Whoso Findeth a Wife

How she had become possessed of the stolen treaty was inexplicable. Full well she knew all the terrible anxiety its loss had caused me, and the sensation that its revelation had created throughout Europe. Times without number I had mentioned to her how anxious my chief was to recover the original, so that our enterprising friends in St Petersburg could have no tangible proof that it had actually existed, yet she had given no sign that she knew anything of it, much less that it actually reposed in my own drawing-room. I did not fail, in those moments of my despair, to recollect that she had been on the most intimate terms with Dudley Ogle, the man suspected to have been in the service of the Tzar’s Government, and as I sat in wonderment it became gradually impressed upon me that through those many months I had been basely tricked, and that Ella herself, charming and ingenuous as she seemed, was actually a secret agent of the enemies of England.

Several facts that I recollected combined to produce this startling belief. Because of my confidential position as secretary to the Earl of Warnham, it was apparent that Ella, with the assistance of my whilom friend Dudley and the encouragement of her mother, had conspired to hold me beneath her spell. She had become my wife, not because she had ever loved me, but because she could feign affection or hatred with equal impunity, and had some ulterior motive in obtaining my confidence. Her firm resolve to ascertain the true facts regarding Dudley’s mysterious end showed plainly that if they were not lovers they had acted in complete accord, and what was more likely than that he, having stolen the secret convention, had on that memorable night at “The Nook” handed it to her, the instigator of the ingenious theft. Yet an hour or so later he died from some cause that neither doctors nor police had been able to determine.

To her, the tragic occurrence was a mystery, as to all, and her refusal to render me any explanation of her suspicious actions was, I now saw, quite natural. Held beneath the iron thraldom of her masters in St Petersburg, she dared not utter one word; hence I had remained in the outer darkness of doubt and ignorance.

However it might be, one thing was certain. She had been unexpectedly parted from me, either by choice or compulsion. Perhaps it was that to pose as my wife was no longer necessary; yet if she were actually a spy, was it not curious that in departing she should overlook this document, of which the Ministry at St Petersburg were so anxious to possess themselves.

Again, as I sat alone before the cheerless grate, I reflected that if she were in the pay of Russia, surely Monsieur Grodekoff, the Ambassador, would have been acquainted with her. Besides, what reason could Renouf have had in making such careful inquiries, or why did Paul Verblioudovitch discredit the truths uttered by Sonia and urge me to marry the woman I loved? Nevertheless if, as I supposed, my position in the Foreign Office had caused me to be the victim of a clever and deeply-conceived conspiracy, it was scarcely surprising that the Tzar’s representative should disclaim all knowledge of the sweet-faced agent, or that Paul had praised her and cast obloquy upon Sonia in order that their plans, whatever they were, should be achieved. Of the actions of Renouf, and his strange disregard for detection, I could form no satisfactory conclusion. All I knew was that Ella’s career had been an unscrupulous and inglorious one, and that she had cast me aside as soon as her infamous ends had been attained.

The only person who could elucidate the mystery was Sonia, the pretty girl who had been denounced by Renouf as a murderess, and who was now in hiding in far-off Russia, in some out-of-the-world place where I could never hope to find her. If she were clever enough to elude the combined vigilance of the detective force of Europe, as undoubtedly she had done, there was but little hope that I could ever run her to earth.

The mystery had, by Ella’s flight, been increased rather than explained, for the more I pondered the more deeply-rooted became the conviction that she had decamped because she had cause to fear some strange development that would lead to her exposure and shame.

After a time I roused myself, and taking from the broken escritoire the other letters it contained, five in number, examined them eagerly beneath the light.

All were in the same hand, a heavy masculine one, written evidently with a quill. One by one I read them, finding that they contained appointments, which fully bore out her maid’s suspicions.

“My dear Ella,” one ran, “to-morrow I shall be on the departure platform at King’s Cross Station at 11:30. I have good news for you. Come. – X.”

Another regretted the writer’s inability to keep an appointment, as he had been called unexpectedly to Paris, and was compelled to leave by the night mail from Charing Cross. He, however, promised to return in three days, and gave her the Grand Hotel as his address if she found it necessary to telegraph.

