brass stamp had been cut. The theft of the document had been accomplished with a neatness that seemed almost miraculous; and if Dudley really had stolen it, he must have been a most adroit pickpocket. Nevertheless, even though his every action had now corroborated up to the hilt the suspicion that he was a spy, I could not, somehow, believe him capable of such crafty, nay devilish, deception. Friends that we were, I could have trusted him with any secret, or with any of my possessions; but these revelations startled and amazed me.
Still there was a more remarkable and puzzling phase of the mystery. If Ella’s fears were well grounded, why had he been murdered, and by whom?
The mysterious secret possessed by the woman I adored, the woman who held me under the spell of her marvellous beauty, was of a tragic and terrible nature, I felt assured. No doubt it had some connection with Dudley’s death, and that sinister circumstance, once elucidated, would, I knew, furnish a very valuable clue to the identity of the spy, if perchance the innocence of my companion should be established, as I hoped it might be.
There was still one fact, too, that required explanation, one that seemed to prove conclusively that Dudley was in the pay of our enemies. I had found, on looking over his possessions in our cottage at Shepperton, some pieces of crumpled foolscap. He had evidently intended to throw them away, but being unable to get rid of them at the moment, had placed them in a drawer and locked them up. On smoothing them out, I found another piece of paper inside. To my astonishment I saw it was a letter written by me, while the pieces of foolscap accompanying it were covered with words and sentences in ink and pencil, showing how carefully he had studied and copied all the characteristics of my handwriting. These papers were, in themselves, sufficient evidence that he had practised the forger’s art.
I had, after leaving Staines, returned straight to Shepperton, and in company with a detective carefully investigated all my friend’s belongings. We spent the afternoon and evening in reading through heaps of letters, but discovered nothing that would lead to any suspicion of foul play. The detective made notes of one or two of the addresses of the writers, and took charge of several letters relating to money matters. When, however, we had removed all the correspondence from the small wooden box in which it had been kept, the detective ascertained that there was a false bottom, and unable to find out the secret whereby it might be opened, we forced it with a chisel.
At first we were disappointed, only one insignificant-looking paper being therein concealed, but when the officer eagerly opened it I at once recognised its extreme importance, although I preserved silence. The paper was nothing less than a Russian passport of a special character signed by the Chief of Secret Police in St Petersburg, and countersigned by the Minister of the Interior himself. It was not a formally printed document, but written in Russian upon official paper stamped with the double-headed eagle. It was made out in the name of Dudley Ogle, and after explaining that he was an official engaged on secret service, gave him complete immunity from arrest within the Russian Empire.
“What’s this, I wonder?” the detective said, puzzled by the unfamiliar characters in the writing.
Taking it from him I glanced through it, and without betraying the slightest surprise, answered, “Merely a passport for Russia.”
“That doesn’t lead us to anything,” he replied, taking it from my form, glancing at it again for an instant, and tossing it back carelessly into the box.
But when he had completed his investigations, removed whatever letters and papers he thought might be of use and departed, I secured the passport and the crumpled foolscap, and giving Juckes orders to remove my belongings back to London and give up possession of the cottage, I returned to Rossetti Mansions.
With these undeniable evidences of Ogle’s activity as a spy, I was sitting alone next morning pondering over the best course to pursue, at last resolving to go to the Foreign Office and boldly place the startling facts before Lord Warnham.
About noon I knocked at the door of the Minister’s private room, and received, in his deep, hoarse voice, permission to enter. He was alone, seated at his big writing-table, engrossed in a long, closely-written document he was studying.
“Well, sir,” he exclaimed, with an expression of displeasure when he saw me, “to what, pray, do I owe this intrusion?”
“I have come,” I said, “to clear myself of the charge you have made against me.”
“To clear yourself! Bah!” he cried in disgust, returning to his papers. “My time is too valuable for further discussion,” and he made a movement to ring the bell for a messenger to conduct me out.
But I placed my hand upon his bony fingers firmly, and stayed it, saying, —
“It is to your interest, Lord Warnham, as well as to my own, that you should know the truth.”
“A traitor who will sell his country’s honour is capable of any falsehood whereby to justify himself,” he snapped savagely.
“I am no traitor,” I protested in anger.
His thin, white face relaxed into a bitterly sarcastic smile, and his lip curled in withering contempt.
“The efforts of ten years’ delicate diplomacy with Berlin have been rendered futile by your treachery or culpable negligence. Now you come to me with some lame, paltry tale or other, in an endeavour to convince me that you are neither thief nor spy! Each word of yours only aggravates your offence. I have dismissed you, and I tell you I decline to reopen the question.”
“But you have accused me of a crime, and I demand to be judged,” I cried.
“I have already judged you,” he said, after a pause, laying down his pen with a sudden calmness, and fixing his grey eyes keenly upon me.
“Yes, falsely.”
“You have come to me to prove that I have misjudged you,” he said at last, leaning back in his chair. “Very well. Let me hear your story.”
“I have no story further than what I have already told you,” I answered. “You have made a charge against me; I have come to you to refute it.”
“By what means?”
“By documentary evidence.”
“Documentary evidence!” he exclaimed. “Of what kind?”
“You will remember that I told you of the death of the only man who could speak regarding my absence from the office and my return.”
“Yes. He died mysteriously. The inquest was held yesterday;” and, taking up a letter from his table, the Earl added, “They report from Scotland Yard that an open verdict was returned, although one witness, a woman, alleged murder. Well, what was the allegation? Against yourself?” he asked, raising his grey, shaggy brows.
“No,” I said with emphasis. “I am not a murderer.”
“Then why did this woman – what’s her name? – Ella Laing,” he said, referring to the letter, “why did she allege foul play?”
“I cannot tell; but all the facts I have ascertained point to the same conclusion, although the medical evidence negatived any such suggestion.”
“Then what is your contention?”
“That the man who was my friend was a spy,” I said.
“You would shift the responsibility upon one who, being dead, can tell us nothing,” he said in a tone of reproachful contempt. “I suspected this. It was but what might have been expected.”
“But I have evidence indisputable that he was a spy,” I exclaimed excitedly. “Read this,” and I handed to him Dudley’s passport.
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