Guilty Bonds

Bob’s face was a study for a time. It apparently struck him that I was playing a part and wished to learn the depth of his knowledge regarding my wife. After a short pause, however, he continued, and imparted to me the first facts I had ever learned on this mysteriously-guarded point.

“Well, you see, after you left Genoa business compelled me to return. I was thrown on my own resources for a day or two, and during that period I made it a point to keep my ears open so as to catch anything I could regarding the mysterious fair one who had so interested us. Having a friend with me who was known at the police bureau it needed not a great deal of ingenuity to ascertain a few particulars. The first thing that came to light was the fact that old Hertzen, the grumbling uncle, was living under an assumed name.”

“Vera’s uncle! Was he – is he – not her uncle?” I exclaimed.

“Oh, yes; he’s her uncle, I believe,” replied my friend, placidly. “It was not surprising that he was – and is – assuming another patronymic, because, being a Russian exile – ”

“An exile!”

“My dear fellow, do not keep interrupting. Yes, I say, being a Russian exile, for some offence or other, it was quite a reasonable deceit to practise. But, while it was almost certain that Hertzen was not his real name, it was equally certain that he was some relation of Vera’s, for he lavished a vast amount of care and attention on her which could not be accounted for on any other supposition. At the same time it was very curious that my informant would not say who he believed Hertzen to be, so on that point I am still quite ignorant.”

“Go on, go on, please; and remember that I want to know about Vera,” I said, with some impatience.

“Listen, then. Your wife’s father was a Russian Count, a man of great wealth, who lived at Warsaw! Vera, his daughter, developed into the beautiful girl we met. Count Nicholas Seroff, her father, was a brave and loyal soldier, and when the Turko-Russian War broke out in 1877 was placed in a responsible position. He had previously served with great distinction in the Crimea, where he gained the sky-blue ribbon of St. Andrew ‘For Faith and Loyalty.’” Bob paused.

“After the war, the count retired to his house in the Njazlov at Warsaw, where he bestowed all his paternal affection on Vera. The two became inseparable, and for a long time, I hear, lived together as one soul.”

“For a long time, you hear – what happened then?”

“We met them at Genoa.”

“But do you mean to say your information ended abruptly at this point? Have you learned nothing since?”

“Nothing whatever. I did not trouble after my return to think any more about the matter. It was only while we were both interested in her that I was interested. You don’t think,” added he, in a half-jesting manner, “that I have nothing else to do but to run after every pretty girl who appears to have a romantic mystery about her, do you?”

“Are you speaking seriously?” I asked, my hopes sinking as rapidly as they had risen.

“Quite,” was his reply.

“Why did you not tell me this on my return, when we saw her at the theatre, together? You knew all about it then, and you also knew how anxious I was.”

“True, but you did not broach the subject, and as soon as we caught sight of her you seemed fascinated, leaving me almost at once, so that I had no chance.”

“But there were plenty of occasions afterwards,” I contended impatiently.

Bob did not seem perturbed in the least. He merely lit another cigarette, as he replied, —

“Whenever I saw you afterwards you were so distant and uncommunicative that it appeared as if you knew far more than you apparently did. As you were still interested in her and her movements it was not my place to take the initiative.”

“And even if you had,” I rejoined, speaking rather warmly, for my disappointment was galling, “it would not have greatly mattered; you don’t seem to know a great deal, after all. It does not make very much difference.”

“Look here, Burgoyne, it is no use attempting to hide your thoughts from me in this matter. It appears as if you wish me to think you are sorry I know so little. Perhaps you are secretly glad that such is the case, eh? It would be awkward for some of your wife’s relations to find that photograph in your pocket, under these circumstances – what is your opinion? Those hot-blooded counts are very jealous relatives, I believe, and – ”

“By Heaven! you wrong me there, Bob,” I retorted, touched to the quick by the sneer. “In spite of all Vera’s treachery – in spite of our quarrels, I have never, for an instant been untrue to her – never!”

“Very well,” was his cool reply, “let us admit that. Can you, however, honestly explain your confusion – to say nothing of Rivers’ amazement – when it was produced?”

This direct question nonplussed me entirely. To explain all the facts without exposing Vera – which I was determined not to do – at first appeared a sheer impossibility. Bob watched my vain endeavours to think it out with clearness for several minutes.