Rensselaer Journal, Volume 12, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 December 1902 — THE MYSTERY OF COUNT SLANDRINOF [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE MYSTERY OF COUNT SLANDRINOF

The proposition to give the name of Jefferson to a new state to be formed by the union of Oklahoma and Indian Territory is given added strength by the fact that there is no longer anything left in the party Jefferson founded to remember him by. The governor of South Carolina has issued an order against bull-fighting. The governor takes the position that while there are so many negroes in the state who can be utilized for hanging and burning purposes, there is no use.importing any foreign sport as uninteresting as bull-fighting.

Editor Bryan, of the Commoner, is giving himself considerable uneasiness over the fact that the Elwood tin plate workers have accepted a temporary decrease in wages in order to secure a contract that otherwise would have been awarded to the tin plate manufacturers of Wales. Mr. Bryan should not, in his excitement, lose sight of the fact that even the reduced wages are a handsome improvement on those prevailing under the tariff bill he helped to frame a few years ago.

Thomas li. Reed was never considered a fanatic on the tariff or any other question. In fact he brought as much common sense to the consideration of public questions as did any man contemporaneous with him in public life. In a magazine article written shortly before his death, he said: “We ought to let the tariff alone; we ought to defend it against all comers for the good of the nation. Yi e are doing more than well and need not hunt for disaster. That will come in due time.”

The Japanese government has refused to accept the Hon. John Barrett as minister to the court of the flowery kingdom because Mr. Barrett in a Speech delivered four years ago, said that Aguinaldo and the members of his cabinet would not compare unfavorably with the statesmen of modern Japan. The Japanese do not seem to have been entirely convinced by thegentlemun who went about this country two years ago instituting comparisons between Aguinaldo and his associates and Washington and his compatriots. Senator Hoar declared that one of Aguinaldo’s pronunciametos was the finest thing out since the Declaration of Independence was published, and stuck to it even after it turned out that the document in question had been prepared by Aguinaldo’s secretary am* translated by an American newspaper correspondent. The Japs do not have to stand for this sort of business, and Mr. Berrett will have to confine his comparing of Philipimj adventurers exclusively to dead American states men it lie expects to get on as a diplomat.

Br Ft?ED WHISHAVK

COPVmGHt IQSSvBYTHE AMERICAN PRESS ASSOCIATION.

CHAPTER X. MEETHW3 IN A LONDON RESTAURANT. “But stop a minnte, mother!” I cried, bewildered by the sudden revelation. “Let ns consider. What dees the existence of this criminal uncle of mine exercise upon the mystery ? Do you Bn ßß es *t that this man in London may be father’s brother and not father, is that it?” “That is what struck me; only that it must be remembered the unfortunate man is, or is supposed to be, suffering a life sentence in Siberia.” “He might have escaped!” I reflected. “Let me see, supposing that he has escaped and is at large in Louden, is, in fact, the man Percy found, bow would that affect father’s disappearance? It need not affect it at all, need it, excepting that we should have wasted all this time over a false clew? No, mother, I don’t think it can be this precious uncle. When one comes to think of it, things point so conclusively to father having left for London at the time of his disappearance—the police declare it, the station officials testify to it—it must have been father himself and not his brother, for, in the first place, how could he have escaped from Biberia? And even if ho did is it likely that ho would have deliberately come to St Petersburg, the most dangerous place to appear in that an escaped convict could choose? And then think of the coincidence of the time of his departure with father’s disappearance! No, it would be too extraordinary.” “I am thinking,” said mother, “that this Andre, the brother, may have come 4o St. Petersburg on purpose to harass yonr father and obtain money from him. Poor father may have been so shocked and horrified by his sudden appearance here that the shock temxiorarily upset his reason, so that he”— “No, mother, I can’t believe it!” I interrupted. “Father is too sane and too manly to collapse in that way at the bhock of seeing his rogue of a broth*. Only consider. We will not do him the injustice of believing it possible. What was this Andre sent to Siberia for?” “Political murder. He got into a bad set at the cadet corps as a youth. Heaven knows why he should have inclined to revolutionary ideas, a youth of such position and prospects as he enjoyed. But he did. The commandant expelled him for. some fuoliali speech or action, and he went from bad to worse. Eventually the poor wretch was concerned in a diabolical plot, was arrested, tried with the rest—under his assumed name, thank God—and dispatched to Siberia. ” “Where he is still to be found, never fear, mother. Did he actually kill a man?” “I believeeo!” said mother, shuddering. “Oh, they’ll have taken good care of him, don’t doubt it. He is still there. This man in London is father and no other. He must be. We must find a better theory for his turning up in England than this. Your original one about delusions and financial worries is better than the other. Borofsky will bring back dear old father to us; never doubt it, mother.” “God grant it prove so, dear, brave Boris,’’she sighed. “I would not be cruel or unkind, but I do sincerely hope and trust this terrible Andre, whose crime caused your dear father so much and bitter sorrow, is, as you say, securely looked after in some Siberian mine. If he were really at large, 2 should fear I know not wbat for our beloved. ” “How could be injure father, excepting by revealing himself and causing father shame?” I asked. “lam sorry to hear of this shady relation, dear mother. But I really don’t see hew he can have anything to do with this mystery of ours. ’ ’ Mother became pacified gradually and thought with me that there were too many chances against the probability of my disreputable uncle having turned up in London to make such a theory worth troubling ourselves about. We therefore dismissed it, leaving Andre the convict to languish in his Siberian mines, so far as onr imaginations condescended to recall from time to time the rascal’s existence. It was father that Percy had found, not a doubt of it. And now, to confirm us in this view, an important letter arrived from Borofsky and arrived in the nick of time. Borofsky wrote in a jubilant strain. He had not cared to write before, he explained, because, though he had soon hit upon the original of Percy’s photograph, he had been unable, until now, to make any progress toward making acquaintance with him. But now there was at last something to report. Borofsky had shadowed his man for several days, learning in this way where he took his meals and how he employed his time, and so on. Mr. Robinson—as Percy had called him in his telegram—seemed to have many friends in town and visited two or three every day. This did not surprise us. It rather pleased us, for it went to prove, as we agreed, that father could not be very seriously demented if he could visit his acquaintances, of whom, of course, he possessed many in London. He took his meals at a restaurant in Tottenham Court road, Borofsky wrote. (I could not help laughing to hear this. Whv. in the name of wonder, I thought,

