"The letter--merely a postcard enclosed in an envelope--came by this afternoon's post--and as you can understand, it has frightfully upset us all. It is a sort of thing about which one cannot a.n.a.lyse one's feelings.

John had a right to his life and we ought to be glad--but the idea of giving up Amaryllis--of having all the suffering and the parting again--Stepan, it is cruelly hard."

Verisschenzko sat down in one of the big chairs, and Euterpe, the lesser tawny dog, came and pushed her nose into his hand. He patted her silky head absently. He was collecting his thoughts; the shock of this news was considerable and he must steady his judgment.

"John wrote to her himself, you say? It is not a message through a third person--no?"

"It appears to be in his own writing." Denzil stood leaning on the mantelpiece, and his face seemed to grow more haggard with each word.

"Merely saying that he was taken prisoner by the enemy when they made the counter attack, and that he had been too ill to write or speak until now.

I can't understand it--because they did not make the counter attack until after I was carried in--and even though I was unconscious then, the stretcher bearers must have seen John when they lifted me if he had been there. Nothing was found but his gla.s.ses and we concluded another sh.e.l.l had burst somewhere near his body after I was carried in. Stepan, I swear to G.o.d I saw him die."

"It sounds extraordinary. Try to tell me every detail, Denzil."

So the story of John's last moments was gone over again, and all the most minute events which had occurred. And at the end of it the two solid facts stood out incontrovertibly--John's body was never found, but Denzil had seen him die.

"How long will it take to communicate with him, I wonder? We can through the American Amba.s.sador, I suppose, because he gives no address. It must be awful for him lying there wounded with no news. I say this because I suppose I must accept his own writing, but I, cannot yet bring myself to believe that he can be alive."

Verisschenzko was silent for a moment, then he asked:

"May I see my Lady Amaryllis?"

"Yes, she told me to bring you to her as soon as I should have explained to you the whole affair. Come now."

They went up the stairs together, and they hardly spoke a word. And when they reached the cedar parlour Denzil let Verisschenzko go in in front of him.

"I have brought Stepan to you," he told Amaryllis. "I am going to leave you to talk now."

Amaryllis was white as milk and her grey eyes were disturbed and very troubled. She held out her two hands to Verisschenzko and he kissed them with affectionate worship.

"Lady of my Soul!"

"Oh! Stepan,--comfort me--give me counsel. It is such a terrible moment in my life. What am I to do?"

"It is indeed difficult for you--we must think it all out--"

"Poor John--I ought to be glad that he is alive, and I am--really--only, oh! Stepan, I love Denzil so dearly. It is all too awfully complicated.

What so greatly astonishes me about it is that John has not written deliriously, or as though he has lost his memory, and yet if we had carried out his instructions and wishes we should be married now, Denzil and I,--and he never alludes to the possibility of this! It is written as though no complications could enter into the case--"

"It sounds strange--may I see the letter?"

She got up and went over to the writing table and returned with a packet and the envelope which contained the card. It was not one which prisoners use as a rule; it had the picture of a German town on it and the postmark on the envelope was of a place in Holland. Verisschenzko read it carefully:

"I have been too ill to write before--I was taken prisoner in the counter attack and was unconscious. I am sending this by the kindness of a nurse through Holland. Everyone must have believed that I was dead. I am longing for news of you, dearest. I shall soon be well. Do not worry. I am going to be moved and will write again with address.

"All love,--

"JOHN."

The writing was rather feeble as a very ill person's would naturally be, but the name "John" was firm and very legible.

"You are certain that it is his writing?"

"Yes"--and then she handed him another letter from the packet--John's last one to her. "You can see for yourself--it is the same hand."

Stepan took both over to the lamp, and was bending to examine them when he gave a little cry:

"Sapristi!"--and instead of looking at the writings he sniffed strongly at the card, and then again. Amaryllis watched him amazedly.

"The same! By the Lord, it is the work of Ferdinand. No one could mistake his scent who had once smelt it. The muskrat, the scorpion! But he has betrayed himself."

Amaryllis grew paler as she came close beside him.

"Stepan, oh, tell me! What do you mean?"

"I believe this to be a forgery--the scent is a clue to me. Smell it--there is a lingering sickly aroma round it. It came in an envelope, you see,--that would preserve it. It is an Eastern perfume, very heavy,--what do you say?"

She wrinkled her delicate nose:

"Yes, there is some scent from it. One perceives it at first and then it goes off. Oh, Stepan, please do not torture me. Can you be quite sure?"

"I am absolutely certain that whether it is in John's writing or not, Ferdinand, or some one who uses his unique scent, has touched that card.

Now we must investigate everything."

He walked up and down the room in agitation for a few moments; talking rapidly to himself--half in Russian--Amaryllis caught bits.

"Ferdinand--how to his advantage? None. What then? Harietta?

Harietta--but why for her?"

Then he sat down and stared into the fire, his yellow-green eyes blazing with intelligence, his clear brain balancing up things. But now he did not speak his thoughts aloud.

"She is jealous. I remember--she imagined that it is my child. She believes I may marry Amaryllis. It is as plain as day!"

He jumped up and excitedly held out his hands.

"Let us fetch Denzil," he cried joyously. "I can explain everything."

Amaryllis left the room swiftly and called when she got outside his door:

"Denzil--do come."

He joined them in a second or two--there as he was, in a blue silk dressing gown, as he had just been going to dress for dinner.

He looked from one face to the other anxiously and Stepan immediately spoke.

"I think that the card is a forgery, Denzil. I believe it to have been written by Ferdinand Ardayre--at the instigation of Harietta Boleski.

She would have means to obtain the postcard, and have it sent through Holland too."

"But why--why should she?" Amaryllis exclaimed in wonderment. "What possible reason could she have for wishing to be so cruel to us. We were always very nice to her, as you know."

Verisschenzko laughed cynically.