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Title: Gabriel Samara, Peacemaker
Author: Oppenheim, Edward Phillips (1866-1946)
Date of first publication: 1925
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, October 1925
Date first posted: 4 December 2012
Date last updated: 4 December 2012
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1018

This ebook was produced by
David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






                           GABRIEL SAMARA

                             PEACEMAKER

                      By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM


    TORONTO
    McCLELLAND AND STEWART

    1925

    _Copyright, 1925_,
    BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.

    _All rights reserved_

    Published October, 1925

    PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




GABRIEL SAMARA

PEACEMAKER




BOOK ONE




CHAPTER I


Miss Sadie Loyes, the manageress of the Hotel Weltmore Typewriting and
Secretarial Bureau, set down the receiver of the telephone which had its
place upon her desk and looked thoughtfully around at the eleven young
ladies who comprised her present staff. She stood there, an angular,
untidy-looking person, tapping a pencil against her teeth, unconscious
arbitress, not only of the fate of two very interesting people, but also
of the fate of a great nation. Portentous events depended upon her
decision. A man's life in this teeming city of New York was a small
enough matter of itself. The life of this prospective client of hers,
however, waiting now in his suite on the eleventh floor for the help
which he had summoned, was hung about with destiny. Meanwhile, Miss
Sadie Loyes continued to tap her teeth with the pencil and reflect.
Which should it be? The nearest and apparently the most industrious?

Her eyes rested disparagingly upon Miss Bella Fox's golden-brown
coiffure. These were dressy days in New York and style was all very well
in its way, but there was no mistaking the abbreviations of the young
lady's costume--very low from the throat downwards and displaying a
length of limb which, although perhaps sanctioned by fashion, paid no
excessive tribute to modesty. Miss Fox's jewellery, too, was a little in
evidence and there were rumours about dinners at the Ritz! On the whole
perhaps it would be better to keep this particular young lady back for
one of these western millionaires. Dorothy Dickson might do: a young
woman of far more modest appearance, but a little careless with her
shorthand. Possibly it was as well not to risk her on an important
assignment. Then there was Florence White--expert enough, but a little
mysterious in her private life, and the recipient of too many boxes of
candy and offerings of roses from her clients to inspire her employer
with thorough confidence as to her commercial ability. Then the pencil
stopped. Miss Borans! Nothing whatever against her; efficient,
self-contained, reserved alike in dress and demeanour, but with an air
of breeding which none of these others possessed. Absolutely an obvious
choice!

"Miss Borans," the manageress called out, in a shrill tone, "just step
this way, please."

The young lady addressed rose with composure, pushed her chair back into
its place, and approached her employer. Space was limited in the Hotel
Weltmore and the Typewriting and Secretarial Bureau was really a
railed-off portion of the lounge on the first floor reserved for "Ladies
Only."

"I guess you'd better slip up to number eleven hundred and eighty," Miss
Loyes directed. "I'll send a machine and the rest of the stuff right
along--gentleman there in a hurry--his secretary caught the fever while
he was in Washington. Samara, his name is--the Good Lord knows where he
got it!"

The girl seemed to stiffen.

"Samara, the Russian envoy?" she asked.

"You've got it, honey. Speaks with an English accent, though, you could
cut with a knife."

"I would rather not work for Gabriel Samara," the girl declared.

It took a great deal to surprise Miss Sadie Loyes, but this newest
recruit to her secretarial staff had certainly succeeded.

"How?" she exclaimed. "What's that?"

Miss Borans had not in the least the appearance of a young woman of
mercurial or changeable temperament. Nevertheless, she seemed already to
be repenting her rather rash pronouncement.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Loyes," she said. "That was perhaps a foolish
speech of mine. Number eleven hundred and eighty, you said. I will go
there at once."

"Say, do you know anything of this Mr. Samara?" the manageress enquired.

"Nothing personally," was the prompt reply.

"You haven't worked for him before? He hasn't tried to be familiar with
you or anything of that sort?"

"Certainly not."

"Then what's the idea, eh?"

Miss Borans hesitated.

"I am of Russian descent," she confided. "One has prejudices. It was
foolish."

Miss Sadie Loyes had had a great deal of experience of the younger
members of her sex, and she studied her employee for a minute
thoughtfully. Miss Catherine Borans conformed to no type with which she
was familiar. She was a young woman of medium height, slim and with the
promise of a perfect body beneath the almost Quaker-like simplicity of
her gown. She was rather full-faced, with a broad forehead, dark silky
eye-lashes and clear brown eyes. Her features were distinguished by
reason of their clean-cut clarity, her mouth was perfectly shaped
although her lips were a little full. Her expression was not to be
reckoned with, for during the few weeks she had been employed at the
Bureau she had wrapped herself in a mantle of impenetrable reserve.

"I guessed you were a foreigner," Miss Sadie Loyes remarked finally.
"Well, anyways, this Mr. Samara is a great guy over there, isn't he? The
New York Press, at any rate, seems to be giving him an almighty boom."

Miss Sadie Loyes had spent a busy life in narrow ways and, leaving out
England, France and Germany, "over there" represented for her the rest
of Europe.

"In his way I have no doubt that he is a great man," Miss Borans
acknowledged coldly. "I was foolish to have any feeling in the matter."

She passed on with her notebook in her hand, a noticeable figure in the
bustling promenades of the hotel, both from the quiet distinction of her
appearance and her utter indifference to the cosmopolitan throngs
through which she passed. She took her place in the crowded elevator,
ascended to the eleventh floor, received a pleasant nod from the young
lady seated on guard at the corner of the corridor, and touched the bell
of number eleven hundred and eighty.

"Mr. Samara's right there now," the latter observed from behind her
desk. "I guess he's needing help badly, too. They're talking of having
to take his secretary away to the hospital. Stomach trouble, I guess.
These foreigners eat different to us."

The door in front of them was suddenly opened. Miss Borans was
confronted by a somewhat alarming looking personage; a man of over six
feet in height and broad in proportion, florid, blue-eyed and of
truculent appearance. Not even the studious sombreness of his attire
could bring him into line with any recognised types of domestic
servitor. He stared at this visitor without speaking.

"I have come from the Typewriting Bureau downstairs to do some work for
Mr. Samara," she announced.

Typists, especially of this order, were unknown quantities in the world
where Ivan Rortz had spent most of his days, but he stood aside and
ushered her through the little hall to the sitting room beyond. It was
of the ordinary hotel type, but flooded with light, overheated, and, as
it seemed to her in those first few seconds, almost overcrowded with
flowers. Everywhere they flaunted their elegance against the uncouth
decorations of the room; a queer contrast of exotic beauty and
pretentious ugliness. A man swung round from a writing desk to look at
her,--a man who she knew at once must be Samara.

His study of her was superficial and incurious. She, on the other hand,
brought all her powers of observation to bear upon the man whom it was
her daily lesson to learn to hate. The illustrated Press of many
countries had made his features in a sense familiar--yet, in a further
sense, they had never done him justice. She saw a man of well over
middle height, broad-shouldered yet with a tendency to stoop. His face
was as hard as granite, cruel, perhaps, and as expressionless as her
own, yet redeemed by a mouth which had wonderful possibilities of
tenderness and humour. His hair was black and short, his eyebrows
over-heavy, his clear grey eyes almost unduly penetrating.

"Well?" he exclaimed curtly.

"I am from the Typewriting Bureau," she announced once more.

He nodded.

"Where is your machine?"

"On the way up."

He pointed towards the book she was carrying.

"You write shorthand?"

"Certainly."

"Take down some letters. Sit where you please. I usually walk about.
Some I will give you direct on to the typewriter, when it arrives."

She seated herself deliberately at the end of the table, opened her
book, and glanced at her pencil to be sure that it was sharpened. Then
she waited. He rose to his feet and stood with his back to her, looking
out of the window. Presently he swung round, took up a sheaf of letters
from the desk, and grunted as he inspected them.

"Rubbishy work," he declared, "but it must be done. Invitations to every
sort of a function under the sun. One reply will do for the lot--'Mr.
Gabriel Samara regrets that he is unable to accept the invitation,'
etc., etc.," his thick eyebrows almost meeting in a heavy frown. "Got
that?"

"Yes," she answered.

He threw a selection of the letters on the table before her, destroying
the remainder. Then he made his way back to the desk and loitered there
with his hands in his pockets.

"I can't do these until the typewriter arrives," she reminded him.

"Naturally," he replied drily. "I was wondering about the rest of the
work. Here is your machine."

There was a knock at the door and a boy arrived with the typewriter,
which he set upon the table. Catherine Borans began her task. Presently
the telephone bell rang. Samara motioned her to answer it.

"A gentleman from the _New York Hemisphere_ would like to see you," she
announced.

He shook his head.

"You can answer all applications from journalists in the same manner,"
he said. "Just tell them that Mr. Samara has nothing to communicate to
the Press--with one exception, mind. A Mr. Bromley Pride will ring up
from the _New York Comet_. I will accord him an interview. And, whilst
we are on this subject, be so good as to inform the young lady outside
that I will not have people waiting about in the corridor to waylay me
when I come out. My lips are sealed. I have nothing to say to any one."

Miss Borans carried out her instructions faithfully. Then she
recommenced her task. Suddenly Samara paused in his restless
perambulation of the room and looked at her intently.

"Are you to be trusted, young lady?" he enquired brusquely.

She abandoned her typing for a moment and looked up at him.

"I should say not," she replied.




CHAPTER II


Samara was distinctly taken aback. His expression was one of incredulous
surprise, mingled with some irritation.

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"My reply to your question," she explained, "was truthful, though of
course relative. I should not, as a matter of fact, care to be trusted
with any of your important political correspondence."

"And why not?"

"I prefer not to discuss the matter further."

He smiled with gentle sarcasm.

"May I ask if this self-advertised untrustworthiness is universal
amongst the young ladies of the Bureau from which you come?"

She considered for a moment.

"Of course you can send for some one else if you like," she said. "I
would not trust any one of them with confidential documents, though.
Your private secretary is the person to deal with them."

"But my private secretary," he confided, "is ill. They are talking of
taking him to hospital."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"That is unfortunate," she admitted. "Still, you have an Embassy in
Washington and a Russian Consul here. Surely they should be able to help
you."

"You are without doubt a young lady of resource," he declared with an
indulgent smile. "Nevertheless, there are reasons why I do not wish to
avail myself of the services of any one having an official connection
with my country."

"Then," she advised, "I should write my letters myself."

He stood looking down at her, his hands in his pockets, his thick
eyebrows almost meeting in a heavy frown. She felt her heart beating a
little more quickly. Notwithstanding her even manner and her very
equable poise towards life, she was conscious of something in this man's
presence which was akin to fear.

"Your candour," he said, "inspires me with a certain amount of
confidence. I hate writing letters. My brain moves so much more quickly
than my clumsy fingers, that anything which I put on paper is generally
illegible. There is a boat leaving to-night for Cherbourg where I have a
special agent waiting. It is necessary that I send an account of my
negotiations here. What is to be done?"

"I can only repeat that, if your report has to do with your negotiations
with the President, I should write it by hand and hope for the best,"
she rejoined coolly.

His eyes flashed. For a moment he seemed almost to lose control of
himself.

"What in the name of all the Holy Saints of Russia do you know about my
negotiations with the President?" he demanded.

"Nothing more than a few other million people of the city," she replied.
"I am an intelligent student of the daily Press, like most American
girls."

He looked at her suspiciously.

"I am not at all sure that you are an American girl," he growled.

"I have lived in New York for twenty-three years," she said meekly. "You
may not think it, but I can assure you that has not left me much time to
imbibe the instincts of other nationalities."

He sat at the opposite end of the table, staring at her, his hands in
his pockets, his expression curiously dominated by the uncertain curve
of his lips. For a brief moment she wondered whether he were not
laughing at her.

"Are all the young ladies of the Weltmore Typewriting Bureau gifted with
such glib tongues?" he enquired.

"By no means," she assured him. "Believe me, I am quite an exception. I
think I was sent because I was considered the most serious minded."

"Heaven help the others!" he muttered. "Now listen. I am going to trust
you to a certain extent against your own advice. I shall dictate to you
all except the vital part of my communication. A great deal of what you
are going to take down I should prefer you to forget. The most private
part of all I shall write in my own hand, and God grant that some one at
the other end will be able to read it."

Catherine Borans thrust a new sheet of paper into the typewriter and
bent over her task. For half an hour or more the man opposite to her
dictated. Then he took the sheets which she had typed over to his desk
and drew pen and ink towards him.

"You can go on with the other work," he enjoined, commencing to write.

The scratching of his pen ceased almost as she addressed the last of her
envelopes. He turned in his chair just as she had risen to her feet.

"Don't go yet," he begged, throwing another pile of letters upon the
table. "There are all these to be attended to and it is necessary for
some one to be here to answer the telephone. Besides, I have a question
to ask you."

"A question?" she repeated doubtfully.

"Yes. I am a stranger in your country and I hope that you will gratify
my curiosity. If I had dictated the vital part of this letter to you,
wherein lay the fear of your probity? Do you mean that you would have
sold its contents to the Press?"

"That would have been a temptation," she confessed, carelessly tapping
the keys of her typewriter. "I am a working girl, you know, and am
supposed to be well paid at thirty dollars a week. I think that any
newspaper in New York would probably give ten thousand dollars for a
true account of your conversation with the President and the arrangement
at which you arrived. Fancy the clothes I could have bought and the
countries I could have visited with ten thousand dollars!"

"Yes," he admitted thoughtfully, "I suppose I was running a certain
amount of risk. By the bye, I presume it would have been the Press with
whom you would have dealt?"

"With whom else?" she asked.

"There are others," he observed, watching her keenly; "politicians,
shall we call them?--who would be curious to know the precise
conclusions at which we arrived in Washington yesterday."

"Naturally," she assented.

"Even in Europe," he went on, "this business of secret societies and
international espionage is a little on the wane. One nation only
continues to use it as her great weapon. In America I never dreamed of
coming across anything of the sort. Have I by some chance stumbled upon
the unexpected, Miss--I beg your pardon, I have forgotten what you told
me your name was."

"I have not told you my name."

"Please repair the omission."

"I do not see the necessity," she objected. "I am the young lady typist
from the Hotel Bureau. You have been unfortunate inasmuch as I am the
only one in the office likely to be interested in your mission and its
results. To-morrow you had better ask for some one else. There are two
or three there, perhaps not more trustworthy than I, but who will take
down anything you dictate without a glimmer of comprehension. I should
recommend Miss Bella Fox."

He shook his head.

"The name is sufficient," he declared. "I should dislike Miss Bella Fox
and I could not dictate to her. I shall ask for you. Tell me how to do
so."

"My name is Catherine Borans."

"And if I had dictated to you what I have written with my own hand, what
would have been the nature of the risk I should have run?"

"I decline," she said, "to answer your question."

The telephone at her elbow rang whilst Samara stood scowling down at
her. She turned and took the call. As she listened she frowned slightly.

"Tell me your name again, please?" she asked.

The name was apparently repeated. The girl spoke into the receiver.

"Please wait," she begged. "I will tell Mr. Samara that you are here."

She laid down the receiver and pushed the instrument a little away. Then
she turned towards her companion.

"There is a gentleman downstairs who says that his name is 'Bromley
Pride' and that he has called from the _New York Comet_ to see you."

Samara nodded.

"That is quite in order," he assented. "He can come up. Please tell him
so."

She did not at once obey. She was evidently perplexed.

"Since you are so much interested in my affairs," her companion
continued, "I will tell you that the President himself, looking upon the
paper which I understand Mr. Bromley Pride represents, as his official
mouthpiece, has suggested that I confide to him a certain portion of the
result of our negotiations."

"Indeed," she murmured.

"Recognising to the full," he went on, with a faint note of sarcasm in
his tone, "and thoroughly appreciating that kindly interest, I would yet
point out that this is a matter which is already decided. Will you
kindly therefore ask Mr. Pride to step up?"

"I would do so," she replied, dropping her voice a little and holding
the telephone receiver still further away, "but, as a matter of fact, he
is not there."

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"I happen to know Mr. Bromley Pride quite well," she explained. "I am
also very well acquainted with his voice. The man who is impersonating
him downstairs is a stranger!"




CHAPTER III


Gabriel Samara seemed for a moment puzzled and unable to appreciate the
significance of his companion's words.

"In any case," he rejoined, "beg whoever is down there to come up. Mr.
Pride has probably sent a substitute."

Catherine leaned over the instrument with an expressionless face.

"Is it Mr. Bromley Pride himself speaking?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You are to come up, then."

She laid down the receiver without remark.

"Well?" Samara demanded impatiently.

"The man who is below insists on it that he is Mr. Bromley Pride," she
announced.

"And you still don't believe him?"

"I know that he is not," she replied. "I have worked for Mr. Bromley
Pride. We are old acquaintances."

"Some journalistic dodge, perhaps," he muttered.

She began gathering together the paraphernalia connected with her
machine.

"It is not my business," she continued quietly, "to offer you advice. I
am not sure that I am disposed to do so, but as a matter of common sense
I must say that I wonder at your admitting to your apartments a man who
is visiting you under a false name when you have a document, presumably
of some interest to the world, lying there on your desk."

Samara looked at her with wide-open eyes.

"But my dear young lady," he protested, "we are in the very centre of
civilization. This is New York!"

"A city of which you are evidently extremely ignorant."

Her attitude suddenly inspired him with disquietude. He began to
reflect.

"There are some people, of course," he muttered, "who would give the
price of a kingdom to know this before I got home. But surely--here----"

She interrupted him.

"Mr. Samara," she said quietly, "I have read several biographies of you.
In every one of them, the chronicler has observed that, for a
diplomatist of world-wide fame, you are possessed of a remarkably
unsuspicious nature. I agree with your chroniclers. Good morning."

"Stop!" he begged her.

There was the sound of the bell. It was rung in quite an ordinary
manner, but to both of them there seemed something sinister in its
drawn-out summons. She looked at him.

"Your servant?"

"He is sitting with my secretary, Andrew Kroupki."

"I will answer the door," she announced.

"And remain, if you please," he insisted.

She turned away, threw open the outside door, and returned a moment
later, ushering in a visitor. She made no comment as she stood on one
side to let him pass, but both she and Samara himself studied the
newcomer curiously. He was a pleasant-looking man, neatly dressed, with
an amiable expression, and the shoulders of an athlete. He carried a
black portfolio under his arm, which he set down carefully upon the
table, close to the typewriter, before proceeding to introduce himself.
His voice, when he spoke, was distinctly a home product and free from
any foreign accent.

"I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Samara," he said, as he gripped the
latter's hand. "This is an honour I appreciate very highly."

Samara motioned his visitor towards a chair. He was wondering why his
dislike had been of such quick conception.

"I must tell you, Mr. Pride," he explained, "that my own desire was to
have kept absolutely secret the nature of my negotiations with your
Government until I had had an opportunity of setting them before my
advisers in Moscow. Your President, however, thought that complete
reticence as to my mission would be too much to ask of your Press and
that therefore an idea of the arrangement concluded had better be given
to a representative journal such as your own."

"Quite so," the visitor murmured. "My paper holds almost an official
position here."

"May I ask what post you occupy upon it?" Samara enquired.

"I am a member of the Board of Directors," was the prompt reply. "I am
also leader writer on international affairs."

"And your name is Pride?"

"Yes--James D. Bromley Pride. You can speak right out to me. No need to
keep a thing back!"

A quiet voice from the other end of the room suddenly intervened. The
words themselves seemed harmless enough, but their effect was
cataclysmic.

"There is surely some mistake. Mr. Bromley Pride of the _New York Comet_
is in Philadelphia."

Samara himself was a little taken aback by the unexpected intervention
of his temporary secretary. The expression on his visitor's face was
momentarily illuminative.

"Who is this?" he demanded sharply.

"My name is Catherine Borans," was the composed reply. "I belong to the
Typewriting Bureau downstairs. I have often worked for Mr. Pride. You
are not he."

The pseudo Mr. Pride had regained his presence of mind. He pointed to
the card which he had laid upon the table.

"This young woman's interference is impertinent and absurd," he
declared. "If I am not Bromley Pride of the _New York Comet_, how is it
that I am here at all? I received my instructions from the editor
himself this morning."

Samara looked across towards Catherine.

"Telephone the editor of the _New York Comet_," he directed. "Ask him to
send some one round to identify this gentleman. I do not wish to be
offensive," he went on, turning to his visitor, "but your identity is a
matter upon which I must be entirely assured."

The _sang froid_ of this caller of disputed personality was amazing.
Before Catherine could take off the receiver he stepped quickly towards
the telephone and faced them both.

"The young lady has spoken the truth," he confessed. "I am not Bromley
Pride. I am, as a matter of fact, the representative of a rival
newspaper. You do not need to be told, Mr. Samara, that here in New York
a live journalist will go further than assume another man's name to get
hold of a big scoop--and then some! He will risk more even than being
thrown down eleven flights of stairs! Is there any price you are
inclined to name, sir, for the particulars which you were about to hand
on to the _New York Comet_?"

Samara's eyes flashed and his frown was menacing.

"An imposter!" he exclaimed. "I request you to withdraw at once from my
apartment."

"And I decline," was the prompt and determined reply. "I may tell you
right away that I am prepared to go to any lengths to secure this
information from you."

"Indeed," Samara scoffed. "May I ask in what direction you propose to
make your effort?"

The visitor stretched out his hand backwards and, from one of the folds
of that harmless-looking black portfolio which he had left propped up
against the typewriter, he drew out an automatic pistol of particularly
sinister appearance. His mask of amiability had gone. There was a
malicious gleam in his eyes, a cruel twist to his mouth.

"Gabriel Samara," he announced, "I am no journalist at all. I am, as a
matter of fact, in another line of business altogether. It is up to me
to discover what arrangements you have come to with the President, and
how far such arrangements are going to help you with your plans in
Russia. I do not desire to alarm either you or the young lady, but I am
going to have the truth."

Samara smiled contemptuously. There was not a flicker of expression in
Catherine's face.

"Pray set your mind at ease so far as we are concerned," he begged.
"Neither the young lady nor I are in the least alarmed at your
braggadocio. As a matter of curiosity," he went on, "supposing I were
disposed to submit to this highway robbery, how do you know that I
should tell you the truth?"

The intruder pointed to the typewriter and to the written sheets on the
desk.

"There is only one task upon which you could be engaged this morning,"
he said. "I guess those sheets will do for me, anyway."

"And supposing by any remote chance I should refuse to give them to
you," Samara persisted, "is it your purpose, may I ask, to assassinate
me?"

"To be candid, yes," was the blunt reply. "But for the fear of
canonising you in your own country, you would have been assassinated
long ago. To-day things are different. Even Russia can spare you. Let
the young lady fetch the papers and hand them to me."

"The young lady will do nothing of the sort," Samara declared firmly.
"So much of the result of my mission as I propose to make public at
present you can read in the _New York Comet_ to-morrow. Now, if it is
your intention to assassinate me, you had better get on with it."

The gun was slowly raised to a horizontal position. The face of the man
behind it was hideously purposeful.

"What you don't realise," he said deliberately, "is that I am in
earnest. You are a marked man, Gabriel Samara, less popular in your own
country than you were and hated in mine. Sooner or later this would have
been your end anyway, but listen--I'm telling you--your time has come
now, unless you place those papers on the table in front of you--before
I count five. Before I count five, mind, or I shall shoot!"

Samara looked around the room quickly. There was no fear in his face,
only the reasonable search of a man who loves life for some means of
escape. There was none which he could apprehend. His assailant was
between him and the bell, and the breaking of a window on the eleventh
floor--even if it attracted any attention in the street--would be
unlikely to bring help in time. All the while the young woman behind
the typewriter was watching him, with steady eyes and unmoved
expression.

"One--two--three--four----"

"I shouldn't worry," her quiet voice interrupted soothingly. "That gun
will not hurt you."

There was a second's stupefaction, then the sound of a harmless click.
The silence which followed seemed intolerable, broken though it was in a
matter of moments by the piercing shrillness of the whistle which
Catherine held to her lips. For the first time Samara himself was
dumbfounded; so was his would-be murderer, who was staring open-mouthed
at his useless weapon.

"You see," the young woman who had dominated the situation explained to
Samara, "this bungling conspirator--really he ought to take a lesson
from one of the novelists--put down his satchel behind the cover of my
typewriter, having opened it himself first--to get at his gun easily, I
suppose. I saw the glitter, so whilst he was indulging in one of his
little bursts of eloquence, I slipped out the cartridge roll."

She held it up. Outside there was the sound of a key in the door.

"I have a smaller gun of the same pattern at home myself, so I
understand all about them," she went on equably. "And I hope you don't
think I was blowing that whistle for its musical properties. It belongs
to the hotel detective. What are you going to say to him, I wonder?"

The door was thrown open and a stalwart, broad-shouldered man entered
hastily. He was in plain clothes but the stamp of officialdom was
unmistakable.




CHAPTER IV


"I'm Brown, the hotel detective," the newcomer announced sharply.
"What's wrong here?"

The pseudo Mr. Pride shrugged his shoulders resignedly.

"I'm a free-lance journalist," he declared; "got connections with half a
dozen New York papers. I wanted Mr. Samara's news and I tried to bluff
him into giving it to me."

"A little more than that, I fancy," Samara observed. "There wasn't much
bluff about your automatic."

"Are you carrying firearms?" the detective asked.

The man who called himself Pride handed over his gun.

"I'm through," he confessed. "If I could have bluffed Mr. Samara into
giving me a report of his interview in Washington yesterday it would
have been worth fifty thousand dollars to me. I failed and I guess it's
up to me to take the consequences."

The detective was impressed but noncommittal. He appealed to Samara.

"Is this all there is to it?" he enquired.

Samara shook his head.

"The man threatened to assassinate me and appeared to be in earnest," he
replied. "If the young lady there had not withdrawn the cartridges from
his automatic pistol, he would probably have done so. I do not believe
that he is a journalist at all. It is, I imagine, a political affair."

The detective turned to Catherine. Her deep brown eyes were filled with
what appeared to be amazement. She shook her head.

"Mr. Samara was naturally alarmed," she said, "but I do not believe that
he was in any actual danger."

The detective looked quickly from one to the other of the three people
in the little tableau. Their faces were an interesting study. Both
Samara and his would-be assassin were obviously surprised; the latter,
however, quickly concealed his emotion.

"You don't think that he meant business, then?" the detective asked.

"My impression is that he was only bluffing," was the confident reply.

"Then why did you blow that whistle?" her questioner persisted.

"I am rather a nervous person," she confided. "I hated the thought that
there might be trouble while I was in the room."

Samara's amazement was genuine and sincere. He came a little farther
into the centre of the apartment and stood looking down at Catherine.

"You didn't hear the click, then, when he pulled the trigger of his
gun?"

"Did he pull it?" she asked. "Well, after all, it wasn't loaded."

He pointed to the roll of cartridges.

"But you admitted yourself that you took those out of his gun."

She smiled enigmatically.

"This has been rather a shock to you, hasn't it?" she said. "I was quite
worked up myself. I think we probably took the whole matter too
seriously."

The self-styled journalist who, during the last few moments, had been
suffering from an amazement equal to Samara's, recovered himself and
played up to his cue.

"Of course," he declared, "it is ridiculous to imagine that the whole
thing was more than a bluff. I wanted the news and I failed. Well, there
you are! Fine or prison, it's all the same to me. I'll pay the price!"

"Have you any charge to offer, sir?" the detective enquired of Samara.

The latter considered the matter under its new aspect.

"If you will undertake," he stipulated, "to keep that man under
surveillance until I am out of the country, that will satisfy me. I am
convinced, however, that he is a dangerous person and, notwithstanding
all that has been said, I am also convinced that he is capable of making
a deliberate attempt upon my life. Under the circumstances, however, I
can make no charge. If you take my advice, you will enquire into his
antecedents and his connection with journalism. You may experience some
surprises."

The detective was inclined to be disappointed at this tame conclusion to
the affair.

"I guess we'll take you to police headquarters," he decided, turning to
Bromley Pride's impersonator. "The clerk can ask you a few questions and
we'll have you held. I'll take care of your gun, if you don't mind, and
you can hand me over those cartridges, young lady. Will you step across
with us to police headquarters, Mr. Samara, and state your case?"

Samara shook his head.

"In the face of the young lady's statements," he observed drily, "I
don't think that my evidence is necessary. Do what you will about the
man. I have told you the truth about him."

The detective and his charge left the room. As the latter neared the
threshold he looked curiously back at Catherine. Her face, however, was
inscrutable. The door closed upon them. Samara and his temporary
secretary were alone. The former took a cigarette and lit it.

"In the first place, young lady," he began, "will you permit me to thank
you for having saved my life? In the second place, unless you wish me to
die of curiosity, will you tell me at once why you gave false evidence
to the detective and placed me in a rather absurd position?"

Catherine continued her task of collecting her belongings.

"If you have no more work for me," she said, "the office will be
expecting me to report. They will charge you for this extra half an hour
as it is."

