The Tale of Triona

by William John Locke

“If anything’s worrying you, dear, do tell me,” she urged, her clasp on the lapels of his dress-coat and her eyes searching his.

He took her wrists, kissed her, and laughed, as she thought, uneasily. Worries? He hadn’t an anxiety in the world. But this idea—it was the germ of something big. He must tackle it then and there. Led, his arm around her body, to the door, she allowed herself to be convinced.

“Don’t be too long.”

“And you go to sleep. You must be tired.”

Left alone, Triona poured himself out another whisky and soda. In one evening he had suffered two shocks, for neither of which his easy nature had prepared him. The Wedderburn incident he could explain away. But from the blind alley into which he was pinned by Colonel Onslow, there had been but a horrible wriggling escape. It was a matter, too, more spiritual even than material. He felt as though he had crawled through a sewer.

He went to his desk by the window, and from a drawer took out his despatch case, which he unlocked with the key that never left his person; and from it he drew the little black book. There, half-erased, in pencil on the reverse of the cover, was the word, in Russian characters, “Krilov.” Hitherto he had regarded this as some unimportant memorandum of name or place. It had never occurred to him that it was the name of the owner of the diary. But now, it stared at him accusingly as the signature of the dead man whose soul, as it were, he had robbed.

Krilov. There was no doubt about it. Onslow had known him, that fine-featured grizzled-haired dead man, in his vehement life. He had heard from his lips the wild adventures which he had set down with such official phlegm in the little black book, and which he, Alexis Triona, had credited to himself, and had invested with the wealth of his poet’s imagination. Of course, he had lied, on his basis of truth, to Colonel Onslow, disclaimed all knowledge of Krilov. It had been the essence of the old Russian régime that secret agents should have no acquaintance one with another. It was a common thing for two men, unsuspectingly, to be employed on an identical mission. The old Imperial service depended on this system of checks. If the missions were identical, the various incidents were bound to be similar. He had defended his position with every sophistical argument his alert brain could devise. He drew, as red herrings across the track, the names of obscure chieftains known to Colonel Onslow, whom he had not mentioned in his book; described them—one long-nosed, foxy, pitted with smallpox; another obese and oily; to Colonel Onslow’s mind irrefutable evidence of his acquaintance with the country. But as to narrated incidents he had seen puzzled incredulity behind the Colonel’s eyes and had felt his semi-accusing coldness of manner when their conversation came to an end.

He replenished a dying fire and sat down in an arm-chair, the despatch case by his side, the book in his hands—the little shabby black book that had been his Bible, his mascot, the fount of all his fortunes. His fingers shook with fear as he turned over the familiar pages. The dead man had come to life, and terrifyingly claimed his own. The room was very still. The creak of a piece of furniture caused him to swing round with a start, as though apprehensive of Krilov’s ghostly presence. He must burn the book, the material evidence of his fraud. But the fire was sulky. He must wait for the blaze, so that there should be no doubt of the book’s destruction. Meanwhile his nerves were playing him insane tricks. His ordeal had shaken him. He sought the steadying effect of another whisky.

He leaned back in his chair. It had been an accursed evening. Once more he had to lie to Olivia, and this time she appeared to be struggling with uncertainty. There had been an unprecedented aloofness in her attitude. Yes. He spoke the words aloud, “an unprecedented aloofness,” at first with strange unsuccess and then with solemn deliberation; and his voice sounded strange to his ears. If she suspected—but, no, she could not suspect. His head grew heavy, his thoughts confused. The fire was taking a devil of a time to burn up. Still, he was beginning to see his way clearer. The whisky was a wonderful help to accurate thinking. What an ass he had been not to recognize the fact before! Besides—the roof of his mouth was parched with thirst.

The diabolical notebook had to be destroyed. But first there must be flame in the grate. That little red glow would do the trick. It was only a question of patience.