did father choose such a queer venue for a restaurant?) And it was at this place that Borofsky made his acquaintance. Having discovered father’s weird eating house, Borofsky went one evening and dined there, choosing a table alongside that which father always occupied. (I am calling him “father” because both mother and I, and of course Percy, were at this time quite agreed that the unknown was certainly my father and none other.) Half way through dinner father came in and sat dawn at. the table next to Borofsky, who presently started a conversation. Father began by being brusque and silent, but warmed up by degrees. They spoke in French, neither being proficient in English, but Borofsky, desiring to show that Russian, was his natural language, suddenly upset the salt on purpose, uttering an exclamation of anger in Russian. “Vui Kajeteya Russki!” (“Why, you’re a Russian !”.) exclaimed father in surprise, and from that moment conversation was easy, and the unknown one became, in the joy of his heart to have met a compatriot, more communicative. Borofsky introduced himself ns a young Russian compelled, for political reasons, to seek an asylum outside his native country. The unknown one laughed at this. “Ah,” he said, “there aro many in that position. I, too, might tell a tale, but that in this country—which is nevertheless the best in the world for those situated as some of us are—one never knows who are the bona fide politicians and who are the spies!” Borofsky laughed with his companion at this sally and declared that if the stranger felt any compunctions as to confiding in him he at least need not return the compliment, for no one in his senses nnd with any elementary notion as to “who is who” would ever dream of mistaking for a spy so well known a personality as—the unknown himself. “Do you mean to tell me yon know who I am?” asked Borofsky’s companion, scanning him suspiciously and freezing up a little. “Every one knows Count Landrinof!” said our acute little detective. At this, wrote Borofsky, the count gave a great jump. Then ho set down his knife and fork and began to laugh so tliat tho table shook, “which shows, ” Borofsky commented, “that the count is not melancholy mad, whatever his ailment may be. ” “Why,” he said at last, “I did think I would pass unknown in these queer haunts, at any rate, but I suppose there are more people that know a big man like Landrinof than Landrinof knows.” “There would be many to wender why so big a man should have the fancy to live in these queer haunts, as your

excellence calls them,” said Borofsky, and the other replied that he was living in London strictly incog, in order to inquire privately into certain financial speculations in which he was engaged. “It cannot matter much to my friends at home whereabouts in London I pitch my tent,” he added, and Borofsky agreed that every man was free to live where he liked. “The countess would laugh to see a grandee of Russia dining in a restaurant in Tottenham Court road,” he added. “My wife has given me a holiday,” laughed the count. “You needn’t mention having seen me here. I wish my incognito strictly preserved.” “Better to have no address than one in the purlieus of Tottenham Court

road, excellence,” said Borofsky, laughing also. “But what if your friends should be seriously anxious, being ignorant of your whereabouts?” At this the count froze up at once. “That is a matter which may bo left to my friends and myself, ” he said coldly, and the conversation closed for the evening. This was the extent of the letter, which the writer had evidently penned while in a condition of great excitement. “The count parted from me in some displeasure,” ended Borofsky. “But all will be well, for I intend to improve our acquaintance at the first opportunity, and if I do not bring the count back within a fortnight you need never trust me again.” [to be continued.]

The count gave a great jump.