"I engage you for the day," he declared, frowning.

"You must arrange that with Miss Loyes," she replied coldly. "I have an
appointment at three o'clock."

He took up the telephone receiver.

"Typewriting Bureau--urgent," he demanded. "Good. Mr. Samara speaking.
Can I secure the services of the young lady who is with me now for the
rest of the day? Good! Certainly."

He replaced the receiver and turned round with a faint smile of triumph.

"You belong to me for the day," he announced.

Her fingers strayed over the keys of her machine.

"My secretarial accomplishments," she reminded him. "Not my confidence."

Samara had never been more than a casual observer of women, had never
studied them intimately, had certainly never appreciated them. Other
passions had lain more closely intertwined with his life. He scrutinised
Catherine for the first time with half-reluctant interest, realising the
finer qualities of her, the delicate femininity, coupled with an amazing
self-reliance. He realised, too, that in the subtlest of all ways she
was beautiful.

"Did you know that assassin whose cause you suddenly espoused with such
vigour?" he asked a little abruptly.

"I never saw him before in my life," she declared.

"Then in the name of wonder," he begged, "tell me why you chose to sit
there and tell deliberate falsehoods for his sake?"

"It happened to amuse me," she observed, smiling. "After all, you have
nothing to complain of. I saved your life and subsequently I prevented
your taking vengeance upon your would-be murderer. We might call it
quits, I think."

Samara was immensely puzzled. He frowned down at her moodily.

"Sheer sentimentality," he muttered. "I hate cut-throats. It's a dirty
business shooting at unarmed men."

"He wasn't a pleasant person," she agreed. "I disliked his moustache and
the colour of his tie. Shall we decide to forget him? I am at your
disposal for the rest of the day. Have you letters to give me?"

He shrugged his shoulders. It was a novelty, this, to find a woman with
a will as strong as his own. Then he glanced at his watch.

"I have to go out for half an hour," he announced. "I shall be glad if
you will arrange the typewritten sheets I gave you and pin in the pages
I wrote by hand in the proper order."

She looked at him in surprise.

"But this is the document all the trouble has been about!" she
exclaimed. "I might read it!"

He crossed the room to the desk where he had been writing, collected the
sheets and brought them over to her.

"My dear young lady," he said, "you are welcome to read my little
contribution--if you can."

She studied the closely written pages with an apparently puzzled air.

"So that is Russian," she remarked.

He nodded. "Looks terrible, doesn't it? Here is my servant back again.
Ivan, bring me my coat and hat and watch over this young lady whilst I
am away. With Ivan Rortz about the place," he continued, "no one will be
likely to disturb you. I shall give orders outside, too, that no
visitors are permitted to enter."

She was still gazing at those sheets filled with strange-looking words.

"Very well," she assented, "I will have this all in order by the time
you get back."

       *       *       *       *       *

To all appearance nothing had happened when Samara returned from his
visit to a great banking house in Wall Street. He gave his coat and hat
to Ivan who was sitting--a grim, silent figure--in the little hall. Then
he passed into the inner room where Catherine, having apparently
completed her task, was leaning back in her chair, turning over the
pages of the document which she had pinned together.

"Well?" he asked with sardonic pleasantry. "Did you make anything of
it?"

She laid it down and glanced up at him.

"Naturally," she replied. "I read it."

"But the Russian part?"

"The Russian part, of course. It was the most interesting."

He stared at her. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "You can't read
Russian?"

She laughed. "What an accusation!"

For a moment he looked at her. All the time he had been troubled by a
sense of a vague likeness; not, perhaps, to any particular person, but
to a type.

"Surely you told me that you were an American?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Oh, no," she replied. "I told you that I had lived in America for
twenty-three years."

"Then what are you?"

"As much a Russian as you are," she assured him, smiling.




CHAPTER V


Samara, though a great statesman and undoubtedly a great ruler, was a
man of unsuspicious temperament and had more than once committed what
might have turned out to be diplomatic blunders. He was also, however,
at all times a man of action. He locked the door behind him, drew a
chair in front of the telephone and sat facing the young lady whom he
had engaged to be his secretary for the day.

"I think," he said, "we will have an explanation."

She smiled graciously.

"As I now know exactly the arrangements you have made with the
Government of this country," she remarked, "I am perfectly willing to
tell you anything you want to know."

"In the first place then," he asked, "are you a spy, and, if you are, in
whose interests are you working?"

"I am nothing of the sort," she assured him. "I am in effect exactly
what I seem to be. I am a young lady of New York City, of scanty means,
earning a living by typewriting and secretarial work."

"But you are Russian?"

"My father and mother were both Russians," she acknowledged. "I
recognise it as my country. I have lived here all my life, however."

"We are getting on," he said. "Is Borans your real name?"

"A sufficient portion of it," she answered. "The rest of it is not
important."

"Will you explain to me," he went on, "why you first saved my life and
then behaved so strangely with regard to my would-be murderer?"

"Now that I have read this document," she said, touching it with her
fingers, "I am disposed to explain to you. I am not a spy in any sense
of the word but I am a patriotic Russian. I belong to a little circle of
Russians living here, who are filled with one idea as regards our
country. We have not even the dignity of being a secret society. Every
one knows everything about us and every one laughs at us. We look upon
you with respect but as a very obstructive person."

"Upon me?" he exclaimed. "And you call yourself a patriot! Don't dare to
tell me that you are a Bolshevist!"

"I am not," she replied indignantly. "I am free to confess that you have
wiped Russia clean of a great curse. You have done a splendid work but
you have not done it our way."

"What, in God's name, are you then?" he asked impatiently. "What party
do you represent? I have dragged Russia out of the slough. I have
restablished her institutions, her economic position. Already she is
lifting her head amongst the nations of the world."

"I admit all that freely," she acknowledged. "It is because I realise
what Russia owes you that you are alive. I do not wish, however, to tell
you any more at present about myself and my political views. I saved
your life because I believe that you are still necessary to Russia, but
in a certain sense, I and your would-be assassin are alike. We share one
great grievance against you. We resent--or perhaps some might say
fear--your great scheme of demilitarisation."

Samara laughed a little harshly.

"Really," he said, "I never imagined that life in New York could be so
interesting. The atmosphere of this room, however, is getting on my
nerves. I have been through all I can stand for one morning. I can hear
the click of that wicked-looking pistol even now. Young lady, where are
your friends? Why do I not know them? I thought most of the Russians in
New York who had aims or views had been to see me."

She shook her head. "Not all," she told him. "There are still a few of
us who hold aloof."

"Miss Borans," he invited, "will you please do me the honour of taking
lunch with me?"

She rose to her feet with alacrity.

"Not in the hotel," she begged. "It isn't allowed. Anywhere else with
great pleasure. I warn you, though, that my morning's work has given me
an absurd appetite."

"I shall be proud to minister to it," he assured her.

They lunched at a secluded table in the balcony of the Ritz Carlton.
Gabriel Samara, like many another man whose life is immersed in his
work, and who finds himself committed to an unusual action in his
everyday routine, was conscious of a curious light-heartedness. He felt
as if he were a schoolboy at play. He, Gabriel Samara, taking his
companion of a morning to luncheon in a restaurant!

"It intrigues me," she remarked, "to think that notwithstanding all your
diplomats here and Mr. Bromley Pride of the _New York Comet_--who, by
the way, telephoned to say that he is on his way back from Philadelphia
and will see you this afternoon--I am the only person in the world with
whom you can discuss the result of your mission to Washington."

"What I shall do with you, I can't imagine," he groaned. "Everything
will come out in due course, naturally, but premature disclosure before
I get back might do an enormous amount of harm. I have a very strenuous
opposition to face, as you may realise."

"You need not be afraid," she assured him. "If you are really going to
give me _lobster newburg_ I shall keep your secret! I warn you that if I
thought that disclosure would aid our own cause, not all the precious
stones in your mines could keep me silent, nor all the gold which will
soon be flowing into your banks. As it is you are safe."

"That is something to be thankful for, at any rate," he declared. "Miss
Borans, treat me with confidence. You interest me. Let us talk frankly.
If indeed you are a patriotic Russian, and have studied in any way the
history of our times, you will know that I too am one. Wherein does my
policy of reconstruction differ from yours? Why don't you approve of
demilitarisation? Why should I consent to my country keeping under arms
the greatest war machine in Europe to pull the chestnuts out of the fire
for another nation?"

"There I agree," she admitted. "There must be no more wars."

"But for my errand here," he continued, "there would have been war
within a few years. You cannot keep four million men under arms
indefinitely without trouble. If you knew the tension at the present
moment, the stream of proposals, the envoys who have been continually
sent to me!"

She nodded.

"Don't tell me too much about them," she warned him. "You might find
that I am not so much on your side as you think."

"But this demilitarisation," he persisted. "You must approve of that. We
have three perfectly trained armies, of a million men each, ready to
fight at a moment's notice. Why? You know why, and so do I. Isn't it a
sane thing to disband a million according to my arrangements, now that I
have been able to obtain a credit in Washington for the reconstruction
of the industries for which we can use their labour? Think! In six
months' time, not a man of that million will be bearing arms. They will
be miners, or on the land, working in factories, on the railways, or
road making, just according to their natural bent. Why, it's blood and
bone in the country; a million productive toilers instead of a million
wastrels!"

"Theoretically I agree," she acknowledged. "It is because I agree that I
saved your life."

"Then why did you take his side?" he demanded bluntly.

"Because, although our point of view and ultimate aim are entirely
different," she replied, "your would-be assassin stands, in a sense, for
the same things that we do."

Samara gave the waiter an order and leaned back in his place.

"Explain," he insisted. "In as few words as possible, please. I am weary
of not understanding."

"Why should I explain?" she murmured. "It is all very simple. We grant
you that you have lifted Russia out of the slough, but we do not believe
that your methods, that your system of government will place her back
where she has a right to be."

The light broke in upon him then.

"I see!" he exclaimed. "Who are your friends here? Can I meet them?"

A sudden deepening of the little lines at the corners of her eyes and
the twitching of her lips betrayed a genuine amusement.

"What a sensation I should cause if I took you to see them!" she
laughingly informed him. "I can see their faces now when I present you!
It would be amazing!"

"Risk it," he begged. "Why not? I am proud to look any Russian patriot
in the face and tell him who I am."

She was interested.

"Yes, I suppose you do feel like that," she observed, after a moment's
pause. "Why shouldn't you? Sometimes I, myself, make almost a hero of
you. I'm quite sure that I shall always be proud to think that I have
lunched with the great Samara. I shall be grateful, too, for other
reasons. Do you find me very greedy?"

"Delightfully so," he admitted. "All healthy people are greedy. The vice
of it only creeps in with the lack of self-restraint."

"I suppose," she remarked, "my manners are good, but if you only knew
how I longed to see whether he has remembered the olives with the
chicken. Hold tight to your chair now, please, and prepare for a shock.
I am going to ask you a sickeningly obvious question. Tell me how you
like America."

Gabriel Samara looked around him thoughtfully. He answered the spirit
which prompted the question rather than the question itself.

"I venerate America," he declared. "Why shouldn't I? In a sense I am the
champion of modern democracy. America is a shining light to all other
nations, yet I maintain that Russia, with its unified population, has a
better chance of reaching the supreme heights."

"I sometimes wonder," she sighed, "whether the true spirit of a republic
can flourish in a land which knows such terrible extremes of wealth and
poverty?"

"It is a drawback," he agreed. "That is where we in Russia have an
advantage. We are framing a new constitution. Our laws are adapted to
meet existing circumstances. Communism is dead, but we shall never
tolerate the multimillionaire."

"Do you think," she asked, "that Germany will ever let you become really
powerful?"

"Not willingly," he replied, "but the monarchical sentiment in Germany
is not strong enough yet to upset the government of the country.
Germany, of course, will bitterly resent the success of my mission over
here, but she will have to get rid of her republic before we need take
the war scare seriously."

She looked at him across the table.

"Do you think that the monarchist party in Germany is gaining ground?"
she asked.

"I know nothing about German internal affairs," he answered evasively.
"I have more than enough to do to keep in touch with the trend of
opinion in my own country."

The thread of conversation appeared to be suddenly broken. Samara began
to ask questions about the people by whom they were surrounded. The
restaurant on this fine spring morning seemed like a great nose-gay of
brilliant flowers. Three quarters of the guests were women and it was a
season of abandonment in colour, with yellow and pink predominating. New
York too, no less than Paris, was a city of subtle perfumes, cunningly
distilled and exotic. Samara, smoking his cigarette with the air of an
epicure, found much to interest him in his environment.

"These people are like Russians in one way," he remarked. "They spend
their money."

"I have a German friend here," she confided, "who argues that there is
always more extravagance under a republic. His point is that the
bourgeoisie make money easily and spend it readily. The aristocrat who
has to keep up a great appearance is compelled to be the more miserly of
the two, apart even from the question of good taste."

"Is this the prelude to a discussion upon the ethics of government?" he
suggested, smiling.

"Indeed, no," she replied. "I am not so presumptuous. My principles are
matters of instinct with me. I do not argue about them. I accept them."

She helped herself to one of his proffered cigarettes and he paid the
bill.

"Quite the monarchical touch," he observed. "If you are postponing your
return to your native land, however, until there is a Tzar upon the
throne, I am afraid you are doomed to a very long spell of
homesickness."

"Who knows?" she exclaimed carelessly. "Revolutions are rather the
fashion just now. I may return to find you in chains and the knout
cracking once more."

She had spoken lightly enough, but he chose to take her seriously.

"As a matter of fact," he confided, "there is a certain amount of very
disquieting truth in what you say. I have stamped out Bolshevism in
Russia forever. The spirit of anarchistic communism, at any rate, is
dead, but I honestly believe that, especially amongst the peasantry,
there is an unwholesome sort of craving for the burdens of Tzardom."

"That is almost the most interesting thing that you have said," she
remarked, as they rose to go. "Thanks very much for my wonderful
luncheon. Do you really require my services this afternoon?"

"Without a doubt," he insisted. "I am going on from here to pay a call.
At four o'clock I shall be back in my rooms. Let me find you there, if
you please."

They were about to part in the hallway of the restaurant, when Mrs.
Saxon J. Bossington intervened. She sailed down upon them with the air
of taking both into custody; ample, fashionably dressed, a triumph of
artificiality, forty--or perhaps fifty--lisping with the ingenuousness
of childhood.

"Why, if this isn't our little working girl!" she exclaimed, gripping
the none too willing hand of Samara's companion. "Well, well, is this
where you young women who earn your livings lunch as a rule? The number
of times I've asked you to make one of our little luncheon parties here,
Catherine, and you have always told me 'nothing doing in working
hours.'"

Catherine presented the appearance of a young person of good breeding,
striving to be polite whilst in bodily pain.

"To-day is an exception," she said. "I am lunching with a fellow
countryman."

Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington smiled graciously. She had just sufficient
discernment, born of her social cravings, to appreciate distinction even
when it did not conform to type.

"Present your friend," she suggested.

Catherine, with a deprecating glance at her companion, murmured his
name. Samara bowed--a little lower perhaps than was usual in a city
where handshaking is almost sacramental. He did not seem to notice,
however, the pearl-gloved hand so frankly extended.

"You're not Mr. Gabriel Samara, who has come over from Russia to see our
President?" she exclaimed breathlessly.

"My name," he replied, "is Gabriel Samara. I know of no other. I have
just come from Washington where your President was good enough to
receive me."

Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington simply quivered with excitement. It was without
a doubt a most thrilling meeting.

"I want to tell you, Mr. Samara, right now," she declared, "that you've
met the one woman in New York who has read every line that's been
written about you since you landed and who has been just crazy to meet
you. This is going to be wonderful. Catherine's bringing you to-night,
of course?"

"I beg your pardon," he observed, genuinely perplexed. "I have not the
honour----"

"Catherine? Miss Borans, of course--you will come to-night with her?
It's the meeting, you know. Why, it will be great! Prince Nicholas is
coming, General Orenburg, Colonel Kirdorff, the dear Grand Duchess--all
of them! It's most opportune!"

Samara turned to his companion. He was guilty of a gross breach of
manners. He addressed her in Russian.

"What is this woman talking about?" he demanded.

Mrs. Bossington was delighted. She rippled on before Catherine had a
chance to reply.

"Such a wonderful language!" she exclaimed. "Sometimes they talk it in
conclave and I can assure you, Mr. Samara, it just thrills me. Some
people call it harsh. I love it. Don't you think, Catherine dear," she
went on, her tone becoming almost wheedling, "that you could persuade
Mr. Samara to come a little earlier and dine with us first
to-night--just a very small affair--twenty covers or so? Joseph would be
tickled to death."

Catherine laid her hand upon the arm of her loquacious acquaintance.

"Mrs. Bossington," she said, "I am afraid you don't quite understand.
Mr. Samara is a Russian, of course, and a very distinguished one, but
his aims are scarcely the aims of our friends. I do not think we should
agree. It never even occurred to me to bring Mr. Samara to the
meeting."

Mrs. Bossington was horrified.

"My dear," she cried, "you're crazy! There you are, a dozen of you, all
Russians out of a home and out of a country and longing to get back
again. Why, here's the man who can help you. Get together and talk it
over. I'm only thankful it's my turn to entertain you. I should be the
proudest woman in New York to think that Mr. Samara had paid me a visit.
If we could only fix up that dinner!"

Gabriel Samara was a little weary. His glance was straying through the
windows to the sunlit streets. The close atmosphere of the lounge, the
heavy perfumes, the din of conversation were beginning to nauseate him.

"I have a call to make in the hotel, Miss Borans," he reminded her. "If
you and Mrs.--Mrs. Bossington, I believe--will excuse me, I will take my
leave. The Ambassador from my country is expecting me at half-past two."

His would-be hostess gripped him by the arm.

"Not one step do you move from here," she insisted, "until you have
promised to come and see these good people to-night."

"So far as that is concerned," he replied, "I am in Miss Borans' hands.
If it is her wish--if they are country people of mine who desire to meet
me--I shall be charmed."

Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington had attained her object. She saw some friends
to whom it was necessary that she should immediately communicate the
fact that she had been discussing Russian politics with Mr. Gabriel
Samara. With a little shower of farewells she departed. Catherine
glanced up at her companion. There was something of mutual comprehension
in their smile.

"It appears to be our fate to spend the evening together," he remarked.

"We shall see," she murmured. "Shall I expect you about four?"

"I shall not be later," he promised.

Samara watched his departing companion as she passed through the little
throng of gossiping women on her way to the street. Amongst all this
flamboyant elegance, these vivid splashes of colour and elaborate
toilettes, there was something almost aloof in her still drabness--her
disdain of all those freely displayed arts. Yet, so far as sheer
femininity was concerned, Samara felt the spell of her so strongly that
not one of the many attractive women by whom he was surrounded, several
of whom looked at him with friendly curiosity, seemed in any way
comparable to her. He watched her disappear and turned back into the
hotel to keep an appointment with the Ambassador of his country, who had
followed him from Washington the night before. His eagerness for the
approaching discussion, however, had suddenly evaporated.

"I am, after all, a pagan," he muttered, as he stepped into the lift to
make his call. "For the moment I had forgotten Russia."




CHAPTER VI


Catherine, on her return to Samara's suite at the Hotel Weltmore, found
the sofa in the sitting room occupied by a young man who stared at her
with curious eyes as she entered. He was tall, phenomenally thin and
phenomenally sallow. The hollows in his cheeks were so pronounced that
the higher bones themselves seemed almost on the point of pushing their
way through the flesh. His coal-black hair was long and dishevelled, and
his unshaven condition added to the wildness of his appearance.
Catherine, with the instinct of her sex, took note only of his obvious
ill health, and her tone as she addressed him was kindly.

"You must be Andrew Kroupki, Mr. Samara's secretary," she said, removing
the cover from her typewriter. "Mr. Samara scarcely expected that you
would be well enough to get up to-day."

"I cannot lie in bed here," he declared feebly. "I become nervous. It is
terrible to be ill so far from home. There is only Ivan, and Ivan hates
me."

"Why should he do that?" she asked soothingly.

"Because he and I live closest to the Chief," was the impatient reply.
"Ivan is jealous. He is very foolish. It is his strength which protects,
and my brains. We are allies but he will not have it so. Have you been
working for the Chief?"

"All the morning," she answered. "I still have a long list of
invitations to decline. He is returning at four o'clock."

"Do you know anything about a despatch for Cherbourg?" he continued. "My
brain was on fire this morning. I could not even ask."

"The despatch is finished and Mr. Samara took it away with him," she
confided. "Part of it I typed and the more important part he wrote in by
hand."

The young man closed his eyes for a moment.

"It is terrible to be like this," he groaned, "when one is needed."

She rose from her seat and came over to the couch, laid her hand for a
moment upon his head and felt his pulse.

"Have you seen a doctor?" she enquired.

"Yes," he answered; "I am taking some medicine. He told me to lie in bed
and let my brain rest."

"Would you like a drink? Some iced water?"

He made a little grimace.

"I hate it," he muttered. "In Russia we do not drink water."

She drew a phial of eau de Cologne from her bag, soaked her handkerchief
with it and laid it upon his head.

"That is very pleasant," he sighed gratefully.

"I wonder," she suggested, "would you care for some tea--tea with lemon,
freshly made and clear coloured?"

"Wonderful," he assented eagerly.

She sent for the floor waiter, procured some materials, and busied
herself for a few minutes with the equipage which he brought. The young
man sipped the beverage when she handed it to him with something
approaching ecstasy.

"I have had nothing like this since the fever came," he told her. "What
is your name?"

"Catherine Borans."

He looked at her with wide-open eyes. Already there was a gleam of
something more than admiration in them.

"Where do you come from?" he asked.

"The Weltmore Typewriting Bureau downstairs," she replied. "Now try to
go to sleep for a little time. Do you think that the sound of the
typewriter will disturb you? If so, I will write some of these letters
by hand. I do not think that Mr. Samara would mind."

He shook his head.

"It will not disturb me," he assured her. "I should like to lie here and
watch you work. You are a very wonderful person. Are you an American?"

She smiled.

"You are not to talk any more," she enjoined. "Close your eyes and try
to sleep."

"I like to watch you," he murmured.

Catherine was a person unafflicted with self-consciousness, so she
continued her work methodically, although every time she looked up she
found his eyes upon her.

"More tea," he begged once.

She gave him another cup, and renewed the eau de Cologne on her
handkerchief. Presently he closed his eyes. When Samara returned he was
sleeping peacefully.

"You didn't tell me that I was to be hospital nurse as well as typist,"
she remarked, speaking in an undertone.

Samara crossed the room and looked down at the young man.

"You've done very well with him," he said. "His respiration is better,
the fever is down. What have you been giving him? Tea? It smells very
good. I should like to try it myself."

She made some more and he drank it gratefully. He appeared a little
tired; his interview had not been altogether satisfactory.

"You have the Russian touch for tea," he told her. "There is nothing
like it in the world. I drink wines and spirits--everything--but tea
like this is better than all."

"And better for you," she observed.

"Sometimes its exhilaration is not rapid enough," he said.

The young man stirred in his place. His master's tone was suddenly kind
as he turned towards him.

"You are feeling better, Andrew?" he asked in Russian.

"Much better," was the eager reply. "This young lady has been very good
to me. Did you find her by accident, sir?"

"By accident," Samara assured him.

"She is intelligent?"

"She is adequate," was the expressionless reply. "I need your help,
though, Andrew. Get well quickly."

"I am almost well now," the young man declared, sitting up. "In a few
days I shall be able to do anything. It is fortunate for you, master,"
he went on, still speaking in his own language, "that you hate women."

"I do not hate them," Samara protested. "I simply do not appreciate
them."

"You hate them," Andrew repeated emphatically. "Even when you play with
them you show it in your manner. It is fortunate for you. This young
lady might cause you trouble."

Samara glanced behind uneasily. Catherine was continuing her task with
immovable face.

"I am going to take you to your room now, Andrew," he announced. "Your
leaving it was against the doctor's orders."

"I am content," the young man assented. "I am very weary, but I feel
sleep coming."

They crossed the room together, the young man leaning on Samara's arm.
At the door he turned back.

"Thank you very much, miss," he said in English.

"Get well quickly," she enjoined, with a smile.

Samara returned a few minutes later. Catherine leaned back in her chair.

"Thank you for being kind to Andrew," he said.

"He seems delicate," she remarked.

"A little neurotic, and, I am afraid, consumptive," Samara agreed. "He
is the son of one of my great friends, the man who first helped me fight
against the anarchists. When he died I took the lad to work for me. He
is able and devoted, but he has exaggerated ideas of everything. Your
kindness has been good for him. He is already asleep."

"He is very devoted to you," she said.

"Almost foolishly so," he admitted. "There are times when I have trouble
with him. Tell me now about these friends of yours. I see that I was
right in my assumption. You and your companions are amongst those who
hope for the impossible things."

"If I may, I will explain," Catherine suggested. "My mother died in this
country when I was three years old and left as my patroness the exiled
Grand Duchess Alexandrina, Sophia of Kossas. I have been brought up,
therefore, indirectly attached to a strange little circle. Would you
really like to know about them?"

"Most certainly," he assured her emphatically. "They are Russians."

"Very well, then," she continued. "There are six of them. We live in an
apartment house a long way the other side of Central Park. We all share
a sitting room for purposes of economy. Every one is poor, every one is
shabby, every one is miserable. Now, if you wish, I shall tell you about
them, one by one."

"If you please," he murmured.

"First of all, then, there is Nicholas Imanoff," she began. "He is the
nearest living descendant of the last Tzar. He is twenty-five years old,
was educated with great difficulty at Harvard, and ekes out an
embittered existence selling bonds on commission for a New York
stock-broking firm. He calls himself Mr. Ronoff, but every one knows who
he is, and I think it very probable that the little business he gets is
because he appeals to people's curiosity. He is rather bad-tempered,
does not take enough exercise, drinks a little more than is good for
him, but is quite capable at times of justifying his descent."

"An admirable sketch," Samara declared. "Proceed, please."

"I will speak of my patroness, the Grand Duchess," Catherine continued.
"She is a fair, fat old lady of sixty-eight. She dresses abominably, her
walk is almost a waddle, she takes no care of her person, and she earns
a few dollars a month by making artificial roses. She calls herself Mrs.
Kossas."

"Less interesting," Samara commented. "Proceed."

"There is Boris Kirdorff," she went on. "Sometimes I believe he uses an
obsolete title of 'Colonel.' I think that he has more brains than any of
the others, and certainly less conscience. He comes from a great family,
as I dare say you know. His is a cold, unattractive personality, but he
is a born schemer and if ever the others have hopes it is through him
they are expressed. He is secretary to a very _bourgeois_ card club, but
I think the greater part of his small earnings is spent in gambling.

"General Orenburg is a more pleasing personality, but he is older. He
is the only one who has any money and that is a very small amount. He
puts it into the common stock. He spends his whole day at the libraries,
and he has fifteen different schemes for bringing about a monarchist
rising in Russia."

"Any other young people?" Samara enquired.

"There is Cyril Volynia Sabaroff of Perm and his sister, Rosa. Cyril is
interested in the sale of automobiles. His income varies a great deal,
though. Rosa is engaged as reception clerk at a photographer's shop.
They are less serious than the rest of us, and, if only they had money,
I think they would be content to stay in this country for the remainder
of their days. The others of us, as you may have gathered, have only one
desire in life, and that is to return to Russia."

"Why not?" Samara observed. "You are all Russians. You have a perfect
right to live in your native land."

There was a moment's silence. Catherine was gazing across the top of her
typewriter at her companion. Samara was lounging on the other end of the
table, his hands in his pockets, a cigar which he had lighted, without
remark, between his lips.

"You seem to forget," she said quietly, "that there is such a thing as a
decree of banishment against the absentee aristocracy of Russia."

"Rubbish!" he exclaimed. "Out of date! Antediluvian! I'll revoke it the
day I get back. You can consider it revoked now. Mind you," he went on,
striking the table a mighty blow with his fist, "there is another decree
in Russia which will never be suspended. It is my aim to make Russia the
freest country in the world, but if I find an anarchist in caf, street
or public meeting, he is shot within the hour. Against anarchists the
law of Russia is as the law against vermin--death; summary,
unquestionable! There is no one else calling himself a Russian who is
not welcome to take his place amongst the community."

"Will you repeat this to my friends?" she asked, and there was very
nearly a tremor in her tone.

"Take me to them," he invited.

"I shall call for you at nine o'clock," she promised. "Please let us
work now. I feel that I am wasting your time."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a dejected, almost a pathetic little crowd gathered round the
sparsely laid dinner table in a back apartment of the Amsterdam Avenue
Private Hotel. The furniture, the table appointments, the faded carpet
upon the floor were all according to type. The prospect from the
solitary window was of brick and masonry and a jumble of telegraph
wires. Occasionally the room shook with the thunder of an elevated train
passing near by. A coloured servant, whose dress seemed to have been put
on in scraps, was serving the meal from the sideboard. There were two
jugs of water and a carafe of light beer upon the table; in its centre a
little vase with a handful of cheap flowers. General Orenburg sat at one
end and Alexandrina of Kossas at the other. Conversation was
intermittent. They all appeared to be engrossed in their own thoughts.