Strangely enough, the letters contained no endearing terms either at their commencement or conclusion. Formal and brief, they all related to appointments at various places in London where two persons might meet unnoticed by the crowd, and all were signed by the single mysterious initial. I stood with them in my hand for a long time, puzzled and hesitating, then placing them carefully in my pocket, together with the secret document I had so unexpectedly unearthed, I crammed on my hat and hastily drove to Pont Street.

The house was in darkness, save for a light in the basement, and in answer to my summons, after a lapse of some minutes a tall, gaunt, woman in rusty black appeared in the area below.

I was surprised at being thus met by a stranger, but inquired for Mrs Laing.

“Mrs Laing ain’t at ’ome, sir,” answered the woman, looking up and speaking with a strong Cockney twang.

“Not at home?” I exclaimed, surprised. “Where is she?”

“She’s gone abroad somewheres, but I don’t know where,” the woman answered. “She’s sold all her valuables, discharged the servants, and left me ’ere as ’ouse-keeper.”

“When did she go?” I asked.

“This morning. I answered an advertisement in the Chronicle yesterday, and entered on my duties ’ere to-day. Quick, ain’t it?”

The rapidity of her engagement I was compelled to admit, but proceeded to make further inquiry whether Mrs Laing’s daughter had been there.

“No, sir. No one’s been ’ere to-day, except a foreign-looking gentleman who asked if madame had left, and when I said that she had, he went away quite satisfied.”

“What kind of man was he?”

“Tall and thin, with a longish dark beard.”

The description did not correspond with anyone of my acquaintance; therefore, after some further questions regarding Mrs Laing’s mysterious departure, I was compelled to wish the worthy woman good evening. She knew nothing of Mrs Laing’s movements, not even the name of the terminus to which she had driven, such pains had Ella’s mother taken to conceal the direction in which she intended to travel.

Some secret undoubtedly existed between mother and daughter; its nature held me perplexed and bewildered.

Chapter Twenty Four

Strictly Confidential

The early morning was dry, frosty, but starless. The clock of that fashionable temple of Hymen, St George’s, Hanover Square, was slowly chiming three as I alighted from a cab at the corner of Mount Street, and walking along Berkeley Square, ascended the steps of the Earl of Warnham’s great mansion, and rang its ponderous bell. The place was severe and gloomy enough by day, but in the silence and darkness of the night its exterior presented a forbidding, almost ghostly appearance. It was an unusual hour for a call, but, knowing that a porter was on duty always, and that dispatches frequently arrived during the night, I had no hesitation in seeking an interview.

In a few moments there was a grating sound of bolts drawn back, a clanking of chains, and the heavy door was slowly opened by the sleepy man, who, with a word of recognition, at once admitted me. Walking across the great square hall; warmed by a huge, roaring fire, I passed down the passage to the Earl’s study and rapped at the door, receiving an impatient permission to enter.

The Minister for Foreign Affairs was sitting at his table where I had left him, with an empty tea-cup at his side, resting his pale, weary brow upon his hand and writing dispatches rapidly with his scratchy quill. His fire was nearly out, the pair of candles, in their heavy, old-fashioned silver candlesticks that stood upon his writing-table, had burned down almost to their sockets, and the strong smell of burnt paper that pervaded the book-lined den, showed that, with his innate cautiousness, he had destroyed documents that he did not desire should be seen by other eyes.

The world-renowned statesman raised his head as I entered, gave vent to a low grunt of dissatisfaction, and continued writing at topmost speed. I saw I was unwelcome, but, well acquainted with his mannerisms and eccentricities, walked to the fire, added more fuel, and waited in patience until he had finished.

“Well,” he snarled, casting down his pen impatiently, and turning upon me at last. “I thought you, of all men, were aware that I do not desire interruption when at work.”

“I should not have ventured to come at this hour,” I said, “were it not that the news I bring is of extreme importance.”

He sighed, as was his habit when expecting further complications.

“What is its nature?” he asked coldly, leaning back in his chair. “Abandon preliminaries, please, and come to the point. What is it?”

“I have recovered the original of our secret convention with Germany,” I answered in as quiet a tone as I could assume.

