Fauchette first brought me a little powdered chalk, with which I smeared my face. I then put on a long flowing cloak and a sombrero hat, part of the wardrobe accumulated by the Princess in the course of her gaieties.
I slipped a damp sponge into my pocket and directed the girl to lead the way.
She went down-stairs a few yards in front of me, turned into the servants' part of the house and threw open the back door, which led out into a courtyard giving on a street used only by tradesmen's carts. At this hour of the day it was deserted.
I followed cautiously in Fauchette's wake, and got as far as the back door without meeting any interruption.
But at that point, the porter, who must have been roused by an unfamiliar step--though I understand he swore afterward that the passage of the ghost had been absolutely noiseless--came out and stood in the doorway.
Without hesitating for an instant I assumed an erect posture and advanced swiftly toward him with my whitened face well displayed.
The fellow gave vent to a half-articulate call which died down in his throat, and bolted back into his room uttering yell after yell.
Fifteen seconds later I was out in the street, sponging the chalk from my face.
And five minutes after that I was comfortably seated in a hired droshky, on my way to a certain little house in the seafaring quarter of the city, which possessed, among other advantages, that of commanding an exceedingly fine view of the Admiralty Pier.
I now come to a part of my chronicle which I plainly foresee must expose me to grave criticism.
To that criticism it is no part of my purpose to attempt any reply.
In the long run, I have found, men's minds are not much affected by argument and advocacy. Facts tell their own story, and men's judgments are usually the result of their personal prejudices.
For that reason I shall confine myself to relating facts. I have already told the story of my murder--for such it was in the intent--by Petrovitch. I shall now tell the story of the justice meted out by me on the assassin.
As soon as I was safely lodged in my house on the Alexander Quay, I despatched my assistant, a clever young Frenchman named Breuil, with a message to the promoter of the Manchurian Syndicate--the real moving spirit of that War clique in which even the bellicose grand dukes had only secondary parts.