"Catherine is late to-day," Alexandrina observed.

"Catherine is late but here," the young lady in question remarked,
opening the door in time to hear the sound of her own name.

They all looked at her with interest. She seemed somehow or other to
represent the vitality of the little circle, which brightened visibly at
her coming. Kirdorff, whom nothing in this world escaped, watched her
curiously, as she took her place. His was a queer, hawklike face with
black eyes and indrawn lips. His hair, thin about the temples and
carefully brushed, was unexpectedly light-coloured.

"Catherine has something to tell us," he observed.

"I have something very wonderful to tell you," Catherine confessed, as
she pushed aside a bowl of very unappetising soup. "You need not bother
about my dinner. I lunched at the Ritz Carlton, and I shall eat a great
many of Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington's sandwiches later on. Listen to me,
everybody. Of all men in this world, with whom do you think I lunched?
It is absurd to ask you to guess. I lunched with Gabriel Samara!"

A thunderbolt through the roof could have scarcely created a greater
sensation. There were exclamations in every key. Then, with the passing
of that first wave of astonishment, came a fierce and intense interest.
Kirdorff leaned across the table, his fists clenched, his eyes
protuberant. The Grand Duchess talked to herself in broken sentences.
Nicholas Imanoff spoke.

"How came you to meet Samara?" he demanded.

"In the most natural way possible," Catherine explained. "He telephoned
to the Bureau for a typist--his secretary has been taken ill. The
assignment was given to me. My work pleased him. He invited me to
lunch."

"You lunched with that man!" Nicholas muttered.

"There are very few men I wouldn't lunch with at the Ritz Carlton,"
Catherine rejoined coolly, "but I will tell you this now of Gabriel
Samara. He stands for other principles than ours, but he is a man. He is
what Cyril Volynia here, when he came back from England, called a
'sportsman.' We met Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington, and she spoke of to-night.
Samara asked me who my Russian friends were, and I told him. Then listen
to what he said. 'They are Russians. Why do they live in New York? Why
do they not go back to Russia?'"

"Samara said that!" Kirdorff intervened.

"Absolutely!" Catherine continued. "I reminded him of the decree of
banishment. He scoffed at it. He undertook that it should be revoked. He
has told me in plain words that you are all of you free to return to
Russia."

There was an almost awed silence. Alexandrina was sobbing quietly into
her handkerchief. Kirdorff was drumming upon the table.

"Free to return!" he muttered. "Why not? If one could only breathe
there--could live----"

"Or die," General Orenburg interrupted fervently, "so long as it was in
Russia!"

"There is surely a living to be made there as well as here," Cyril
Volynia declared. "Perhaps my firm would let me open a branch depot at
Moscow."

"Listen," Catherine warned them, "you must make up your minds to this.
It is necessary and it may lead to great things. You must meet Samara."

The Grand Duchess left off sobbing. The suggestion was so astounding
that the words themselves seemed to convey no definite meaning to her.

"Meet Samara!" Kirdorff reflected. "He will want to know our attitude
towards his Government, of course. He will require pledges."

"I have not the faintest idea what he will say to you," Catherine
observed. "I can only tell you this. He is a brave man. He is rash. He
is broad-minded. He is ingenuous. He does not in the least resemble
one's idea of a democratic leader."

Nicholas Imanoff looked across the table. There was a note of covert
jealousy in his tone.

"Does he know who you are?" he asked.

"He does not, and I desire that he should not know," she rejoined. "I
have spoken of Alexandrina of Kossas as my patroness."

"Tell us this," Kirdorff asked quietly, the instincts of the conspirator
already stirring within him. "In the course of your work to-day did you
come to any conclusion as to the success or failure of his mission over
here? Have you formed any idea as to how far he means to go with this
mad scheme of his?"

"We will talk of that later," Catherine replied. "It is better for you
to know nothing to-night. What I want you all to remember now is that in
half an hour's time we leave here to hold one of our formal meetings
under the roof and patronage of Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington."

"You are coming with us, Catherine?" the Grand Duchess demanded.

"I am going back to the hotel to fetch Mr. Samara," was the unexpected
rejoinder.

Nicholas half rose to his feet.

"I will escort you," he declared.

Catherine smiled at him coldly.

"You will do nothing of the sort, Nicholas," she said. "If you take my
advice, you will remember what I say. So far as Gabriel Samara knows, I
am a typist from the Weltmore Secretarial Bureau. It is my wish that he
knows no more than this. Kindly remember that."

Kirdorff nodded approvingly.

"Our little sister knows best," he pronounced.




CHAPTER VII


Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington dispensed hospitality in a Fifth Avenue palace,
built by a multimillionaire of world-wide fame and purchased by her
obedient spouse at the time of the last oil combine. She entertained
lavishly and indiscriminately. Society, diplomacy, and even artists were
all alike welcome. Her peculiar fancy, however, was acting as hostess to
what she was endeavouring to make known in New York as the "Russian
Circle."

"My dear Saxon," she explained to her husband, "no one knows who these
people are. All we do know is that they are aristocrats. There's the
Grand Duchess, of course, and the General, and Colonel Kirdorff--they
are the bluest blood in Russia, but those others aren't pulling the wool
over my eyes, though they call themselves plain 'Mr.' and 'Mrs.' and
'Miss.' It's my belief there's more of the Royal Family than one in that
little crowd. And Saxon--there's Prince Nicholas now, an Imanoff----"

"What is an 'Imanoff,' anyway?" Mr. Bossington interrupted, giving his
coat tails a pull.

"The family name of the Russian Royal Family," his wife declared in a
tone of awe.

Mr. Bossington appeared unimpressed.

"Thought they were all wiped out in a cellar or somewheres," he
objected.

"All the direct branch were assassinated--murdered," his wife agreed,
"in a cellar. The details were too horrible. Some of the others,
however, got away, and one or two escaped out of the country. Prince
Nicholas is the next heir to the throne of those left alive."

"Well, there isn't going to be any throne," Mr. Bossington observed.
"Russia's doing thundering well under her new Republic. That fellow
Samara has set her going again. I had an offer for some oil concessions
from his Government to-day, made me through Washington. I shall have to
send a man over next week."

Mrs. Bossington deemed that the time had come for her great
announcement.

"Saxon," she said, "to-night I want you to be at your best. Gabriel
Samara, the greatest man in Russia, is coming here."

"You don't say!" Mr. Bossington exclaimed, properly impressed at last.
"Does he know anything about oil, I wonder?"

"You can cut out that stuff," his wife enjoined angrily, with a brief
relapse into the verbiage of past years. "What I mean, Saxon, is that I
want you to be the perfect gentleman to-night--the broad-minded American
host. We may get asked to Russia. Come right along into the library now.
They'll be here before we know where we are."

"What I want to know," Mr. Bossington demanded, as they crossed the
hall, "is how our friends and this man, Samara, are likely to pull
together, and where on earth did you come across him?"

A butler in command motioned to a footman, who threw open the door of a
magnificent library. It was an apartment which much resembled the
interior of a chapel, with vaulted roof, stained-glass windows, and an
organ in the far end. There were divans and chairs, a round table at
which a score of places were set, and a sideboard, groaning with edibles
of every sort, flanked by a long row of gold-foiled bottles. Mrs.
Bossington looked around her critically.

"I guess this is cosy enough for them, Saxon," she observed.

"There's plenty of the stuff, anyway," he remarked, with a glance
towards the sideboard. "But what I want to know is how did you get hold
of this fellow Samara? Those others all seem as if they had stepped out
of a dime show, but Samara's the real goods!--as big a man, in his way,
as our President!"

"I met him with that little Catherine Borans, the typewriting girl,
lunching at the Ritz Carlton," Mrs. Bossington explained. "Of course
it's all stuff and nonsense about her being really a working girl. There
isn't one of them has a better air than she has. They are close-mouthed
and all," she went on, listening for the bell. "I tried to get the old
General, the other day, to tell me who she was. He just smiled and shook
his head. The Duchess seemed on the point of telling me and then she
pulled herself up. 'She is of our order, Mrs. Bossington,' was all I
could get her to say."

The door was suddenly thrown open. The little stream of expected guests
began to arrive; a curious company in their way, but each with his own
peculiar claim to distinction. General Orenburg, who first bent over his
hostess' hand, was ponderous and bulky, his shabby dinner clothes
carefully brushed, the ends of his black tie a little shiny.
Nevertheless he bore himself as a man with a great past should. He was
accompanied by Prince Nicholas, whose irritation had departed for the
evening, but whose manner was still stiff and abstracted. The Grand
Duchess entered the room directly afterwards. She had changed her gown
since dinner time and her hair was parted and brushed so smoothly back
that it seemed almost like a plastered wig. Cyril Volynia Sabaroff of
Perm followed, with his sister Rosa. Behind them came Colonel Kirdorff.
They all stood in little groups whilst a footman served coffee and
liqueurs. Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington flitted from one to the other, with
much to say concerning their expected guest. Her husband listened to the
description of a new automobile which some friends of Cyril Sabaroff
were soon to put on the market.

"If this isn't too sweet to see you all together!" their hostess
exclaimed. "Now I do hope you'll make yourselves comfortable and have
your little chat just as though no one were here. There's a table you
can sit round and a bite of supper for you later on. I hope you
gentlemen will pay a visit to the sideboard whenever you like."

Prince Nicholas detached himself from the others.

"Your hospitality is wonderful, madam," he declared. "We beg that you
will not leave us. Colonel Kirdorff has promised to talk to us to-night
about the probable result of the Samara type of government and the
General has a few remarks to make about these rumours of
demilitarisation in Russia."

"Very interesting, I'm sure," Mrs. Bossington murmured, sailing away to
greet some fresh arrivals--an elderly professor and his wife.

"Will Samara back out, do you think?" General Orenburg asked his
neighbour anxiously.

Kirdorff shook his head.

"If he promised, he will come," he declared confidently. "I have that
much faith in him, at any rate. He is not likely to break his word."

The greater part of the little company was now assembled. They were
about a dozen outside the circle of Catherine's immediate entourage; all
Russians and ardent Monarchists, but of various types and positions in
the world. They were barely settled in their places round the table,
when the eagerly expected event happened. The door was opened and the
butler made his announcement.

"Miss Catherine Borans--Mr. Gabriel Samara!"

The newcomers advanced towards their hostess. They exchanged a few words
of salutation whilst Samara bowed low and raised her somewhat pudgy
fingers to his lips. Then Catherine led him towards the table.

"Please, all of you," she said, "I have ventured to bring a visitor to
see you. We have been very curious about him, very critical, sometimes
censorious. After all, though, we must remember that he is a fellow
countryman."

There followed a few moments of intense silence. They were all engrossed
in their study of this man, the foremost figure of their country; the
man who, from their somewhat narrow point of view, stood between them
and their desire. Certainly so far as appearance went he was at a
disadvantage with none of them. He was well groomed, his evening clothes
were impeccable and he possessed to the fullest extent the natural
dignity of a man holding a great place in the world.

"Samara! Gabriel Samara," Alexandrina murmured, looking at him through
her lorgnettes.

"Samara!" the fair-haired Rosa Sabaroff exclaimed, looking at him with
undisguised awe.

"Gabriel Samara!" the General said, under his breath, stiffening
insensibly.

The attitude of the little gathering towards their visitor could
scarcely be called hospitable. The General and Prince Nicholas both
inclined their heads, but did not offer their hands. Samara, however,
showed no signs of taking offence. His bow to Alexandrina had been the
bow of a courtier. He was himself too interested in his own
contemplation of the rest of the party to appreciate their lack of
cordiality. Mr. Bossington, as though he judged the moment propitious,
introduced himself into the circle.

"Mr. Samara," he said, "glad to meet you, sir. Saxon Bossington, my
name--glad to be your host. There's a proposition about oil they were
asking me to look into, somewhere north of the Caspian Sea."

Samara smiled.

"You are without doubt, sir, one of the capitalists whom your President
mentioned to me," he rejoined politely. "Russia has need of your brains
and your money. We think that we can repay all that you have to offer.
Our greatest necessity just now is to find employment for a large number
of men."

"You are really going to demilitarise then!" Colonel Kirdorff
intervened.

Samara, who had been standing a few feet apart, turned once more towards
the table.

"You seem to be all my country people," he observed. "Why should I have
secrets from you? It is my intention immediately on my return to Russia
to demobilise the whole of our Third Army, consisting of about a million
men. I should have done so before if I could have been sure of finding
employment for them. My mission over here was to arrange something of
the sort."

"What about the Germans?" Prince Nicholas demanded bluntly.

Some part of the geniality seemed to depart from Samara's manner. There
was a note almost of hauteur in his reply.

"The armies of Russia," he said, "have been trained by and perhaps
learned their vocation partly from German officers. Those German
officers have been well paid for their labours. For anything else, the
army consists of Russian soldiers, bound together for one purpose, and
one purpose only--the defence of their country. In my opinion and in the
opinion of my counsellors, the necessity for their existence on so large
a scale no longer exists."

Samara was still standing. The General rose to his feet and indicated a
chair.

"Will you join us, sir?" he invited.

There was a breathless pause--the remainder of the handful of
Monarchists sat spellbound. With a grave bow to the General, Samara
accepted the invitation. Prince Nicholas was on his left, the Grand
Duchess a little lower down.

"This is a strange day," the General continued. "We never thought to
welcome amongst us the head of the Russian Republic. I and my friends,
Mr. Samara, represent a broken party; yet a party which has yielded
everything except hope. We do not desire to begin our acquaintance under
the shadow of any false pretence. Prince Nicholas of Imanoff here, we
acknowledge as the hereditary ruler of Russia. We cannot recognise any
other government."

Samara bowed his head.

"You have every right to your convictions," he admitted. "If I believed
that it was for the good of Russia once more to enter upon a period of
Tzardom, I should myself immediately accept the monarchical doctrine.
But I tell you frankly that I do not believe it. I am a Russian by birth
and descent and I think that I have earned the right to call myself a
patriot. I have worked--I still work--for my country's good as I see it.
That is why, with a clear conscience, I have accepted this invitation to
come and visit you."

"Our friend speaks well," the General declared, looking around him.
"After all, we must not forget that he has accomplished a great deed. He
has freed Russia from the Bolshevists, he has destroyed Soviet rule. If
the form of government which he has set up does not wholly appeal to us,
it is still a million times better than the one which he has crushed."

"That is common sense," Kirdorff agreed. "Yet it leaves us with this
reflection. Bolshevism and Soviet rule were impossibilities. From that
hateful extreme we expected the swing of the pendulum back to the
conditions of our desire. Samara here has intervened. He has
intervened--happily, perhaps, for Russia--but disastrously for us. While
he lives our cause will languish."

There was a tense silence. The significance of those words "while he
lives" seemed to make itself felt everywhere. Samara looked around with
a faint smile upon his lips--a smile about which there was already a
shadow of defiance. It was a strange scene: the eager faces of the
little crowd gathered round the table, the wonderful room with its great
spaces and unexpected flashes of almost barbaric magnificence, the
lavish hospitality displayed upon the huge sideboard, Mr. and Mrs. Saxon
J. Bossington, almost grotesque in their position of host and hostess,
seated in the background, waiting.

"A true accusation," Samara admitted. "But after all I can honestly
assure you that I, who know the temper of the country personally better
than you can by the offices of correspondents, have seen few indications
of a desire on the part of the people to submit themselves once more to
the domination of a monarchy. I had no idea until a few hours ago that I
was to have the honour of meeting you this evening--you, Prince
Nicholas, or you, General, whose name is still remembered in Russia, or
you, Colonel, or your Royal Highness. Let me say this to you, if I may.
The Bolshevist days and the days of insane hatreds are over. Russia is a
free country--as free to you as to me. Why not come back and live in
it?"

"Come back!" the General groaned. "My estates----"

"My mines!" Kirdorff muttered.

"They took from me five hundred thousand English pounds," Alexandrina
sighed wearily.

"I will be frank with you all," Samara continued. "There is a new code
of laws in Russia to-day. We are prospering to an amazing extent, but we
have taken upon our shoulders an immense burden. The Russia of to-day
desires to pay the debts of the past. If I alone had power, I would add
to those debts the sums and estates of which the Bolshevists deprived
you. But in that desire I am almost alone. I spoke of it and my own
people listened in silence. But I believe--I believe from the bottom of
my heart--that the day will come when Russia will repay you every
farthing which you have lost."

"If one could dream of such a thing!" the General faltered.

"My mines are being worked by a Japanese Company," Kirdorff sighed.

"There will be difficulties," Samara admitted, "but we shall overcome
them. In the meantime, why live in exile? Russia is your country. Russia
is open to you. I am not afraid to invite you all freely and
whole-heartedly to return; the sentence of banishment against absentee
Monarchists, I promise you shall be revoked. I am not afraid of your
influence. If Russia, at any time, should want a monarchy, let her have
it. I will buy a villa in the south of France, be myself an exile, and
grow roses. I am but the servant of the will of the people."

"Rienzi said that before he climbed over their shoulders into power,"
Kirdorff reminded him, with a curious flash in his eyes.

"Rienzi was a man of more ambitious temperament than I," Samara
retorted. "Besides, his scheme of government in those days was less
wide-flung. He was a dreamer as well as an idealist; I am a practical
man. I desire what is good for Russia, and it is certainly not for her
good that any of those who might be foremost amongst her citizens are
living in exile. General, return to Russia and an Army Corps or a post
at the War Office is yours. You, Colonel Kirdorff, shall have a division
whenever you choose to apply for it. There is not one of you who shall
be deprived of the opportunity of doing useful work for your country.
Why sit here and weave impossible dreams? Why not attune your patriotism
to the music of real labour?"

"What about me?" Nicholas asked eagerly.

Samara reflected for a moment.

"Prince," he confided, "I will be frank with you. We are living too near
the shadow of regrettable days. Come if you will and be sure of my
protection, so far as it goes. You shall have a commission in the army,
but an Imanoff in Russia, even to-day, must take his chance."

Nicholas nodded. Catherine, who had moved round to his side, looked
across at Samara.

"Remember this," she insisted. "If the tide of feeling should flow, at
any time, towards the restablishment of Russia's real ruler, it is upon
Nicholas here that the people's choice must fall."

Samara listened indifferently. Perhaps in that hour of his magnificent
and superabundant vitality, when his brain was at its zenith, his
vision unerring, the idea of any serious rivalry between himself and
this pale-faced young man of peevish expression seemed an incredible
thing.

"All I can say is," he replied, "that if Prince Nicholas cares to come,
he is welcome. Such protection as I can afford him he shall have. If he
plots against my Government and his plots are discovered, he will be
shot. If, by open election of the people or by vote of the Duma, a
monarchy is desired, then I shall never lift a hand against him."

The General stroked his grey imperial. Something of the weariness had
gone from his face. Something of the languor, indeed, seemed to have
passed from all of them. They had listened to a wonderful message.
Samara read their thoughts. He rose to his feet.

"I thank you, General, and all of you for your reception. I fear that in
the past you have counted me an enemy. Wipe that out, please. The
greatest of possible ties binds us together--our country!"

He bowed low and moved away. Mrs. Bossington arose from her chair and
came bustling towards him.

"Now, my dear Mr. Samara," she exclaimed, "I am sure all this talking
must have tired you. What it's been about neither Saxon nor I have the
slightest idea, for on an occasion like this we make it a rule to keep
ourselves to ourselves. One thing, however, I insist upon, you must take
a little refreshment before you go."

Samara suffered himself to be piloted by his hostess to the sideboard,
ate pt sandwiches and drank champagne. Presently they were joined by
her husband, who was curious about the oil-producing centres of Southern
Russia. From the table behind came a drone of subdued but eager voices.




CHAPTER VIII


Miss Sadie Loyes set down the telephone receiver upon the instrument
with a little bang. She was obviously annoyed.

"Miss Borans," she announced sharply, "eleven hundred and eighty wants
you again. Keep a record of your time."

Catherine rose to her feet and placed the cover on her machine. Miss
Loyes watched her with critical eyes.

"Crazy about you, seemingly," she continued. "They're making such a fuss
about him in the papers this morning, I thought I'd go up myself for an
hour or so. Knows his own mind, anyhow--you or nobody. What kind of work
is it?"

"Not work you'd enjoy very much, I think, Miss Loyes," Catherine
replied, smiling faintly as she thought of the previous morning,
"correspondence and documents and that sort of thing. Yesterday
afternoon Mr. Bromley Pride interviewed him for the _New York Comet_. He
didn't get much of a story, though."

"These foreigners leave me cold," the manageress declared. "What we
Americans make such a fuss about them for I don't know. They just come
over here for what they can get. One of the papers this morning said
that this Mr. Samara has fixed up a loan with the President of something
like two hundred millions. Keep your time card carefully, Miss Borans.
There's one thing about these Russians, they aren't mean!"

Catherine descended the stairs into the hall and made leisurely progress
towards the lift. On the way the fancy seized her to call in at the
florist's shop and buy a single dark red rose which she pulled through
the waistband of her dress. The elevator man, who had scarcely noticed
her before, watched her disappearing figure with undisguised admiration.

"She sure is some girl, that!" he remarked to one of the messenger boys,
as he stepped back into the elevator.

The young lady seated behind the desk at the entrance to the corridor
wished her good morning with a faint air of surprise. She called to her
associate at the other end of the place and motioned after Catherine.

"Did you see that pale-faced ninny from the typing room, all dolled out,
this morning?" she demanded. "She's got a beau all right. I never
noticed that she was so stylish."

It was a very different sitting room which Catherine presently entered.
There were half a dozen men present and conversation was a little
vehement. At her entrance it subsided. Samara motioned her to a chair at
the smaller table and proceeded to dismiss his callers.

"I agree," he said. "It seems cowardly but perhaps you are right. At one
o'clock Carloss, and at three o'clock the bank president. Louden can
make all the arrangements. He had better bring an automobile here and
cable Cherbourg."

They drifted away, one by one. Samara himself escorting them through the
little hall to the door. Presently he returned and threw himself into an
easy-chair.

"Trouble at home, here, and everywhere," he remarked grimly. "I've got
to hurry home."

"About your demilitarisation scheme?" she enquired.

"Half the unrest is owing to German influence," he answered, with a nod.
"We've had so many commitments to her in the past that she's grown to
look upon these armies as her own. Our people over here are quite
right, though. I must get back at once and make a tour through the
military district. In the meantime, I am going to cable over a
proclamation. Ready?"

"Quite," she answered.

He dictated rapidly for half an hour or more. As soon as he had finished
he went to a cupboard in which was an array of bottles, mixed himself a
drink and tossed it off. Then he sat in his easy-chair with his hands in
his pockets and a frown upon his forehead, while she gathered up the
loose pages of her work.

"Tell me," he asked abruptly, "what did your friends think of me last
night?"

"They were surprised," she admitted.

"Favourably or unfavourably?"

"On the whole favourably. Your offer to them all has made a great stir
in their quiet lives."

"It was a serious one," he declared, rising to his feet and pacing the
room. "There is no reason why they shouldn't come back. I have nothing
against the Monarchists so long as they accept the situation and desist
from plots. The people against whom I wage war to the death are the
anarchists. They are a waning force but I have not done with them yet. I
am a humane man but I would kill an anarchist as I would a fly, because
of the poison they carry with them."

She looked at him thoughtfully, but she made no remark. Presently he
stopped in front of her chair.

"Don't you agree with me--I mean about your people?" he demanded. "Don't
you think I was right to ask them to come back? They are, after all,
Russian citizens."

"I think you were right," she replied, "with one exception."

"One exception?" he repeated.

"Nicholas Imanoff. If you allow him to return, I don't think I should
have him in the army. You know what the Russian peasant soldier is.
Communism is a meaningless cry to him, although he may shout for it if
he is bidden. God and the Tzar are still in his blood."

"You are giving me advice against your own people!" he exclaimed
suddenly.

The faintest tinge of colour stole for a moment under the creamy pallor
of her cheeks. The same idea had flashed in upon her.

"I am tired of plots and rebellions," she explained. "Changes of
government should be worked out by the will of the people. If the people
call for a Tzar--well, there is Nicholas. But if he is once in the army,
there will be plots. It isn't for our own good. I should like to see the
monarchy restablished, but I should like to see it restablished by
orthodox means."

"You tell me that Alexandrina of Kossas is your patroness," he said.
"Does that mean that you too are an aristocrat?"

"By inclination," she confessed. "You must remember that it is not only
the aristocracy who would support monarchy. I am one of those who
consider it the sanest form of government. Would you like me to do
anything with this proclamation?"

He took the sheets from her and glanced them through, made a few
alterations in pencil, and laid them down again. Afterwards he resumed
his restless perambulation of the room. She leaned back in her chair and
waited. Samara was evidently disturbed. Occasionally he muttered to
himself. Once he stood for quite five minutes gazing out of the window,
down into the windy, sunlit streets.

"I am sailing this afternoon, Miss Borans," he announced, suddenly
turning round. "My people are all emphatic and they are right. There is
danger here and trouble to face at home."

She did not attempt to conceal her interest.

"I read your interview in the _New York Comet_, this morning," she said,
"but after all it told us very little. As the General was saying last
night, you are still outside the Pact of Nations. You can demobilise the
whole of these first million men and still remain, on paper at any rate,
the greatest military power in Europe."

"I could," he assented. "But that is not my intention. I want my Russian
people back on the land instead of behind the guns, and I'm going to
have them there. That's all I can say. Later on I have a scheme of my
own for a citizen army--the only sort of army any country ought to have.
Miss Borans, will you go back to Russia with me?"

"Will I do _what_?" she asked, looking at him intently.

"Precisely what I have asked," he persisted. "What relatives have you
here?"

"A sort of aunt," she replied, "and a second cousin."

"Good! You work now for the management of this hotel. Work for me
instead. I need a secretary like you. If your friends accept my offer,
you'll have company over there. You won't clash with Andrew. He has his
own line of work."

She shook her head.

"I could not work for you, Mr. Samara," she said.

"Why not?" he demanded roughly. "You are a Russian patriot. So am I."

"Our ideas of patriotism might not be the same," she pointed out. "If
there were a movement in favour of the restablishment of the monarchy
in Russia, for instance, I should join it."

"Join it and welcome," he answered. "I'm not at all sure that you
would, though, if you were on the spot. Russia to-day is leaping onward
towards prosperity. I can prove that to you. What do you want a monarchy
back for? Not for the sake of the Russian people. They'd be no better
off. Who are you for, Miss Borans--the people or one particular class?"

"That one particular class is a section of the people," she reminded
him.

"An infinitesimal one," he scoffed. "Majorities count. You must work for
the good of the greatest number."

"All the same," she said, "I am not disposed to be your secretary."

His face darkened almost into a scowl.

"Don't be absurd!" he protested angrily. "It's a good offer. You can
name your own salary in reason. You would be able to live in your native
country instead of being an exile."

She shook her head.

"It is an impossibility," she assured him.

He glared at her for a moment furiously. Then, without further reference
to it, he abandoned the subject.

"Take down these letters," he directed. "Take copies but be sure you
give them to me."

"I am quite ready," she murmured.

He dictated for an hour. When he had finished, he read the letters she
handed him with almost meticulous care, signed them and watched her as
she placed them in their envelopes. Then he took the copies, looked them
through and locked them up in a despatch box.

"How is Mr. Andrew Kroupki this morning?" she enquired.

"Better," he answered shortly. "He will not be able to travel with me,
though. It is most annoying."

She glanced at the clock.

"What time does your boat sail?" she asked.

"Eight o'clock," he told her, "but I am going on board at six. It seems
that although the police released our friend of yesterday morning, a
hint or two of what he was after got about. I'm practically being
smuggled out of the country."

"You have appointments at one o'clock and three," she reminded him. "Is
there anything more that I can do for you before I leave?"

"There is only one thing you could do for me, and you won't do it," he
growled. "I'm not a woman's man and I never learned how to talk to them,
but you're the sort of human being it does one good to work with. I
believe in you. You could help me."

"There are many others who could do that," she assured him.

"I don't meet them," he answered. "My biographers have written a lot of
nonsense about me. Because I have swept clean the roads of life and
driven the masses along the appointed way, they talk about my magnetism,
my intense sympathy with human beings. It's all rubbish! I have no
sympathy. Men and women are mostly puppets to me and life is a
chess-board. If I could find some one who would teach me tolerance, some
one whom I could trust, for whom I could feel human things, I could
accomplish greater deeds than I have ever accomplished yet. There are
times when I am frightened of my own materialism. I have thought all my
life universally, in composite blocks. The world is becoming like a
doll's house to me. I have a fancy that you might be able to change
this. Will you come and try?"

Again she shook her head. "It is an impossibility," she repeated.

