“Well, don’t forget the name—Anstruther. I’m at the Petersburg Inn, should you—or your friends think me likely to be of any use.”

She shook her head. “No, no. Thank you. Thank you.”

[12]I raised my hat and turned away. I would have given a lot to be able to find some excuse for staying with her; and when I looked after her, chance found me a reason to go back. She was walking slowly in the direction of the village, her back towards me, and I saw her handkerchief fall.

[12]

I picked it up and hurried after her. Hearing my step she turned so quickly as to suggest alarm.

“You have dropped this,” I said, handing her the little dainty lace trifle. As I held it out the initials “V.D.” embroidered in the corner, lay uppermost.

She took it hurriedly, glanced from the initials to my face, and then thanked me.

Just then a man came hastily round a bend in the path some twenty paces ahead of us. She bit her lip at sight of him and her nervous confusion increased.

“My—my servant. You must go, please.”

Surprised that she should shew such fear of a servant, I drew aside with a smile and she walked on.

Then I looked at the servant; and the mystery about her at once became clearer and yet deeper.

It is one of the freaks of my otherwise treacherous memory, never to forget a face; and despite his disguise I recognized the man at once. I knew him by his remarkable eyes—small, piercing and almost black in hue.

It was Count Peter Valdemar, the “Stormy Petrel” of Polish politics; the originator of a dozen[13] conspiracies. He was dressed as a servant, wore a close-cropped red wig, and was clean shaven.

[13]

I recalled the police agent’s words instantly; and the danger to the girl appealed to me. For her sake I resolved to warn him.

They spoke together, and from his glances in my direction, I guessed she was telling him what I had done. As I approached them, he assumed the deferential air of a servant.

“A word with you,” I said.

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