as far offbringing the guilty one to justice as they were when the first victimwas discovered.
After eagerly reading the report I placed the newspaper aside and sat insilent meditation. There was something so curious, almost supernatural,in these crimes, that I could not reflect without a shudder upon thehorrors of that night a few months before when I was instrumental inbringing the previous work of the mysterious, assassin to light. Everydetail of that terrible crime surged through my brain as plainly as ifit were but yesterday, and the face of the man who left the house, andwhom I followed I could see as vividly as if he were still before me,for his features were graven too deeply upon my memory to be evereffaced.
I sat utterly dumbfounded. The problem was growing even morecomplicated, for it struck me as something more than a strangecoincidence that the Bedford Place murder should have been committedimmediately before I left London, and that the murderer should havethought fit not to add another victim to his ghastly list untilimmediately upon my return.
Somehow I could not help feeling convinced there must be some occultreason in this.
On the former occasion I had carefully studied the theories put forward,especially that urged by an eminent medical man, that the murderer was ahomicidal maniac. This, I felt assured, was totally wrong. The man thedoctor had in his mind was a type well-known to those who have made aspecial study of murder-madness. But such a man does not work with theskill displayed by this assassin--he does not arrange his entrance, his"picture," his exit, so carefully. Misdirected enthusiasm may prompt tomurder, but it does not run side by side with cunning deliberation anddesire for effect.
No! I maintained in my own mind that when, if ever, the author of themurders was arrested, he would be found to be a man who was perfectlysane, and who had gloated over the extraordinary skill with which he hadthrown the London detective force off the scent.
I did not seek Nugent that night, but returned to my rooms, and sat farinto the early hours, soliloquising upon the mystery.
At last, wearied out, I rose, and, taking down a pipe, filled it. Therewas a mirror over the mantelshelf, and as I was in the act of lightingmy pipe, I caught sight of a countenance in the glass, and paused toreflect. The vesta burned down till it scorched my fingers; but,fascinated by what I saw, I stood motionless, staring into the glass.
It was not upon the reflection of myself that I gazed, but on the faceof the man I had seen coming from the house in Bedford Place!
I am aware there are some events in our lives, of which eachcircumstance and surrounding detail is indelibly impressed upon themind, and, on reflection, it was easy to account for this strange andstartling fantasy. So petrified had my mind been during the past fewhours, that, in my imagination, the image of my own facial expressionclosely resembled his. Still, there was yet another more urgent aspect,which caused me to consider seriously. Such a freak of the mentalfaculties I had never before experienced; nevertheless, I knew thesymptom to be precursory of madness.
Was I doomed to insanity?
Sinking back into a chair and smoking my pipe, I calmly reviewed thesituation. My inner conscience seemed to tell me--though, to this day,I have never been able to account for it--that the key to the mysterywas in my hands. By mere chance--or was it Fate?--I had discovered oneof the murderer's victims, and had seen the miscreant himself leave thehouse--a man whom I should be able to identify anywhere. No one elsehad seen him, I argued with myself, so it was a duty towards myfellow-men to bring him to the punishment he so well merited. That iswhat conscience urged me as I sat smoking through the long night, andbefore the dawn I had made up my mind again to try my hand atelucidating the fearful mystery, and spare no effort towards itsaccomplishment.
With that object, I obtained permission of the police next morning, andviewed the body which was in the mortuary awaiting identification. Itlay in the chilly chamber, stretched upon the dark slate slab, the facecovered with a white cloth. This the constable removed, revealing thefeatures of a dark, rather handsome, young woman, evidently of thepoorer class, and a denizen of that quarter of the city.
As I gazed upon the body I wondered who she was. What was she? Whatwas her history? Could even such a plebeian woman be missed by herfriends, and no inquiries made after her? It seemed almost incredible,yet it was so; for when the coroner held his inquiry a few days later,she had not been identified, so the verdict of "Murder" was given,photographs were taken of the dead unknown--one of which I have beforeme as I write--and she was conveyed to her last resting-place in NunheadCemetery.
