Part 35 (1/2)

To that criticism it is no part of my purpose to attempt any reply.

In the long run, I have found, men's minds are not much affected by argument and advocacy. Facts tell their own story, and men's judgments are usually the result of their personal prejudices.

For that reason I shall confine myself to relating facts. I have already told the story of my murder--for such it was in the intent--by Petrovitch. I shall now tell the story of the justice meted out by me on the a.s.sa.s.sin.

As soon as I was safely lodged in my house on the Alexander Quay, I despatched my a.s.sistant, a clever young Frenchman named Breuil, with a message to the promoter of the Manchurian Syndicate--the real moving spirit of that War clique in which even the bellicose grand dukes had only secondary parts.

The wording of the message had been carefully calculated to arouse curiosity, but not apprehension.

”The agent of a foreign Power,” Breuil was instructed to say to this self-styled patriot, ”with very large funds at his disposal, desires to see you in strict secrecy.”

The bait took. Petrovitch, naturally concluding that he was to be offered a heavy bribe for some act of treachery to Russia, greedily accepted the invitation.

The infatuated man did not take even the ordinary precaution of asking for guarantees. He consented to accompany Breuil at once, merely asking how far he had to go. This recklessness was the result of his supposed triumphant crime. Believing that I was safely interred in the English cemetery, he thought there was no one left for him to fear.

On the way he did his best to extract some information out of my a.s.sistant. But Breuil returned the same answer to all his questions and hints:

”I am under orders not to converse with you, monsieur.”

The doomed man was in good spirits as the droshky put him down at the door of my house.

”Decidedly an out-of-the-way retreat!” he commented gaily. ”I should hardly be able to find my way here again without your a.s.sistance!”

The silent Breuil merely bowed, as he proceeded to open the street door with a latch key.

Perhaps Petrovitch had been a little more nervous than he allowed to appear. When he noticed that his escort simply closed the door on the latch, without locking or bolting it further, he said in a tone of relief:

”You are not much afraid of being visited by the police, I see.”

Breuil, as silent as ever, led the way into a back parlor, overlooking the Neva, where I was waiting to receive my visitor.

The room was plainly furnished as a study, and I had placed myself in an arm-chair facing the window, so that my back was turned to the door as Petrovitch entered.

I pretended to be writing furiously, as a pretext for not turning my head till the visitor had seated himself.

Breuil said quietly, ”M. Petrovitch is here,” and went out of the room.

As the door closed I tossed away my pen and turned around, facing my a.s.sa.s.sin.

”I am pleased to see you, M. Petrovitch.”

”Monsieur V----!”

I thought he would have lost his senses. His whole countenance changed. He clung to his chair, and his eyes were fixed on me with an expression of panic.

So complete was his collapse that he did not attempt to speak or excuse himself. I saw that he was hardly in a condition to listen to anything I had to say.

”I fear you are unwell, M. Petrovitch. Allow me to offer you a little brandy.”

The wretched man watched me with bewildered looks, as I took a bottle and gla.s.ses from a cupboard and helped first him and then myself.