When the clock chimed ten Ted rose, and addressing Nugent, said: “You must excuse me, old fellow, but I’ve an engagement which I must keep. Sorry to have to leave you so early, but it’s a matter of rather urgent business.”
“Oh, no. Stay another hour; the evening’s young yet,” urged Demetrius.
“Very sorry; but I cannot.”
“Put off your engagement till to-morrow,” I suggested, but he made no reply, affecting not to have heard me.
“Well, if you must go, au revoir,” Bob said, offering his hand. “I’m here every evening, so I hope you’ll often drop in, now you have returned to civilisation.”
“Thanks, I shall be glad to accept your hospitality until I can be re-elected a member.”
He shook hands with Demetrius, but only placed the tips of his fingers in my hand, withdrawing them as if he were touching some unclean thing.
Without wishing me good-night, he departed.
An hour afterwards I returned to the hotel in deep soliloquy, wondering what this latest development meant. What connection could Rivers have with the murder of the woman whose photograph I had in my pocket?
Why did he start on seeing the picture, and afterwards deny all knowledge of its original? Why did he eye me so suspiciously?
Was he the murderer of the dead man’s wife, the unfortunate Nell, who was found killed by an unknown hand, on the night after my return from Russia?
Deeply exercised in mind over this increased complication, I sat in my room until the small hours, then – heartily sick of it all – I sought repose.
Chapter Twenty Four
Doubts and Fears
“You seemed so out of sorts last night, Frank, old chap, that I thought I’d just drop in and see whether you could be cheered up a bit.”
“You’re very kind, Bob,” I said, cracking a matutinal egg, for I was breakfasting; “I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than being out of sorts just now.”
Bob laid his hand kindly upon my shoulder, exclaiming earnestly, —
“That’s exactly what I expected. You and I used to be old chums – now, is it so private that you can’t confide in me, and let me see what I can do, if anything?”
“The fact is I’m just desperate, and don’t know which way to turn for the best,” was my answer, with a savage curse to myself.
“Look here, Frank, remember that I am speaking seriously. In the old days we had many a ‘spree’ together – to use a colloquialism – and perhaps our actions, judged from a high standard of morality, were not all they might have been. You know very well that I’ve never pretended to be a saint, and that I never preach because I can’t be such a confounded hypocrite as to rail at others for being as foolish as myself – and – and you’ll believe, I hope, that I’m sincere in saying this – that you are doing yourself an injustice, and Vera also, if there’s any truth in what we teased you about last night.”
Never had I seen Bob so much in earnest before, and certainly he had never made such a speech in this life. Dear old Bob, he was a right good fellow at heart, after all!
“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, although there was an uneasy consciousness that I was to blame.
“Why, to speak plainly, if you have married Vera, and love her, you should not carry another woman’s photograph. You should not leave your wife at Elveham. You know what I mean, well enough.”
A light dawned upon me. Bob thought the picture was that of some courtesan!
“Confound it all, old fellow, you jump to conclusions too readily,” I replied, with justifiable warmth.
“Well, what does it mean, then?” he asked, adding, “I don’t wish to pry into your secrets, but you’ll excuse me endeavouring, even just a little, to pull you up when you seem off the straight line. I should thank any one for doing so for me, if they meant it honestly.”
“I’m sure you would, Bob. This, I may tell you, is simply a little tiff which Vera and I have had, owing – oh, well, perhaps that’s sufficient.”
“I see. You don’t care to confide in me, therefore as I’ve business waiting for me, I’ll wish you good-bye,” he said, rather sadly, rising and extending his hand.
“Sit down, Bob, and don’t make a fool of yourself. How can I explain to you what I don’t myself understand? Answer me that, my Christian moraliser.”
“Then it has to do with her secret, eh? Have you never fathomed that yet?” he asked, eagerly, sinking into his chair again.
“What the devil do you know of her secret?” I demanded, in intense surprise. “How did you know there was one in connection with her?”
“Partly from my own observation, and partly from what I picked up after you left Genoa so suddenly. At that time I did not know you were going to marry her, or possibly I should not have been so inquisitive,” he replied rather disinterestedly.
“Then perhaps you can solve some of these mysteries that have puzzled me so long? Come, tell me everything about it, Bob, and you’ll do me an inestimable service. However it may be viewed, I strive to convince myself that Vera is not to blame. Don’t keep me in suspense – tell me at once, is that so?”
Here was the grand chance come at last. Now I should hear that for which my ears had been on the alert all these weary months.
Bob regarded me with a stare of curiosity, mingled with suspicion, and maintained silence for a few moments. Then he said, incredulously, —
“Is it possible there is anything unknown to you, save what we used to discuss when we first met your wife?”
“I’m absolutely ignorant of all save the fact that, with an infatuation for which I cannot account, I loved Vera and married her. I love her still, in spite of – Oh, I cannot go further! For Heaven’s sake tell me all you know now, at once, or I shall not retain my senses?”
Bob’s face was a study for a time. It apparently struck him that I was playing a part and wished to learn the depth of his knowledge regarding my wife. After a short pause, however, he continued, and imparted to me the first facts I had ever learned on this mysteriously-guarded point.
“Well, you see, after you left Genoa business compelled me to return. I was thrown on my own resources for a day or two, and during that period I made it a point to keep my ears open so as to catch anything I could regarding the mysterious fair one who had so interested us. Having a friend with me who was known at the police bureau it needed not a great deal of ingenuity to ascertain a few particulars. The first thing that came to light was the fact that old Hertzen, the grumbling uncle, was living under an assumed name.”
“Vera’s uncle! Was he – is he – not her uncle?” I exclaimed.
“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.