over the almost illegible letter, obviously written by a sick man, hardly able to hold the pen.
"For God's sake, read on," said the president, "there is not a moment to be lost."
"The most fatal conglomeration of mishaps" (continued Mirkovitch) "originally deprived me of them, at the very moment when I had placed them in what I considered absolute safety. Since that terrible hour all my energies have been spent in recovering them, for, although I have always known where they were, they always have by some almost diabolical coincidence evaded my grasp at the very moment when my hand was, so to speak, upon them. At last the strain on my brain shattered my health, and I have been thrown on a bed of sickness. Again I say, do not be alarmed. To the best of my belief no mortal eye has, as yet, rested upon our papers, and our secrets are still our own. But I am now too feeble to act alone; I must have help from one of you, and I may want a great deal of money. I dare not ask what happened in Vienna, if our comrades are free, if, not hearing from me, you have dared to act, or if Nicholas Alexandrovitch still remains a hostage. For God's sake, I beg of you, my friend, not to mistrust me, and, if possible, not to alarm our comrades unnecessarily. All is not lost yet, but I must have your help. Come as soon as you can. –Your friend and comrade,
Iván Stefanovitch Volenski.'"
Mirkovitch did not speak, made no comment; he crushed the letter in his hand, and there was a dark scowl on his face.
The president waited for a while, he knew the fanatic Russian's violent temper; he began to fear for his young sick friend, who already seemed to have suffered so much.
"I cannot go, unfortunately," he said at last, "and there is no one I could trust more completely than you, Mirkovitch."
"Oh! I will go, all right enough," said Mirkovitch, "and take the money, since money is wanted; but," he added fiercely, "let Iván look to himself if our papers fall into wrong hands."
"It was a blunder, at worst, I feel sure," said Lobkowitz; "Iván is no traitor, I pledge you my life as to that."
"I am not accusing him," rejoined the other impatiently, "but the trusted messenger of our brotherhood had no right to blunder."
"Well, we know very little so far; do not let us imagine the worst. He writes hopefully after all."
"I had better start to-night," said Mirkovitch. "Can you let me have the funds? He says much may be wanted; for bribery, I suppose."
"Come and see me at my house before you start, and I will have everything ready for you.… And.… Mirkovitch," he added, "do not condemn unheard. Remember, Iván is young, and has our cause just as much at heart as you have."
"Well, if he has, he certainly has it in a different way," said Mirkovitch as he shook the president's hand, and prepared to leave.
The latter sighed as he tried to read the Russian's thoughts through his deeply sunken eyes, tried to fathom if there lurked some danger there for his young friend. Then, half reassured, he gave Mirkovitch a parting handshake, and watched the old fanatic's figure slowly disappearing down the stairs.
Chapter XIX
"BY ORDER OF THE EXECUTORS OF THE LATE MR. JAMES HUDSON
"Messrs. Phillips and Phillips will sell on the premises the whole of the contents of the superb mansion known as 108, Curzon Street, Mayfair, consisting of antique and modern furniture, piano, china, glass, pictures, and a rare and valuable collection of antiquities, gold and silver plate, jewels, etc. The sale will take place on Thursday next, the 12th inst., at eleven o'clock precisely. To view, by cards only, the day prior to and morning of the sale. Cards from Messrs. Gideon, Eyre, and Blackwell, Solicitors, 97, Bedford Row, W.C., or from the Auctioneers."
It was some ten days since Volenski, stricken down by illness, had had enforced rest and captivity in a London hotel, and he now sat convalescent, yet still ailing, bodily and mentally, with that day's Times, containing the above announcement, in his hand.
He had now become almost accustomed to his ill-luck, which had been pursuing him so steadily without break or respite, landing him at last on a bed of sickness in a hotel–in a strange land, far from all his friends.
The long-enforced rest the doctor had prescribed for him had enabled him to collect his energies for a final struggle, which he knew was inevitable. Matters, he knew, could not remain as they were. The sacred trust that had been placed in his charge, and which he had so unwittingly betrayed into alien hands, must become his again, if at the cost of the last remnant of energy left in him after so protracted a struggle. Vainly, during the long hours of enforced idleness, he had tried to conjecture where the scene of his next battle would be laid, the decisive battle he would yet have to fight.
And there it was, announced in the columns of The Times. The scene would be an auction room, the battle one of money. He had written to Lobkowitz, asking for his help, and now was waiting anxiously to know what the president had decided to do. He believed that Lobkowitz would continue to trust him to the last, and hoped he would not find it necessary to ask the help and counsel of some more determined members of the committee. Volenski felt that they would never forgive, and look upon his blunder as twin-brother to a crime.
In the midst of his reflections the waiter interrupted him, telling him that a gentleman, a foreigner, desired to speak with him.
"Show him up at once," said Volenski eagerly.
He hoped it would be Lobkowitz, longed to grasp his old friend's hand, tell him all he had suffered, and revel in his sympathy. But it was Mirkovitch, sullen, grim, half menacing, who refused to take his hand, and would not sit, but stood firm and silent till Iván had explained, had told him all.
And it was to this stern judge, this man whose unerring hand would inevitably punish the guilty, if guilt there be, that Iván Volenski had to tell the history of his relentless fate.
He told him of the Cardinal's mission, of the Emperor's candlesticks, with the mysterious, hidden receptacles, into which, believing he was acting for the best, he had hidden the compromising papers. Then of the Cardinal's sudden caprice in entrusting these candlesticks into the hands of a friend–a lady. He told him of the robbery at Oderberg, the escape of the thief, his own cautious interview with the chief of the police. He described his fruitless search in Grete Ottlinger's room, his loathsome experience with the coarse woman in the "Kaiser Franz," his interview with Grünebaum, his journey to London, then his visit to Davies; all fruitless, all leading to more disappointments, more hopeless entanglements. Then finally and, worst of all, the crushing of all his hopes at the door of Mr. James Hudson, who, by some fatality in which the superstitious Pole saw the hand of diabolical agency, had died suddenly that very night.
Mirkovitch had listened attentively and silently through this long narrative of misery and struggle. A kinder look had perhaps replaced the habitual grimness of his face, and when Iván paused at last exhausted he drew a chair near the sick man's couch, and said almost gently:
"My poor friend, you must have suffered much."
Iván thanked him with a look, and eagerly grasped the hand the old Socialist now held out towards him.
"I suppose you are quite aware where you committed the great, the only real fault in all this long history of misfortune?" said Mirkovitch at last, still quite kindly.
"You mean that I did not communicate with either Lobkowitz or yourself the moment those candlesticks passed out of my possession?"
Mirkovitch assented.
"Remember, I gathered from the Cardinal's speech that the lady had never touched the one which contained our papers. It was damaged, and in his Eminence's own presence she had packed it up and placed it on one side."
"I noticed, Iván, that you have not told me the name of the lady who had charge of the Emperor's candlesticks, and therefore like yourself has some right to claim them?"
Volenski