“Gottorp.—Have returned: very anxious; write club—Uncle Colin.”
Then for four days I waited for a reply, visiting the club a dozen times each day, but all in vain.
I called at Chesham House one afternoon and had a chat with His Excellency the Russian Ambassador. He was unaware of Her Imperial Highness’s disappearance, and I did not inform him. I wanted to know what knowledge he possessed, and whether Markoff was still in Petersburg. I discovered that he knew nothing, and that at that moment the Chief of Secret Police was with the Emperor at the military manoeuvres in progress on that great plain which stretches from the town of Ivanovo across to the western bank of the broad Volga.
Hartwig was ever active, night and day, but no trace could we find of the missing couple. Drury’s friends, on their part, were making inquiry in every direction, but all to no avail. The pair had entirely disappeared.
The house of the conspirators in Lower Clapton was being watched night and day, but as far as it could be observed there was little or no activity in that quarter. Danilovitch was still living there in retirement, going out only after dark, and though he was always shadowed it could not be found that he ever called at any other place than a little shop kept by a Russian cigarette-maker in Dean Street, Soho, and a small eight-roomed villa in North Finchley, where lived a compatriot named Felix Sasonoff, the London correspondent of one of the Petersburg daily newspapers.
Our warning had, it seemed, had its effect. Much as we desired to approach the mysterious head of the so-called Revolutionary Organisation—the man known as “The One,” but whose identity was veiled in mystery—we dared not do so, knowing that he was our bitterest enemy.
One morning, in despair at obtaining no trace of the missing pair, I resolved to travel to Petersburg and there make inquiry. I realised that I must inform the Emperor, even at risk of his displeasure, for, after all, I had been compelled by my journey to Siberia to relax my vigilance, though I had left the little madcap under Hartwig’s protection.
What if they had actually eloped! Alas! I knew too well the light manner in which Natalia regarded the conventions of old-fashioned Mother Grundy. Indeed, it had often seemed her delight to commit breaches of the Imperial etiquette and to cause horror in her family.
Yet surely she would never commit such an unpardonable offence as to elope with Richard Drury!
Again, was she already dead? That was, I confess, my greatest fear, knowing well the desperate cunning of Serge Markoff, and all that her decease meant to him.