"That ends it, then!" he pronounced abruptly. "Tell your people to send
an account for the typing in to the hotel. The Embassy are arranging to
pay my bill after my departure. All the evening papers are announcing
that I leave on Saturday. You will perhaps consider what I have told you
concerning my movements as confidential."

"I will remember," she promised.

She rose to her feet. He glowered across the room at her.

"Some day," he concluded, "you may see that you've wasted a great
opportunity. No woman ever had a greater. You've read of me and my work
but you don't know. When I crushed Bolshevism, the heart and soul of
Russia began to beat again. The work's only begun. You and your little
monarchist plots! Why don't you lift your head and see the greater
things? You could help."

"I am very sorry," she sighed, as she turned away.

He heard the door close. Then he crossed the room towards the cupboard.
Help in his task from any human being seemed to be the one thing in life
always denied him.




CHAPTER IX


They were all gone at last. Samara was alone in his capacious stateroom
with a single companion--Bromley Pride, the _bona fide_ representative
of the _New York Comet_. Samara listened to the receding footsteps with
a frown. Outside was turmoil. The bugle had just sounded the last call
for departing visitors.

"This sort of thing," he declared, "would soon drive me mad."

Bromley Pride smiled tolerantly. He was a largely made, athletic-looking
man, clean-shaven and forcible. In New York he was considered to be an
authority on Russian affairs.

"I am afraid these last two hours have seemed rather like an
anti-climax," he observed. "All the same, I am convinced that
precautions were necessary. The Chief of the Police sent for me himself
this morning and begged me, if I had any influence with you, to persuade
you to leave the country without delay. There are all sorts of rumours
about."

"They warned me in Washington," Samara acknowledged gloomily, "and of
course there was yesterday's little affair."

"Yesterday's little affair," Bromley Pride repeated with emphasis, "was
only the beginning. I honestly believe," he went on, "that the Germans,
over here at any rate, look upon the proposed demobilisation of your
armies as an act of absolute treachery to them. You don't read the New
York papers, I suppose, but the German-owned ones have passionate
articles this morning, denouncing your visit here and attacking your
whole policy. Whatever one can find to say against the Germans they are
not cowards. Five years ago you were a little god in Germany. To-day you
have about forty million enemies."

Samara nodded with darkening expression.

"You're right, of course, Pride," he admitted, "but my progress from the
Hotel Weltmore to the boat was more like the passage of one of those
hated plutocrats of old through the dangerous part of his capital than
the departure of one who has brought freedom to a great country from the
city which has canonised that particular quality. Twenty plain clothes
policemen walking along the customs shed and me in the middle! A
sickening sight!"

"If it had been Saturday instead of to-day," Pride observed, "the
chances are ten to one you'd have had a bomb in the midst of the lot of
you."

There was the sound of cheering, a sense of gliding motion, the
screaming and panting of tugs. Samara drew a breath of relief.

"Well, thank God we're off!" he exclaimed. "Can I go on deck now and get
a breath of fresh air?"

"Not yet," the other begged. "Two detectives from police headquarters
are going through the passenger list with the purser now. As soon as
they send me word down 'O. K.' you can do what you like. You must
remember that you haven't told me much yet, sir. I'm not only a New York
journalist, you know--I'm a friend of Russia."

"My mission was a success," Samara declared. "That's all there is to be
said about it. My task lies ahead. Forty years ago, Russia--the best
part of Russia--was trying to drill the military spirit into Russian
peasants. To-day I have got to knock it out. The Bolshevists were wise
people in their generation. They kept a great army going without the
slightest difficulty. The soldiers were fed whilst the peasants
starved. Who wanted to work on the land, without enough to keep body and
soul together, when there was good food and wine and beer in the army?
They're an obstinate race, our peasants, you know, Pride. I've got the
capital now to make them productive units of the nation, at work in the
factories and fields, and to pay them good money. It's quite another
matter to make them see that it's for their benefit, though. That is
where the difficulty may come in."

"You'll do it in the end," Pride prophesied hopefully. "You've achieved
greater impossibilities."

"Yes, I shall do it," Samara assented. "I shall do it, if only they'll
let me alone. I shall do it if I can keep intrigue out of the Duma and
the Press and the Army. I shall do it if I'm given a fair show."

Pride was gazing out of the porthole at the passing panorama of docks
and walls.

"One would pray for you, Samara, if one knew how or to whom. There's a
soul in your work--something that reaches out of life--out of the mud of
politics and man's ambition. The Jews are the only ones left who really
pray. I rather wish you were a Jew, Samara."

"You think that I need faith."

"It isn't that, but you need an inexhaustible stock," was the quiet
reply. "You have no one to depend upon but yourself. Russia has not
produced a single great statesman yet to stand by your side. You carry
on your shoulders a burden so enormous that it makes the hearts of us
who watch grow faint. How must it be for yourself?"

Samara was looking into space. They were moving more rapidly now--moving
all the time away from New York.

"I am forty-four years old, Pride," he confided. "I came into this fight
when I was nineteen. I have never looked back. I have never relaxed or
felt fear, but there has been one moment, and that not so long ago, when
I almost weakened--if it is weakening to crave for help. I thought I saw
something wonderful. It was just the mirage."

There was a knock at the door. A detective entered. He smiled the smile
of a man who has accomplished good work.

"Everything 'O. K.' now, sir," he declared. "Mike's got 'em--one from
Chicago, one from Washington. They've got the bracelets on and the guns
are in Mike's pocket. They had a stateroom nearly opposite to you, too,
sir," he added, turning to Samara.

"You think they were really after me?" the latter asked.

The detective laughed confidently.

"They were after some one on board, sir, and they had a plan of your
stateroom. Not a paper between them, and scarcely any luggage. One's a
Russian--a red-hot Bolshevist still, they say, whom we've had under
observation for years. The other's a German. They won't trouble you any
more, sir. As for the rest of the passengers, I think they're all right.
The stewards and the crew, of course, we can't vouch for."

"Should I be running any grave risk," Samara enquired, "if I invited you
to visit the smoking room with me?"

The detective accepted the idea with enthusiasm but ventured upon an
amendment.

"I'd try that bell, sir, instead," he suggested, "and a word to the
steward."

       *       *       *       *       *

At last came the clanging of a bell which, this time, brought them to a
dead stop. Samara watched his visitors depart; Pride, with his cheerful
carriage and buoyant air; the two detectives with their quarry; finally
the pilot into his little rowboat on the other side. The great
semicircle of lights had flashed out through the windy twilight. The
freshness of the sea was a marvellous tonic after the spring lassitude
of the town and the overheated rooms. Samara strode the deck with a
sense of reawakening life in his veins. These croakers had gone. He was
his own man again, free to muse upon his great achievement, to revel in
the exhilaration of the voyage. Behind him lay New York--and what else?
It was an absurdity, but he was heavy-hearted.

The clamorous dinner bugle left him undisturbed. His anticipations of
the coming night, the long roll of the ship, the scent of the sea, and
the wind upon his face elated him. And then, in the midst of his long,
swinging walk, he came to a sudden standstill. A woman was leaning over
the rail. He had passed her several times without notice. Now, something
in her figure, the poise of her head, startled him with a flood of
ridiculous memories. She turned and faced him. For once in his life, he,
the man of many words, was speechless.

"You see, I changed my mind," she said, with a quiet smile. "I wish
you'd go and see the purser about my stateroom."

They dined together half an hour later at the little table in a secluded
corner of the saloon which Samara had bespoken for himself. Catherine
was very frank.

"It has been the dream of my life to visit my own country," she
confided, "but all the same I had not the faintest idea of accepting
your offer. When I got downstairs after leaving you, I found Kirdorff
waiting for me. You may not realise it, but Colonel Kirdorff is a great
schemer."

"You are to spy upon me!" he exclaimed.

"I rather think that is the idea," she assented. "You little know what
you have brought upon yourself by your candour last night. They are all
planning to return--even Nicholas. When I told Kirdorff of your offer,
he thought that I should be mad to decline it. You mustn't be angry with
them, Mr. Samara. They have lived away from their country a long time.
They are getting old and the idea of intrigue stirs them as nothing else
in life could. They are not to be ignored but they are scarcely to be
feared."

"And you?" he asked. "Are you going to spy upon me?"

"I may," she admitted. "I shall make you no promises. I want to see what
you have made of Russia. I want to travel about there and to talk to
those people who understand. Maybe you will convert me. If you do not, I
shall give you fair warning. In the meantime I hope you will find me
plenty of work and pay me enough money to buy some clothes directly we
land. These dear friends of mine all hurried me off with little more
than a handbag."

"How is it that you are so intimate with all these people?" he enquired.
"You are one of them, I suppose?"

"Don't ask me," she begged. "Let me remain a mystery. I am a working
girl and I am going to be a very good secretary. Isn't that enough? Tell
me, do you live in a palace at Moscow and what will become of me there?"

"I live in a portion of the old palace," he replied. "We call it now
Government House. You can have your quarters there, or look after
yourself outside, whichever you like. Then you can also have an office
in Government Buildings where Andrew does most of his work."

"It sounds delightful!" she declared. "We are impulsive people, you and
I! You haven't had any references about me and as for you--well, I know
that you are Gabriel Samara and that is all. I don't even know whether
you are married."

He smiled.

"I think you do," he said. "In case I am wrong, I will tell you. I am
unmarried and I have no women friends. As to references, I asked none
from you; you must place a similar trust in me."

She returned his smile understandingly.

"I think," she confided, "that I have made up my mind to do that."

Catherine went to her stateroom early and Samara, after a brief visit to
the smoking room, struggled out on to the rain-splashed deck. They were
facing the Atlantic now, with a gale blowing, driving the spray in
blinding sheets across the ship. He found a comparatively sheltered
place where the thunder of the wind was heard rather than felt, and
where he could watch the flecks of foam leap into the dazzling light and
pass away into the black gulf beyond. He was on his way back, his
mission accomplished; the second part of the great struggle of his life
begun. There was never a time when he needed clearer vision, a more
detached and concentrated grasp upon the great realities. Courage he had
in plenty, even to rashness; his will no one had ever questioned; yet in
the midst of his content he was troubled with a queer sense of some
indeterminate quality in his thoughts, some disposition to find less
than vitally important the great issues of life. His mental balance had
been disturbed. Another element had entered into the background of his
sensations beside the joy of achievement. He filled his pipe and smoked
savagely, staggered down the deck and took a stiff drink at the bar,
came out again and crawled even farther towards the bows, until the
music of the wind was in his ears like the crack of thunder and the hiss
of the sea, as the waves were parted by the mighty bow of the ship,
seemed like an unearthly scream. There were stars shining occasionally,
shining here and there through a filmy lacing of clouds; a promise of
the moon from behind the jagged pieces of black cloud, these latter so
low down that it seemed as though the tall mast rising from the top of
the sea was almost stabbing into their bosom. Gusts of rain swept into
his face. The seamen who passed him were wrapped in oilskins and silent.
The singing in his pulses continued, the exhilaration of spirit which he
tried in vain to believe came from the knowledge that this journey of
his, towards which the eyes of the world had been directed, had met with
a success which he alone had prophesied.

And all the time he knew that there was something else,--another problem
to be faced; a personal self creeping into life, demanding, nay,
insisting upon recognition. It was all fancy, he told himself, born of
the winds and the stars and the romance of travel. He suddenly realised
upon what a trifle the whole great machinery of his mind had been
engaged.




CHAPTER X


It was not until the middle of the next morning that Gabriel Samara
appeared on deck. A long line of semi-somnolent passengers watched him
with interest; Catherine, who was sipping some beef tea, looked up
expectantly. He did not, however, pause in his promenade, but raised his
hat slightly and passed on, his hands thrust into the pockets of his
great coat, his underlip a little protruding, a general air of
unapproachability about him. If there were not actually newspaper men on
board, there were men connected with newspapers and they looked at him
wistfully--even followed him at a respectful distance along the deck,
seeking an opportunity to venture upon a friendly word. They were,
however, doomed to disappointment. Samara, after a restless night, had
no desire for the amenities of life. He climbed to the higher deck where
few people were disposed to face the wind, and, assured of a certain
measure of solitude there, he leaned against the rail, looking down into
the steerage. Again as on the previous night, he felt the scrutiny of a
little company of white-faced, black-eyed shadows of men, with skulking
movements and general air of furtiveness. One of them he watched in
particular, with something more than ordinary curiosity. The man looked
over his shoulder twice and, although his expression was entirely
passive, there was recognition in those stealthy glances. Soon he
disappeared behind a ventilator, and Samara, after a few minutes'
hesitation, recommenced his promenade. This time, however, it was
speedily interrupted. The First Officer, who was descending from the
bridge, caught sight of him and waited for his approach at the bottom
of the steps.

"Mr. Samara," he said, saluting, "may I have a word with you?"

Samara nodded.

"Certainly."

"We are very pleased and proud, of course, to have you as a passenger,
sir," the officer went on, "but I wish very much you had followed the
example of some other over-popular statesmen who travel with us, and
done so incognito."

"My friends arranged my passage," Samara explained. "I came on board, as
you know, quite unexpectedly."

"Just so," the other assented. "That would have been all right if they
had used a little more discretion. The trouble of it is that we have at
least a score of your country people in the steerage--red-hot
Bolshevists, every one of them--who came out here and haven't been
allowed to land. They've been at Ellis Island for some time and now
we've orders to take them back to Naples."

"I think I've recognised one or two of them," Samara remarked drily.

"We are taking every precaution," the officer continued. "Not one of
them will be allowed to land until after you have left the ship and we
have stationed a guard at each of the communicating passages leading
from the steerage aft. At the same time they are crafty fellows. I'd
have a care if I were you, Mr. Samara, and particularly, I'd lock both
my doors at night. Yours is rather an exposed suite."

"I am very much obliged for the warning," Samara said. "I don't think
that my attitude towards life is exactly that of a fatalist, but so far
as regards these repeated attempts upon my person, I have grown just a
little callous, I'm afraid. Or perhaps it is that I have faith."

"It's a fine thing to have," the other observed gravely, "but some of
the greatest men in the world have been struck down by the most utter
miscreants. We will do our best to take care of you, sir, you may be
certain of that."

"I am sure you will," was the slightly more cordial reply.

The morning wore on. Some of the ship's passengers indulged in sports.
Down in the steerage a man who called himself a Hungarian, but who had
been christened "Simon the Jew," was doing tricks with knives, to the
amazement of a little group of spectators. He pinned a piece of paper on
the wall and from twenty paces he threw short-bladed, ugly-looking
knives into a perfect circle. He threw them into the air and caught them
by the handles, three or four at the same time, the sun shining upon the
blue steel of their blades. Some of the women turned away. Even the
men--and they were used to knives--shivered a little. The man was a
magician.

Back on the promenade deck Catherine was conscious of a vague sense of
annoyance. Samara had not been near her all the morning. Once or twice,
as she passed along the deck, she had seen him sitting in a corner of
the smoking room--smoking a pipe and reading. It was not until after the
bugle had sounded for luncheon that she met him in the companionway.

"I thought," she said, a little coldly, "that I was supposed to be here
as your secretary."

He nodded.

"No work this morning," he declared.

"I had no intention of coming," she continued, "simply for a sea
voyage. May I ask whether there will be work to do this afternoon?"

The gruffness passed from his manner. He looked at her abstractedly. She
was wearing a long jumper of a distinctive shade of green, a cap of the
same colour, and the wind had brought a wholesome touch of pink to her
cheeks. Her tone was almost severe but her lips were already framing for
a smile.

"There is a despatch," he announced, "which I wish to prepare for
forwarding to London. We will begin it at three o'clock, if that suits
you."

"It suits me very well indeed," she assured him.

They separated without further speech. A few minutes later, as he sat at
his corner table from which the other chair had already been removed, he
saw her coming towards him. This time there was a distinct frown upon
her face.

"I understand," she said, "that you have told the second steward to give
me a place somewhere else."

"I thought it would be more agreeable to you," he replied.

"You were entirely wrong," she confided. "I shall sit with you or take
my meals on deck."

He rose at once to his feet and summoned a steward.

"Kindly relay this table," he directed. "Mademoiselle will share it with
me."

She seated herself and looked at him severely.

"Why do you desire to dispense with my society after having made use of
so much eloquence to obtain it?" she enquired. "I can assure you that I
am a very desirable companion. I can be silent. I can be an eager
listener--especially if you talk of Russia--or I can talk nonsense. You
have only to name your humour, and I can respond to it. But I will not
sit with that noisy crowd of fat, curious women and their male
belongings."

"You are very welcome here," he conceded, trying to conceal his own
satisfaction. "The arrangement I proposed was largely for your sake. I
thought that you would like to make acquaintances on board."

She drew herself up and looked at him with a smile, half amused, half
haughty.

"Why? Acquaintances?"

His retort was prompt.

"As a young lady typist from the Bureau of the Weltmore Hotel, taking
her first ocean trip," he began----

"The trick is to you," she interrupted. "I don't like the sarcasm,
though. Are you sure that you still believe in me, Mr. Samara?"

"Ought I to?" he retorted unexpectedly.

"We will waive the question," she decided, after a moment's
deliberation.

The second steward came up to pay his respects and to suggest special
dishes for dinner that night or luncheon on the morrow. The wine steward
followed with news of some old brandy for which Samara had enquired, and
his place in turn was taken by the First Officer, who paused for a
moment or two on his way out.

"I trust, Mr. Samara," he said, "that you are keeping the matter in mind
about which I spoke to you this morning."

"It is scarcely a matter which slips easily from one's memory," was the
somewhat grim reply.

"What was he talking about?" Catherine asked, glancing curiously after
the retreating figure.

"A gang of Bolshevists on board, being returned to their native country
with thanks. They hate me like poison, of course, every one of them."

She looked troubled.

"I am sure I saw some of them," she confided, "when I was looking over
into the steerage this morning. Even though they are my own country
people, I thought they were horrible."

"There's nothing to fear from such cattle," he said shortly. "You'll
have to get used to believing that I am immune from that sort of thing,
if you work for me. You have had one dose of it already. As for these
fellows, they are no good without organization. They may hate me like
poison, but there isn't one of them would have the courage to risk his
own life by trying to get rid of me for the sake of his fellows. The
Bolshevist hasn't altruism enough for that."

After luncheon they parted for a time, and at three o'clock, preceded by
a steward carrying her typewriter, Catherine presented herself in the
little sitting room attached to Samara's suite. He was already there,
talking to Ivan, or rather the latter was talking and Samara listening.
Ivan had apparently worked himself into a state almost of passion. The
words came from his lips in a little stream; his fists were clenched.
His master pushed him out of the room with a few soothing words.

"Ivan's been down in the steerage," he explained, turning to Catherine
with a smile. "Been running amuck with some of the scum there, I expect.
He thinks that they'd do me a mischief if they could. So would a hundred
thousand more of them, but they don't get the chance."

"I have not quite made up my mind about you yet," she said, as she
seated herself at the table. "One thing I am quite sure about, though; I
do not wish you to be assassinated whilst I am around, or indeed until I
am convinced that your work for Russia is over. So far as you have
gone, I look upon you as the greatest Russian benefactor we have ever
had. If only you would complete the work!"

"Restore the monarchy?"

"Yes."

"Some day we will argue the matter," he promised. "Now take down the
text of my communication to the English Cabinet."

They worked for several hours, Catherine fascinated by the substance of
what she wrote, the directness and lucidity with which Samara expressed
himself. Sometimes he was at a loss for a word and at her suggestion he
supplied her with a Russian one. They drifted now and then into the
habit of exchanging remarks in that tongue.

"It seems odd to think that you have never actually been in your own
country since you were old enough to remember!" he said abruptly.

"I spent three very strenuous years there, according to my mother," she
confided. "My impressions are naturally a little mixed."

He returned to work and dismissed her only when the bugle sounded an
hour before dinner. Afterwards he walked outside for a few minutes
alone. It was already dusk, quieter than on the previous night but still
with a long swell and half a gale blowing on the windward side of the
ship. He paced the almost deserted deck once or twice thoughtfully. A
whistle sounded from the bridge. Presently the boatswain came up to him
and saluted.

"The Captain's compliments, sir, and would you speak to him for a moment
in his room?"

Samara followed the man on to the covered deck and into the Captain's
quarters. The latter, who had been changing for dinner, came out of his
room.

"You will take a cocktail with me, Mr. Samara?" he invited.

"With pleasure."

In a moment there was the sound of the ice clinking in the shaker and
the Captain's steward appeared with two frosted glasses full of amber
liquid.

"You mustn't think us a lot of old women, Mr. Samara," the Captain
begged, as he pushed the cigarettes across, "but I tell you frankly that
we're rather nervous about you. We've got a rotten steerage on board,
and I'm going to ask you not to walk these decks after dusk. If you care
to come up on the bridge while the weather is in any way decent and
clear, I shall be delighted. Plenty of exercise there, and all the wind
you could want in the world."

Samara smiled faintly.

"I have to stick it out in Moscow, you know, and a good many other
places which I visit in my own country," he reminded his companion.

"Precisely," the Captain agreed, "but permit me to point out a very
vital difference. In your own country, for one man who would raise his
hand against you there are a million to whom you are something like a
god, and any would-be assassin would have to face the fact that he would
probably be torn to pieces in a matter of seconds. On board this ship it
is a very different matter. My First Officer tells me that we've got a
score or more of the worst of your country's people on board, who
honestly believe in an ignorant way that they've got a grudge against
you. It excites them to think that you are so near. They feel that they
have a chance of getting at you they wouldn't have on land. I'm one of
your great admirers, Mr. Samara, but there's a selfish side to this,
too. I should hate anything to happen on my ship."

"I'll take every care," Samara promised. "Give me a cocktail like that
now and then, and I'd almost promise to hide in my stateroom!"

The Captain smiled as he divided the remainder.

"It will take a load off our minds if you'll promise to be careful," he
said. "We watch those fellows day and night, but they're as slippery as
eels. Even now my boatswain tells me there's one of them he can't
account for."

"Have they any firearms?"

"Not now. We've taken seven revolvers away from them--not a bad haul for
less than a score. In one respect they are not as bad as the Dagos--they
haven't all a knife up their sleeves."

Samara was escorted back to his quarters by the boatswain. Ivan, who was
busy brushing his clothes, was still disturbed and anxious.

"I do not like this ship," he declared, as he shook out his master's
coat. "There are evil men upon it."

"Turn on my bath, Ivan. Even evil men without arms in their hands can do
no more than think evil thoughts," his master reminded him. "What in
hell's name is that?"

There was a strange fugitive glimpse of a white face, pressed against
the large, square window which took the place of a porthole; a face
which slowly appeared from underneath the frosted lower part and came
into sight gradually--a mass of black matted hair, sunken eyes, sunken
cheeks, an expression scarcely human. Samara sprang forward, but Ivan
held him back with all his giant strength. He pushed his master on one
side and hastened to the door.

"It is for me, this, Master," he cried.

He was out on the deck in an instant. Samara snatched up a pistol from
the drawer of his writing desk and followed him. There was not a
creature in sight. He looked up and down. Ivan crept underneath the
boats. The place appeared to be deserted. Samara, with a shrug of his
shoulders, returned to his stateroom. Ivan stood still on the deck; a
giant figure, his long hair blowing about in the wind, the muscles of
his arm taut, rage in his heart.




CHAPTER XI


Catherine had just finished a morning's work, which even she found
severe. She leaned back in her chair with a little sigh of exhaustion.
Her fingers were stiff, her arms numb, there was a slight dizziness at
the back of her head. Outside, too, as though to tantalize her the more,
the wind had gone down and the great liner was ploughing its level way
through a blue sea as smooth as a carpet and bespangled with sunlight.
Samara, with the inspiration of his last few sentences still in his
brain, was like a man removed altogether from the world. He, too, was
looking through that wide-flung porthole but with the air of one who
seeks something beyond the swelling sea and the narrow boundaries of the
blue horizon. Catherine, watching him with curious eyes, forgot for a
moment her fatigue. He had indeed the air of a prophet. There was no
follower of the cause which lay next to her own heart like this, she
reflected sorrowfully. With a momentary pang she thought of Nicholas and
that little circle back in New York, even now making their plans. The
recollection failed altogether to exhilarate her.

The sound of the luncheon bugle brought their feet back to the ground.
Samara turned swiftly around. For the first time that morning, as it
seemed to Catherine, he looked at her as though she were a human being.

"You are tired," he exclaimed,--"of course you are tired! I have worked
you for three hours without a pause. Ivan!"

The man appeared, silently for all his bulk, and without a moment's
delay. His master gave him a rapid order in Russian.

"If I am tired, it is a pleasure to feel so," she assured him. "I feel
mentally as you men feel physically when you return from a long day's
hunting. Only, if you will give me an hour's rest after luncheon, I
shall sleep in the sunshine."

"I shall not work again to-day," he declared. "I've got rid of much that
was in my mind. These thoughts collect in their little cells. One must
bring them into shape or sometimes they slip away."

Ivan returned with two glasses full of frosted liquid on a tray.
Catherine took one gratefully. Samara tossed his off at a draught.

"Come out into the sunshine for ten minutes before lunch," he invited.

She finished her _apritif_ and followed him gratefully enough on to the
deck. They walked up and down once or twice. Then Catherine sank into
her steamer chair and, after a moment's hesitation, he seated himself by
her side.

"One scarcely needs exercise," she murmured. "The sun and this air are
so wonderful and the decks are crowded. Besides, I hate walking. Tell
me, Mr. Samara, if you will,--you write openly enough of the second
stage in your great struggle for the regeneration of Russia. What is
it?"

"Can't you imagine?" he answered, a little gloomily. "The escape from
our obligations, written and unwritten, to Germany."

"Germany!"

She repeated the word. The full understanding of his announcement evaded
her.

"Don't you see," he pointed out, "in the early days of Bolshevist
Government, Germany obtained almost a strangle hold upon Russia. The
best of her industries were seized upon and worked by Germans. These
profiteers made piles of money, but instead of investing it to develop
Russia's resources, they kept it for themselves, to spend in their own
country when they had sucked the thing dry. German capital was used
freely enough but not for Russia's ultimate good. The fortunes made went
abroad. Russian resources, Russian cheap labour, were merely the
cat's-paw of German capitalists. The same thing in a different manner
applied to our armies. It is quite true that German officers and German
efficiency have made us a military power far in advance of our
requirements, but for what purpose were those armies to be used, do you
suppose? Not for Russia's benefit. That is why----"

It was precisely at that moment that an incredible and amazing thing
happened--seen first, to Samara's preservation, by Catherine. Scarcely
fifteen feet from them was hung a boat, covered by a tight canvas
covering. There was hardly a breath of wind and yet Catherine's
attention had been attracted by the inexplicable movement of one of the
knotted ends of rope which tied it down; an end which disappeared
underneath the canvas as though drawn there by invisible fingers. There
was a sudden gap in the folds of the canvas itself, and swiftly
following, black tragedy, pregnant with fate; the instantaneous
reappearance of that horrible face first seen by Samara through the
window of his cabin and now more than ever like some diabolical
jack-in-the-box, the top part of a body, collarless, clad in a grey
flannel shirt only, a long skinny arm, gripping in its yellow fingers
something that gleamed like silver in the sunlight.

It was an affair of seconds. Catherine never knew the instinct which
prompted her. She caught hold of Samara by the neck and dragged his
face against hers. Even as she did so something flashed across those
fifteen feet of space like a silver thunderbolt; something that hissed
in the air and buried itself in the woodwork where Samara's head had
been--buried itself almost to the hilt, and stayed there quivering.
There were people walking both ways. They paused in amazement. Samara
felt the fiery grip of Catherine's fingers released. He sprang to his
feet, just as the misshapen little figure leaped out from the gap in the
boat, jumped on to the deck and turned towards the steerage. Samara,
large and loose-limbed though he was, was no less nimble. One long
leap--and the man was in his grasp. It was like a rat in the grip of a
well-conditioned sporting dog. Afterwards, it seemed to Catherine,
sitting there numbed and motionless, that these things could scarcely
have happened. A matter of seconds saw the beginning and end of an
episode which might have changed the world's history. Samara, shaking
with a great anger, held his miserable captive high over his head,
shouted one word to him--a Russian word, harsh and uncouth it
sounded--strode to the rail, held him for a moment poised, in full sight
of half a hundred shivering and paralysed passengers, and flung him out
into the sunlight, far away from the ship's side, into the soft blue
bosom of the sea. Even people who had not seen, heard the splash and ran
to the side of the boat. Samara leaned with the others over the rails.
He became suddenly a spectator. Behind him, embedded three inches deep
in the woodwork, the knife was still quivering, the sunshine reflected
from it like gleams of lightning.

Pandemonium followed, but pandemonium through which ran a thread of
order. There was the clanging of the gong from the Captain's bridge, the
sudden shock of reversed engines, a boat in the sea almost before
people realised its lowering--a boat which seemed to be left far behind
as the liner drifted on with her own momentum. A hundred glasses watched
it. A hoarse murmur ran all down the line of anxious passengers. Samara
felt a hand, as cold as ice, clutch his. Catherine was standing by his
side.

