In the meanwhile I feared that he must
consider himself as under close arrest. He himself was under the
impression that all the trouble was due to the concealed arms; the
Phoenix Park murders had never once been mentioned. I sent off a
long telegram in cypher to the Stockholm Legation, making certain
inquiries, and a longer one en clair to the British Consul at
Gothenburg. By nagging at the Attache, and by keeping that dapper
young gentleman's nose pretty close to the grindstone, I got the
first telegram cyphered and dispatched by 10 a.m.; the answers
arrived about 4 p.m. The man's story was true in every particular.
He HAD fallen off a moving tram and cut his face; his wife,
terrified at the idea of unknown dangers in Russia, HAD borrowed a
revolver and dagger from a friend, and had packed them in her
husband's trunk without his knowledge. Mr. D---(I remember his
name perfectly) was well known in Stockholm, and was a man of the
highest respectability. I drove as fast as I could to the grubby
hotel, where I found the poor fellow still restlessly pacing the
room, and still smoking cigarette after cigarette.
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