The Price of Power Part 17

Then next moment he was lost in the darkness.

"Do you know that man?" asked my companion suddenly.

"No. Why?"

"I don't know," she answered. "I fancy I've seen him somewhere or other before. He looked like a Russian."

That was just my own thought at that moment, and I wondered if Oleg, who was lurking near, had noticed him.

"Yes," I said. "But I don't recollect ever having seen him before. I wonder who he is? Let's turn back."

We did so, but though we hastened our steps, we did not find him. He had, it seemed, already left the pier. Apparently he believed that he had been recognised.

Once again we repa.s.sed Drury and his friend just as the theatre disgorged its crowd of homeward-bound pleasure-seekers.

We were walking in the same direction, Oleg following at a respectable distance, and I was enabled to obtain a good look at him, for, as though in wonder as to whom I could be, he turned several times to eye me, with some little indignation, I thought.

I judged him to be about twenty-five, over six feet in height, athletic and wiry, with handsome, clear-cut, clean-shaven features and a pair of sharp, dark, alert eyes, which told of an active outdoor life. His face was a refined one, his gait easy and swinging, and both in dress and manner he betrayed the gentleman.

Truth to tell, though I did not admit it to Natalia, I became very favourably impressed by him. By his exterior he seemed to be a well-set-up, sportsmanlike young fellow, who might, perhaps, belong to one of the Suss.e.x county families.

His friend the doctor was of quite a different type, a short, fair-haired man in gold-rimmed spectacles, whose face was somewhat unattractive, though it bore an expression of studiousness and professional knowledge. He certainly had the appearance of a doctor.

But before I went farther I resolved to make searching inquiry unto the antecedents of this mysterious d.i.c.k Drury.

The walk in the moonlight along the broad promenade towards Hove was delightful. I begged Her Highness to drive, but she preferred to walk; the autumn night was so perfect, she said.

As we strolled along, she suddenly exclaimed:

"I can't help recalling that man we saw on the pier. I remember now! I met him about a week ago, when I was shopping in Western Road, and he followed me for quite a distance. He was then much better dressed."

"You believe, then, he is a Russian?" I asked quickly.

"I feel certain he is."

"But you were not alone--Oleg was out with you, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes," she laughed. "He never leaves me. I only wish he would sometimes. I hate to be spied upon like this. Either Dmitri or Oleg is always with me."

"It is highly necessary," I declared. "Recollect the fate of your poor father."

"But why should the revolutionists wish to harm me--a girl?" she asked.

"My own idea is that they're not half as black as they're painted."

I did not reveal to her the serious facts which I had recently learnt.

"Did you make any mention to Oleg of the man following you?"

"No, it never occurred to me. But there, I suppose, he only followed me, just as other men seem sometimes to follow me--to look into my face."

"You are used to admiration," I said, "and therefore take no notice of it. Pretty women so soon become blase."

"Oh! So you denounce me as blase--eh, Uncle Colin?" she cried, just as we arrived before the door in Brunswick Square. "That is the latest! I really don't think it fair to criticise me so constantly," and she pouted.

Then she gave me her little gloved hand, and I bent over it as I wished her good-night.

I wished to question Oleg regarding the man we had seen, but I could not do so before her.

I turned back along the promenade, and was walking leisurely towards the "Metropole," when suddenly from out of the shadow of one of the gla.s.s-part.i.tioned shelters the dark figure of a man emerged, and I heard my name p.r.o.nounced.

It was the ubiquitous Hartwig, wearing his gold pince-nez. As was his habit, he sprang from nowhere. I had clapped my hand instinctively upon my revolver, but withdrew it instantly.

"Good evening, Mr Trewinnard," he said. "I've met you here as I don't want to be seen at the `Metropole' to-night. I have travelled straight through from Petersburg here. I landed at Dover this afternoon, went up to Victoria, and down here. I arrived at eight o'clock, but learning that Her Highness was dining with you, I waited until you left her. It is perhaps as well that I am here," he added.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I've been on the pier with you to-night," was the reply of the chief of the detective department of Russia, "and I have seen how closely you have been watched by a person whom even Oleg Lobko, usually so well-informed, does not suspect--a person who is extremely dangerous.

I do not wish to alarm you, Mr Trewinnard," he added in a low voice, "but I heard in Petersburg that something is intended here in Brighton, and the Emperor sent me post-haste to you."

"Who is this person who has been watching us?" I asked eagerly. "I noticed him."

"Oleg doesn't know him, but I do. I have had certain suspicions, and only five days ago I made a discovery in Petersburg--an amazing discovery--which confirmed my apprehensions. The man who has been watching you with distinctly evil intent is a most notorious and evasive character named Danilo Danilovitch."

"Danilovitch!" I cried. "I know him, but I did not recognise him to-night. His appearance has so changed."

"Yes, it has. But I have been watching him all the evening. He returned by the midnight train to London."

"I can tell you where he is in hiding," I said.

"You can!" he cried. "Excellent! Then we will both go and pay him a surprise call to-morrow. There is danger--a grave and imminent danger-- for both Her Highness and yourself; therefore it must be removed. There is peril in the present situation--a distinct peril which I had never suspected. A disaster may happen at any moment if we are not wary and watchful. And there's another important point, Mr Trewinnard," added the great detective; "do you happen to know a tall, thin, sharp-featured young man called Richard Drury?"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE CATSPAW.

Just as the dusk had deepened into grey on the following evening I alighted from a tram in the Lower Clapton Road, and, accompanied by Hartwig, we turned up a long thoroughfare of uniform houses, called Powerscroft Road, until we reached Blurton Road, where, nearly opposite the Mission House, we found the house of which we were in search.

Hartwig had altered his appearance wonderfully, and looked more like a Devonshire farmer up in London on holiday than the shrewd, astute head of the Surete of the Russian Empire. As for myself, I had a.s.sumed a very old suit and wore a shabby hat.

The drab, dismal house, which we pa.s.sed casually in order to inspect, was dingy and forbidding, with curtains that were faded with smoke and dirt, holland blinds once yellow, but the ends of which were now dark and stained, and windows which had not been cleaned for years, while the front door was faded and blistered and some of the tops of the iron railings in front had been broken off. The steps leading to the front door had not been hearthstoned as were those of its neighbour, while in the area were bits of wastepaper, straw, and the flotsam and jetsam of the noisy, overcrowded street.

Unkempt children were romping or playing hopscotch on the pavement, while some were skipping and others playing football in the centre of the road--all pupils of the great County Council Schools in the vicinity.

At both the bas.e.m.e.nt window and that of the room above--the front parlour--were short blinds of dirty muslin, so that to see within while pa.s.sing was impossible. In that particular it differed in no way from some of its neighbours; for in those parts front parlours are often turned into bedrooms, and a separate family occupies every floor. Only one fact was apparent--that it was the dirtiest and most neglected house in the whole of that working-cla.s.s road, bordering upon the Hackney Marsh.

To me that district was as unfamiliar as were the wilds of the Sahara.

Indeed, to the average Londoner Lower Clapton is a mere legendary district, the existence of which is only recorded by the name written upon tramcars and omnibuses.

Together we strolled to the bottom of Blurton Road, to where Glyn Road crosses it at right angles, and then we stopped to discuss our plans.