In the same journal, under the heading, “A Paris Mystery,” was the report of the discovery of a body in the Seine, and from the description I knew it was that of the traitor Patrovski.
CHAPTER V.
SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA’S SECRET.
On the kerb in the Strand, opposite the entrance to the Gaiety Theatre, I was, one wet winter’s night, selling newspapers.
Ill-clad and unwashed, I lounged about with the cab touts who were waiting for the conclusion of the performance, and although for the past hour I had shouted the contents of the papers under my arm, I had only sold three copies. The dirty ragged rabble from the slums off Drury Lane eyed me with askance as a new hand, little suspecting that I was acting the part of detective.
I was engaged in watching one of my compatriots who had recently arrived in England, and whom the Party regarded with suspicion. Ostensibly he was the agent of a firm of merchants in Moscow, but from secret information we had received from the Circle in that city, we shrewdly suspected that his real mission was that of agent of Secret Police. Owing to his failure to discover the authors of the plot at the Winter Palace, Guibaud had been summarily dismissed from the service, and we believed that this man who called himself Albert Jacolliot was his successor. The vigilant observation which for the past fortnight I had kept upon him went to show conclusively that he was in London on some secret errand.
Assuming all sorts of disguises, I had watched him continuously since the first hour we had received warning that he was near us, and under the pretence of selling newspapers, I was now awaiting his reappearance so that I might follow him.
Whilst standing on the kerb, wet and uncomfortable, gazing wistfully into the warm, brilliantly-lit vestibule, a tall, beautiful girl descended the broad flight of stairs. She was in evening dress, with a pink opera-cloak around her shoulders, and a black lace shawl over her head. Slight and delicate, she had large brown lustrous eyes, wavy hair, a firm mouth, and a nose that was just tip-tilted enough to give the face an expression of piquancy.
Several touts rushed up to her, crying, “Keb or kerrige, lady?” But she took no heed. Standing at the entrance for a moment she looked anxiously up and down, and then espied me.
Drawing her cloak closer around her, she walked across to where I stood.