Then for the first time I indicated her own peril. Hitherto I had not wished to alarm her. But I now showed her how it would be to the advantage of the General, cunning, daring and unscrupulous as he was, that some untoward incident should occur by which her life would be sacrificed in his desperate attempt to conceal the truth.
In silence she listened to me, her beautiful face pale and graver than I had ever before seen it. At last she realised the peril.
"Ah!" she sighed, and then, as though speaking to herself, said: "If only I could obtain Marya"s consent to speak--to tell the Emperor the truth! But that is now quite impossible. No letter could ever reach her, and, indeed, we have no idea where she is. She is, alas! as dead to the world as though she were in her grave!" she added sadly.
I reflected for a moment.
"If it were not that I feared lest misfortune might befall you during my absence, Highness, I would at once follow and overtake her."
"Oh, but the long journey to Siberia! Why, it would take you at least six months! That is quite impossible."
"Not impossible, Highness," I responded very gravely. "I am prepared to undertake the journey for your sake--and hers--for the sake of the Emperor."
"Ah! I know, Uncle Colin, how good you always are to me, but I couldn"t ask you to undertake a winter journey such as that, in search of poor Marya."
"If I go, will you, on your part, promise me solemnly not to go out on these night escapades? Indeed, it is not judicious of you to walk out at all, unless one or other of the police-agents is in close attendance upon you. One never knows, in these present circ.u.mstances, what may happen," I said. "And as soon as Markoff knows that I have set out for Siberia, he will guess the reason, and endeavour to bring disaster upon both of us, as well as upon the exile herself."
For some minutes she did not reply. Then she said: "You must not go.
It is too dangerous for you--far too dangerous. I will not allow it."
"If you refuse to reveal Marya"s secret, then I shall go," was my quiet response. "I shall ask the Emperor to send you Hartwig, to be near you.
He will watch over your safety until my return."
"Ah! his alertness is simply marvellous," she declared. "Did you read in the London papers last week how cleverly he ran to earth the three men who robbed the Volga Kama Bank in Moscow of a quarter of a million roubles?"
"Yes. I read the account of it. He was twice shot at by the men before they were arrested. But he seems always to lead a charmed life. While he is at your side, I shall certainly entertain no fear."
"Then you have really decided to go?" she said, looking at me with brows slightly knit. "I cannot tell--I cannot--what I read in those letters after giving my word of honour to Marya."
"I have decided," I said briefly.
"I do not like the thought of your going. Something dreadful may happen to you."
"I shall be wary--never fear," I a.s.sured her with a laugh. "I intend to secure the release of Madame and Luba--to set right an unjust and outrageous wrong. I admire your firm devotion to your friend, but I will bring back to you, I hope, her written permission to speak and reveal the truth."
Five minutes later I rose, and we descended to the hall, where patient Dmitri was idling over his French newspaper.
Then the weather being fine again, we pa.s.sed out together into the autumn sunshine of the Lawns, at that hour of the morning agog with well-dressed promenaders and hundreds of pet dogs. And a few moments later we came face to face with Richard Drury, to whom she introduced me as "Mr Colin Trewinnard, my uncle, Mr Drury." We bowed mutually, and then all three of us strolled on together, though he seemed a little ill at ease in my presence.
I had made a firm resolution. In order to learn the secret of those letters and to place Her Highness, who so honourably refused to break her word, in a position to expose the unscrupulous official who was the real Oppressor of Russia, I intended to set out on that long journey in search of the exile, now, alas! unknown by name, but only by number.
Drury struck me as a rather good fellow, and no doubt a gentleman. We halted together, and, when near the pier, he raised his hat and left us.
Before leaving Brighton I had yet much to do. I was not altogether satisfied concerning the young man, my object being to try and learn for myself something more tangible regarding him.
"Well," she asked, when he had gone, "what is your verdict, Uncle Colin?"
"Favourable," I replied, whereat she smiled in gratification.
An hour later I succeeded in obtaining a short confidential chat with the hall-porter of the Royal York Hotel, whom I found quite ready to a.s.sist me. As I had suspected, Dmitri had failed and formed utterly wrong conclusions, because of his lack of fluent English. It is always extremely difficult for a foreigner to obtain confidential information in England.
The hall-porter, however, told me that their visitor was well-known to them, and had frequently stayed there for several months at a time. He had, he believed, formerly lived with his invalid mother at Eastbourne.
But the lady had died, and he had then gone to live in bachelor chambers in London. From the bureau of the hotel he obtained the address, scribbled on a bit of paper--an address in Albemarle Street, Piccadilly, to which letters were sometimes re-directed.
"And he has a friend--a doctor--hasn"t he?" I asked the man.
"Oh, yes, sir. You mean Doctor Ingram. He was down here with him the other day."
Having obtained all the information I could, I telegraphed to Hartwig at the Savoy Hotel, asking him to make inquiries at Albemarle Street and then to come to Brighton immediately, for I dared not leave until I could place my little madcap charge in safe hands. I knew not into what mischief she might get so soon as my back was turned.
That afternoon we strolled together across the Lawns, and presently sat down to listen to the military band.
She looked extremely neat in her dead-black gown, which, by its cut and material, bore the unmistakable _cachet_ of the Rue de la Paix, and as we pa.s.sed up and down I saw many a head turned in her direction in admiration of her remarkable beauty. Little did that crowd of seaside idlers dream that this extremely pretty girl in black who was so much of a mystery to everybody was a member of the great Imperial House of Russia. She was believed to be Miss Gottorp, whose father had been German and her mother English, both of whom were recently dead.
Seeing her so often walking with me, everyone, of course, put me down as the lucky man to whom she was engaged to be married, and I have little doubt that many a young man envied me. How strange is the world!
When in a tantalising mood she often referred to that popular belief, and that afternoon, while we rested upon two of the green chairs set apart from the others on the Lawn, she said:
"I"m quite sure that everybody in Hove is convinced that I am to be Mrs Trewinnard;" and then, referring to her English maid, she added: "Davey has heard it half a dozen times already."
I laughed merrily, saying:
"Well, that"s only to be expected, I suppose. But what about Drury-- eh?"
"They don"t see very much of d.i.c.k. We only meet at night," she laughed, poking the gra.s.s with her sunshade.
"And that you really must not do in future," I said firmly.
"Then I can go about with him in the daytime--eh?" she asked, looking up imploringly into my face.
"My dear child," I said, "though I do not approve of it, yet how can I debar you from any little flirtation, even though the Emperor would, I know, be extremely angry if it came to his ears?"
"But it won"t. I"m sure it won"t, Uncle Colin, through you. You are such a funny old dear."
"Well," I said reluctantly, "for my own part I would much prefer that you invited your gentleman friend to the house, where Miss West could at least play propriety. But only now and then--for recollect one fact always, that you and he can never marry, however fond you may be of each other. It is that one single fact which causes me pain."
Her hard gaze was fixed upon the broad expanse of blue sea before her.
I saw how grave she had suddenly become, and that in her great dark eyes stood unshed tears.
Her chest heaved slowly and fell. She was filled with emotion which she bravely repressed.
"Yes," she managed to murmur in a low whisper.
"It is too cruel. Because--"
"Because what?" I asked, in a sympathetic voice, bending towards her.
"Ah, don"t ask me, Uncle Colin!" she said bitterly, her welling eyes still fixed blankly upon the sea. "It is cruel because--because I love d.i.c.k," she whispered in open confession.