The Price of Power Part 40

Four eager anxious days I spent on that never-ending journey between the Neva and the Channel. At Berlin, on calling at the hotel, I received no word from him, only when I entered the St James's Club at five o'clock on the afternoon of my arrival at Charing Cross did I find him awaiting me.

"Well," I asked anxiously, as I entered the square hall of the club, "what news?"

"She's alive," he said. "She saw your advertis.e.m.e.nt and has replied!"

"Thank heaven!" I gasped. "Where is she?"

"Here is the address," and he drew from his pocket-book a slip of paper, with the words written in Natalia's own hand: "Miss Stebbing, Glendevon House, Lochearnhead, Perthshire." And with it he handed the note which had come to the club and which he had opened--a few brief words merely enclosing her address and telling me to exercise the greatest caution in approaching her. "I have been watched by very suspicious persons," she added, "and so I am in hiding here. When you can come, do so. I am extremely anxious to see you."

"What do you make of that?" I asked the famous police official.

"That she scented danger and escaped," he replied. "My first intention was to go up to Scotland to see her, but on reflection I thought, sir, that you might prefer to go alone."

"I do. I shall leave Euston by the mail to-night and shall be there to-morrow morning. She has, I see a.s.sumed another name."

"Yes, and she has certainly gone to an outlandish spot where no one would have thought of searching for her."

"Drury suggested it, without a doubt. He knows Scotland so well," I said.

Therefore yet another night I spent in a sleeping-car between Euston and Perth, eating scones for breakfast in the Station Hotel at the latter place, and leaving an hour later by way of Crieff and St Fillans, to the beautiful bank of Loch Earn, lying calm and blue in the spring sunshine.

At the farther end of the loch the train halted at the tiny station of Lochearnhead, a small collection of houses at the end of the picturesque little lake, where the green wooded banks sloped to the water's edge.

Quiet, secluded, and far from the bustle of town or city it was. I found a rural little lake-side village, with a post-office and general shop combined, and a few charming old-world cottages inhabited by st.u.r.dy, homely Scottish folk.

Of a brown-whiskered shepherd pa.s.sing near the station I inquired for Glendevon House, whereupon he pointed to a big white country mansion high upon the hill-side, commanding a wide view across the loch and surrounding hills; a house hemmed in by tall firs, fresh in their bright spring green.

A quarter of an hour later, having climbed the winding road leading to it, I entered the long drive flanked by rhododendrons, and was approaching the house when, across the lawn a slim female figure, in a white cotton gown, with a crimson flower in the corsage, came flying toward me, crying:

"Uncle Colin! Uncle Colin! At last!"

And a moment later Natalia wrung my hand warmly, her cheeks flushed with pleasure at our encounter.

"Whatever is the meaning of this latest escapade?" I asked. "You've given everybody a pretty fright, I can tell you."

"I know, Uncle Colin. But you'll forgive me, won't you? Say you do,"

she urged.

"I can't before I know what has really happened."

"Let's go over to that seat," she suggested, pointing to a rustic bench set invitingly on the lawn beneath a spreading oak, "and I'll tell you everything."

Then as we walked across the lawn she regarded me critically and said: "How thin you are! How very travel-worn you look!"

"Ah!" I sighed. "I've been a good many thousand miles since last I saw Your Highness."

"I know. And how is poor Marya? You found her, of course."

"Alas!" I said in a low voice, "I did not. My journey was of no avail.

She died a few hours before my arrival in Yakutsk!"

"Died in Yakutsk," she echoed in a hoa.r.s.e whisper halting and looking at me. "Poor Marya dead! And Luba?"

"Luba is well, but still in prison."

"Dead!" repeated the girl, speaking to herself, "and so your long winter journey was all in vain!"

"Utterly useless," I said. "Then, on returning to London a fortnight ago, I learned that you had mysteriously disappeared. I have been back to Petersburg and informed the Emperor."

"And what did he say? Was he at all anxious?" she asked quickly.

"It is known that Drury has also disappeared, and therefore His Majesty believes that you have fled together."

"So we did, but it was not an elopement. No, dear old Uncle Colin, you needn't be horribly scandalised. Mrs Holbrook, the owner of this place, is d.i.c.k's aunt, and he brought me here so that I might hide from my enemies."

"Then where is he?"

"Staying at the hotel over at St Fillans, at the other end of the loch, under the name of Gregory. Fortunately his aunt has only recently bought this place, so he has never been here before. She is extremely kind to me."

"Then you often see Drury--eh?"

"Oh, yes, we spend each day together. d.i.c.k comes over by the eleven o'clock train. It is such fun--much better than Brighton."

"But the London police are searching everywhere for you both," I said.

"This is a long way from London," she replied with a bright laugh; "they are not likely to find us, nor are those bitter enemies of ours."

"What enemies?"

"The revolutionists. There is a desperate plot against me. Of that I am absolutely convinced," she said as she sank upon the rustic garden seat beneath the tree. The sunny view over loch and woodland was delightful, and the pretty garden and fir wood surrounding were full of birds singing their morning song.

"But you told neither Hartwig nor Dmitri of your fears," I remarked.

"Why not?" and I looked straight into her beautiful face, lit by the brilliant sunshine.

"Well, I will tell you, Uncle Colin," she said, leaning back, putting her neat little brown shoe forth from the hem of her white gown, and folding her bare arms as she turned to me. "d.i.c.k one day discovered that wherever we went we were followed by Dmitri, and, as you may imagine, I had considerable difficulty in explaining his constant presence. But d.i.c.k loves me, and hence believes every word I tell him.

He--"

"I know, you little minx," I interrupted reprovingly, "you've bewitched him. I only fear lest your mutual love may lead to unhappiness."

"That's just it. I don't know exactly what will happen when he learns who I really am."

"He must be told very soon," I said; "but go on, explain what happened."

"Ah! no," cried the girl in quick alarm; "you must not tell him. He must not know. If so, it means our parting, and--and--" she faltered, her big, expressive eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Well--you know, Uncle Colin--you know how fondly I love d.i.c.k."

"Yes, I know, my child," I sighed. "But continue, tell me all about your disappearance and its motive." Now that I had found her I saw to what desperate straights Markoff must be reduced. He had, after all, no knowledge of her whereabouts.

"It was like this," she said. "One evening we had walked along the cliffs to Rottingdean together. Dmitri had not followed us, or else he had missed us before we left Brighton. But just as we were coming down the hill, after pa.s.sing that big girls' college, d.i.c.k noticed that we were being followed by a man, who he decided was a foreigner. He was, I saw, a thin-faced man with a black moustache and deeply-furrowed brow, and then I recognised him as a man whom I had seen on several previous occasions. I recollected that he followed us that night on the pier when you first saw d.i.c.k walking with Doctor Ingram."

"A man of middle height, undoubtedly a Russian," I cried. "I remember him distinctly. His name is Danilo Danilovitch--a most dangerous person."