“You have!” he cried excitedly, starting up. “You are quite right to seek me at once – quite right. Where did you obtain it?” he inquired.

Slowly I drew forth the precious document from my pocket, and handed it to him, still in the envelope that bore my own mark, with the remains of his broken seal. He took it eagerly and bent to the candles to examine it more closely. A few seconds sufficed to reassure him that the document was the genuine one.

“It is fortunate that this has returned into our possession,” he observed, his thin blue lips quivering slightly. “I feared that it had already passed beyond our reach, and that one day or other in the near future our policy must be narrowed by the knowledge that it was preserved in the archives of the Foreign Office at St Petersburg, and could be used as a pretence for a declaration of war by Russia and France. Now, however, that the original is again in our possession we can disclaim all copies, and give assurances that no secret understanding exists between us and Berlin. The only fact that at present lends colour to the assertion of the boulevard journals is the ill-timed bestowal of the Iron Cross upon Count Landsfeldt. Such an action was characteristic of their impetuous Emperor.” Then, after a second’s reflection, he added, “Just sit down, Deedes, and write to Sir Philip Emden at Berlin, asking him to obtain audience immediately of the Kaiser, point out the harmful impression this decoration has occasioned, and get His Majesty to exhibit his marked displeasure towards Landsfeldt in some form or other. That will remove any suspicion that the convention is actually an accomplished fact. Besides, you may hint also that it may be well for the relations between the Kaiser and Sir Philip to appear slightly strained, and that this fact should be communicated indirectly to the Press. Sit down and write at once: it must be sent under flying seal.”

I obeyed, and commenced writing a formal dispatch while, in answer to the electric bell rung by his Lordship, the sleepy night-porter appeared.

“Calvert,” exclaimed the Minister, “telephone to the Foreign Office and say that I want a messenger to call here and proceed to Berlin by the morning mail.”

“Yes, m’lord,” answered the man, bowing and closing the door.

While I wrote, the Earl perused the document, the loss of which had caused the Cabinets of Europe so much apprehension, and taking his magnifying glass he examined the portions of the seal still remaining. Then carefully unlocking one of the small private drawers in the top of the great writing-table, he took therefrom some object, and gazed upon it long and earnestly. With a heavy sigh he again replaced it, and slowly locked the drawer. When I had finished and placed the instructions to Sir. Philip Emden before him, he took up his quill, corrected my letter, here and there adding an emphatic word or two, and then appended his signature. Obtaining one of the bags used for the transmission of single dispatches, I deposited it therein, sealed it, and placed upon it one of those labels with a cross drawn upon its face, the signification of that mark being that it is never to be lost sight of by the messenger. There are two kinds of bags sent out and received by the Foreign Office, one with this cross-marked label, and the other without it. The latter are generally larger and less important, and may be placed with the messenger’s luggage. It is no pleasant life our messengers lead, liable as they are to be summoned at an hour’s notice to “proceed at once” to anywhere, from Brussels to Teheran. Armed with a laissez-passer, they are constantly hurrying over the face of Europe as fast as the fastest expresses can carry them, passing through the frontier stations freed from the troublesome concomitant of ordinary travelling – the examination of luggage – known on all the great trunk lines from Paris to Constantinople and from Rome to St Petersburg, sometimes bearing epoch-making documents, sometimes a lady’s hat of latest mode, or a parcel of foreign delicacies, but always on the alert, and generally sleeping on a layer of stiff dispatches and bulky “notes.”

At last, having made up the bag, I rose slowly and faced my chief.

“Well,” he exclaimed, raising his keen eyes from the document I had brought him and regarding me with that stony, sphinx-like expression he assumed when resolved upon cross-questioning, “how did you obtain possession of this?”

“I found it,” I answered.

“Found it?” he growled, with a cynical curl of the lip. “I suppose you have some lame story that you picked it up in the street, or something – eh!” he exclaimed testily.

“No,” I replied hoarsely. “Mine is no lame story, although a wretched one. The discovery has unnerved and bewildered me; it – ”

“I have no desire to know how its discovery affected you mentally,” he interrupted, with impatient sarcasm. “I asked where you found it,” he observed coldly.

