has recommended you to me, and not from any fear of your threats or the police."
"Then," gasped Iván, who was beginning to realise that the Jew was telling the truth, and the candlesticks were really out of his reach once more, "those candlesticks are sold?"
"To a Mr. James Hudson, of 108, Curzon Street, Mayfair, a great collector of antiquities and great connoisseur. You may probably have heard of him. No? Well, I sent him those candlesticks to look at yesterday, knowing well that if he saw them, he would take a fancy to them. They were very beautiful things, sir, and if you happen to have anything more of the same class of goods I shall be very happy –– "
"To the point, man. For God's sake, tell me, did he buy them?"
"He did, sir," said Isaac Davies, nettled at this curious customer's impatience. "I knew he would. What is the next thing I can do for you, sir? Nothing? Good morning, sir."
And seeing another client entering his shop, Isaac Davies turned on his heel and took no further notice of poor Volenski, annihilated by this last most cruel blow of all. Ill-luck was, indeed, pursuing him. Every now and then a ray of hope would pierce the darkness of his misery, only to be again dimmed by some terrible difficulty, each of which seemed more insurmountable than the last.
The unfortunate young man was coming to the end of his endurance, and for one brief moment, as he reeled out of Davies' shop, the idea crossed his mind of ending all this misery, once for all, by throwing himself underneath the first omnibus that passed; but it was only for a brief moment, the next he had realised that his death now, at this point, would mean hopeless, irretrievable ruin to his friends and comrades–all the more so as they would be unaware of their danger, completely ignorant, as they were, of the loss of the compromising papers. It was still on his coolness, his pluck, and perseverance that hung the lives of his comrades, and he determined to make one more effort to save them. "The last," he thought hopefully.
His plans now would have to be more complicated, and Volenski gathered all his faculties together for the laying of these plans. He had almost mechanically walked out of the Jew's shop, and, still unconsciously, was turning his footsteps towards Curzon Street. One thing was certain, he must see Mr. James Hudson–any pretext would serve for that–he would think of one later on. What he must think out at once was, what he should say to Mr. James Hudson when he did see him. He knew him well by reputation. He was a man of boundless wealth and boundless eccentricities, generous to a fault, and had been a great favourite with the ladies in Prince Albert's days. No doubt he was a gentleman, and if –– Yes, that was it. The whole interview flashed before his fevered brain as if he saw it on a stage.
Characters: The courteous, benevolent old gentleman, a sort of modern Bayard–Mr. James Hudson. The young man with a past that involved a lady's honour–himself. Scene: A drawing-room in Curzon Street, Mayfair.
The young man with a past: "Sir, you hold in your hands the honour of a lady. Will you give me back the letter?"
Courteous old gentleman: "The letter, sir–what letter?"
The Y.M.W.P.: "It lies concealed in yon candlestick that adorns your mantlepiece. Sir, years ago we were foolish; we sinned, she and I. Having no means of approaching each other, we used the graceful toys as love's letter-box. One of those letters–hers–was forgotten, there–she is now married–I am married–we are all married, but you, sir, hold the candlesticks–you hold her fate! Will you give me back the letter?'
Courteous old gentleman: "Sir, pray take it–it is yours!" Tableau.
There is no doubt that, at this stage, poor Volenski's dreams had become the wanderings almost of a lunatic; his agitated manner, his wild, excited gestures attracted the attention of the passers-by.
He made a violent effort at self-control, and having arrived at No. 108, Curzon Street, rang the bell, and asked for the footman who opened the door whether Mr. James Hudson was at home.
The elegant specimen in knee-breeches, silk stockings, and powdered hair looked down at him from the majestic height of his six feet odd inches, and asked, in what seemed to Volenski very astonished tones:
"Mr. Hudson, sir?"
"Yes; will you please give him my card, and tell him I desire to speak with him at once?"
"Sorry I can't take the card, sir," said the footman gravely, and he added in solemn tones, "Mr. James 'Udson died, sir, this morning, suddenly, at 'alf-past two; death bein' due to hapoplexy, sir. 'E will be buried hat 'Ighgate cemetary on Thursday, sir, at eleven o'clock: no flowers, by request. The 'ousekeeper will see you, sir, if it is himportant."
The voice sounded to Volenski as if it came from very far away–so far, in fact, that it had ceased to have an earthly sound. The man's face began to dance before his eyes, then to whirl past him at terrific velocity, as did the house, the furniture, the windows. He had only just sufficient strength to tell the man to call him a cab, to get into it, shouting to the driver to take him to Charing Cross Terminus Hotel. After that his senses mercifully left him for a time; the poor, tired brain refused to grasp this last calamity, the failure of this last hope. Volenski never remembers how he got to his room at the hotel, or what happened for the next few days, as complete nervous prostration followed the intense mental and physical tension.
The people of the hotel sent for a doctor, who, under the circumstances, felt justified in opening Volenski's pocket-book, and, seeing it well filled with bank-notes and drafts, ordered a couple of hospital nurses and everything else that was needful, which was chiefly absolute quiet and rest.
Chapter XIV
While their comrade was undergoing the various vicissitudes into which his over-anxious zeal had led him, the members of the Socialist brotherhood in Vienna had been going through a very bitter time of anxiety and dread for the future.
A week had now elapsed since Iván Volenski should have, according to his own statement, left Vienna for Petersburg with the papers entrusted to him, and up to this day no message had come from him.
He had promised to give them some definite news of himself as soon as he had reached Petersburg. If all had been well he should have been there three days ago, and must by now have given the papers over to Taranïew. Why, then, did he not wire, or give some account of himself, to reassure them at least that he and the fateful papers were safe?
The night before they had met in their committee-room in the Franzgasse, and it had been a gloomy and agitated meeting. The conviction had first begun to take root in their minds that the usual fate had overtaken their daring messenger, and that after this any day, at any hour, the crushing blow might fall upon them all.
Once their papers were in the hands of the Third Section, probably not one of them could hope to escape. And what was more galling, more bitter even than the fear of death, was the fact that their plot, so magnificently planned, so daringly carried out, would end but in their own perdition, with nothing gained save a gang of convicts tramping to Siberia.
Unless ––
Yes! there was an "unless," a grim and great alternative that, in spite of the president's almost entreating speeches, in spite of the better, more fined nature in most of them, had gradually but surely forced itself upon their minds. Mirkovitch had put it to them five days ago, when flushed with their triumphs they thought of nothing but the great ends they could gain by
