The Czars Spy | Page 5

Hornby, "I was a fool to engage him. From the very
first I mistrusted him, only my wife somehow took a fancy to the
fellow, and, as you know, if you want peace you must always please
the women. In this case, however, her choice almost cost me the vessel,
and perhaps our lives into the bargain."
"You knew nothing of him previously?"
"Nothing."
"And he engaged the crew?" I asked.
"Of course."
"Are they all fresh hands?"
"All except the cook and the two stewards."
I was silent. I did not like Mackintosh. Indeed, I entertained a distinct
suspicion of both master and crew.
"The captain seems to have had a nasty cut across the cheek," I
remarked, whereupon my two companions again exchanged quick,
apprehensive glances.
"He fell down the other day," explained Chater, with a rather sickly
smile, I thought. "His face caught the edge of an iron stair in the
engine-room, and caused a nasty gash."
I smiled within myself, for I knew too well that the ugly wound in the
captain's face had never been inflicted by falling on the edge of a stair.
But I remained silent, being content that they should endeavor to
mislead me.
After dessert had been served we rose, and in the summer twilight,

when all the ports were opened, Hornby took me over the vessel.
Everywhere was abundant luxury--a veritable floating palace. To each
of the cabins of the owner and his guests a bathroom was attached with
sea-water or fresh water as desired, while the ladies' saloon, the boudoir,
the library, and the smoking-room were furnished richly with exquisite
taste. As he was conducting me from his own cabin to the boudoir we
passed a door that had been blown open by the wind, and which he
hastened to close, not, however, before I had time to glance within. To
my surprise I discovered that it was an armory crammed with rifles,
revolvers and ammunition.
It had not been intended that I should see that interior, and the reason
why the Customs officers had been bribed was now apparent.
I passed on without remark, making believe that I had not discerned
anything unusual, and we entered the boudoir, Chater having gone back
to the saloon to obtain cigars.
The dainty little chamber was upholstered in carnation-pink silk with
furniture of inlaid rosewood, and bore everywhere the trace of having
been arranged by a woman's hand, although no lady passenger was on
board.
Just as we had entered, and I was admiring the dainty nest of luxury,
Chater shouted to his host asking for the keys of the cigar cupboard,
and Hornby, excusing himself, turned back along the gangway to hand
them to his friend, thus leaving me alone for a few moments.
I stood glancing around, and as I did so my eyes fell upon a quantity of
photographs, framed and unframed, that were scattered
about--evidently portraits of Hornby's friends. Upon a small side table,
however, stood a heavy oxidized silver frame, but empty, while lying
on the floor beneath a couch was the photograph it had contained,
which had apparently been taken hastily out, torn first in half and then
in half again, and cast away.
Curiosity prompted me to stoop, pick up the four pieces and place them
together, when I found them to form the cabinet portrait of a

sweet-looking and extremely pretty English girl of eighteen or nineteen,
with a bright, smiling expression, and wearing a fresh morning blouse
of white piqué. Her hair was dressed low and fastened with a bow of
black ribbon, while the brooch at her throat was in the form of a heart
edged with pearls. Whether it was her sweet expression, or whether the
curious look in her eyes had attracted my attention and riveted the face
upon my memory, I know not. Perhaps it was the mystery of why it
should have been so hastily torn from its frame and destroyed that held
my attention.
It seemed as though it had been torn up surreptitiously by someone who
had been sitting on that couch, and who had had no opportunity of
casting the fragments away through the port-hole into the water.
I looked at the back of the torn photograph, and saw that it had been
taken by a well-known and fashionable firm in New Bond Street.
About the expression of that pictured face was something which I
cannot describe--a curious look in the eyes which was at the same time
both attractive and mysterious. In that brief moment the girl's features
were indelibly impressed upon my memory.
Next second, however, hearing Hornby's returning footsteps, I flung the
fragments hastily beneath the couch where I had discovered them.
Why, I wondered, had the picture been destroyed--and by whom?
The