"Have they picked him up?" she asked.

He nodded.

"These fellows have the lives of cats," he observed resignedly. "I quite
thought that I had broken his neck when I threw him over."

A little crowd had gathered round the sinister-looking knife; others
watched the return of the boat with the half-drowned man. In the
background people gazed with awe and wonder at Samara--a man who had
escaped death by a miracle, and the taking of life by a second one. He
was momentarily engaged in tying a handkerchief round his right hand
from which a few drops of blood were falling.

"The fellow tried to bite me when I got hold of his neck," he explained.
"I shall go and see the doctor. Any one who touches this carrion needs
disinfectants."

People made way for him right and left. The sight of that amazing
retaliation of his had imbued him with a grotesque, yet heroic air. It
was like a deed from a book of the Sagas. Then into that blazing
atmosphere of tragedy there intervened a readjusting note. With
puffed-out cheeks and earnest manner a pallid young man produced from a
shining bugle the call for luncheon. Untoward and unexpected events are
coldly looked upon on board ship. Routine and discipline are paramount.
When Samara returned from the doctor's room with his hand neatly
bandaged, he found most of the passengers, including Catherine, already
seated at luncheon.




CHAPTER XII


The knife thrower brooded, so far as his narrow mind allowed him, in
irons, for the remainder of the voyage, without even the solace of a
word from his cowed companions. Samara, with Catherine always at hand to
help, worked for several hours each morning, preparing a detailed report
of his proceedings in New York. The other passengers loafed and idled
and flirted their time away, very much in the usual fashion. Three
uneventful days brought peace of mind to the Captain and to the First
Officer.

"Am I a good secretary?" Catherine asked one evening at the completion
of a long day's work.

"The best I ever had," he admitted promptly. "All the same, I am not so
sure after all that we shall be able to work together for very long."

Her eyebrows were slightly raised.

"It should not be for you to say that," she protested. "If I am useful
here, why should not I be equally so in Moscow? Andrew Kroupki, you tell
me, will not be able to leave New York for more than a month."

"That is true."

"There is some one else in Moscow, perhaps?" she persisted.

"There is no one else," he assured her. "I have never had a woman
secretary."

"Some one in your household would object to my presence?"

He frowned irritably.

"There is no woman whatever in my household," he said, "except an old
housekeeper who was my nurse when I was a boy. It is not that. The bald
truth is that you are not the sort of secretary for a man like myself."

"Because of our political lack of sympathy?" she asked. "I can't help
being a Monarchist, but as against that you have done Russia a
magnificent service by freeing her from Bolshevism. I could never forget
that."

"It is not a matter of politics at all," he confessed. "Can't you
realise that I dislike having women around me as women? I prefer to keep
an unbiassed mind. Women belong to the arts and graces of life. They
have no place in our serious moments and enterprises."

She looked at him with gentle pity.

"Dear Mr. Samara," she said, "it is terrible to hear a man of
intelligence like yourself talk such absolute nonsense. You are looking
out on life with one eye shut."

"No great man was ever cumbered with womenkind," he declared. "Those who
were, fell."

"If you quote Mark Antony and Napoleon to me I shall shriek," she
threatened. "I wish we were entirely of the same way of thinking in
other matters. I would soon convert you as to this."

"You should accept my obduracy as a compliment," he said. "If
association with you had not its effect upon me I should automatically
forget your sex."

"I should never let you," she assured him.

They were promenading the deck together. It was during the hour before
dinner and they climbed to the boat deck and walked on the windward side
to avoid the crowd. Here they were almost alone.

"My mind this afternoon," Catherine confided, "has, in intervals of
work, been engrossed by thoughts of my own future. When do we reach
Monte Carlo?"

"Next Thursday," he replied.

"How long do we stay there?" she enquired.

"At least a week," he answered. "One of my ministers is coming from
Moscow to meet me, and there will be an emissary from a foreign country
waiting for me."

"And after that?"

"We shall go to Moscow via Naples and Budapest. So far as you are
concerned, when we arrive there, you will naturally be your own
mistress. I hope, however, that you will continue to help me, at any
rate until Andrew returns. I do not like to speak of money in connection
with such services as you have rendered me, but I shall of course see
that financially you are unembarrassed."

"Thank you," she said. "In any case I quite intend to come to Moscow
with you."

He was silent, for a cause which, had she known it, would have flattered
her.

"When you asked me to come with you and I, by the way, refused," she
continued, "I knew nothing about Monte Carlo. I took it for granted that
I should be taken direct to Moscow."

"You are disappointed?"

"Not I," she laughed. "What girl in the world would be disappointed at
the chance of seeing Monte Carlo for the first time in her life! All the
same, I am looking forward very much indeed to returning to my own
country. Thanks to you, my friends are coming. The Grand Duchess has
offered me a home, and I have no doubt that Nicholas would give me a
post as his secretary if I asked him. Tzars have to have secretaries, I
suppose."

"Nicholas Imanoff will never be Tzar," he told her grimly. "I haven't
saved Russia from the Bolshevists to hand it back to one of his breed."

"Really," she murmured. "Well, Nicholas quite thinks he is going to be.
He'd look rather wonderful, wouldn't he, in white uniform and a crown?"

"For an exceedingly sensible young woman you talk a lot of nonsense," he
said.

"When I'm in the mood," she confided, "no one can stop me. Still, if you
don't press me to remain with you after we get to Moscow, I shall always
believe that it is because you are afraid of me."

"You will be quite right," he confessed. "I am already."

She laughed softly and turned to the Captain whom they had just
encountered.

"Such a confession, Captain!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Samara here, who fears
no cutthroat, laughs at bullets, and despises bombs, is afraid of poor
me."

"I do not wonder," was the prompt reply. "It is his peace of mind which
is in danger."

"It may be that," she reflected. "It is at any rate a flattering
thought."

"What are we to do with your Russian lunatic?" the Captain enquired,
turning to Samara.

The latter shrugged his shoulders.

"What do I care? Keep him in irons until I have left the ship, and then,
whatever you will. You'd much better have left him where I sent him."

The Captain smiled.

"Sometimes," he admitted, "I think that the ways of a few hundred years
ago were the better."

He passed on and Samara and his companion continued their walk.

"I have quite made up my mind as to my future," Catherine declared. "I
wish to come to Moscow with you, to find apartments in the city pending
the arrival of my friends, and to continue my work as your
secretary--your junior secretary, of course--until that unfortunate
young man in New York recovers. I am deeply interested in your outlook.
I think there are certain aspects of the life and evolution of my
country which you understand better than any living person. Don't send
me away from you, please, Mr. Samara. Remember that you are entirely
responsible for my coming."

"Why the devil shouldn't I?" he demanded with sudden harshness. "You'll
leave me as soon as you've learnt all you want to learn. You haven't
come at all in the spirit in which I appealed to you to come. You
patronise my outlook. In your heart you despise it."

She contrived to keep by his side without loss of dignity, although he
had turned abruptly around and was making for the steps.

"You are very severe all of a sudden," she complained. "Where are you
off to in this tremendous haste?"

"To the smoking room to drink cocktails," he growled. "Beware of me at
dinner time. I may have a few home truths to tell you."

"I shall come with you," she declared. "I need sustenance myself. I wish
I did not look so strong. Then you would perhaps be more sympathetic.
And as regards those cocktails you are a very fraudulent person. Nothing
that you ever drink makes the slightest difference to you."

He laughed hardly.

"You are quite right," he admitted. "It doesn't. Still there are times
when I like the fire in my veins, even when it leads nowhere. Come if
you wish to, by all means."

They sat at a corner table in the smoking room, the object, as usual, of
a great deal of attention, although few people at any time ventured upon
more than a respectful salute. When she had finished her _apritif_,
Catherine rose.

"Go and change now, please," she begged. "I feel that our conversation
at dinner time may be interesting, and I don't want you to sit here and
drink more cocktails and be half an hour late."

He rose to his feet but only to let her pass. For a few minutes after
she had gone, he remained silent. To the bartender, who paused before
him in expectation of a further order, he only shook his head. He told
himself that a certain minor crisis in his life was arising, and that he
must meet it with a cool brain. He had been conscious of its near
approach ever since he had found it more easy to remember the cling of
Catherine's arm around his neck than the hiss of the knife with its
sickening little stab, from which she had saved him. Even now there was
a strange and unfamiliar sensation of pleasure as he recalled the clasp
of her fingers, the touch of her cheek against his. Folly for any man.
Lunacy for him!

       *       *       *       *       *

Yet, at its very outset the spontaneity of their dinner conversation was
ruined by an untoward and ugly episode. The second steward bore down
upon them almost as soon as they had taken their places, whilst Samara
was still stroking the green-eyed black cat who came to his chair every
evening. He was carrying a silver tureen which he set down upon the
table.

"Our under-chef," he confided, "has sent you some Russian Bortsch soup,
with some cream sauce. He was in service once with a Russian family at
Nice and learnt something of their cooking."

"Very good, if it is really Bortsch," Catherine remarked. "Am I to have
a little?"

The steward smiled reassuringly.

"The chef has prepared plenty, madam," he said, as he served it. "I was
specially to recommend the sauce."

Samara poured some of the latter a little absently into his plate and
held it towards the cat.

"You'll never get rid of him if you give him cream, sir," the man
observed, as he turned away.

Samara held out his hand towards Catherine, who was about to commence
her dinner.

"Wait," he insisted, "just one moment."

She saw the horror creep into his face and leaned over. The cat lay on
its side. Already its eyes were half closed and its limbs were
stiffening. The second steward, who had been talking at a table close at
hand, came hurrying back.

"Why, what's wrong with the cat, sir?" he exclaimed. "Seems as though he
was going to have a fit."

"It is your chef's specially prepared dish that is the matter with the
cat," Samara said drily. "You had better take the rest of it to the
doctor."

The man's face was white with horror.

"Just a moment, sir," he begged. "I've got to get down to the kitchens
first. I wonder whether you'd mind coming with me?"

Samara rose and followed him. Two of the stewards carried out the cat.
The chief steward himself came and removed the dishes from the table.
There was a babel of conversation. No one knew exactly what had
happened.

There was a certain drama in the little scene below, although Samara
himself was chiefly conscious of a sense of bitter anger. The
under-chef, in his soiled white clothes and white cap, stood with folded
arms, leaning against the wall in the doctor's little consulting room.
The doctor was present, also the chief steward and the Captain. The
latter wasted little time upon the matter.

"Look here," he said to the young man, "you declare that there was
nothing harmful in the soup or the sauce you sent up for Mr. Samara."

"It was made as I have always made it," was the sullen reply. "As for
the cat, he has fits. It was that and nothing else."

"Very well," the Captain continued. "There is the sauce upon the table.
Doctor, I dare say you can find a wineglass. You shall drink a
wineglassful and we will believe you."

Something of the chef's bravado left him. He watched the sauce poured
into a medicine glass which the doctor held out towards him. He took it
into his hands and hesitated for a moment. Then he dashed it on to the
floor.

"I will not drink it," he declared. "You cannot force me to."

The Captain nodded to a sailor who had been waiting outside.

"Put him in irons at once," he ordered.

The man made a sudden spring for the door, but the chief steward caught
him by the collar and swung him round. He stood shivering, helpless, but
with a look of hate in his eyes. He glared at Samara and the desire to
kill was mingled with the hate.

"I may fail and others may fail," he cried, "but some day, some one will
succeed!"

Samara's anger seemed to have passed. He looked at his would-be assassin
curiously.

"You are a Russian?" he asked.

"Yes," was the sullen reply.

"Why should you try to kill me--you and these others you speak of? I
have worked hard for Russia."

The man spat upon the floor.

"You have worked hard for yourself," he snarled. "You are an autocrat,
worse than any Tzar who ever ruled at Peterhof. You're a tyrant, an
enemy of Soviet Government. That is why we hate you. You stand for the
personal; I, and all real Russian patriots, for the Republic!"

They led him away. There was a look almost of sadness in Samara's eyes
as he turned to leave the cabin. The man was obviously one of an
ignorant band of anarchists, ill-educated, filled with poisonous
doctrines. Yet a gleam of truth sometimes flashed out from unexpected
places.




CHAPTER XIII


Catherine, a morning or so later, leaned over the white rail of the boat
deck and watched the blue fires playing about the wires overhead.

"These Marconi people must bless you, Mr. Samara," she observed.

"I think they are more disposed to curse me," he answered. "They've had
very little rest for the last twenty-four hours."

She looked at him meditatively. He was, without a doubt, notwithstanding
a certain uncouthness and an ungraceful stoop of his broad shoulders, a
fine figure of a man. The touch of sunburn acquired during the last few
days became him. She approved of the few grey hairs by his ears, the
inflexible mouth, his eyes so full of colour.

"I never thought I should like a man with blue eyes," she said
irrelevantly.

"Do you like me?" he asked.

She laughed ironically.

"What a question! Why else should I be here, putting myself, as one of
these dear old ladies said the other morning, 'in a most difficult
position--private secretary to, and travelling alone with, an unmarried
man'? They don't know what a tower of strength you are, do they?"

"I hope," he answered gruffly, "that they have sense enough to realise
that I have something else to think about these days besides playing the
gallant."

She glanced upwards again at those blue fires which seemed ceaseless.

"One loses one's sense of proportion out here at sea," she ruminated.
"I am inclined sometimes to forget that you are a very important person.
This sort of thing reminds me," she added, pointing to the wires
overhead. "How many messages have you received to-day?"

"I have not counted," he answered. "The last one from England is the
most important. For the first time I am inclined to regret that this is
not a Southampton boat. I think that I must go to London."

"Delightful!" she murmured. "I can't believe that it compares with New
York, but I should like to see it."

"You probably will, then," he assured her. "The Prime Minister has
invited me to visit him before I return to Moscow."

"If I were Andrew Kroupki," she remarked suggestively, "you would
perhaps go a little further and tell me just what he wants to discuss
with you."

"There is no reason why you should not know," he observed, after a
moment's hesitation. "Your own common sense can very likely visualise
the situation. Naturally what I am doing is of immense interest to
England. For the last fifteen years the Russian armies have been the
greatest menace to peace in Europe. I have realised that myself,
although I have been powerless to act. The rumoured demobilisation of
even a portion of them is an event of the utmost importance to England
and France."

"I quite understand that," Catherine declared, "but tell me, are any of
those messages from Berlin?"

A smile parted his lips, a smile which she was beginning to look for and
appreciate. It was like the grin of a boy who sees mischief ahead. He
pointed to the blue fires which were still snapping away above them.

"Hell!" he confided. "Hell and every kind of fury!"

"What fun!" she murmured. "When do we face the storm?"

"The first breath of it in Monte Carlo," he replied. "Von Hartsen is
meeting me there, and I don't think he's exactly carrying the olive
branch."

A messenger from the Marconi office brought Samara still another
despatch. He tore open the envelope and read it carefully.

"From the War Office at Moscow," he remarked. "They're deluged with
enquiries from Berlin. I must send them a short reply."

He strolled away and climbed the steps into the Marconi room. Catherine
descended to the lower deck and made her way to her chair. She had
scarcely seated herself before she became aware of a new neighbour on
her left-hand side--a middle-aged man with dark beard and moustaches,
wearing tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles and a travelling cap with long
flaps. At her approach, he laid down the book he had been reading and
glanced cautiously around.

"I have been looking for an opportunity of a word with you, Miss
Borans," he said, speaking with a thick guttural accent. "It is very
difficult to find you alone."

"Who are you and what do you want?" she asked coldly.

"My name is Lorenzheim," he told her. "Karl Lorenzheim. I am a friend.
Look at this, please."

He handed her a crumpled-up visiting card of Kirdorff's. On the back was
a line scrawled in pencil:

"Lorenzheim is a friend. You can treat him with confidence."

"So you know Colonel Kirdorff," she remarked.

"I am a member of the Club of which he is secretary," her new
acquaintance confided. "He is a Russian and I am a German, but we are
friends. We see things the same way. We are all friends. He desired me
to make myself known to you when a safe opportunity occurred."

"You are very mysterious," she observed. "What do you mean by a 'safe
opportunity'?"

"When Mr. Samara is not around," was the significant reply.

She twisted the card which he had given her in her fingers and returned
it to him.

"Mr. Samara is on the upper deck attending to some Marconigrams," she
said. "He will be back directly."

"Marconigrams, eh!" Mr. Lorenzheim repeated. "You see them--what?"

"I know what some of them are about," she assented.

He smiled.

"You are very cautious," he declared. "I do not blame you but you can
trust me. Mr. Samara," he went on, "is a very great man, but he is a
great man for his own people--not for yours or mine."

"I know nothing about his relations with your country," she said. "So
far as regards my own friends he has treated them with great
generosity."

"Generosity!" Mr. Lorenzheim scoffed. "What is this you say? Generosity,
indeed! There is Nicholas Imanoff, who should to-day be ruler of Russia,
selling bonds in New York. Who rules the country in his stead? Samara!
Oh, you all say he's a great man because he drove out the Bolshevists. I
tell you that the Bolshevists committed suicide with their follies and
excesses. If Samara had not dealt them their death blow, Russia would
have reverted to a monarchy fifteen years ago."

"That may be," she replied. "I still say that Samara has acted
generously in summoning my friends back to Russia."

Mr. Lorenzheim took off his spectacles and polished them.

"We must not quarrel, you and I," he said tolerantly. "You call it
'generosity.' I call it 'folly.' Never mind! I have been looking for you
to ask you a question. What you tell me is as though you told it to
Kirdorff himself. We want to know whether Samara has any idea of
tampering with the Second Army, and whether his messages from Moscow
have spoken of any disaffection amongst the soldiers themselves."

Catherine moved a little uneasily in her chair. She was suddenly
conscious of a sense of immense repugnance to this intruder, to his
message and all its suggestions. It was with almost a feeling of horror
that she realised how entirely it was taken for granted that she was
occupying her present position under false pretences, that she was in
reality a spy upon the man for whom she was supposed to be working. Her
tone when she spoke lacked all enthusiasm.

"There is nothing definite at present which I can impart to you," she
declared.

He turned and looked at her through his bespectacled eyes.

"You do not doubt my credentials?" he asked. "Kirdorff has known me for
many years."

"It has not occurred to me to doubt anything that you have said," she
replied. "I am not used, however, to have my new occupation taken so
much for granted."

"Occupation?" he repeated mystified.

"As a spy."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Those who toil for great causes," he said, "must stoop sometimes to
displeasing methods. Pardon if I return to my book. We speak again
together. Mr. Samara approaches."

Samara carried more despatches in his hand. He paused in front of
Catherine's chair.

"Come and walk with me," he invited a little abruptly. "I have something
to say to you."

She rose at once and he led the way to a sheltered corner aft where
there were usually some empty chairs. He ensconced her in one and
remained himself standing beside her.

"We shall land in three days," he announced. "It is essential that after
my meeting with Von Hartsen I should go at once to Moscow, or remain in
Monte Carlo for a few days. There is, however, this invitation from the
Prime Minister of England to be dealt with. Will you undertake a
commission there for me?"

They were nearing the Straits and she looked thoughtfully out across the
sea to the bare rocky coast of North Africa. Samara watched her with
impatience.

"I wonder whether you realise," she said at last, "that it is less than
a fortnight since I came to your rooms from the Hotel Weltmore
Typewriting Bureau to work for you?"

"Twenty-seven hours less than a fortnight," he assented. "What of it?"

"You have already entrusted me with a great many of your secrets," she
reminded him, "and the little you know of me is not altogether, from
your point of view, a recommendation. I belong, in fact, to a political
party opposed to your views and your system of Government. Don't you
think that you are placing a little too much trust in me?"

"I do not," he answered, "or I should not ask you to undertake this
mission to London. You are a patriot and even though your sympathies
are still engrossed in a romantic but hopelessly out-of-date cause, you
admit that I have done a great work for Russia. Why should I not trust
you? When I find you embroiled in a monarchist plot it will be time
enough for me to send you to a fortress."

"Will you ever have the heart to do that?" she whispered, looking at him
with a provocative gleam in her eyes.

"Heart!" he repeated gruffly. "I have no heart. If you betrayed my
confidence, I should see that you had what you deserved."

"Nevertheless," she persisted, with a return to her more serious manner,
"I think you are disposed to put too much trust in me."

He looked down at her with the momentary irritation of an elder towards
a child.

"Neither a guarantee of secrecy," he declared, "nor absolute immunity
from theft can ever be purchased or built up with bolts and bars. Trust,
considered and calculated trust, is safety. To know where to bestow it
is, I admit, a form of genius. If I seem to you flamboyantly trustful,
it is your judgment that is wrong. I believe in your sense of honour and
my own instinct. Kindly let that end the discussion."

That night they were anchored in the Bay of Gibraltar, in the shadow of
the great Rock ablaze with its thousand pin-pricks of fire. Samara was
summoned from the dinner table to receive a call from the Governor who
had come aboard in his launch, and Catherine leaned for some time over
the side of the ship, watching the little boats below with their wares
of fruit and flowers and tinselly merchandise. Presently room was made
at the foot of the gangway for the Governor's launch, and he and Samara
stood for a moment or two at the top of the steps talking. Then the
former took his leave and soon after Samara found his way to her side.

"Come on the upper deck," he invited. "These people below are so noisy."

She obeyed at once. They sat on one of the fixed seats with their back
to the Fortress and as far removed as possible from the hubbub of the
extemporised market. She asked him a question about the Governor.

"A pleasant man and very friendly," he told her. "Naturally, as an old
soldier, he was interested in the demobilisation of our armies. He was
very anxious for me to go and spend the night at Government House."

"Why didn't you?" she asked idly.

He made some casual answer, but his sudden realisation of the truth was
a shock to him. A celebrated French traveller was staying there whom he
was anxious to meet, and an English writer whose works had interested
him, yet the desire not to leave the ship was paramount. He frowned as
he looked meditatively across the Bay to the lights of Algeciras.

"I shall go to London if you wish me to," she announced abruptly.

"I imagined you would," he replied. "Your mission, of course, will be
more personal than official, but at the same time I shall entrust you
with a message to the Prime Minister which I do not care to send through
our own representatives there. We have three days more to talk of that,
though."

"I wish it were longer," she confessed.

"You do not regret having come, then?" he asked.

"I have never regretted it for an instant," she assured him. "All the
same, to me this voyage seems to grow in unreality every day. I can't
really believe that I have left New York behind, that we are here in
European waters and that I am working day by day with you. It doesn't
seem part of my life--like something detached, something which might
have happened but didn't."

She turned to catch a glimpse of an expression in his face which
startled her. There had been moments lately when she had been almost
terrified of him.

"It has been an unusual experience for me," he admitted. "I have never
worked with a woman before."

She suddenly laughed. His way of alluding to their association appealed
to her sense of humour as she thought of the long nights they had sat on
deck, with the rushing of the wind around, the leaning stars and the
long golden pathway to the moon; of their long talks and their long
silences. More than once, tragedy, passing by, had lifted them out of
the world of commonplace things and forced them into a position of more
than ordinary intimacy. Was it his sense of honour, of guardianship, she
wondered, which had kept him always so aloof, or was it that she herself
made no appeal to him? She had remained all the time perfectly natural,
had made no effort at any artificial reserve. Vaguely she found herself
somewhat resenting his attitude. Many of the men on board had, in their
own way, directly or indirectly, done their best to intimate the fact
that they found her attractive. Samara had never once even looked at her
as though he recognised the desirability which made other men hang round
her chair and seek her company. An irresistible longing to evoke a more
personal note in him assailed her.

"You find it as easy to work with me as with a man?" she asked.

"I have never noticed the difference," he answered calmly. "You are very
efficient."

Her lips relaxed and she smiled at him.

"I am a great deal nicer to look at than your other secretary," she said
reflectively. "I do you more credit, too."

"In what way?"

"Poor Andrew Kroupki," she murmured. "He looks half-starved and very
miserable. I, on the other hand, look well fed and content. No one would
suspect you of ill-treating me."

"One does not choose a secretary for her personal appearance," he
remarked.

"Some men do, I am afraid," she replied.

He looked at her and she was not quite so sure of herself. In the
darkness his face seemed more dominant than ever, his mouth almost cruel
in its strength. Only his eyes were a little disturbing.

"You don't imagine that that sort of thing would appeal to me?" he asked
scornfully.

"I wonder what does appeal to you," she sighed. "Evidently I don't."

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"How does a woman generally know?" she retorted.

She had an indefinable sense of disaster--or triumph. She suddenly felt
the clasp of his arm around her waist, the touch of his fingers upon her
hair and cheek. She had not before doubted her ability to meet any
situation which might arise, but in this moment of trial she failed
utterly and helplessly. She was suddenly weak in all her limbs. She made
not the slightest resistance to a thing which had never yet happened to
her, which she had never, for a moment, contemplated. His eyes seemed
like fires, but softer--softer every moment. The cruel lines of his
mouth, too, seemed to have relaxed. His lips touched hers firmly yet
softly, lingered there whilst passion grew. She was almost swooning in
his arms.

He released her quite gently yet with a certain abruptness. He rose to
his feet and stood looking down at her, massive, unemotional, yet with
some subtle air of the conqueror. She returned his gaze, helpless, her
hands gripping the back of the seat. A corner of the moon showing from
behind a jagged mass of cloud faintly illuminated her face. Her lips
were still quivering. It was not for her to know that a new light in her
eyes had suddenly made her more beautiful than ever before.

"Mr. Samara!" she gasped.

"I am sorry," he answered, "but I am also glad!"

She heard his receding footsteps along the deck, saw him knock at the
door of the Captain's quarters, enter and disappear. Below there was
still the subdued hubbub of the hucksters. In a more distant boat a
swarthy Spanish woman was singing a love song to the music of a guitar.




CHAPTER XIV


An Englishman seated upon a divan in one of the lofty rooms of the
Salons Privs nudged on the arm his companion, newly arrived from
England. He was by way of being showman and had been pointing out the
notabilities of the place.

"Do you see the fair young man moving round the table on the left?" he
asked.

"Good-looking fellow with a scar on his face? Yes. Who is he?"

"In his way a very interesting person," was the earnest reply. "That is
Prince Frederick of Wehrenzollern. They say that he is the most popular
young man in Germany."

"I was reading about him only last week," the other observed. "One of
the papers was saying that he had modelled himself entirely upon our
present King when he was the same age--goes in for all sorts of sports
and is always doing something thoroughly democratic."

"If Germany is ever foolish enough to discard her republic, there goes
the future Kaiser," his companion announced.

The young man in question made a very slow progress through the rooms.
He apparently met friends at every moment, with most of whom he stopped
to talk, and although he seemed scarcely in the place for the purpose of
gambling, he occasionally risked a twenty-franc piece at the tables.
Presently he passed out of the ken of his two observers, and, having
completed a tour of the rooms, as though in unsuccessful search of some
one, collected his hat and cane in the cloakroom and strolled out. He
was greeted everywhere with a great deal of attention, and he was
obviously exceedingly careful to return all salutations. As soon as he
was alone, however, a somewhat supercilious smile took the place of his
apparent bonhomie, and he yawned once or twice on his way to the
Sporting Club. Here he was again received with great consideration, and
made his way up the stairs into the smaller roulette rooms. An elderly
man of exceedingly aristocratic appearance moved eagerly towards him
from one of the little groups. Prince Frederick welcomed him with a sigh
of relief.

"I have been looking everywhere for you, General," he declared. "Come
and tell me the news."

They moved off towards the bar.

"There is no news," the older man replied. "He has not yet arrived."

Prince Frederick seemed disappointed.

"I thought the boat was due in yesterday," he observed.

"It was due," the General assented, "but it has been delayed by bad
weather. I am expecting to hear at any moment that it is in the bay."

The two sat in a corner of the bar. In his own country the Prince always
drank beer. Here, he called for a mixed vermouth. They spoke for a
little time upon incidents connected with his journey. It seemed that he
had only reached Monte Carlo that afternoon.

"It is a relief," the General declared with a little sigh, "to be in a
place like this, my dear Frederick, where you and I can meet and talk
openly. Even though I was your tutor, people whisper in Berlin if we are
seen much together, especially since I became a member of the
Government. You have been as busy as usual, I suppose?"

Prince Frederick yawned.

"Last week," he confided, "I opened two flower shows, unveiled a statue,
opened a tennis tournament and played in it myself, took the chair at
the Flying Club dinner, and joined in the parade, opened a new fencing
academy and fenced the first bout and attended two commercial banquets.
Not so bad, considering that I had to show up at the bank each day.
Lucky no one knows how little work I really do there."

"It is not necessary for you to do any at all," the General reminded
him. "The directors are all our friends and members of our party."

"All the same," the young man declared, sipping his vermouth, "it is a
grind. That dear English relative of mine in whose footsteps I am
supposed to be treading, only had to pose as a democrat in
sentiment--not to transform himself into a bank clerk. I hate the
atmosphere of these places. The camp and the barracks are my home."

His mentor smiled tolerantly.

