry of horror.

“Come; Vera,” I whispered, softly, “the mystery is solved. The guilty one has received the wages of his sin.”

She did not reply, but, with a deep-drawn sigh, as if a great weight had been lifted from her mind, she leaned heavily upon my arm and left the chamber of death.

Boris followed.

His thirst for vengeance had been satisfied.

Chapter Thirty Six

Conclusion

A sultry autumn day had passed; the freshening twilight had faded, and the moon and evening star were in the sky as Vera and I sat together on the terrace at Elveham. Already the lights of the village began to twinkle in the distance; the tops of the trees in the Dene were gleaming in the moonlight like a silver sea, a night bird warbled sweetly, and the little brook babbled on with lulling music.

My heart drank in the tranquillity of the scene, as in the listlessness of after dinner I smoked the sleep-inviting cigar.

A month had elapsed since the tragic dénouement of the strange drama, but Vera’s nerves had been so unstrung that I had scarcely referred to the terrible occurrence since.

We had just dined with Boris and Bob Nugent, who had arrived as our guests that day. During the meal Vera had spoken of the scene at the hotel – not without some hesitation, however – and now we were alone she again alluded to it.

“Do you remember, Frank, it was on a similar night to this, that you saw, over there in the Dene, what your jealous eyes distorted into a meeting of lovers?”

“Yes, dearest; I do remember it. Boris being the man I saw leave the house in Bedford Place, I believed him to be the murderer,” I replied.

“Boris; the murderer!” cried my wife in surprise. “Ah! I understand, dear, what agony of mind such a discovery must have caused you. It was all my fault – everything,” she added, with regret.

“The mystification was not intentional, Vera,” I said, tenderly, encircling her slim waist with my arm. “But do not let us speak of it again.”

“Frank,” she exclaimed suddenly, as she placed her hand upon my shoulder tenderly, looking into my eyes, “Boris has yet something to tell you. Ah! here they come; you must hear it now.”

My two guests had emerged from the dining-room and were strolling leisurely towards us in full enjoyment of their goddess Nicotine.

My wife called them, and they came and seated themselves beside us.

“Now, Boris,” she said, “we have all met, and you can explain to Frank that complication you did not acquaint him with on the night of his acquittal.”

“What more can there be?” I asked, in unfeigned astonishment.

“Simply this: The villain meant to kill you?” Boris replied calmly.

“To kill me?”

“Yes. You remember discovering portions of a seal upon your writing-table?”

“Perfectly. It was on the morning I left for London.”

“Exactly. Had you remained here, you would have been murdered, and the seal, which was in readiness, affixed upon you. When you left, he followed, his purpose being to kill you when a fitting opportunity presented itself. Luckily events so conspired as to frustrate his evil design.”

“Is this really true?” I exclaimed, in amazement.

“Yes. You will now understand why I shadowed you so closely. It was in order that no harm should befall you.”

“But my arrest – ” I said, utterly bewildered at this fresh feature the mystery presented – a plot against my own life.

“The villain suddenly altered his tactics, presumably because he would be running too great a risk by killing you. He therefore returned here, placed the seals and other articles among your possessions, and afterwards gave information to the police which led to your committal.”

“What could have been the motive of all this?”

I asked, my astonishment increasing at such revelations. “We were friends; I had done him no wrong.”

“The motive was a sufficiently strong one; that of obtaining your fortune.”

“How?”

“Cannot you see the depths of the plot? He was aware you had made a will leaving everything to Vera, therefore, if you died, she would possess the estate. In that case he hoped to marry her, and failing this, his father could give information which would secure her conviction and exile as one implicated in the attempts against the Czar. In either case he would obtain the money. You were the only obstacle, and when once removed, all would have been easy.”

“By fortuitous circumstances he did not succeed,” Vera said, kissing me fondly.

“No. He was a clever rogue, I can assure you. But he was unaware that I was in England watching his movements,” remarked Boris.

“What of his father?” I asked.

“He also has obtained what he richly deserves. Having been detected in assisting in the manufacture of bombs in Zurich, immediately on his return after giving evidence against you, he was convicted and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment.”