you, I had no intention of sneering at poor Carson or of decrying his work. But from information in my possession I know that he exceeded his instructions; that he ceased to be a mere observer of the vivid drama of Russian life, and became an actor in it, with the result, poor chap, that he has paid for his indiscretion with his life!”

“How do you know all this?” I demanded. “How do you know—”

“That he was not in search of ‘copy,’ but in pursuit of his private ends, when he deliberately placed himself in peril? Well, I do know it; and that is all I choose to say on this point. I warned him at the outset,—as I need not have warned you,—that he must exercise infinite tact and discretion in his relations with the police, and the bureaucracy which the police represent; and also with the people,—the democracy. That he must, in fact, maintain a strictly impartial and impersonal attitude and view-point. Well, that’s [Pg 24]just what he failed to do. He became involved with some secret society; you know as well as I do—better, perhaps—that Russia is honeycombed with ’em. Probably in the first instance he was actuated by curiosity; but I have reason to believe that his connection with this society was a purely personal affair. There was a woman in it, of course. I can’t tell you just how he came to fall foul of his new associates, for I don’t know. Perhaps they imagined he knew too much. Anyhow, he was found, as I have said, stabbed to the heart. There is no clue to the assassin, except that in Carson’s clenched hand was found an artificial flower,—a red geranium, which—”

[Pg 24]

I started upright, clutching the arms of my chair. A red geranium! The bit of stuff dangling from Cassavetti’s pass-key; the hieroglyphic on the portrait, the flower Anne had given to Cassavetti, and to which he seemed to attach so much significance. All red geraniums. What did they mean?

“The police declare it to be the symbol of a formidable secret organization which they have hitherto failed to crush; one that has ramifications throughout the world,” Southbourne continued. “Why, man, what’s wrong with you?” he added hastily.

I suppose I must have looked ghastly; but I managed to steady my voice, and answer curtly: “I’ll tell you later. Go on, what about Carson?”

He rose and crossed to his desk before he answered, scrutinizing me with keen interest the while.

“That’s all. Except that this was found in his breast-pocket; I got it by 

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