“I found it in my own house,” I answered.

“Then you mean to tell me that it has been in your possession the whole time. The thing’s impossible,” he cried angrily. “Remember the dummy palmed off upon me, and the fact that an exact copy was transmitted to St Petersburg.”

“No. It has not been in my possession,” I answered, leaning against my writing-chair for support. “I found it among my wife’s letters.”

“Your wife!” he gasped, agitated. He had turned ghastly pale at mention of her name, and, trembling with agitation, swayed forward.

A moment later, however, he recovered his self-possession, clutched at the corner of his table, and regarding me sharply, asked, “What do you suspect?”

“I scarce know what to suspect,” I answered gravely, striving to remain calm, but remembering at that instant the curious effect produced upon the Foreign Minister when he had first seen Ella dancing at the Embassy ball. My declaration that I had found this official bond of nations in her possession had produced a similar disquieting result which puzzled me.

“But surely she can have had no hand in the affair,” he cried. “She certainly did not strike me as an adventuress, or an agent of the Tzar’s secret service.”

“It is a problem that I cannot solve,” I exclaimed slowly, watching the strange, haggard look upon his usually imperturbable features. “After leaving you this evening I went home only to find a letter of farewell from her, and – ”

“She has fled, then!” he exclaimed, with quick suspicion.

“Yes. Her flight was evidently pre-arranged, and curiously enough her mother, who lives in Pont Street, has discharged her servants, disposed of a good deal of her property, and also departed.”

“Gone together, no doubt,” the Earl observed, frowning reflectively.

“But is it not very strange that she should have left the stolen convention behind? Surely if my wife were actually a Russian agent she would never have been guilty of such indiscretion,” I said.

“The mystery is inexplicable, Deedes,” he declared, with a heavy look, half of pain, half of bewilderment. “Absolutely inexplicable.”

This aged man, to whose firmness, clever statesmanship, and calm foresight England owed her place as foremost among the Powers, was trembling with an excitement he strove in vain to suppress. In manner that surprised me, his cold, cynical face relaxed, and placing his thin, bony hand upon my shoulder with fatherly tenderness, Her Majesty’s most trusted Minister urged me to confide in him all my suspicions and my fears.

“You have, I believe, after all, been cruelly wronged, Deedes,” he added in a low, harsh tone. “I sympathise with you because I myself once felt the loss of a wife deeply, and I know what feelings must be yours now that you suspect the woman you have trusted and loved to have been guilty of base treachery and espionage. She, or someone in association with her, has besmirched England’s honour, and brought us to the very verge of a terrible national disaster. Providentially, this was averted; by what means we have not yet ascertained, although our diplomatic agents at the Court of the Tzar are striving day and night to ascertain; yet the fact remains that we were victimised by some daring secret agent who sacrificed everything in order to accomplish the master-stroke of espionage. I can but re-echo the thanks to Heaven uttered by my gracious Sovereign when she received the news that war had been averted; nevertheless it is my duty – nay, it is yours, Deedes, to strive on without resting, in order that this mystery may be satisfactorily unravelled.”

For a moment we were silent. Then in a voice that I felt painfully conscious was broken by grief and emotion, I related to him the whole of the wretched story of my marriage, my suspicions, the discovery of Ella in Kensington Gardens, how I had taxed her with flirtation and frivolity, our peace-making, and her sudden and unexpected flight.

He heard me through to the end with bent head, sighing now and then sympathetically. Then he slowly asked, – “Did you ever refer to those earlier incidents, such as the death of that young man Ogle? Remember, whatever you tell me I shall regard as strictly confidential.”

“I seldom mentioned it, as she desired me not to do so.”

“When you referred to it, what was her attitude?” he inquired, in a pained tone, the furrows on his high white brow deep and clearly defined.

“She declared always that he had been murdered, and vowed to detect the author of the crime.”

“Are you, in your own mind, convinced that there was anything really mysterious regarding her actions; or were they only everyday facts distorted by jealousy?” he asked gravely.

“There is, I believe, some deep mystery regarding her past,” I answered.

He knit his grey, shaggy brows, and started perceptibly.

