A month later, having received instructions from London to proceed to the cholera-infected districts of Vologda, in order to describe the hospitals, I had obtained the necessary permit from the Ministry of the Interior, and one evening had taken my seat in the mail train for Moscow. Scarcely had I arranged my traps and prepared for the long night journey, when a rather shabbily-attired female appeared at the carriage door.
“M’sieur,” she exclaimed in a soft, musical voice. “It is M’sieur Wentworth that I address, is it not?”
Replying in the affirmative I alighted.
“You are going to Pavlova, in Vologda?” she said in broken English. “I—I am in a great difficulty—a great danger threatens me. If you would only render me a service, I should indeed owe my life to you.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
“I have here a message to a—a friend who is lying ill of cholera in the hospital at Pavlova;” and she drew forth a letter from under her faded shawl.
“You wish me to deliver it?”
“Yes,” she replied anxiously. “Were I able to travel, I would not ask this favour; but only the journalists are allowed to pass the cordon, and the post is suspended for fear of infection.”
I took the letter slowly from her hand, and as I did so, was amazed to discover that on her slim white wrist there were three red marks, exactly similar to those I bore!
“I shall be pleased to act as your messenger,” I said, placing the letter in my pocket; “you may rest assured it will be delivered safely, Princess.”