"You must remember, my dear Frederick," he said, "that until our day
comes it is as well for you to keep your military instincts as far as
possible in the background. The _bourgeoisie_ would be shaking their
heads and likening you to your respected great-grandfather if you gave
them the opportunity. That side of it will come later. All that I pray
is that I may live to see it."

"All good Germans must pray for that," the Prince agreed, lighting a
cigarette. "We have become giants of commerce during the last twenty
years simply because we are a great people and bound to succeed in
anything we undertake--but at heart we are a military nation."

The General looked at his pupil and smiled fondly.

"It is in the blood," he murmured.

"Tell me the latest news of this man Samara," the latter demanded a
little abruptly.

The General frowned.

"It is very hard to speak of the matter coolly," he declared. "We
Germans made Russia a military nation. We trained their men, we made
their guns and flying machines, we taught and equipped them from
conscript to general. We constructed a mighty engine of destruction
ready for our use when the time came. It suited the old rgime. The
soldier was the only man who could be sure of regular food and
comfortable living, and every one wanted to be in the army. Now, under
the new order, everything is changed. Industrially and agriculturally
Russia is forging ahead, and now, without warning to anybody, Samara
calmly announces to the world that he desires to reduce his army to the
proportions suggested by the League of Nations and insists that he needs
the soldiers for industrial developments. His representative in Moscow
told Baron Gusman plainly a few days ago that the Russian Government no
longer recognised any military understanding with Germany."

"What about our own Cabinet?" the Prince asked eagerly. "How do they
take the matter?"

"Their attitude," the General replied, "is, so far as it goes,
satisfactory. I am here as a special envoy, instructed to formally
protest against any further demobilisation of the Russian armies, to
remind Samara of our previous agreements, and to demand an explanation
of his present policy. Except for a handful of socialists, the motion in
favour of my mission was carried unanimously."

"They say Samara is a great autocrat," Prince Frederick reflected.
"Supposing he takes high ground?"

His companion was silent. He glanced around the room and, although they
were in a retired spot, he dropped his voice.

"Then he may bring the day of fulfilment nearer," he said. "Samara's
hold upon the people is as yet unproved and propaganda amongst the army
has already begun."

A young man who had been standing upon the threshold, as though in
search of some one, suddenly recognised the General and advanced. He
bowed respectfully to Prince Frederick and handed a despatch to the
former.

"A wireless from the American boat, sir," he announced. "She is in sight
and expects to land her passengers within the hour."

The General tore open the envelope and read its contents.

"Samara will see me at six o'clock to-night at the Htel de Paris," he
announced, with satisfaction. "Excellent!"

"Then, by dinner time to-night," the Prince began slowly----

"By dinner time to-night," the General interrupted, "I shall know what
is at the back of Samara's mind. If he means to play us false--well, it
will mean a complete reversal of our present foreign policy. It may lead
to even greater changes than that."

A very beautiful and world-famous young woman looked in at the door and,
recognising Prince Frederick, smiled at him. He rose at once to his
feet.

"I go to play baccarat with Mademoiselle," he announced. "We have an
arrangement."

His mentor in chief laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Amuse yourself," he said tolerantly, "but remember--these little
escapades are as well kept secret. There are gossips amongst our
newspaper men and the Princess Freda is exacting in some matters."

The young man smiled.

"Even my sainted prototype," he remarked, as he turned away, "had a
weakness for beautiful ladies."

General von Hartsen played roulette for a time, took a stroll along the
front, watching the great American steamer which had just arrived, and
finally presented himself at the Htel de Paris at the appointed hour.
Samara was engaged in the task of sorting his letters with Catherine's
help. He received his visitor at once, however, shook hands with him and
motioned him to a seat.

"Is this a visit of courtesy, General," he demanded, "or am I to
consider it, in any sense of the word, official?"

"Friendly, if you please, sir," was the slightly formal reply, "but also
official. I am the bearer of representations from the Government in
whose labours I have the honour to share, to the Chairman of the Council
of the Russian Republic."

Samara shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the letters. He had
the air of one preparing to receive battle.

"In that case, General," he begged, "pray proceed. I am entirely at your
service."

The latter glanced courteously but questioningly towards Catherine.

"The young lady," he began----

"Let me present you," Samara interrupted. "General von Hartsen--Miss
Borans, my secretary."

The General bowed low but his expression was still a puzzled one. His
eyes remained fixed upon Catherine.

"Miss Borans," he repeated, "you will pardon me, I am sure, but I am
under the impression that we must have met before."

"I think not," Catherine replied, shaking her head slightly.

"Unless you have ever been a visitor to the United States, it is
improbable," Samara intervened. "Miss Borans has lived there all her
life."

"In that case I am doubtless deceived by a likeness," the General
confessed. "You will forgive my adding, Mr. Samara, that our present
conference must be a private one."

"I have no secrets from my secretary," Samara insisted. "Miss Borans is
discretion itself. She would in any case handle any report of our
interview which I might have to submit to my Council."

Von Hartsen bowed.

"Very well, sir," he said, "I will proceed. I am directed by the
ministers of the German Republic to ask you for full particulars
concerning this proposed demobilisation of a portion of your armies and
further to enquire what change of policy such a step is meant to
indicate. I think I need not be more explicit."

"Not the slightest need of it," Samara acquiesced. "Pray sit down. Smoke
a cigar if you will, and I'll tell you all about it. I'll tell you just
what my plans and hopes are for the future of Russia and incidentally,
at the risk of shocking you, you shall learn my exact views as to the
establishment of what I term mercenary armies."

The General's face grew a shade sterner. He put back the cigar which he
had been in the act of clipping and folded his arms.

"I am at your service, sir," he announced.




CHAPTER XV


The General listened with more or less patience to all that was in
Samara's mind, and found the situation a great deal worse than he had
expected. Towards the conclusion of their interview he became very angry
indeed.

"I consider that the course of action which you propose, Mr. Samara, is
entirely at variance with your obligations towards my country," he
announced.

"I recognise no obligations towards your country," was the brusque
reply. "I have from the first warned you that it was my intention at the
earliest opportunity to rid myself of the great armies which my
misguided predecessors, aided by you, have brought into being. To have
done so would have been my first action on coming into power if it had
been possible to have found the men employment. I have now made
arrangements which will enable me to put half a million men on the land
and half a million into industrial pursuits. Demobilisation of the Third
Army will commence the day I return to Moscow."

"And what about the First and Second?" the General demanded.

"I shall follow suit with the Second almost at once," Samara answered.
"I look upon a trained army as an incentive to militarism, and I don't
intend to maintain one. Since you are here I may as well inform you that
my Government will issue a proclamation before the end of next month,
requiring all officers of German nationality to resign their commissions
and leave the country. A certain bonus will be allotted to them but that
will be a matter of adjustment."

General von Hartsen found self-control an exceedingly difficult matter.

"You recognise, I trust, Mr. Samara," he said, "that such a proceeding
will be considered by my Government as an unfriendly act?"

"I'm not afraid that you'll go to war about it, if that is what you
mean," was the prompt retort. "You won't waste your resources on us
whilst England and France are upon the face of the earth. And to be
perfectly frank with you, General, if it was ever in your mind to use
any part of the Russian army for any German military enterprise, I can
assure you that the idea was hopeless from the first. I do not intend
that during my tenure of office the blood of a single Russian peasant
shall be shed upon the battle field. There was too much of that in
nineteen-fifteen and sixteen."

"You're more of a pacifist than I ever believed possible for a man of
vigorous action, Mr. Samara," the General sneered.

"That may easily be so," Samara assented. "I'm a pacifist at any rate so
far as this, that I do not intend to support a standing army. Every
Russian citizen, as he grows up, will be taught how to fight in his
country's defence if ever it should become necessary. Beyond
that--nothing."

Von Hartsen rose to his feet.

"You realise, Mr. Samara, I suppose," he said, "that even at home you
will have to face something like a cataclysm. Your men do not wish for
demobilisation."

"They will wish for it fast enough when they see what I can offer them,"
was the confident reply. "America has lent me enough money to provide
for a million of them, and Great Britain has asked me to explain my
needs so far as regards the others. I am sending an envoy there
to-morrow."

The General bowed coldly to Catherine and to Samara without extending
his hand.

"I shall report the issue of our conversation to my Government, Mr.
Samara," he announced. "They will probably make further representations
to you."

He took his leave. Samara, with his hands in his pockets, walked to the
window and stood looking out at the great front of the Casino and at the
gardens below, whistling softly to himself.

"Well," he remarked presently, "it's a stupid game. German diplomacy is
always so obvious. As though any one couldn't see that our armies were
meant to be the cat's-paw to snatch out of the fire the chestnuts of
revenge. Russia will never fight in my day except in self-defence."

"You might have civil war," Catherine reminded him calmly.

Samara swung round on his heel.

"Civil war," he growled. "About as much chance of it as the end of the
world. The whole fault of the Russian as a politician is that he's too
indifferent. That's why the Bolshevists were able to keep going as long
as they did. The Russian wants peace and to go on as he is going. It is
the aim of my life to see that he gets his wish. Miss Borans, listen to
me for a moment, please."

"I am listening," she assured him.

"I hear from the Chief of the Police that enquiries are being made in
Moscow for suitable accommodation for pretty well the whole of your
Royalist friends. Well, I told them that they should be welcome back to
Russia and they are welcome, but I want it to be clearly understood that
they must live and behave as ordinary citizens. They must recognise and
observe the law and the government of the country."

Catherine inclined her head.

"That seems reasonable," she admitted.

"I do not imagine for a moment that they are foolish enough to entertain
the idea of anything in the nature of a definite conspiracy," Samara
continued, "but if they did attempt anything of the sort, I should be
quite powerless to help them. You will drop them a hint perhaps."

"I will certainly do so if I think it necessary," she promised.

They parted a little stiffly, Samara to interview an emissary from
Moscow, Catherine to spend a delightful hour wandering about the gardens
and Terrace of the little principality. She returned about eight
o'clock, dined alone in the spacious salon attached to Samara's suite,
and was standing at the window gazing rather longingly at the curving
arc of lights along the Terrace when Samara himself suddenly entered the
room.

"You?" she exclaimed. "I thought you were dining with your man from
Moscow."

"I have dined with him," Samara answered. "I have sent him back home
to-night. General von Hartsen's attitude does not disturb me in the
least but it is necessary to prepare them at the War Office."

"And you?" she enquired.

"I have other affairs to attend to here and shall await your return from
London. You will leave to-morrow morning, or rather midday."

"Do you wish to work now?" she asked.

"Don't be absurd," he scoffed. "Who ever works the first night in Monte
Carlo? I wish to take you to the Casino and to the Club, but you must be
differently dressed."

"Indeed," she murmured with a smile. "Well, you didn't give me much
chance to bring clothes along, did you?"

"You must be able to do something," he insisted impatiently.

"As a matter of fact," she confided, "I have bought a little black frock
this evening whilst I was wandering about. It is very simple and I don't
know that it has come yet."

"Go and put it on," he directed, "and meet me here in half an hour's
time."

She moved towards the door but on the threshold she looked back at him
reflectively.

"I am not at all sure," she declared, "that I wish to go out with you."

He returned her gaze without moving a muscle.

"Because I kissed you and haven't apologised?" he asked.

She laughed softly.

"Not quite that," she admitted.

"What then?" he demanded.

Her eyes mocked him inscrutably.

"What an ingnu you are when you leave your own world for a minute," she
said, disappearing through the door.

An hour later they were seated side by side on a divan in the Sporting
Club. People were standing three and four deep around the tables and
play was for the moment impossible. Catherine, serenely beautiful, and
with her intense curiosity concealed by the force of habit, was entirely
content. Samara was moodily interested.

"But who are these people?" she asked him. "I've never seen such jewels
even at the opera at New York. And the men--here at last is a new
type."

Her companion smiled.

"I am a poor showman," he admitted. "I have been here twice before in my
life, but even I recognise some faces. There is Prince Artelberg, the
Austrian Premier, the man who has very nearly made a country of Austria
again."

"But the lady with him, in blue silk?"

"One seldom recognises the ladies," Samara answered drily. "The two men
passing by are English. The nearer one is in the British Embassy at
Moscow. The tall man with the grey beard and the small order is the King
of Gothland. Alas, I am recognised! He is coming to speak to me."

The King detached himself from a small group of friends and crossed the
room towards Samara, who had risen to his feet.

"A most amazing meeting!" the former exclaimed, holding out his hand.
"You are on your way home from America, I presume?"

"I landed this evening, your Majesty," Samara replied.

"You will accept my heartiest congratulations on the success of your
mission," the King begged. "But what about my cousins? What will they
have to say to your altruistic efforts?"

Samara shook his head.

"One can but hope," he said, "that they will appreciate the advance of
the inevitable."

The King smiled.

"I fancy that you will find General von Hartsen rather a handful," he
remarked. "He has been here waiting for you for days, fuming like a
madman most of the time. Present the young lady, if you please."

"With your Majesty's permission," Samara replied. "Miss Catherine
Borans, my temporary secretary--the King of Gothland. Miss Borans has
been good enough to replace Andrew Kroupki, who was taken ill in New
York."

The King bowed and held out his hand.

"To be secretary to Mr. Samara," he said, "is to stand behind the
curtains of the diplomatic world. I congratulate you, Miss Borans."

"I find the work exceedingly interesting, your Majesty," she observed.

The King looked at her curiously.

"You are American?" he enquired.

"I have lived there most of my life," she answered.

"It is curious," he continued. "You have a family likeness to some
friends of mine. You stay here for long, Mr. Samara?"

"Perhaps four days, sir," was the reluctant reply.

"I am at the Htel de Londres," the King announced. "If you have the
leisure, please sign your name in my book."

He bowed to Catherine, nodded to Samara and passed on. The two resumed
their seats.

"I am quite sure," the former said demurely, "that Miss Loyes would have
come up to your room herself if she had realised that it might mean a
trip to Europe and an introduction to a King."

"There is worse to come," Samara muttered, glancing apprehensively at
two approaching figures. "I thought this fellow, at any rate, was never
going to speak to me again."

General von Hartsen clicked his heels, bowed and held out his hand.

"Mr. Samara," he said, "my young friend here desires the advantage of a
personal acquaintance with you. Will you pardon my taking this
opportunity? Prince Frederick of Wehrenzollern--Mr. Samara."

Samara studied the young man with interest as he shook hands. The latter
smiled frankly.

"My name may convey to such a world-famed democrat as you, sir," he
observed, "unpleasant reminiscences. I have resumed my title, it is
true, but I am a German citizen and a faithful subject of the Republic.
I work in a bank. The General tells me that you have just arrived from
New York."

"This afternoon," Samara assented.

"You will do me the honour, perhaps," Prince Frederick continued, "of
presenting me to the young lady."

Samara acquiesced without comment.

"Prince Frederick of Wehrenzollern--Miss Borans of New York."

"Is it possible that you are an American, mademoiselle?" the young
prince murmured as he bowed low over her hand.

"I have lived there all my life," Catherine assured him.

"And this is your first visit to Monte Carlo?"

"My first visit to Europe."

"It is amazing," he murmured. "You stay for some time here, I hope?"

Catherine was imbibing the atmosphere of diplomacy.

"It is uncertain," she replied.

"You will permit me, perhaps," he ventured, with another bow, "to show
you the rooms? Mr. Samara will not object?" he added, turning to the
latter.

"By all means."

The two young people strolled off together, without waiting for Samara's
somewhat surprised acceptance of the situation. General von Hartsen
watched them critically.

"Magnificent!" he exclaimed. "The blue-blooded aristocracy of the east
and the red-blooded aristocracy of the west. Mademoiselle is doubtless
the daughter of one of these great American millionaires."

"Mademoiselle's income, so far as I know," Samara replied drily, "is
thirty dollars a week, the salary I pay her. She happens to be my
secretary. I should perhaps have mentioned the fact."




CHAPTER XVI


"What the hell's this?" Samara demanded, as he entered the salon on the
following morning and found a cardboard box the size of a washing basket
on the table.

"Roses," Catherine replied, raising her head from the interior which she
had been examining. "The most wonderful I have ever seen in my life. For
me, too! And from a prince! I'm glad I came to Europe!"

"A prince who is also a bank clerk!" Samara scoffed. "Believe me, the
world has finished with princes."

"This one was very pleasant," Catherine confided. "He invited me to
spend the greater part of to-day with him."

"You told him you were going to London, of course?" Samara asked
quickly.

"I certainly did not. Ought I to have done so? I rather thought that was
between you and me."

Samara nodded his approval.

"They wouldn't suspect you of being a real envoy," he observed. "That is
one reason why I am sending you. Still, there is no need to run
unnecessary risks. You have had your coffee?"

"An hour ago," she answered, "and packed my things, and walked on the
Terrace."

"With your princeling?"

She shook her head.

"He was invisible," she sighed. "Of course it may have been that he
didn't know that I was going to be there. He spoke of a party at the
Carlton last night, wherever that may be. Perhaps he was late."

"Perhaps he was," Samara agreed.

"It seems a little unfortunate," she murmured, as she poured out the
coffee, "that I am leaving Monte Carlo so soon. I was never so great a
success at the Hotel Weltmore in New York. On my first day here, a king
has told me that I reminded him of some friends of his, and a prince has
invited me to luncheon and sent me roses."

"Just as well you're leaving," Samara growled. "Your head would soon be
turned."

"I am very well balanced," she assured him.

"How about your memory?" he asked. "I hope your flirtatious successes
haven't driven the serious matters out of your head altogether."

"Absolutely," she confessed. "What am I going to London for? I am sure I
don't know."

"In that case you had better stay behind," he suggested gruffly.

She laughed in derision.

"My dear master," she said, "there isn't a word or a point of the whole
thing that isn't in my brain. As an envoy I'm going to be the greatest
success of modern times. I shall be irresistibly logical, delicately
persuasive. What sort of a man is the British Prime Minister, please?"

"A married man with a large family and serious views," Samara warned
her, "and as for politics he is as sincere a democrat as I am."

"I won't expound my little hobbies about government then," she promised.
"What a pity you aren't coming with me."

"If I could make the journey," he replied coldly, "there would be no
need for you to go."

"I hope you won't get into trouble here while I'm away," she sighed. "It
really is a most attractive place."

"There is seldom any trouble here except of one's own making," was the
somewhat curt rejoinder. "Monte Carlo is a sort of sanctuary for all the
criminals of the world. They meet here and exchange notes, but they look
upon it as a sort of neutral ground. To attempt evil against a man in
Monte Carlo is almost a breach of etiquette."

He accompanied her presently to the railway station. Her bag had been
sent on and they walked through the gardens, bathed in sunshine, along
the Terrace and waited a few moments for the lift. Catherine, humming
softly to herself from sheer despair at her companion's silence, was
looking amazingly beautiful. It was as though all the youth of her
nature had responded to the entrancing change in the conditions of her
life. In her neat travelling dress, with a great bunch of the roses in
her hand and her almost lizard-like absorption of the glinting sunshine,
she seemed to have imbibed with it the joyous spirit of her surroundings
and the passing hour. The drabness of cities and of cramped labour were
things utterly discarded. She was a young princess of the coming day;
eager yet gracious. Samara, on the contrary, was not altogether at his
best. His clothes, as was often the case, needed brushing, his hair and
chin needed the services of a barber. There was a streak of red in his
eyes, too, and a shadow underneath them, as though the night had gone
ill with him. Catherine, as the lift rattled up, paused in her humming
and looked at him critically.

"Were you late last night?" she enquired.

"Moderately. I had a great many despatches to read."

"You had no bad news from Moscow?"

He shook his head.

"None at all. Politically everything seems to be reasonably quiet. It
is from outside all the disturbance will come for some time. Our own
people have scarcely realised yet the change which has come into their
lives."

They were alone in the lift. She drew a little nearer to him.

"You are afraid of Germany, perhaps?"

He brushed aside the suggestion scornfully with a wave of his hand.

"I am afraid of no one," he answered. "A certain clique of statesmen in
Germany will be furious and will start an agitation against us. I doubt
whether they will do any good. As I have already warned you, they will
watch London closely. That is why I prefer to send you there in this
manner, without letters or documents, rather than to make you the bearer
of any written proposition."

"You are placing a great trust in me," she reflected, as they watched
the approach of the train.

"There is no success in life possible for any one who has not learned to
trust," he declared.

The train came thundering in. Catherine's seat was found without
difficulty. Samara stood in the corridor for a moment, looking in at
her.

"You are a strange person," she said, holding out her hand, "rather a
bully and terribly unreasonable sometimes, but I shall be glad to see
you again. Promise me that I may come back here, that you will not send
word for me to go direct to Moscow or anything of that sort."

He smiled.

"A statesman is always at the mercy of circumstances," he reminded her,
"but the Duma is not summoned to meet until the week after next and my
arrival in Moscow before then would be premature. I think you may take
it that I shall be here, awaiting your return on Saturday night."

He backed away at the last urgent call and stood on the platform whilst
the train rolled out. There was nothing to be seen of Catherine, and he
gazed carelessly into the passing windows. Suddenly he gave a start. A
young man who had boarded the train at the last moment was leaning
breathlessly down from the platform of his car, waving his hand to a
friend. As he recognised them, Samara's frown grew blacker. An entirely
new and unwelcome sensation sent him back to the hotel with a curse upon
his lips.

Catherine was by no means a secretive person, but she had received a
letter that morning of which she had said nothing to Samara. As soon as
the train had started she took it from her handbag, spread it out and
reread it, a smile of amusement upon her lips. It was dated from the
Htel de Paris on the preceding night:

     MADEMOISELLE!

     The roses which I shall send you to-morrow as soon as the shops are
     opened bring too tardy a message. I cannot rest to-night without
     sending you a line to beg for your gracious permission to see you
     at the earliest possible opportunity, to assure you that since the
     moment we met, only a few hours ago, every other thought has been
     driven from my mind, every other woman's face into which I have
     ever looked has become a blank. Please believe in my sincerity as I
     believe in you. There is no one so adorable in the world!

     Forgive my presumption! It comes from a heart overfull! I count the
     minutes until I shall see you again!

     FREDERICK.

The smile deepened. Catherine laughed softly to herself. She tore the
letter into small pieces, held her hand out of the window and let them
go fluttering by. Then, whilst her handbag was open she looked at
herself in the little mirror, handled her powder puff lightly for a
moment, closed the bag and leaned back in her place. For a time she
watched with interest the unfamiliar landscape. Presently, however, she
yawned, closed her eyes and dozed. She was awakened by the soft opening
of the door of her compartment. She sat up and recognised the intruder
with amazement.

"Prince Frederick!" she exclaimed.

He held out his hand.

"Please not," he begged earnestly. "Even if you are angry with me let it
be 'Frederick.' I am not--not exactly supposed to be here."

"I should think not," she agreed with decision. "Why are you?"

He closed the door and with some diffidence took the seat opposite to
hers.

"For the reason, mademoiselle," he confessed, "that I tried to express
in my letter."

"But this is absurd," she protested. "I am going to England."

"I know it," he answered. "So am I."

She looked at him for a moment steadfastly. Then she glanced out of the
window.

"You did not mention your intention yesterday," she said.

"I had no idea of it myself," he assured her.

"Do you wish me to understand that I am in any way connected with your
journey?" she asked.

"I beg of you not to be angry, mademoiselle," he rejoined almost humbly.
"You are the sole cause of it."

"Then, if you will allow me to tell you so," she said deliberately, "I
think that you are mad."

"I think so myself," he acknowledged. "I thought so all night. I have
thought so every moment since we first met. But it is, after all, a
glorious madness."

She looked at him again steadily. He was a personable young man, dressed
in grey tweeds cut after the English fashion, with shiny brown shoes of
the shade she liked, fine linen and a well-chosen tie. His features were
good, if a little over-reminiscent of an unpopular ancestry. There was
weakness in his face but nothing much that was bad. So far as it was
possible for any one to judge, he seemed to be in earnest.

"Would it cure you," she enquired, "if I told you that this madness of
which you speak is not in the least reciprocated?"

"That would be too much to hope for," he admitted. "I am content to
wait. I have not had a chance to speak to you seriously."

"Seriously? How on earth could you be more serious?" she demanded.

He hesitated. He had sufficient tact to be aware that he was on delicate
ground. Young American ladies, he knew, were used to a great deal of
freedom, and this one had doubtless been a little spoiled. It was
scarcely a case for rushing tactics.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "the idea of my devotion is a new one to you.
You have not accustomed yourself to it. Will you remember at least that
we do not meet as strangers? I may claim the privileges of a travelling
companion?"

"I suppose there is nothing to prevent your doing that," she acquiesced,
"but I might point out that the remaining three seats in this
compartment have been engaged in my name."

"I shall leave according to your instructions, mademoiselle," he
promised. "The whole of the corresponding compartment next door is
mine."

Catherine began to laugh to herself. He watched her questioningly.

"You see it is my first visit to Europe," she explained. "I had no idea
that such things as this really happened."

"Far more wonderful things than this happen," he assured her earnestly.
"Your American men, mademoiselle--pardon me, but they have no sentiment.
They would not throw convention to the winds as I have done--abandoned
all my engagements to follow the person whom I adore on the merest
chance of a kindly word, to the one city in the world which I detest."

"I'm not so sure," she reflected. "Some of these American young men are
fairly rapid."

He shook his head.

"They are not capable of sentiment so intense," he declared.

"The one I am engaged to is quite headstrong when he is roused,"
Catherine remarked.

Prince Frederick glanced at her with a flash in his blue eyes which made
him seem almost like a man.

"Engaged! You engaged!" he cried. "That is nothing."

"My young man thinks that it's a great deal," she observed. "He very
much disliked my coming to Europe. He's on his way over here now."

"Who is he? What is he?" Prince Frederick demanded. "I must know all
about him."

"He is called Nicholas," she confided, "and he is--well, he's very much
what you are."

"A banker!" her companion exclaimed. "But that is only a blind. I have
taken a position in commerce so as to establish myself as a German
citizen."

"You have other ideas?" she asked him curiously.

He pulled himself up.

"That is of no account," he replied. "When does this young man arrive?
You're not going to England to meet him?"

"I don't even know what boat he is on," she declared.

The blue-liveried steward paused for a moment at the door with his
customary announcement.

"_Le djeuner est servi, madame et monsieur._"

Prince Frederick rose to his feet.

"You will at least do me the great honour of lunching with me,
mademoiselle?" he begged.

"I think I may go so far without indiscretion," she assented.




CHAPTER XVII


Catherine's first impressions of England were delightful ones. She sat
in the very comfortable armchair of a well-hung Pullman and looked out
upon a patchwork country of tender greens, of woods bottomed with
bluebells, of spinneys and railway banks yellow with primroses, and
orchards in which pink, waxy blossoms were already beginning to form.
She was far too interested to notice the almost savage gloom of the
young man who sat in the opposite chair.

"Mademoiselle Catherine," he exclaimed at last.

She turned reluctantly away from the sun-bathed panorama of fertile
country.

"My name is 'Miss Borans,'" she told him. "I do not appreciate the use
of my Christian name."

"You are brutal," he declared.

She looked at him without kindness, scarcely even with friendliness.

"You are a very absurd and spoilt young man," she said. "You seem to
fancy yourself aggrieved because I am not able to reciprocate in any way
your very ridiculous feeling for me. You have no common sense. It is
rather I who should be aggrieved. I did not encourage you to follow me.
For the small services you have rendered me upon the train and the boat,
I am much obliged, but I should have preferred being without them. If
you wish to remain on terms of friendship or acquaintance with me,
please abandon that expression and talk like a reasonable human being."

His face showed no signs of lightening. He seemed indeed thoroughly
dejected and miserable.

"Why are you so cruel?" he begged. "Why can you not be just a little
kinder? What is there about me repugnant?"

"You're not in the least repugnant to me," she assured him. "You simply
do not interest me very much, and so far as my affections are concerned,
they are engaged elsewhere."

He watched the flying landscape for a moment, as though he hated the
speed it indicated. For the hundredth time he tried to find courage.

"I've always heard that you American girls are so practical," he said.
"Why should you remain the secretary of a man like Samara? I am very
rich, mademoiselle. I am very fond of travel. It is not my intention to
marry for years. Reasons which I cannot confide to you forbid it. There
are secondary titles belonging to some of my estates. I always thought
that sort of thing appealed to Americans," he mumbled as a gleam in her
eyes almost froze the words upon his lips.

"They tell me that you have restablished duelling in Germany. Is it
true?" she asked.

"It is true," he admitted.

"I have a friend in America," she went on, "who is on his way over here
now, who is supposed to be a very expert swordsman. I fancy that I
failed to grasp your meaning just now. We are perhaps a little out of
sympathy. I propose to read."

She buried herself in an illustrated paper. Her companion rose to his
feet, kicked a footstool out of his way, and with scowling face
retreated into the smoking car. He ordered a drink and threw himself
into a vacant chair.

"A little American typist!" he muttered. "A typist from the Hotel
Weltmore!"

He struck the table with his fist. The few people in the car looked up
in surprise. He only scowled.

