strikingly distinctive personality. I had recognized her figure, her gait, as I would have recognized them among a [Pg 39]thousand; that fleeting glimpse of her face had merely confirmed the recognition. As for her presence in Westminster at a time when she should have been at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland’s house in Kensington, or at home with the Cayleys in Chelsea, that could be easily accounted for on the presumption that she had not stayed long at Mrs. Sutherland’s. Had the Cayleys already discovered her flight? Probably not. Was Cassavetti cognizant of it,—concerned with it in any way; and was the incident of the open door that had so perplexed Jenkins another link in the mysterious chain? At any rate, Cassavetti was not the man dressed as a sailor; though he might have been the man in the boat. [Pg 39] The more I brooded over it the more bewildered—distracted—my brain became. I tried to dismiss the problem from my mind, “to give it up,” in fact; and, since sleep was out of the question, to occupy myself with preparations for the packing that must be done to-morrow—no, to-day, for the dawn had come—if I were to start for Russia on Monday morning. But it was no use. I could not concentrate my mind on anything; also, though I’m an abstemious man as a rule, I guess I put away a considerable amount of whiskey. Anyhow, I’ve no recollection of going to bed; but I woke with a splitting headache, and a thirst I wouldn’t take five dollars for, and the first things I saw were a whiskey bottle and soda syphon—both empty—on the dressing-table. As I lay blinking at those silent witnesses—the bottle had been nearly full overnight—and trying to remember what had happened, there came a knock at my bedroom door, and Mrs. Jenkins came in with my breakfast tray. [Pg 40] [Pg 40] She was an austere dame, and the glance she cast at that empty whiskey bottle was more significant and accusatory than any words could have been; though all she said was: “I knocked before, sir, with your shaving water, but you didn’t hear. It’s cold now, but I’ll put some fresh outside directly.” I mumbled meek thanks, and, when she retreated, poured out some tea. I guessed there were eggs and bacon, the alpha and omega of British ideas of breakfast, under the dish cover; but I did not lift it. My soul—and my stomach—revolted at the very thought of such fare. I had scarcely sipped my tea when I
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