ose I must have looked ghastly; but I managed to steady my voice,
and answer curtly: "I'll tell you later. Go on, what about Carson?"

He rose and crossed to his desk before he answered, scrutinizing me with
keen interest the while.

"That's all. Except that this was found in his breast-pocket; I got it
by to-night's mail. It's in a horrid state; the blood soaked through, of
course."

He picked up a small oblong card, holding it gingerly in his
finger-tips, and handed it to me.

I think I knew what it was, even before I looked at it. A photograph of
Anne Pendennis, identical--save that it was unframed--with that which
was in the possession of the miserable old Russian, even to the
initials, the inscription, and the red symbol beneath it!

CHAPTER IV

THE RIVER STEPS

"This was found in Carson's pocket?" I asked, steadying my voice with an
effort.

He nodded.

I affected to examine the portrait closely, to gain a moment's time.
Should I tell him, right now, that I knew the original; tell him also of
my strange visitant? No; I decided to keep silence, at least until after
I had seen Anne, and cross-examined the old Russian again.

"Have you any clue to her identity?" I said, as I rose and replaced the
blood-stained card on his desk.

"No. I've no doubt the Russian Secret Police know well enough who she
is; but they don't give anything away,--even to me."

"They sent you that promptly enough," I suggested, indicating the
photograph with a fresh cigarette which I took up as I resumed my seat.
I had managed to regain my composure, and have no doubt that Southbourne
considered my late agitation was merely the outcome of my natural horror
and astonishment at the news of poor Carson's tragic fate. And now I
meant to ascertain all he knew or suspected about the affair, without
revealing my personal interest in it.

"Not they! It came from Von Eckhardt. It was he who found poor Carson;
and he took possession of that"--he jerked his head towards the
desk--"before the police came on the scene, and got it through."

I knew what that meant,--that the thing had not been posted in Russia,
but smuggled across the frontier.

I had met Von Eckhardt, who was on the staff of an important German
newspaper, and knew that he and Carson were old friends. They shared
rooms at St. Petersburg.

"Now why should Von Eckhardt run such a risk?" I asked.

"Can't say; wish I could."

"Where was he when poor Carson was don