The elegant specimen in knee-breeches, silk stockings, and powdered hair looked down at him from the majestic height of his six foot 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 banknotes 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 overanxious 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?