"I want that drink," he shouted to the steward.

At Victoria Catherine smiled at him quite pleasantly, but she had
already engaged a porter. As she was stepping into the taxicab, however,
to which he insisted upon escorting her, she vouchsafed a few
disconcerting words of farewell.

"You can tell your little friend," she said, "or General von Hartsen's
friend, that I am very much obliged for the careful way he handled my
belongings when he searched my bag, and you can also congratulate him
upon his amazing stealthiness when he entered my compartment last night
and went through my luggage. I should like to know where he got his
master key from."

"I do not know what you are talking about," the young man exclaimed.

"That is possibly true," she admitted. "At the same time, the fact
remains that I hate spies. You can also tell him this, that for the
whole of the sixty seconds he was in my compartment, he was on the brink
of eternity. I had a small revolver pointed at him through the bars of
my bedstead and I am not sufficiently used to firearms for my finger to
be absolutely steady upon the trigger, especially when one is travelling
at fifty miles an hour."

"If what you have suggested has really happened," Prince Frederick
declared eagerly, "I promise you----"

"You need promise me nothing," she interrupted. "I suppose if I
undertake a political mission I must risk the consequences. I am only
surprised that people think this sort of thing worth while nowadays. But
let me tell you this," she concluded, leaning out of the taxicab window,
"when the door first opened last night and I saw the covered light of
the torch, I thought that it was you, and if I hadn't realised that it
wasn't the second I did--well, I was too close to have missed.
Good-bye!"

"A damned little American typist!" Prince Frederick muttered once more
under his breath as the taxicab rolled off.

Catherine drove to a small hotel in a quiet but fashionable
neighbourhood where she found a room reserved and a letter awaiting her,
the latter a formidable-looking document, in a large square envelope,
with a coat of arms at the back. She tore it open and read:

     Downing Street,
     April 21st.

     DEAR MADAM:

     The Prime Minister desires me to say that he has heard from Mr.
     Samara of your presence in London and, should you wish for an
     interview with him, he will be at liberty at five o'clock this
     afternoon, or at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning.

     He asks me in the meantime to suggest that if by any chance the
     nature of your mission, if any, should have been mentioned and you
     should be approached by representatives of the Press, it would be
     as well for you to preserve the strictest secrecy as to any
     communications you may have to make.

     Faithfully yours, dear madam,
     FRANK S. PEACOCK,
     Private Secretary.

Catherine glanced at the clock, summoned a maid and ordered a bath. In
an hour's time she descended into the small lounge of the hotel. She was
accosted immediately by a page boy carrying an enormous bunch of
flowers.

"I am taking these up to your room, madam," he announced. "The gentleman
who left them is over there."

Prince Frederick stepped eagerly forward. He was immaculately dressed in
town clothes and he carried a silk hat and cane in his hand. His
expression was anxious and woebegone. He had decided to change his
tactics.

"I have ventured to call," he said, "to beg for your forgiveness in case
you should have misunderstood anything I said this afternoon."

"Very well," she conceded after a moment's silence, "I am willing to
believe that it was, as you suggest, a misunderstanding."

"You are alone here," he went on eagerly. "You do not know London. I, on
the other hand, am well acquainted with it. Permit me the great honour
of offering you dinner and escorting you to a theatre. I assure you that
I will say nothing which could possibly offend, or even embarrass you."

Catherine hesitated. She was, after all, as fond of a good dinner and a
theatre as any girl of her age, and her hotel, though highly
respectable, had a museum-like appearance. The young man saw her
hesitation and hastened to pursue his advantage.

"Madame Ronet is singing at the opera," he announced, "or there are two
good musical comedies. If you would not mind dining early we could have
supper afterwards, and perhaps dance if you care about it. I shall
promise to be nothing but your attentive and most respectful cavalier."

"Very well then," she assented graciously. "If you will find out from
the hotel people at what time I have returned from the visit I am about
to pay, I will be ready in an hour after that."

She passed on with a gracious little nod and entered the taxi which the
hall porter had called for her.

"Where to, madam?" the man asked.

"To the Houses of Parliament," she directed at random.

The man started off. At the corner of the street she put her head out of
the window.

"Number ten Downing Street, please," she told him.




CHAPTER XVIII


A very alert and polite young secretary, who had met Catherine in the
hall, took her at once into the presence of his Chief, Mr. Phillip
Rossiter, erstwhile Foreign Minister, and now Premier of England. Mr.
Rossiter was a middle-aged man of quiet introspective manner. He
welcomed his visitor with easy cordiality, and if he felt any surprise
at her appearance he effectually concealed it.

"My friend Samara has already written to me the circumstances to which I
owe the pleasure of this visit," he said, as he settled himself
comfortably in an easy-chair opposite to hers. "Andrew Kroupki would
have come, of course, but for his unfortunate illness. A very brilliant
young man, that. I met him when I visited Moscow three years ago."

"Mr. Kroupki would have come no doubt with wider discretion," Catherine
remarked. "I am sure you understand that I am here only as a messenger."

"Quite so," the other murmured. "All great men have their hobbies and
aversions, and Samara's particular aversion has always been documents
and diplomatic correspondence. We have come to an excellent
understanding many times through an interchange of visits. I hope Mr.
Samara has told you to talk to me quite frankly. I know all about his
visit to America--in fact, I am not at all sure that I did not put the
idea into his head."

"Mr. Samara has told me certain things," Catherine acknowledged. "He has
given me a certain insight into the arrangements he has made and why he
has made them. Then he has gone on to tell me that whatever I know I
may tell you. So you see I shall reply quite openly to any questions you
ask me concerning his success in America. But I must warn you to start
with that I am a newcomer, a stranger to all matters of diplomacy. I
know nothing, even, of Mr. Samara's Government. Considering that I have
been working for him assiduously during the last three weeks, it is
amazing how little I know of him."

The Premier smiled. The subject of Samara was one which always
interested him.

"Your Chief is one of the remarkable men of this generation," he
declared. "Fifteen years ago Bolshevism seemed to have its fangs deep
into the very heart of Russia. It didn't seem possible for any one to
prevail against it. Samara has worked miracles. To-day Russia is, if not
entirely herself again, well on the way towards reconstruction.
Financially, industrially and economically she is making gigantic
strides. Samara is daring, but he has the right ideas. Russia will be
one of the great powers again long before his work is at an end.
Personally--I have told Samara this myself--I see but one danger, and
that is his tendency towards idealism. It is a great thing to mount the
ladder, but one should set one's feet upon the rungs with care."

Catherine looked at her host intently.

"You don't believe in this demobilisation scheme?" she asked quickly.

"Theoretically, I think it wonderful," he answered. "Tell me--I think I
know, but still tell me--the Washington visit was a success?"

"Absolutely," she assured him. "Mr. Samara granted certain concessions
and he has arranged for a loan of two hundred million dollars. The whole
of the Third Army will be demobilised within six months and employment
will be found for every soldier."

"Have you any idea as to the feeling amongst the militarists?" he
enquired.

"So far as the Third Army is concerned, the men are perfectly willing to
submit to disbandment," she replied. "The officers are mostly German and
they resent it. Still, Mr. Samara is very much in earnest. They will
have to go, as the works are established, the mines opened and the
machinery being shipped."

The Premier looked at his visitor with interest.

"You seem to have a very sound grasp of this subject, considering your
recent connection with it," he said. "Are you an American, might I ask?"

She smiled.

"I was born in Russia," she admitted. "I have lived in America, however,
all my life. It is my knowledge of Russian, of course, which has given
me the opportunity to be of so much use to Mr. Samara."

He continued to study her with curiosity.

"Your people were amongst the refugees?"

"Yes."

The Premier turned to some papers by his side. Something in Catherine's
tone told him that, so far as she was concerned, that subject was at an
end.

"What have you to say to me, Miss Borans?" he asked succinctly.

"Mr. Samara desires me to present this subject for your consideration,"
she said. "England was a heavy loser at the time of the Russian
_dbcle_. There are many works and industries still languishing which
were started with English capital and upon which he considers England
still has a claim. It is his wish to demobilise as well as the Third
also the whole of the Second Army. He therefore needs--it is Russia's
greatest need to-day--a further development of her resources. He asks if
you will appoint a committee of business men, preferably those
connected with the various enterprises in which English shareholders
have lost money, and send them over to treat with him in Moscow."

"To what end?" Mr. Rossiter enquired.

"To arrange with them," she continued, "for further considerable
advances which will enable many of the industries and works which have
been closed down to be reopened. Mr. Samara does not pretend that he
will be able to pay in full those debts incurred in the days of the
monarchy and ignored--in fact, repudiated altogether--by the
Bolshevists. He considers, however, that some sort of a fund----"

"A sinking fund," Mr. Rossiter suggested.

"That is the term he used," Catherine acquiesced,--"could be
established, so that in time a portion of the old debt could be repaid
to English creditors by means of the renewal of the particular
industries in which their money had been lost. They would, of course, in
the meantime, be making the profits to which they were entitled on the
new business."

"I see," the Premier murmured. "I gather from the nature of these
suggestions that there is very little unemployment in Russia."

"Scarcely any," she assured him. "Nearly every industry is flourishing.
All that the farmers need is more machinery and more workers. Mr. Samara
has pointed out to me that the trouble in the demobilisation of these
armies is that quite half of the men are not attracted by the idea of
working upon the land. That is why it is so necessary to provide them
with other means of earning a livelihood."

"I quite understand," Mr. Rossiter said. "Did your Chief suggest any
particular enterprises connected with previous British undertakings?"

She drew a paper from her handbag.

"Here is the list, sir," she pointed out, "of industries brought to a
standstill during the Bolshevist epoch, all of them launched in the
first instance with British capital, which Mr. Samara thinks might be
reconstituted. It is the only document I have brought with me."

Mr. Rossiter adjusted his eyeglass and read down the list. Then he rose
to his feet and consulted for some time with his secretary who was
writing at the further end of the room. Presently he returned to his
place.

"I cannot, of course, give you a definite reply, Miss Borans," he said.
"But my impression is that there would not be the slightest difficulty
in launching this scheme and finding the capital required. When do you
return to Russia?"

"I am leaving here on Friday morning, sir," she told him, "to rejoin Mr.
Samara at Monte Carlo."

"Between now and then," Mr. Rossiter promised her, "you shall have the
names of the committee I suggest and approximately the amount which the
Government will be likely to vote by way of a subsidy. I have now a
question to ask you, the reply to which may not be in your scale of
information. What military force does your Chief intend to retain under
arms?"

"I know nothing definite," Catherine replied, "but I believe that it is
Mr. Samara's idea to do away with the whole of the military
establishment of Russia."

Mr. Rossiter fingered his penholder.

"Your Chief," he remarked, "does not believe in war."

"Not against Russia, at any rate," she assented. "He considers that
Russia is geographically impregnable. Apart from that, he considers that
the folly of warfare has been proved. I have heard him say that the
campaign of nineteen-fourteen--nineteen-twenty was more disastrous to
the allies who won it than to the German Empire who lost it."

"Perfectly sound," Mr. Rossiter agreed. "The trouble of it is we have
all learnt something since then. I don't mind telling you this," he went
on. "If the Germans had been victorious, they would have found means of
making England and France pay. They would never have been gulled by this
higher economic doctrine and gone without their booty. To-day if there
were war and Germany won, I have not the faintest doubt that she would
know how to extract every penny of what she considered due to her and
get full advantage of her victory."

"I do not understand economics," Catherine confessed. "I only know that
Mr. Samara does not fear anything of the sort."

The Premier was silent for several moments. When he spoke again he
seemed almost to be talking to himself.

"Samara is right up to a certain point," he declared. "The German
Republic is not out for war. The Germans know very well that the first
breath of it would bring them internal division. To us, who watch such
things closely, however, there are very dangerous symptoms in German
politics. We should not be surprised any day to hear of a monarchical
plot."

"But Germany is so prosperous under present conditions," she murmured.

"Precisely," the other rejoined. "But there is nothing breeds discontent
quicker than undue prosperity. You must remember, too, that the racial
and fundamental temperament of a nation can never be changed. Russia,
France and Germany, all three of them, have the instinct amongst their
peasants and _bourgeoisie_ for monarchical government. So far as France
and Russia are concerned, at any rate, I think that they are right. The
Frenchman is too easily swayed. So long as he believes he is a part of
the government, he is all the time tearing his hair and changing his
mind. That sort of person always makes a loyal and submissive subject.
The Russian peasant is in the same position for a different reason. He
doesn't want his liberty. He doesn't want to be made to think for
himself. He wants to be taken care of. He, too, wants to be ruled.
Germany, I must admit, I am not so sure about. The German martial
instinct seems to me to be the one great thing which might call back a
Kaiser."

"Who would he be?" Catherine asked curiously.

"Without a doubt, Prince Frederick of Wehrenzollern," was the prompt
reply. "He is the youngest son of the late Crown Prince and by far the
most popular--reminds one rather of our own King, when he was young--a
sportsman, a ladies' man, a democrat and a ruler. I don't know much
about Prince Frederick, of course, although he manages to keep himself
pretty well in the limelight, but I do believe that he is nursing the
monarchy--playing to the people all the time."

"Am I to tell Mr. Samara from you that you think he had better leave
that First Army alone?" she asked bluntly.

Mr. Rossiter took a cigarette from a box by his side and tapped it
thoughtfully.

"My advice to your very distinguished Chief would be to watch internal
Germany," he said. "I quite agree with him that the German Republic is
not bellicose. On the other hand, a German monarchy would at once seek
to justify its existence by a war. Samara knows as much about this,
though, as I do. Let him deal with the Third and Second Armies as he
will. I think I can safely promise him that the commission I send over
to Moscow will be able to start industries which will absorb the whole
of the surplus labour."

Catherine rose to her feet. The Prime Minister followed suit.

"I am happy to have had the pleasure of receiving you, Miss Borans," he
declared. "Tell Mr. Samara from me that I greatly approve of his new
diplomatic methods. You propose to remain in London, I understand, until
Friday. Is there any way in which we can be of service to you?"

"None whatever, thank you," she replied frankly. "I have never been in
London before. I shall very much enjoy doing a little exploring on my
own account."

"I sympathise with you entirely," Mr. Rossiter concluded. "We will show
you our greatest kindness--kindness in this instance, because it is a
real deprivation--by leaving you alone. Present my compliments to your
Chief and don't forget that one word of warning--watch for a monarchist
plot in Berlin. I do not need to tell him to protect himself in Moscow.
Peacock, show Miss Borans to her car."




CHAPTER XIX


Catherine, with the major part of her mission successfully accomplished,
devoted herself, with an abandon which at times amazed her companion, to
the spending of a thoroughly frivolous evening. They dined exceedingly
well at Maridge's, saw the last two acts of a popular musical comedy and
went on to a select and fashionable club restaurant, where dancing was
already in full swing. During the whole of the evening, Prince
Frederick's behaviour was entirely correct. He had adopted the attitude
of the wistful but silent lover. He devoted himself entirely to telling
his companion the names of the various notabilities by whom they were
surrounded and relating anecdotes about some of them. With regard to
himself he spoke scarcely at all and he did not ask her a single
question concerning her mission to London. On the three or four
occasions when he was greeted or addressed by acquaintances his manner
was genial and full of bonhomie. Catherine watched him with amusement.

"You seem to have a good many acquaintances over here," she remarked.

"I was at Eton for two terms and Oxford for a year," he reminded her. "I
have made it my business to understand something of English life and
English people."

"With what object?" she asked him point-blank.

His smile for a moment seemed almost sinister.

"We disinherited ones of the world," he answered, "have to keep friends
with everybody. Unless I am strictly incognito I keep away from the
Court, of course. I was known over here as Frederick von Burhl, the
name under which I started my commercial career in Berlin after leaving
school. That is eight years ago, however, and to-day the prejudices
against the aristocracy have declined."

"Do you believe," she enquired, "that imperialism is dead in Germany?"

He raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Is that a question which I could possibly answer?" he protested.
"Especially to the confidential secretary of one of the world's great
democrats."

She laughed.

"Please don't think that I have designs upon your secrets if you have
any," she begged. "I asked merely for curiosity. There was an article in
one of the reviews I read on the steamer in which it spoke of a
reawakening of the monarchical impulse in Russia, Germany and even
France."

"The writer was, I should think, well-informed," Prince Frederick
answered cautiously. "I believe the impulse is there. That is why Samara
shows so much more than appears on the surface in setting himself to
destroy the militarism of his country. A standing army is always on the
monarchical side."

Catherine's attention was suddenly diverted by an amazing occurrence.
She, like most others in the room, was watching the entrance of two
people who were being received with every mark of distinction. One was a
very beautiful woman, wearing a Russian headdress and amazing jewellery.
The young man with her, to Catherine's bewilderment, was Nicholas.

Catherine laid her hand on her companion's coat sleeve.

"Please tell me who these are?" she whispered.

Prince Frederick leaned forward. The woman seemed to be watching for a
sign from him. His expression remained stony.

"That is Adle Fdorleys, the ballet dancer," he confided. "She is half
a Pole and half a Russian. Her companion I do not know."

"I do," Catherine exclaimed in delight, as she watched the blank
amazement in Nicholas' face change to pale fury. "He is quite a friend
of mine."

"A Russian himself, by the look of him," Prince Frederick observed.
"Tell me," he went on curiously, turning towards his companion, "how is
it that you, who describe yourself as an American typist engaged by Mr.
Samara from the Weltmore Hotel Secretarial Bureau, are acquainted with a
young man in this country who is in a position to know and entertain
Madame Fdorleys?"

"A quaint coincidence," she admitted. "Almost as quaint as the fact that
you two should be in the same room. That is the young man I spoke
of----"

She broke off suddenly. Nicholas, having escorted his companion to their
table, was crossing the room towards them.

"He is much bigger than I," Prince Frederick whispered. "I am
terrified!"

"You are safe--here," she laughed. "I may have to smuggle you out the
back way when you leave."

The young man who had come to a standstill before the table certainly
presented a somewhat formidable appearance. He seemed to have grown in
stature and importance since he had left New York. The pastiness of his
complexion was gone--replaced by a touch of becoming sunburn. His burly
shoulders, closely cropped hair and a certain heaviness of feature
suggested, in an indeterminate sort of way, the professional pugilist,
an impression, however, which was modified by the keenness of his blue
eyes, the levelness of his eyebrows and a certain breadth of forehead.
He bowed very low and raised Catherine's fingers to his lips. Then he
spoke to her hurriedly in Russian, his voice thick with anger.

"What is this? How is it that I find you here in London, alone with this
young man? Samara is in Monte Carlo. I have news of him."

"Contain yourself, my dear Nicholas," she answered in the same
language. "I am here on an errand for Mr. Samara, and my companion is an
acquaintance whom you will be glad to know."

There was nothing in Nicholas' face to indicate any prospective
pleasure. His expression was indeed forbidding in the extreme. Catherine
turned to her escort and spoke in English.

"This," she said, "is a most extraordinary meeting. The strangest part
of it, perhaps, is that you two should never have met and that it should
be left to an insignificant person like myself to make you acquainted.
Which takes precedence, I wonder? Such things are a mystery to me in my
station of life, so I must take my chance. This is Prince Frederick of
Wehrenzollern, better known in this country as Frederick von
Burhl--Prince Nicholas Imanoff, whom I knew in New York as Mr. Ronoff."

Prince Frederick had risen to his feet. The two young men, after a
moment or two of blank surprise, looked at each other with very natural
curiosity. Then Nicholas extended his hand.

"I should have recognised you by your pictures," he said.

"And I you by your likeness to your House," was the courteous reply. "I
understood that you had settled down in New York."

"There is only one country in which I shall ever settle down," Nicholas
answered with some dignity. "I am on my way to visit it now."

"You are allowed to enter Russia!" Frederick exclaimed.

"At Samara's invitation. It is humiliating but it is still a generous
action. A great friend of my House, Kirdorff of Riga, is with me in
London. My aunt, the Grand Duchess, and various others of my friends and
relatives are following me by the French route."

"This is wonderful news," Frederick remarked. "Samara is a brave man,
though. It seems to me that he has chosen a curious time to give you
permission to return. I should like very much to talk to you, Nicholas.
You will pass through Germany on your way to Russia. I should like you
to meet some friends of mine."

"You have already, I see, met one of mine," Nicholas observed.

"I have met in Monte Carlo this young lady, calling herself Miss Borans,
the private secretary of the Russian President," Frederick replied
eagerly. "Her story is that she came from a typists' office in New
York."

Catherine shrugged her shoulders. A faint smile flitted across her lips.

"After all, it does not perhaps matter very much," she observed. "You
had better present me, Nicholas."

The latter turned to Frederick.

"You have the honour," he said, "to have made the acquaintance of the
Princess Catherine of Russia, hereditary Grand Duchess of Urulsk. The
Princess, I may add, is my fiance."

"I was," Catherine murmured sweetly, "but that young lady over there
will take a great deal of explanation. I have lived so long in America
that I have imbibed the _bourgeois_ view as to proceedings of this
sort."

An angry light flashed for a moment in Nicholas' eyes.

"The young lady is a fellow countrywoman and a great patriot," he said.
"You remind me of my duty as host. I will return."

He bowed and turned away. Catherine watched him with a smile. The whole
episode had appealed to her immensely. It was the young American woman
who leaned back in her seat and laughed.

"Some shock for poor Nicholas!" she exclaimed.

"And for me!" Frederick groaned.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I have been an idiot," Frederick declared bitterly, towards the close
of the evening.

Catherine smiled with amused tolerance.

"I do not think that you are to be blamed," she conceded. "Why should
you not believe what you are told? Besides, it is quite true that I am a
typist. Not one of us out there had any money. Nicholas himself was
selling bonds for a Wall Street stockbroker, and Alexandrina earned a
few dollars making artificial roses. My engagement by Mr. Samara and my
coming to Europe were entirely matters of chance."

"It is true," he demanded, "that you are betrothed to Nicholas?"

"It is perfectly true," she acknowledged, "only I am not at all sure
that I shall marry him."

"You must not," was the low reply. "You must marry me."

She turned to answer him with a jest and was amazed at his expression.
He was very pale and his eyes seemed to have sunken. The hand which
clutched his wineglass was shaking.

"I have thought of nobody else since the first moment I saw you," he
went on. "You have driven everything else from my mind. I followed you
here to London blindly. I never dared hope that this might be possible.
Now I realise that it is. It does not matter about money. I have plenty
and who knows, there may be a great future for us."

She listened for a moment to the music, gazing a little absently across
the room. She had the air of looking through the walls into space. For a
moment, indeed, her thoughts had strayed to the city of her dreams as it
had been pictured to her, with its gilded roofs, its palaces and its
hovels side by side.

"There is a chance of that, too, for Nicholas," she murmured.

"His chance is nothing to mine," Frederick insisted harshly. "For me the
ground has been prepared, year by year and month by month. We have
machinery at work. The time is close at hand. For Nicholas there are
nothing but dreams. We have no Samara in Germany."

She rose to her feet.

"You are too much in earnest," she whispered. "People are watching you.
I believe they guess that you have proposed to me. It is most
embarrassing. I insist upon dancing."

His hand as he touched her fingers was cold. No trace of colour returned
to his cheeks, even after the exercise.

"Are you not feeling well?" Catherine enquired, as they sat down.

"You can cure me with a word," he answered passionately. "Listen. Give
me hope and I will return to Berlin to-morrow. I will send you a welcome
from those who count. I will give you proof of what is to come."

"Is it possible that you are really in earnest?" she asked.

"In deadly earnest," he groaned.

Her real nationality suddenly asserted itself. There was a vein of
cruelty in her race and it sprang into being. She leaned back in her
place and laughed.




CHAPTER XX


Catherine, after she had descended from the train at Monte Carlo,
lingered for a moment upon the platform, dazzled by the sunshine. She
had left London in a mantle of grey, Paris in a rain and wind storm, and
now, after a long night in a _salon-lit_, she seemed to have stepped out
into a new world of enchantment. The sea and sky seemed bluer than ever,
the houses whiter and cleaner, the great stucco-like Casino more of a
joke, resembling rather a child's toy dragged from its play-box than a
serious abode of drama, an arena for the most sordid of men's passions.
And to add to it all, as she leaned back in her little victoria, the
music from the distant orchestra at the Caf de Paris came with real
sweetness through the scented air. She sat forward and watched the
people eagerly as she crossed the square. There was the same atmosphere
about them all, a geniality and sense of relaxation which after many
years of New York was strangely attractive to her. No one was in a
hurry; every one appeared to enjoy not having to be in a hurry. There
was plenty of time for the amenities of life.

It was a busy hour at the hotel, but each member of the staff seemed to
find leisure to welcome her back after her brief absence. A reception
clerk persisted in conducting her upstairs; the lift-boy's smile and bow
made her feel that she had come home.

"Mr. Samara is walking on the Terrace with some friends, madam," the
clerk announced. "I think that he scarcely expected you until
to-morrow."

Catherine nodded.

"I meant to stay in Paris for a day," she explained. "I changed my mind.
The weather was intolerable."

"Mademoiselle was wise," the man declared, with a farewell bow.
"Yesterday we had rain but to-day, as Mademoiselle sees, it is perfect."

Catherine unfastened her coat and glanced around the room before going
to her own apartment. She noticed with tolerant disapproval that it was
untidy--a little pile of discarded envelopes upon the table, cigar ash
upon the mantelpiece. Suddenly, however, the tolerance faded from her
face. On the table was a woman's glove. An odour which she hated became
more insistent,--an odour of scented cigarettes. There were some crushed
flowers, too, upon the table. She rang the bell and pointed out the
state of the room to the chamber-maid. The woman smiled as she
apologised.

"Monsieur was late last night," she explained. "And he only rose an hour
ago. I did not wish to disturb him. I will now do all that is
necessary."

Catherine went thoughtfully to her room, changed her clothes, bathed and
rested for a time. She was conscious of a curious sense of
disappointment and depression for which she could in no way account. She
knew perfectly well that the private life of Gabriel Samara was outside
her ken. Save for that wild moment on the steamer when he had kissed
her--a moment alluded to only once since--not one of his actions towards
her or any one else had indicated the slightest interest in her sex.
When she had left she was quite sure that he had not a woman
acquaintance in the place. And now everything betokened at least the
beginning of an intrigue on his part. After all, he was a Russian, a
genius, a person of passion and temperament. There was nothing so
strange about it, even from the point of view of her strict bringing-up.
Samara, as she told herself, lying on her bed with her hands clasped
behind her head, was not of her world. Already she was beginning to
realise the great forces which must eventually draw them apart, the grim
possibility that her association with him, her knowledge of his affairs,
might before long become the measure of her usefulness to her own
people, its betrayal the sacrifice she might have to offer to her own
future. Was he perhaps in some respects different to her preconceived
ideas? He was an idealist without a doubt. His two books on Russia
written before his political prominence, every line of which she had
read, were supreme evidence of it. But of his private life she knew very
little. There was only her own observation and instinct to guide her. In
the foreground of the picture of him which had somehow grown up in her
mind, that long glove, the crushed flowers, and the scented cigarette
tips were like an ugly blur.

When Samara returned from his walk, he found Catherine seated at her
typewriter finishing the copying of some reports on which she had been
engaged before she had left. The room had been put in order and swept,
the windows were wide open. On the table, however, the glove still
remained and the little ash-tray of cigarette ends. He banged the door
behind him, came over to her side and shook her hand.

"Congratulations, my wonderful emissary," he declared, with one of his
rare smiles. "I defied all diplomatic usage and you have justified me.
An hour ago I received a cable with the names of the commission. They
start on Thursday week."

"I am glad," she said.

He stood away from her for a moment, looking over her head out of the
window.

"Everything is now in trim," he continued. "We leave here on Wednesday.
The Duma is summoned for the following Tuesday. I shall announce to the
representatives my intentions with regard to the army, issue an
authorised edict the following day and commence demobilisation the next
week. Your adopted country-people are prompt in their payments. We have
already ten millions of American dollars in the Treasury and Argoff, my
Minister for Home Affairs, is collecting a staff to open three of the
Southern Silver Mines."

"You have no fear, then," she enquired, "but that the Duma will agree
with your policy?"

He laughed softly.

"Wait until you have lived a year in Russia," he said, "and you will not
ask that question. The Russian of to-day means well enough but he has
little mind. The Bolshevists have crushed that. All that he asks is to
be led."

"So that you are, in point of fact, almost a dictator," she remarked.

"So much the better for Russia if I am," he answered shortly. "No one
knows better what is good for her. No," he went on, "all the opposition
will come from outside, and who cares? They think I don't realise it.
Idiots!"

She glanced at him questioningly. He walked to the mantelpiece
deliberately, struck a match there and lit a cigarette.

"They think I don't know what was at the back of their minds, those
others who rattle their war sabres so foolishly!" he exclaimed. "Russian
armies, poor patient Russian peasants, trained so zealously and
carefully, not for their country's defence but to play the mercenary on
foreign soil, to be pushed to the front in dangerous places, that German
soldiers might be spared! They are furious here. Von Hartsen scarcely
leaves me. He has tried everything--argument, menace, bribes."

