In the Fog Read online

over it again, from the cellar to the roof. We havethe real clew now, and we must forget the others and work only it.' Ashe spoke he began again to search the drawing-room, turning over eventhe books on the tables and the music on the piano. "'Whoever the manis,' he said over his shoulder, 'we know that he has a key to the frontdoor and a key to the letter-box. That shows us he is either an inmateof the house or that he comes here when he wishes. The Russian saysthat he was the only servant in the house. Certainly we have found noevidence to show that any other servant slept here. There could bebut one other person who would possess a key to the house and theletter-box--and he lives in St. Petersburg. At the time of the murder hewas two thousand miles away.' Lyle interrupted himself suddenly with asharp cry and turned upon me with his eyes flashing. 'But was he?' hecried. 'Was he? How do we know that last night he was not in London, inthis very house when Zichy and Chetney met?'

  "He stood staring at me without seeing me, muttering, and arguing withhimself.

  "'Don't speak to me,' he cried, as I ventured to interrupt him. 'I cansee it now. It is all plain. It was not the servant, but his master, theRussian himself, and it was he who came back for the letters! He cameback for them because he knew they would convict him. We must findthem. We must have those letters. If we find the one with the Russianpostmark, we shall have found the murderer.' He spoke like a madman, andas he spoke he ran around the room with one hand held out in front ofhim as you have seen a mind-reader at a theatre seeking for somethinghidden in the stalls. He pulled the old letters from the writing-desk,and ran them over as swiftly as a gambler deals out cards; he dropped onhis knees before the fireplace and dragged out the dead coals with hisbare fingers, and then with a low, worried cry, like a hound on a scent,he ran back to the waste-paper basket and, lifting the papers from it,shook them out upon the floor. Instantly he gave a shout of triumph,and, separating a number of torn pieces from the others, held them upbefore me.

  "'Look!' he cried. 'Do you see? Here are five letters, torn across intwo places. The Russian did not stop to read them, for, as you see, hehas left them still sealed. I have been wrong. He did not return for theletters. He could not have known their value. He must have returnedfor some other reason, and, as he was leaving, saw the letter-box, andtaking out the letters, held them together--so--and tore them twiceacross, and then, as the fire had gone out, tossed them into thisbasket. Look!' he cried, 'here in the upper corner of this piece is aRussian stamp. This is his own letter--unopened!'

  "We examined the Russian stamp and found it had been cancelled in St.Petersburg four days ago. The back of the envelope bore the postmark ofthe branch station in upper Sloane Street, and was dated this morning.The envelope was of official blue paper and we had no difficulty infinding the two other parts of it. We drew the torn pieces of the letterfrom them and joined them together side by side. There were but twolines of writing, and this was the message: 'I leave Petersburg on thenight train, and I shall see you at Trevor Terrace after dinner Mondayevening.'

  "'That was last night!' Lyle cried. 'He arrived twelve hours ahead ofhis letter--but it came in time--it came in time to hang him!'"

  The Baronet struck the table with his hand.

  "The name!" he demanded. "How was it signed? What was the man's name!"

  The young Solicitor rose to his feet and, leaning forward, stretched outhis arm. "There was no name," he cried. "The letter was signed withonly two initials. But engraved at the top of the sheet was the man'saddress. That address was 'THE AMERICAN EMBASSY, ST. PETERSBURG, BUREAUor THE NAVAL ATTACHE,' and the initials," he shouted, his voice risinginto an exultant and bitter cry, "were those of the gentleman who sitsopposite who told us that he was the first to find the murdered bodies,the Naval Attache to Russia, Lieutenant Sears!"

  A strained and awful hush followed the Solicitor's words, which seemedto vibrate like a twanging bowstring that had just hurled its bolt. SirAndrew, pale and staring, drew away with an exclamation of repulsion.His eyes were fastened upon the Naval Attache with fascinated horror.But the American emitted a sigh of great content, and sank comfortablyinto the arms of his chair. He clapped his hands softly together.

  "Capital!" he murmured. "I give you my word I never guessed what youwere driving at. You fooled _me,_ I'll be hanged if you didn't--youcertainly fooled me."

