“ ‘Charing Cross Hotel, London.
“ ‘My dear Lobkowitz,—You will wonder at the place I am writing from, and still more so at what I can possibly be doing there. I have been at death’s door, my good friend, owing to a series of the most terrible misfortunes that could befall any man. Do not be alarmed, though the news I am at last able to send you is of a most terrible kind. The papers are out of my possession——’ ”
Here a half-suppressed oath escaped Mirkovitch’s lips, and his hands clenched themselves 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 has 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 awhile, 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.”