Meanwhile, the most alarming telegrams were being received from the Front. Day after day the news of reverses filled the columns of the Public Press, until it began to look as if the prestige of England would be destroyed for ever and a day. Parliament had by this time assembled, and questions innumerable were addressed to the Secretary of State for War as to the reasons for the deplorable condition of affairs at the Front. Public opinion was at fever heat, and only a small spark was needed to bring about an explosion. Troops were pouring out of England by every available boat, while the Home Defence Force was being increased to its utmost limit. Never since the Crimea had such a state of affairs been known, and never had the resources of the Empire been so severely taxed. Then came the news of the loss of another transport at sea, a catastrophe ascribed to the presence on board of a clock-work infernal machine; this was followed by the stranding of the Son of Neptune, with the 36th Lancers on board, at Las Palmas, by which the horses and men, so badly needed at the seat of war, were detained on the Island inactive until another vessel could be sent from England to pick them up and convey them to their destination.
By this time every one, save those whom the most visible proof would not convince, had arrived at the conclusion that we were fighting, not only our ostensible and declared enemies, the two South African Republics, but also another powerful yet mysterious foe, whose machinations were responsible for the disappearance of Woller and the Colonial Secretary, for the blowing up of the Sultan of Sedang, the destruction of the Son of Neptune, and sundry other occurrences so vividly and painfully impressed upon the public mind. Then, for upwards of a fortnight, a respite was given us, and the British taxpayer was able to take up his paper without finding the news of some new misfortune, for which he would eventually be called upon to pay for both in money and self-esteem, described in its columns. It was fortunate that we could not foretell the even greater troubles that were still in store for us.
One memorable Friday morning, exactly a fortnight after my call at Wiltshire House, a rumour ran through the town to the effect that Woolwich Arsenal had been destroyed. Knowing the precautions that were taken at that splendid institution to guard against such a thing, the report was at first discredited. It was soon found, however, to be only too true. A terrific explosion had taken place, a large number of employees had been killed and wounded, while the works, then so vitally necessary, were placed at a complete standstill. The lamentable occurrence was reported to the House by the Home Secretary that afternoon, and, as usual, the authorities declared there was no clue to guide the police in their search for the author of the dastardly deed. It was in vain that questions were asked in the House; in vain that public orators demanded of the authorities that they should exercise more care in guarding their institutions; in vain that the man in the street forwarded his theories, and suggested remedies, to the Press. England had a mysterious enemy who could think as well as act, and who, when he has finished his work, left no trace behind to lead to his identification.
In consequence of the excitement caused by the last disaster, the guards upon all the public buildings were doubled, no precaution was omitted that wisdom could dictate, and then we waited to see where the next blow would fall. In this fashion another fortnight went by, during which an incident of no small importance occurred. Quite by chance an explanation was forthcoming as to how the news of the series of disasters that had been our portion in South Africa during the last few weeks reached our shores. It was discovered that the cable, the only one then working, had been cleverly tampered with, the wires milked, to use an American expression, and a doctored version sent home for consumption. This was corroborated by the mail reports, and despatches describing the course of events in South Africa. Henceforth the most rigid precautions were taken to guard against a repetition of this practice, and then once more we sat down to wait.
I had seen nothing of the Countess for some time. The fright I had received on the last occasion that I had called upon her, was still sufficiently impressed upon my memory to make me a little chary of allowing her to obtain so much influence over me. As will doubtless be agreed, this was a somewhat contradictory decision on my part, for in arriving at it, I had no excuse to offer, save that I entertained for her a mixture of admiration and, I might almost say, of innate distrust. The admiration was easily accounted for; the distrust was somewhat more difficult to explain. Was she not the bosom friend of many of the greatest people in the land? She was to be met everywhere, and was as well known a personage in London Society as Royalty itself. Her father, it appeared, had left England for the Continent, and it was doubtful when he would return. Her cousin was still with her, and was to be encountered at every social gathering of importance. Young, handsome, and the reported possessor of considerable wealth, it was small wonder that he found himself in request, when so many young men were absent from England. I have stated that I did not care for the young Count Reiffenburg, and now I will go even further by saying that the more I saw of him the less I liked him.
At this point in my story it is necessary for me to describe a circumstance, which, though at the time it puzzled me considerably, can now be very easily explained. It occurred on a night when the House sat scarcely so late as usual. As a matter of fact it was but little after midnight when I set off to walk home. For a time after the disappearance of the Colonial Secretary, I had declined to be shadowed by a detective, but now, hearkening to the voice of Prudence, I had consented to be shadowed by a detective whenever I took my walk abroad. Since I am fond of walking, particularly at night, I am afraid my own particular shadow had rather a hard time of it. He never complained, however, but, faithful to his duty, kept me continually in view, obtruding himself upon my notice as little as possible. The feeling engendered by the knowledge that a man is continually behind one, watching all one does, is the reverse of pleasant. However, like everything else in life, one gets used to it, and after a time I took no notice of it. On this particular occasion, the night being so beautiful, the moon was full, I remember, I strolled leisurely home, my thoughts centred on the debate that had taken place that night. There is a solemnity about Trafalgar Square at midnight, particularly when viewed by the light of the moon, that is far from being its principal characteristic by day. As I passed the spot where I had said good-bye to poor Castellan a few weeks before, I could not suppress a shudder.
Leaving Cockspur street behind me, I passed on to Piccadilly, afterwards proceeding by way of Berkeley Square to my abode. By the time I reached my own door I was in the full enjoyment of the night. It seemed a pity to shut oneself up in the house when it was so lovely outside. I therefore waited until my faithful follower came up to me, and then informed him that I intended going on for a further stroll.
"There is not the least necessity for you to come," I said. "You may go home to bed as soon as you like."
"I think I would prefer to accompany you, sir," the man replied. "I am on duty all night, and if anything were to happen to you, it would be my fault."
"Very well, then," I answered, "come along."