“By holding his tongue, by letting the public fear for the safety of the British crew and British ship, public feeling was stirred to such a pitch of excitement that the Russian now would never _dare_ show himself. Not only—by denouncing Captain Markham now—would he never be even listened to for a moment, but, if he came forward at all, if he even showed himself, he would stand before the British public self-convicted as the man who had tried through the criminal process of blackmail to terrorise an Englishman into sending a British ship and thirty British sailors to certain annihilation. “No; I think we may take it for granted that the Russian will not dare to show his face in England again.” And the funny creature was gone before I could say another word. IX. The Disappearance of Count Collini Chapter I He was very argumentative that morning; whatever I said he invariably contradicted flatly and at once, and we both had finally succeeded in losing our temper. The man in the corner was riding one of his favourite hobby-horses. “It is _impossible_ for any person to completely disappear in a civilised country,” he said emphatically, “provided that person has either friends or enemies of means and substance, who are interested in finding his or her whereabouts.” “Impossible is a sweeping word,” I rejoined. “None too big for the argument,” he concluded, as he surveyed with evident pride and pleasure a gigantic and complicated knot which his bony fingers had just fashioned. “I think that, nevertheless, you should not use it,” I said placidly. “It is not _impossible_, though it may be very difficult to disappear without leaving the slightest clue or trace behind you.” “Prove it,” he said, with a snap of his thin lips. “I can, quite easily.” “Now I know what is going on in your mind,” said the uncanny creature, “you are thinking of that case last autumn.” “Well, I was,” I admitted. “And you cannot deny that Count Collini has disappeared as effectually as if the sea had swallowed him up—many people think it did.” “Many idiots, you mean,” he rejoined dryly. “Yes, I knew you would quote that case. It certainly was a curious one; all the more so, perhaps, as there was no inquest, no sensational police court proceedings, nothing dramatic, in fact, save that strange and wonderful disappearance. “I don’t know if you call to mind the whole plot of that weird drama. There was Thomas Checkfield, a retired biscuit baker of Reading, who died leaving a comfortable fortune, mostly invested in freehold property, and amounting to about £80,000, to his only child, Alice.