Chapter Sixteen.
Incognita!
Shortly after eleven o’clock that same evening I was strolling with Hartwig up and down the deserted platform at Victoria Station, my intention being to take the eleven-fifty p.m. train back to Brighton.
For a full hour we had pressed the informer to explain the real reason of his visit to Brighton on the previous day. But beyond assuring us that it was not with any evil intent—which I confess we could scarcely believe—he declined to reveal anything.
He only repeated his warning that Natalia was in grave personal danger, and entreated me to be careful. The refugees in that house, all of them Russians, seemed filled with intense curiosity regarding us, and especially so, perhaps, because of Hartwig’s declaration that he was bearer of a message from that mysterious leader who was believed to live somewhere in Moscow, and was known throughout the Russian Empire as “The One.”
No doubt after our departure Danilovitch had told them of some secret message he had received from the mysterious head of the organisation, who was none other than himself.
But his confession had held both of us practically silent ever since we had left that dingy house in Lower Clapton.
“Markoff believes that Her Highness is aware of the contents of those letters,” Hartwig said as we strolled together in the great, well-lit station. Few people were about just at that hour, for the suburban theatre-goers had not yet arrived. “For that reason it is intended that her mouth shall be closed.”
“But this is murder!” I cried in hot indignation. “I will go straight to the Emperor, and tell him.”
“And what benefit would that be? His Majesty would declare it to be an effort by some of the General’s enemies to disgrace him,” my companion said. “Such damning statements have been made before, but, alas! no heed has been taken of them!”