The work was exciting and somewhat risky; but it suited my adventurous spirit. The daring with which our Organisation acted inspired me with confidence, and I went fearlessly about attired in various garbs, tracking the minions of the Tzar into all sorts of queer corners of London. They were indefatigable; but, owing to our headquarters being temporarily abandoned, they were entirely off the scent. It was my object to further puzzle them, and, assisted by half a dozen other members of the Party, I think I succeeded.
Meanwhile the clock was being completed and the plans for the coup elaborated.
While sitting one evening at a small table in the Café Royal in Regent Street, smoking, sipping kummel, and lazily scanning the Petit Journal, a word in guttural Russian addressed to the waiter caused me to glance across to a tall dark man in evening dress, who had seated himself alone and unnoticed at the other side of the table opposite me. A momentary glance was sufficient for me to recognise in him the original of a photograph that had been given me and pointed out as Guibaud, the renowned French detective, who had recently been placed at the head of the “Security Section” in London.
He was lighting his cigar and flashing a fine diamond upon his finger, when I suddenly asked him for the lighted match for my cigarette. By that means I opened a commonplace conversation, and I quickly felt confident that he had no suspicion that I was a Terrorist. After spending nearly an hour together, and drinking at each other’s expense, we strolled to Oxford Circus, where we parted, not, however, before we had exchanged cards, he giving me one with the name “Jules Guibaud,” while upon mine was inscribed the words “Pierre Noirel—National Liberal Club.” He told me that he was a glove merchant in the Rue de la Paix, while I made him believe that I was a young Belgian of independent means living in England for the purpose of acquiring the language.
On leaving him, I jumped into an omnibus going in the direction of the Marble Arch; but as soon as the conveyance had travelled about five hundred yards, I alighted and followed the astute chief spy, who was then retracing his steps down Regent Street. Eventually I discovered that he resided in Russell Square, Bloomsbury, and from that evening I haunted him like a shadow, in order to obtain an insight into his methods. I quickly ascertained how closely day and night the prominent members of our Circle were being watched, not only by the Russian police, but by detectives from Scotland Yard, whose aid they had invoked. Guibaud and I met on several occasions, and always as friends.
One afternoon when I called at the house of Isaac Bounakoff in Aspland Grove, Hackney, to which our headquarters had been temporarily transferred, Pétroff made a statement that caused me considerable amazement and dismay. Notwithstanding our precautions, the spies had discovered Tersinski’s house in Walworth, and were watching it. Isaac had recognised one of the “Security Section” men standing at the corner of the street. He had completed the machine, and was anxious to remove it to a place of safety before search was made by the English police. It was imperative that the incriminating object should be got out of the house without delay, and after some discussion the task of removing it devolved upon me, Grinevitch volunteering to assist.
Returning at once to my chambers, I contrived, by the aid of a grey wig and the contents of my “make-up” box, to assume the appearance of an elderly man. Attiring myself in a seedy suit, I donned an apron, which I rolled up around my waist, so that when, an hour later, I alighted from an omnibus in the Walworth Road, I presented the appearance of a respectable mechanic. It was now quite dark, and as I turned down the quiet street I met an ill-clad man sauntering up and down, smoking a short, clay pipe. The light of a street lamp fell upon features which I recognised as those of Guibaud! He gave me a sharp, inquiring glance, but was unsuspicious; therefore I walked on until I came before Tersinski’s house—an eight-roomed dwelling, with area and basement of the usual South London type. Then I looked round suddenly, and seeing the spy’s back turned, darted up the steps leading to the front door, and swiftly let myself in with the latch-key.
The unfamiliar interior was pitch dark, and I was afraid to strike a match lest the detective’s attention might be attracted. Groping my way carefully up the stairs, I ascended to Tersinski’s workshop on the top floor, where he had told me I should find the box.
After a few moments’ search I found it standing under a bench near the window. Handling it with the utmost care—for it was already charged with a sufficient quantity of dynamite to wreck the whole street—I drew it forth and found it had the appearance of a small, black, tin deed box, with handles at each end, while upon the side the name “F. Evans, Esq.,” had been painted in white capitals.