“Her past!” he echoed. “Were you aware of any – er – unpleasant fact prior to marriage?” he inquired quickly.

“Yes. She promised to explain everything ere long; therefore, loving her devotedly as I did, I resolved to make her my wife and await in patience her explanation.”

“Love!” he cried cynically. “She did not love you. She only married you, it seems, to accomplish her own base and mysterious designs.” Then, pacing the room from end to end, he added, “The more I reflect, the more apparent does it become that Ella Laing meant, by becoming your wife, to accomplish some great coup, but, prevented by some unforeseen circumstance, she has been compelled to fly, and in her haste overlooked this incriminating paper.”

This, too, was my own opinion, and taking from my pocket the whole of the letters that were in the escritoire, I placed them before him.

“They are from your wife’s mysterious lover,” he observed, when a few moments later he had digested them. “Who he is there is no evidence to show. You suspect him, of course, to be the man she met in Kensington Gardens?”

I nodded. A sigh escaped me.

“Well,” he went on. “Leave them with me. A calligraphic expert may possibly find some clue to the identity of their writer.”

Afterwards, he took up the broken envelope that had contained the treaty, carefully re-examining its edges by the aid of his large magnifying glass.

“There is another curious fact that we must not overlook,” he observed slowly. “While the seal has been broken this envelope has also passed through a ‘cabinet noir.’ See, this edge bears unmistakable traces after wear in the pocket,” and he handed it to me, together with his glass.

The suggestion was startling, and one that I had entirely overlooked. The “cabinet noir” is a term well understood in diplomacy, but unfamiliar perhaps to the general public. Official documents of no great importance are often sent by post, and in most European countries this has led to the establishment of a “cabinet noir,” in which the envelope is opened and its contents examined. The mode of procedure is interesting. The letter to be opened is first shaken well in such a way that the enclosure falls to one side of the envelope, leaving a space of about a quarter of an inch between it and the outer edge. This edge is then placed under an extremely sharp knife worked like a guillotine, care being taken to put it carefully at right angles to the knife, which is then brought down and cuts off a slip about one hundredth part of an inch wide. The envelope is now open, and the enclosure is extracted by a pair of pincers made for the purpose. After examination it is replaced, and the ticklish job of removing all trace of the opening has to be done. This is very ingenious. There are different pots of paper pulp mixed with a little gum, and each tinted a different colour to suit the various shades of paper that are operated upon. A very fine camel-hair brush is dipped into the pot containing the proper tint, and is then run carefully along the edges which have been cut open. They are then closed and left under a press for an hour or so, and after being smoothed with a flat steel instrument, it would take a very clever expert to notice that the envelope has passed through the “cabinet noir.”

I saw, however, in this worn envelope the two edges were coming apart, and at once admitted the truth of the Earl’s assertions. He was intensely shrewd; scarcely any minute detail escaped him.

“Well,” he said reflectively, at last, “there is but one person from whom we may ascertain the truth.”

“Who?”

“Your wife.”

“But she has disappeared.”

“We must trace her. She must not escape us,” he cried fiercely, with set teeth. “She has wronged you and acted in collusion with a man who has betrayed his country and met with a tragic end, even if she herself did not actually sell the copy of the secret convention to our enemies – which appears to me more than likely.”

“What causes you to believe this?” I inquired, surprised at his sudden assertion.

“I have a reason,” he answered quickly, with an air of mystery. The cold manner of the expert diplomatist had again settled upon him. “If it is as I expect, I will show her no mercy, for it is upon me, as Foreign Minister of Her Majesty, that opprobrium has fallen.”

“But she is still my wife,” I observed, for even at that moment, when I had discovered her false and base, I had not ceased to regard her with a passionate affection.

“Wife!” he snarled angrily. “You would have been a thousand times better dead than married to such as she.” Then he added, “Remain here. I am going to the telephone to apprise Scotland Yard of her flight. She only left to-night after the mails were gone, therefore if we have the ports watched we may yet find her.”

And he left me, his quick footsteps echoing down the long corridor.

The moment he had gone I went to his table. Some sudden curiosity prompted me to endeavour to ascertain what he had been gazing upon so intently while my back had been turned in penning the instructions to Sir Philip Emden.