  The man with the pearl stud leaned forward with a nervous gesture."Hush! be careful!" he whispered. But at that instant, for the thirdtime, a servant, hastening through the room, handed him a piece of paperwhich he scanned eagerly. The message on the paper read, "The light overthe Commons is out. The House has risen."

  The man with the black pearl gave a mighty shout, and tossed the paperfrom him upon the table.

  "Hurrah!" he cried. "The House is up! We've won!" He caught up hisglass, and slapped the Naval Attache violently upon the shoulder. Henodded joyously at him, at the Solicitor, and at the Queen's Messenger."Gentlemen, to you!" he cried; "my thanks and my congratulations!"He drank deep from the glass, and breathed forth a long sigh ofsatisfaction and relief.

  "But I say," protested the Queen's Messenger, shaking his fingerviolently at the Solicitor, "that story won't do. You didn't playfair--and--and you talked so fast I couldn't make out what it was allabout. I'll bet you that evidence wouldn't hold in a court of law--youcouldn't hang a cat on such evidence. Your story is condemned tommy-rot.Now my story might have happened, my story bore the mark--"

  In the joy of creation the story-tellers had forgotten their audience,until a sudden exclamation from Sir Andrew caused them to turn guiltilytoward him. His face was knit with lines of anger, doubt, and amazement.

  "What does this mean!" he cried. "Is this a jest, or are you mad? If youknow this man is a murderer, why is he at large? Is this a game you havebeen playing? Explain yourselves at once. What does it mean?"

  The American, with first a glance at the others, rose and bowedcourteously.

  "I am not a murderer, Sir Andrew, believe me," he said; "you need notbe alarmed. As a matter of fact, at this moment I am much more afraid ofyou than you could possibly be of me. I beg you please to be indulgent.I assure you, we meant no disrespect. We have been matching stories,that is all, pretending that we are people we are not, endeavoring toentertain you with better detective tales than, for instance, the lastone you read, 'The Great Rand Robbery.'"

  The Baronet brushed his hand nervously across his forehead.

  "Do you mean to tell me," he exclaimed, "that none of this has happened?That Lord Chetney is not dead, that his Solicitor did not find a letterof yours written from your post in Petersburg, and that just now, whenhe charged you with murder, he was in jest?"

  "I am really very sorry," said the American, "but you see, sir, he couldnot have found a letter written by me in St. Petersburg because I havenever been in Petersburg. Until this week, I have never been outsideof my own country. I am not a naval officer. I am a writer of shortstories. And tonight, when this gentleman told me that you were fond ofdetective stories, I thought it would be amusing to tell you one of myown--one I had just mapped out this afternoon."

  "But Lord Chetney _is_ a real person," interrupted the Baronet, "and hedid go to Africa two years ago, and he was supposed to have died there,and his brother, Lord Arthur, has been the heir. And yesterday Chetneydid return. I read it in the papers." "So did I," assented the Americansoothingly; "and it struck me as being a very good plot for a story.I mean his unexpected return from the dead, and the probabledisappointment of the younger brother. So I decided that the youngerbrother had better murder the older one. The Princess Zichy I inventedout of a clear sky. The fog I did not have to invent. Since last night Iknow all that there is to know about a London fog. I was lost in one forthree hours."

  The Baronet turned grimly upon the Queen's Messenger.

  "But this gentleman," he protested, "he is not a writer of shortstories; he is a member of the Foreign Office. I have often seen himin Whitehall, and, according to him, the Princess Zichy is not aninvention. He says
she is very well known, that she tried to rob him."

  The servant of the Foreign Office looked unhappily at the CabinetMinister, and puffed nervously on his cigar.

  "It's true, Sir Andrew, that I am a Queen's Messenger," he saidappealingly, "and a Russian woman once did try to rob a Queen'sMessenger in a railway carriage--only it did not happen to me, but toa pal of mine. The only Russian princess I ever knew called herselfZabrisky. You may have seen her. She used to do a dive from the roof ofthe Aquarium."

  Sir