It was no isolated case. Every year numbers of bodies of men and womenare found by the London police and buried unclaimed, at the expense ofthe parish; until one is at a loss to know where are the relatives ofthe unfortunate ones that they make no sign, and take no trouble to makeknown their loss.
It is one of Babylon's unfathomable mysteries.
For days--nay, weeks--afterwards, I continually devoured the informationcontained in the newspapers regarding the eighth murder, but the victimremained unidentified; and although I frequented the busiest haunts ofmen in the City and its immediate suburbs at all hours of the day andnight, in the hope of meeting the murderer, my efforts were sodispiritingly futile that more than once I was sorely tempted to give upin despair.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
FACING THE INEVITABLE.
Though I had been in London nearly two months I had heard nothing ofVera, and her explanation of my imprisonment, as promised by theCossack, had not been made.
I had some misgivings, it is true, for I could not help feeling that,having used me to execute her strange commission, she would trouble meno further; and as the days went by, and I received neither letter norvisit, my conviction was strengthened that such was the case.
A wet, cheerless night, one of those soaking rains with which dwellersin the metropolis are too well acquainted. Business London had broughta day's work to a close, the 'buses were filled to overflowing, theshops were putting up their shutters, and the strings of drippinghumanity waiting at pit doors of theatres were anathematising themanagement of places of amusement for not opening earlier, as a hansomdeposited Nugent and myself before the Gaiety Theatre, where a newburlesque was that night to be produced.
A contrast to the rain and mud outside was the interior of the theatre.Warm, bright, and comfortable, were stalls and boxes, filled with "fairwomen and brave men," the bright dresses and glittering jewels of theformer contrasting well with the dull red shade with which the place wasdecorated and adding a brilliancy and luxury to the whole. Theproduction of the piece had long been talked of, and the event had theeffect of bringing together a number of professional first-nighters andleading lights of the literary and musical world, not forgetting thefair sprinkling of Bohemians who are always the welcome guests of themanagement on such occasions.
Soon after we had found our stalls the conductor's _baton_ waved, theoverture was played, and the curtain rose.
The first act had concluded when I stood up to nod to several peoplepresent whom I knew, and in casting my eyes around the boxes I wasattracted to one in which sat a young and handsomely dressed lady,alone. As I looked, our eyes met.
It was Vera!
Apparently she had been watching me, for with a pleasant smile ofrecognition, she beckoned me with her fan.
At that moment Bob noticed her, and nodding towards her, whispered, "ByJove! old fellow, who'd have thought of meeting the fair Russian? Theworld isn't so large, after all. Shall you go up and speak?"
I glanced upwards in hesitation. She was leaning from the box, thediamonds in her hair flashing under the gaslight, and she beckonedanxiously. This decided me, and I went in search of her, with afeeling--half of the old love, and half of a newly-born distrust.
I was not long in finding her box, and as I entered, her maid, who washer only companion, went out.
Retiring into the shadow, so as not to be observed by the people below,she stretched forth her hand and, w
ith a glad smile, exclaimed, "Atlast, Frank--_quel plaisir_!"
I drew back, and was ungallant enough not to take the proffered hand,for had I not been duped by her and nearly lost my liberty and life?
"Ah!" she said in a hoarse whisper, "it is as I expected, Frank--we areno longer friends."
"Why should we be?"
"I know I am unworthy a thought, having acted as basely as I did; but itwas not my fault. It could not be avoided," she said, casting her eyesto the floor.
"And that is the way you reciprocate my affection! You send me upon anerrand so dangerous that it nearly costs me my life!" I remarked,bitterly.
"No, no! Do not judge me harshly," she pleaded, laying her hand upon mycoat-sleeve, and looking into my face imploringly. "Wait until I canexplain before you condemn me. I know you think me a scheming,cold-hearted adventuress; perhaps I was when I met you; but now--it isdifferent."
"Vera," I said,