"Bah!" he continued, "I declare I feel quite timid to-night. Everything is so quiet here; the houses look deserted, and everybody seems to have left the place. Surely they can have no suspicion, and—and if they had? What does it matter?—eh, what?"
Quickening his pace, he passed down the long, quaint street of Newhaven, lined on each side by ancient fishermen's cottages, and then, crossing the railway, passed under the wall of Leith Fort, whereon a couple of sentries were pacing. Glancing up at the two artillerymen, with the half-dozen obsolete guns behind them, and their background of grass-grown mounds and buildings, the wayfarer smiled. He was thinking how different would be the scene at this spot ere long.
Leith Fort was a sort of fortified back-garden. The railway ran close to the sea, parallel with which was the highway, and upon higher ground at the back was a block of buildings, before which a few black old cannon were placed in formidable array, and in such a position as to be fully exposed to any destructive projectiles fired from the sea.
On went the down-at-heel wayfarer, his shifty eyes ever on the alert, viewing with suspicion the one or two persons he met. Apparently he was expecting the arrival of some craft, for his gaze was constantly turned towards the wide expanse of grey water, eager to detect the smallest speck upon the horizon. Any one who regarded him critically might have noticed something remarkable about his appearance, yet not even his most intimate friends would have recognised in this broken-down, half-starved clerk, who had arrived at Granton that morning, after tramping over from Glasgow, the popular man-about-town, the Count von Beilstein!
"Those fools will soon be swept away into eternity," he muttered to himself, as he glanced back in the direction of the fort. "They will have an opportunity of tasting Russian lead, and of practising with their guns, which are only fit for a museum. They mount guard to defend an attack! Bah! They seek their own destruction, for no force can withstand that which will presently appear to give them a sudden rousing. They will be elevated—blown into the air, together with their miserable guns, their barracks, and the whole of their antiquated paraphernalia. And to me the world owes this national catastrophe! I am the looker-on. These British have a proverb that the looker-on sees most of the game. Bien! that is full of truth."
And he chuckled to himself, pursuing his way at the same pace, now and then glancing back as if to assure himself that no one dogged his footsteps. Darkness had crept on quickly as he passed along through the open country at Fillyside and entered Portobello, the little watering-place so popular with holiday makers from Edinburgh during the summer. Along the deserted promenade he strolled leisurely from end to end, and passing out of the town through Joppa, came at length to that rugged shore between the Salt Pans and Eastfield. The tide was out, so, leaving the road, he walked on in the darkness over the shingles until he came to a small cove, and a moment later two men confronted him.
A few sentences in Russian were rapidly exchanged between the spy and the men, and then the latter at once guided him to where a boat lay in readiness, but concealed. Five minutes later the Count was being rowed swiftly but silently away into the darkness by six stalwart men belonging to one of the Tsar's battleships.
The oars dipped regularly as the boat glided onwards, but no word was exchanged, until about twenty minutes later the men suddenly stopped pulling, a rope thrown by a mysterious but vigilant hand whistled over their heads and fell across them, and then they found themselves under the dark side of a huge ironclad. It was the new battleship, Admiral Orlovski, which had only just left the Baltic for the first time. Without delay the spy climbed on board, and was conducted at once by a young officer into the Admiral's private cabin.
A bearded, middle-aged man, in handsome naval uniform, who was poring over a chart, rose as he entered. The spy, bowing, said briefly in Russian—
"I desire to see Prince Feodor Mazaroff, Admiral of the Fleet."