figure of the
intruder was lost in the twilight, and transferred from the fence to
his note-book the freshly stencilled inscription, "S--T--1860--X."

CHAPTER IV.

COUNT MOSCOW'S NARRATIVE.

I am a foreigner. Observe! To be a foreigner in England is to be
mysterious, suspicious, intriguing. M. Collins has requested the
history of my complicity with certain occurrences. It is nothing, bah!
absolutely nothing.

I write with ease and fluency. Why should I not write? Tra la la? I
am what you English call corpulent. Ha, ha! I am a pupil of
Macchiavelli. I find it much better to disbelieve everything, and to
approach my subject and wishes circuitously, than in a direct manner.
You have observed that playful animal, the cat. Call it, and it does
not come to you directly, but rubs itself against all the furniture in
the room, and reaches you finally--and scratches. Ah, ha, scratches! I
am of the feline species. People call me a villain--bah!

I know the family, living No. 27 Limehouse Road. I respect the
gentleman,--a fine, burly specimen of your Englishman,--and madame,
charming, ravishing, delightful. When it became known to me that they
designed to let their delightful residence, and visit foreign shores, I
at once called upon them. I kissed the hand of madame. I embraced the
great Englishman. Madame blushed slightly. The great Englishman shook
my hand like a mastiff.

I began in that dexterous, insinuating manner, of which I am truly
proud. I thought madame was ill. Ah, no. A change, then, was all
that was required. I sat down at the piano and sang. In a few minutes
madame retired. I was alone with my friend.

Seizing his hand, I began with every demonstration of courteous
sympathy. I do not repeat my words, for my intention was conveyed more
in accent, emphasis, and manner, than speech. I hinted to him that he
had another wife living. I suggested that this was balanced--ha!--by
his wife's lover. That, possibly, he wished to fly; hence the letting
of his delightful mansion. That he regularly and systematically beat
his wife in the English manner, and that she repeatedly deceived me. I
talked of hope, of consolation, of remedy. I carelessly produced a
bottle of strychnine and a small vial of stramonium from my pocket, and
enlarged on the efficiency of drugs. His face, which had gradually
become convulsed, suddenly became fixed with a frightful expression.
He started to his feet, an