Knight Without Armour

“You’d have to be the young intellectual type—your accent and manner would pass well enough, I daresay. But what about enthusiasm for the cause—can you act?” He added, slyly: “Or perhaps you would not need to act very much, eh?”

“As an Englishman in Russia,” answered A.J. cautiously, “I have always felt that I ought to avoid taking sides in Russian politics. You can judge from that, then, how much I should have to act.”

Forrester nodded. “Good, my friend—a wise and admirable reply. I should think he would do, wouldn’t you, Stanfield?”

The latter said: “I thought so all along. Still, we mustn’t persuade him. It’s risky work and he knows some of the more unpleasant possibilities. It’s emphatically a game of heads somebody else wins and tails he loses.”

“Oh yes,” Forrester agreed. “Most decidedly so. The pay, by the way, works out at about fifty pounds a month, besides expenses and an occasional bonus.”

“That sounds attractive,” said A.J.

“Attractive?” Forrester turned again to Stanfield. “Did you hear that? He says the pay’s attractive! You know Stanfield, it’s the money that most people go for in, this job, yet I really do believe our friend here is an exception! He only admits that the money’s attractive!” With a smile, he swung round to A.J. “I’m rather curious to know what it is that weighs most with you in this business. Is it adventure?”

“I don’t know,” answered A.J. “I really don’t know at all.”

So they had to leave that engrossing problem and get down to definite talk about details. That definite talk lasted several hours, after which A.J. was offered lunch. Then, during the afternoon, the talk was resumed. It was all rather complicated. He was to be given a Russian passport (forged, of course, though the ugly word was not emphasised) establishing him to be one Peter Vasilevitch Ouranov, a student. He must secure rooms under that name in a part of the city where he was not known; he must pose as a young man of small private means occupied in literary work of some kind. To assist the disguise he must cultivate a short beard and moustache. Then he must frequent a certain bookshop (its address would be given him) where revolutionaries were known to foregather, and must cautiously make known his sympathies so that he would be invited to join a society. Once in the society, it would be his task to get to know all he could concerning its aims, personnel, and the sources from which it obtained funds; such information he would transmit at intervals to an agent in Petersburg whose constantly changing address would be given him from time to time. It would not be expected, nor would it even be desirable, that he should take any prominent or active part in the revolutionary movement; he must avoid, therefore, being elected to any position of authority. “We don’t want you chosen to throw bombs at the Emperor,” said Forrester, “but supposing anyone else throws them, then we do want to know who he is, who’s behind him, and all that sort of thing. Get the idea?”

A.J. got the idea, and left the two men towards evening, after Stanfield had taken his photograph with an ordinary camera. That night and much of the next day he spent in packing. He had told the porter and the woman who looked after his room that he might be leaving very soon, so they were not surprised by his preparations for departure. In the evening, following instructions, he gave the two of them handsome tips, said good-bye, and drove to the Warsaw station. There he left his bags in the luggage office, giving his proper name (which was, in fact, on all the luggage labels as well). After sauntering about the station for a short time he left it and walked to Stanfield’s address. There he handed over to Forrester his English passport and luggage tickets. He rather expected to see Forrester burn the passport, but the latter merely put it in his pocket and soon afterwards left the house. Stanfield smiled. “Forrester’s a thorough fellow,” he commented. “He doesn’t intend to have the Russian police wondering what’s happened to you. To-night, my friend, though it may startle you to know it, Mr. A.J. Fothergill will leave Russia. He will collect his luggage at the Warsaw station, he will board the night express for Germany, his passport will be stamped in the usual way at Wierjbolovo and Eydkuhnen, but in Berlin, curiously enough if anyone bothered to make enquiries, all trace of him would be lost. How fortunate that your height and features are reasonably normal and that passport photographs are always so dreadfully bad!”