He ceased his restless perambulations and came back to her side. His
eyes fell upon the glove and the little ash-tray of cigarette tips. He
scowled at them for a moment.

"The evidences of my profligacy," he remarked.

"I had noticed them," Catherine acknowledged. "I am rather sorry that
she smokes scented cigarettes."

"Foul things," he assented. "Still, I suppose women must have their
whims."

She recommenced her typing. He stopped her with an impatient protest.

"Don't do that," he exclaimed. "It's time for lunch. We'll go out
somewhere. Get your hat."

"The persuasiveness of your invitation," she murmured, "almost carries
me off my feet."

"Don't be sarcastic," he replied. "I want to talk to you."

"What about?"

He pointed to the glove.

"About that."

Catherine knew that she was losing an opportunity but nevertheless she
yielded. She should have laughed at the idea that the presence of the
glove might in any way interest her. She did nothing of the sort. She
went meekly to her room, put on her most becoming hat and walked by
Samara's side across the square.

"So you want to know about the glove, eh?" he demanded.

She looked around at the people sipping their _apritifs_ under the
umbrella-tented tables and listened for a moment to the music.

"Does it need an explanation?" she asked. "I suppose you're very much
like other men and the atmosphere of this place is a little relaxing."

"Why don't you find it so then?" he demanded. "Nothing seems to change
you. From whom did you inherit your magnificent imperturbability?"

She smiled. Her own moment had arrived.

"How you misjudge me!" she sighed. "As a matter of fact, I have been
behaving rather badly myself."

"That young princeling," he muttered furiously. "I saw him on the
train."

She nodded.

"He came all the way to England entirely on my account," she confided.
"Not only that but I supped alone with him at Maridge's in London."

"A nice sort of diplomatic envoy you are," he scoffed. "Did you take him
with you to Downing Street?"

"Don't be absurd," she replied. "I devoted to him only my moments of
frivolity."

Samara remained for a few moments in a moody silence. They had reached
the end of the Arcade and were promptly ushered to a table on the
glass-enclosed balcony of the famous restaurant. Catherine took off her
gloves, looked out at the sea, listened to a violinist in the street
below. Notwithstanding a slight feeling of depression she felt very
kindly towards the world.

"The glove belonged to Olga Kansky, premire danseuse in the Russian
Ballet here," her companion confessed abruptly.

Catherine smiled.

"A Russian!" she exclaimed. "Naturally she had to pay her respects."

"She came for nothing of the sort," he declared brusquely. "She had
supper with me here. I invited her to my sitting room afterwards."

There was a slight change in Catherine's manner. Her tone became almost
haughty. She looked at him vis--vis with slightly upraised eyebrows.

"There are some situations," she reminded him coldly, "which do not
require explanation."

"This one does," he retorted. "Especially to you, as you are in a
measure responsible for what happened."

"Surely my own sins," she began----

"In plain words," he interrupted, "I found that I was thinking a great
deal too much about you. I don't want to think too much about any woman,
especially one of your type. I have my own theories about the place for
women in the world. I meant to carry them out. That is why I invited
Olga Kansky to supper."

"And did you--carry them out?" she asked breathlessly.

"No."

"Why not?"

"A ridiculous attack of sentimentality," he confessed. "Just memory--a
windy night, the boom of the sea, a moment of accursed opportunity. I
wanted to kiss Olga Kansky--I couldn't."

Catherine laughed, without changing a muscle of her face--laughed
inwardly, conscious of an unreasonable joy.

"You kissed me quite nicely," she reflected demurely.

"That was the madness of a moment," he declared. "It will not happen
again."

"I wonder," she speculated.

"You need not. I am no woman worshipper, but I know how to tabulate
them. You suit me as a secretary. You don't fit elsewhere. That's the
end of that! Olga Kansky leaves for Nice to-morrow. Tell me about the
Prime Minister."

Their conversation drifted away from the personal note. As they
lingered over their coffee, however, she brought it back.

"You are rather a fraud, you know," she said.

"How?" he asked suspiciously.

"You allot women their place in life--a very inferior place--and when
you meet any one who deserves something better you pretend not to
recognise the fact. You know very well that I was not made to be any
one's plaything. Why am I not worthy to be a companion?"

He watched his glass filled with old brandy--held it out for a double
portion--then he selected the strongest cigar he could find. Before
lighting it he leaned across the table.

"I find you companionable," he admitted. "I treat you as a companion. If
I needed a plaything, I should look elsewhere."

"In plain words," she observed, "when you seek recreation you walk in
the garden where only exotics grow, like Olga Kansky."

"I hate allegories," he growled. "In plain words, I intend neither to
marry nor to give any woman that place in my life which might be the
equivalent of marriage."

Catherine was looking out of the window. The train from Paris had just
arrived. The busses were beginning to rumble up the hill. A young man
passed, seated in a little carriage. Catherine smiled. She had
recognised Prince Frederick.

"My fate," she murmured, motioning downwards. "I really believe he has
followed me back again. I adore perseverance and, after all, I suppose
even a Kaiserin gets some fun out of life!"

The conclusion of luncheon brought a pleasant surprise to Catherine. At
the end of the Arcade a powerful motor car was standing, into which
Samara ushered her.

"You have seen nothing of this country," he said. "I have a fancy to
take you to a spot of my own discovery."

"This makes me very happy," Catherine acknowledged, with a grateful
smile. "Like every one else in my adopted country, I am a born tourist."

They turned a little towards Mentone, mounted to the clouds and paused
for a moment at the summit of a parapeted road. Catherine looked
downwards at the panorama below with amazed delight; Samara, with
unassumed indifference.

"It is wonderful," he admitted, with a note almost of tolerance in his
tone. "Here and there in wilder countries nature has distorted landscape
into even more majestic outlines, but here comes the touch of humanity
to interpose a strange element. It is man with his craving for luxury,
not his desire for the beautiful, who has dotted these hills with
villas, planted exotic gardens and brought his yachts through the storm
into the harbour there. Marvellous, of course, beautiful in its way, but
with the slur of paganism everywhere, the note of theatricality, from
the gingerbread structure of the temple of men's greed to the lights and
shadows which play beneath the clouds on the mountains behind. Perhaps
you don't see it as I do. Why should you? Now I shall take you to the
place I love."

"Sometimes I wonder," she said thoughtfully, as they went on their way,
"whether I am not more of a pagan than you. You keep your real self so
well hidden. Those gardens, for instance, to which you pointed a little
scornfully. I worship their masses of colour and forget the twenty
gardeners who toiled to produce the effect. And against that blue sea
even the Casino itself appeals to me--perhaps to my sense of humour
more than anything else, but it pleases me."

He looked at her with an unusually kind smile.

"There is the difference of a whole cycle of humanity between us," he
reminded her, his voice growing a little sad as he proceeded. "You are
younger even than your years--you have lived behind the high fences. I
am older than mine, because life came to me in strong doses before I had
time to make up my mind how to deal with it."

They descended to the sea level, passed through Nice with its amazing,
flamboyant loveliness, through the old, mysterious, disreputable,
picturesque town of Cagnes, and turned to the right along a narrower
road which wound its way into the bosom of softer hills than those which
towered down upon Monte Carlo. Here were vineyards, and many small
homesteads, planted around with olive trees, each with their strip of
meadow and arable land, and a sheltered corner in which grew a little
clump of orange and sometimes lemon trees. The soil became redder, the
grass greener. To Catherine it seemed that there was a gentler quality
in the air, something more languorous than the keen atmosphere of the
rockbound principality. Then the car drew up at a bend in the road a few
kilometres above a quaint, tumble-down stone village. Samara alighted.

"Just a yard or two this way," he invited.

She followed him along a short cypress grove, scrambled up a knoll
fragrant with the perfume of late mimosas, and uttered a little cry of
delight. A short distance away was an old white stone house, half villa,
half chteau, with close-drawn green shutters and a familiar tower at
either end. It faced due south and one side was covered with wisteria
and drooping magenta Buginvillara. Such garden as there had been had
run riot, but there was still a wealth of roses growing promiscuously
with the olive trees and the mimosas right up to the edge of the
vineyard which stretched towards the valley. Inland, a range of fertile
hills with many small villages clustered in their clefts, rose to the
skies, and beyond towered the pale outline of the snow-capped Italian
Alps. A vista of meadowland and vineyard, of small homesteads and
picturesque groups of farm buildings, stretched down to the old town of
Cagnes itself, standing upon its pedestal of rock, unreal almost in the
grey perfection of its rugged outline. And beyond, the great foreground
of the Mediterranean, blue and placid. Something different from the
ordinary light of admiration crept into Catherine's eyes as they
wandered over the old house and lingered lovingly upon the tangled
masses of flowers.

"I did not understand you a few minutes ago," she confessed. "I do now.
I think that this is more beautiful than anything I have seen."

He smiled.

"I am not sure," he confided, "that there is not poison in this
atmosphere. I came here by accident, with a fever of fighting in my
blood, scheme after scheme forming in my brain--for Russia, for the
world--and before I had been here half an hour I felt something of the
spell of the lotus-eaters numbing my brain. I found myself
speculating--wondering whether it was all worth while, how far one must
travel through the toil of life before rest came. It was because this
place spelt rest for me--spelt it differently, spelt it without
ignominy, spelt it with beauty instead of sloth. Peace, after all, is
the end of all of us."

She was more moved than she had believed possible.

"It seems so strange to hear you talk like that," she murmured. "You,
Samara, the man of action, the ruler of a nation, with a great fight
looming up before you."

"Have I ever told you?" he asked--"I forget. I believe in God. This
might be his compensation for failure."

She was too bewildered to speak, but curiously conscious of an utterly
untranslatable emotion. He turned away after a farewell glance around.

"And so," he went on, as he led her back to the car, "I did perhaps the
strangest thing I have ever done in life. I found this place for sale
and I bought it. I signed the papers this morning. We walk down my own
avenue, and I will give you," he concluded, stooping and picking a rose
from a bush which had clambered halfway up an olive tree, "the first
rose from my garden."




CHAPTER XXI


On the afternoon of the day fixed for their departure Samara was
wandering aimlessly around and Catherine was screwing up her typewriter
in the sitting room, when the floor waiter knocked at the door and
announced a visitor. General von Hartsen, who had followed close behind
the waiter, entered and bowed stiffly.

"Come to bid me a last farewell, General?" Samara asked.

"You will excuse me, sir, but my visit is not to you," was the
unexpected reply. "Pending an official response to the queries which I
have placed before your Government, I have nothing more to say."

"Not to me?" Samara repeated. "To what, then, do I owe the honour of
this visit?"

"My visit is to Mademoiselle," the General announced.

Catherine looked up from her work a little unwillingly.

"To me?"

Von Hartsen bowed once more.

"If Mr. Samara permits," he continued, "I shall be glad of five minutes'
conversation."

"What sublime effrontery!" Samara exclaimed. "Do you want to suborn my
secretary before my face?"

"My visit is not political," the General confided, "but I confess that
it would give me greater satisfaction to pursue it in your absence."

Samara was in an evil mood. The trivial business of preparing for
departure had irritated him and he had other causes for
self-dissatisfaction. He turned on his heel and, without a word,
marched through the connecting door into his bedroom.

"Mr. Samara is not in a very good temper," Von Hartsen observed. "He
would perhaps be in a worse one if he knew the object of my visit."

"Won't you sit down?" Catherine invited.

The General shook his head. He moved, however, to the farther end of the
room, and stood upon the hearthrug. One could almost hear the clank of
his sabre as he walked. Without uniform he seemed somehow an unreal
figure.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "I am an ambassador."

"The Prince?" Catherine asked calmly.

"Precisely."

Catherine continued her task of opening the drawers and collecting her
oddments of stationery.

"You won't mind my doing this whilst you talk, will you?" she begged.
"Our train leaves at three o'clock."

"It is part of the object of my visit," the General pointed out, "to
persuade you not to take that train."

"But I must," she replied. "All our arrangements are made. We are going
straight through to Moscow."

"I am in hopes that if you give a favourable hearing to my mission," the
General persisted, "you will not go to Russia at all."

"A plot?" she enquired.

"Scarcely that," he protested. "On behalf of my ward, Prince Frederick
of Wehrenzollern, I have the honour to ask for your hand in marriage."

Catherine shut her despatch box with a click.

"You know all about me, then," she said coolly.

"Prince Frederick has confided in me," the General confessed. "I should
like to point out to you that my young ward is making you this proposal
entirely from reasons of sentiment. He is, if I may say so, very
greatly attracted. Since your first coming here, he, whom I have always
found so docile, has been entirely unmanageable. It was the wish of his
friends that he should marry Princess Freda of Bavaria. Up till now he
has been acquiescent. Last night, extravagant though his language was,
he convinced me that the scheme had better be abandoned."

"Is she anything like her pictures?" Catherine asked.

"The Princess is personable," was the somewhat brusque reply.

"She doesn't look it," Catherine declared. "I should have said that she
was fat."

"It is to be admitted," the General acknowledged, "that she has not Your
Highness' claims to good looks."

Catherine frowned angrily and glanced towards the door through which
Samara had disappeared.

"Please do not address me in such a way again," she requested. "My name
is Catherine Borans and I am a typist whom Mr. Samara has brought home
from New York. I prefer for the present to remain as such. As for Prince
Frederick's offer, I beg leave to decline it."

"To decline it?" the General exclaimed in amazement.

"Precisely. Life in Berlin as the wife of a banker would not amuse me."

The General looked quickly round the room as though to be sure that
there was no possibility of their being overheard.

"Mademoiselle," he said, dropping his voice a little, "there are great
things afoot in Europe. It is not Prince Frederick's destiny to remain
for ever a banker of Berlin. There is no man in this world with such a
future!"

Catherine shook her head doubtfully.

"I do not think that you will ever be able to restore the monarchy in
Germany," she declared.

Yon Hartsen smiled a smile of supreme confidence.

"Mademoiselle," he confided, "it is as good as done."

"You dazzle me," Catherine observed, with irony so faint that her
visitor was unable to detect it. "Kaiserin of Germany! It is hard to
refuse."

"It is impossible to refuse," the General persisted.

"Nevertheless----"

He stopped her.

"Let me complete my mission," he begged. "For the first time Russia and
Europe generally has been made aware of the existence of Prince Nicholas
of Imanoff. That young man has never apparently visited his native
country. He is unknown to the people--unregarded. Prince Frederick, on
the other hand, has been brought up in his own country. He is a
democrat, seemingly, and one of the most popular young men in Germany."

"You are trying to point out to me, I suppose," Catherine said, "that
whereas Prince Frederick has every chance of becoming Kaiser of Germany,
Prince Nicholas has no chance whatever of becoming Tzar of Russia."

"That is the truth," Von Hartsen insisted. "Prince Nicholas has no hold
upon the affections of his people and except in the army there is no
royalist following in Russia. The only chance Prince Nicholas would have
would be if he remained friends with Frederick. Then, in the future, who
could tell what might happen?"

Catherine smiled.

"Subtly put, General," she acknowledged, "but I am afraid that I can do
no more than repeat my first answer."

"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed.

"You see," Catherine continued, "notwithstanding the Russian blood in my
veins, I was brought up and educated in America. I have earned my own
living there. I have caught something of the spirit of the country. I
should not dream for a moment of marrying any man for whom I had not
affection. Prince Frederick has inspired me with no such sentiment."

The General looked at her steadfastly.

"It is strange," he muttered, "to hear one of your race speak in such a
fashion."

"Times change, General," she reminded him. "To-day the pomp of life
appeals less; the desire for decorous living appeals more. I am a
Royalist by instinct and conviction, but I should never share even a
throne with a man whom I did not love."

"This Nicholas," the General began----

The typewriter and despatch box were there, but Miss Catherine Borans
had vanished from the face of the earth. It was the Princess who
corrected her visitor.

"General," she pronounced, "the interview is at an end. I hope that next
time I meet Prince Frederick this matter will have been forgotten."

Samara came out from his room, wearing his travelling coat and carrying
his hat.

"Still here, General?" he said. "You'll have to excuse us. The omnibus
is waiting below."

A gleam of malice shone in the General's face. He realised Samara's
ignorance.

"I thank you for your consideration, Mr. Samara," he said. "I need not
detain either of you any longer. I am sorry to tell you that my errand
was in vain."

"What errand?" Samara demanded.

"I am here on behalf of Prince Frederick of Wehrenzollern," the General
explained. "I was the bearer of a proposal of marriage which I regret
to say that Her Highness has declined."

"Her Highness?" Samara repeated. "What the devil do you mean?"

Von Hartsen's expression of surprise was excellently simulated.

"It is incredible," he exclaimed, "that you have not discovered the
identity of this young lady! I have the honour, then, to present you to
the Princess Catherine Helena Zygoff, Grand Duchess of Urulsk, Countess
of Borans, and hereditary ruler of the lands of Utoff."

Samara stood perfectly still. His eyes were fixed upon Catherine's face.
She smiled at him very pleasantly.

"Rather too bad of the General to give me away like this," she
complained. "I hope you don't mind."

"One accepts the inevitable," he answered coldly.

"Her Highness has just refused the hand of Prince Frederick of
Wehrenzollern," the General continued. "It would be interesting to learn
her future plans."

Catherine picked up her despatch box and laid her fingers lightly upon
Samara's arm.

"My dear General," she said, "I must congratulate you on your
acquaintance with my titles, which you have remembered more or less
correctly, but I am also Miss Catherine Borans from the Weltmore
Typewriting Bureau, temporary secretary to Mr. Samara. I think," she
went on, looking up at her companion, "we ought to hurry, or we shall
miss the train."

"You mean that you are coming with me?" Samara demanded.

"Coming?" she repeated. "Of course I am. We mustn't forget to send them
up for the typewriter. Good-bye, General."

Von Hartsen gazed across at her fiercely.

"So you are a renegade," he muttered.

Once again he sank into insignificance at her parting glance.

"I have been brought up in a country," she replied, "where a girl learns
to think and act for herself and men do not insult women!"




CHAPTER XXII


Nicholas, with his guide and counsellor, Boris Kirdorff, stood upon the
balcony of an apartment on the third floor of Berlin's premier hotel and
gazed downwards at the swaying crowds. In the distance a flag was flying
from the roof of the Reichstag building. There was a general air of
holiday-making. Nicholas, who was a little bored, yawned.

"Do you know," he asked, "why Von Hartsen was so anxious for us to stay
over for the day?"

"I have an idea," his companion admitted. "I am not sure. That is his
knock, however. He will probably explain."

He stepped back into the room and met the General who had just been
ushered in. The three men stood together upon the balcony, the newcomer
in the middle. The pavements below were crowded. Policemen of decidedly
military appearance were riding back and forth. Occasionally a car
passed down the middle of the guarded way, greeted now and then with a
faint murmur of applause.

"You would like to understand, perhaps," Von Hartsen said, "why I have
persuaded you to remain here till to-morrow morning's boat to Moscow.
Well, I will tell you. I will tell you because there is something which
I wish to point out to you which is in a sense an allegory to all of us.
To-day, as you may know, is the opening of the Reichstag."

Kirdorff nodded.

"So much as that we know," he admitted. "To follow your politics,
however, seems almost impossible. You appear to have seven parties
struggling all against the other, of whom the socialists, who were once
the strongest, have become the weakest. How can you form a coherent
government with such a muddle?"

Von Hartsen smiled.

"You ask a sage question," he said. "Many of the shrewdest men in
Germany are asking the same. The parties will not coalesce. Only one
unification is possible."

"And that?" Nicholas asked.

"Wait," was the prompt rejoinder. "Now listen. Here is the automobile of
Herr Mayer, the leader of the socialist party, once the most popular man
in Germany. See to-day how the people greet him."

The car rolled by, the man who was its solitary occupant--elderly, grey
and worn--looking neither to the right nor to the left, seated with
folded arms as one who faces an ordeal. Here and there was a faint
murmur of applause; here and there distinct hisses. Of enthusiasm there
was none at all.

"There passes a grave danger," Von Hartsen declared. "Twenty-five years
ago, during the aftermath of the Great War, the socialists came rapidly
to the front in the country. They reached the zenith of their power in
nineteen-thirty. Since then their influence has steadily declined.
To-day they are a forgotten force. Watch again. Here comes the
automobile of the President. He is fairly popular. Is there a single
real shout of welcome? Watch the people's faces. Who amongst them cares
whether that man comes or goes?"

The car proceeded on its way. Many hats were lifted to its occupant,
but, although there was all the time an undertone of applause, again
there was no enthusiasm. These were the involuntary marks of respect
paid by a law-abiding nation to its ruler. A dozen other cars passed by,
containing deputies from various political parties. Some were greeted
in silence; some with a few courteous salutations; one or two with a
little hum of interest. Then Von Hartsen leaned forward.

"The Prime Minister of Germany," he announced. "The leader of our
Government. He rides to his doom--his political doom, that is to say."

Again hats were raised here and there, but a stony silence prevailed.
Then came a new type of deputy--a general wearing his uniform, seated
upright in his car, with his fingers resting as though by accident upon
his sword.

"The Baron von Elderman!" Von Hartsen exclaimed. "Listen! Watch the
people!"

A little forest of heads were uncovered and hats waved. This time there
was a real hoarse murmur of applause. More than once the General saluted
in response to the greetings.

"The Baron," Von Hartsen explained, "is Commander in Chief of the German
armies. He is also deputy and leader of the monarchist party--so far as
we permit it to be known that there is a monarchist party. Does it seem
strange to you that republican Germany should find applause for him that
it denies to all others?"

"Republican Germany is a misnomer," Kirdorff declared. "The soul of
Germany has never been with the Republic."

"You speak well," was the other's solemn admission.

A few more cars passed, attracting varying degrees of notice. Then, from
the distance came a volume of welcoming voices, swelling into a roar of
enthusiasm. At last the people were moved. Down the middle of the avenue
came a single open motor car, in which was seated a young man in
uniform, alone.

"Frederick!" Nicholas exclaimed. "What does he do here?"

Von Hartsen smiled.

"He was elected a deputy only a few weeks ago," he explained. "He is
coming to take his seat."

"But in uniform!" Nicholas muttered. "I thought that was prohibited."

"He is wearing only the uniform of a Cadet Corps," the General pointed
out. "Strictly speaking, it is against the law. We risk it. Listen to
the people! What do you think that means?"

The applause was almost deafening; coming nearer and nearer like an
inbreaking wave. Kirdorff's pallid face had become set and rigid. There
was a streak of colour in Nicholas' cheeks. The car passed like a flash
below and went on its way. Every moment or so the young man inside
raised his right hand to the salute.

"For you," Kirdorff declared, "it can mean but one thing. It means the
return of the great days. If Berlin can speak like that, what of the
rest of Prussia?"

Von Hartsen smiled as he turned away from the window.

"It is finished," he announced. "We shall find wine in the further room.
It was to see what you have seen that I begged you to stay over. What is
coming in Germany," he went on earnestly, "can come also in Russia. We
are willing to help, but, like every one else in the world, we have our
price. A glass of wine with you, gentlemen. Afterwards I myself must go
to the Reichstag."

They passed into an inner room where refreshments were handed round.
When the glasses were filled, Von Hartsen briefly dismissed the waiters.

"Listen," he began, as soon as they were alone, "I do not promise that I
myself can do for you, Nicholas Imanoff, what I have done for
Frederick, but I can put you in the way of doing it for yourself. The
seeds are already sown. To-day in your First and Second Armies there is
an active monarchist propaganda going on hour by hour. Samara knows it
well enough--hence his hurried return from America. It is not altruism
alone which has influenced him in this great scheme of demilitarisation.
It is because he knows that if ever the monarchy is restored to Russia
it will be through the army. You have permission to return, Prince
Nicholas?"

"Absolutely," the young man assented. "We all have--even Orenburg."

"It is a brave step of Samara's; I think a foolish one. Since you have
the chance, however, show yourself openly everywhere. Ask Samara's
permission to join the army. The whole machinery of propaganda is there.
There is no reason why Russia should not revert to the only logical form
of government within a year from to-day."

"You spoke of a price for your aid," Kirdorff reminded him.

"Naturally. Germany is suffering from peace. She needs war. We need your
First and Second Armies before Samara can disband them."

Nicholas frowned.

"How can one of my race," he asked, "draw his sword against France?"

"It might happen," Von Hartsen replied, "that, if you were not prepared
to do so, you might have no sword to draw. But consider--the France of
to-day has nothing in common with the France who was once your great
ally. She is avaricious to a degree. Ascend the throne, restablish
imperial rule in Russia, and, before a month has passed, France will
claim from you countless milliards, the whole debt of your country to
her. The alliance, now that Austria has passed away, has ceased to
exist. Discard it! Germany and Russia are natural and inevitable allies.
Make up your mind to it!"

A cannon sounded from somewhere in the neighbourhood. Von Hartsen
finished his wine hastily.

"This is a great day for Germany," he concluded. "I must be there to see
Prince Frederick take his seat. Deputy to-day; what he pleases by this
time next year! Listen to me now and remember my words. The people will
be ruled. No democrat has ever learned the art of kingship. Republics
have made laws. They have never governed. It is the will of the people
which is calling Frederick back to the throne of his ancestors."

He hurried off, leaving behind him a queer sense of excitement.
Kirdorff's eyes were glittering. Nicholas seemed transformed.

"The will of the people!" he repeated ecstatically. "We, too, shall hear
that call, Kirdorff! From Berlin to Odensk is not so far!"




BOOK TWO




CHAPTER I


Catherine paused for a moment in her task, listened, rose to her feet
and moved towards the window. She was in a plain official-looking
apartment, separated by a glass partition from many others upon the same
floor. She might really have been working in the American office of some
great mercantile undertaking. She was, as a matter of fact, on the top
storey of a building in a Square of Moscow, given over to the Foreign
Department of the Russian Government and entitled Government Buildings.
It was exactly fourteen months since she had arrived in Moscow from
Monte Carlo.

Down in the Square a great crowd of people had gathered and through them
marched, still in fours but without any attempt at military discipline,
a long line of men in ordinary civilian clothes. Here and there the
spectators raised their hats; now and then came a wave of applause. As
they passed the house at the corner of the Square, which was Samara's
official residence, many of the marchers paused and looked upwards with
something which was equivalent to a salute.

Andrew Kroupki, on his way to his office, saw Catherine standing by the
window, hesitated for a moment, then entered and crossed the room
towards her. He had recovered from his illness but he had still the air
of an invalid; tall and thin, with sunken cheeks, a mass of black
hair--a typical visionary. She greeted him with a little nod.

"What does it mean, Andrew?" she asked.

Before he could reply, Bromley Pride had joined them, his keen,
clean-shaven face alight with interest, restless as ever, swinging his
tortoise-shell spectacles in his hand, apologising for his cigar and
pointing out of the window in the same moment.

"Pride knows more about it all than I do," Andrew declared. "At any rate
he is more up to date. I have been in Warsaw for three weeks--three
dreary weeks," he added, dropping his voice a little and glancing
appealingly at Catherine.

"Is it really so long?" she observed indifferently. "Well, that accounts
for my having got a little behind the times. I have had your work to do
as well as my own."

"I know all about these fellows," Pride declared, moving closer to
Catherine's side and pointing downwards. "They are the last of Russia's
Third Army. Yesterday they came up from barracks, marched over to the
other side of the city, left their uniforms, were provided with civilian
clothes, and now they are on their way to their jobs, wherever they may
be. The last of a million men, Miss Borans! A wonderful piece of
administration!"

Catherine, standing between the two men, watched the crowds with
interest. There was a brief silence whilst they listened to the tumult
of mingled shouting and cheering.

"It's a fine view, this," Pride continued. "It works in with the stuff I
am writing. Do you know, Miss Borans, they sent me over here to see
whether Samara could put this thing through--and he's done it! There
isn't a statesman in our country or in Europe either could have tackled
the proposition. It isn't much more than a year since he issued the
first notice and came over to New York to borrow the money, and since
then he's just taken a million men from shiftless and unproductive
idleness and got 'em all working like bees in a hive. If that isn't a
triumph I'd like to meet one. I'm going to shake hands with President
Samara to-night and tell him what I think of it."

"Are you going to the banquet?" Catherine enquired.

"I should say so!" was the emphatic reply. "I wouldn't miss it for
anything. I've heard most of our own great speakers and a good many of
the Englishmen, but Samara has them beaten to a frazzle. I guess he'll
tell us to-night a few things that all Europe's waiting to hear."

"And perhaps he will not," Andrew Kroupki observed drily. "My master
tells the world too much. He lays the cards too easily upon the table.
It is magnificent but sometimes it is not diplomacy."

"Please go, both of you," Catherine enjoined, turning reluctantly away
from the window and moving towards her desk. "I have the French
President's speech in the Chamber last night to translate for Mr. Samara
and he wants it before this evening."

"Make me a copy," Pride begged. "I've only seen extracts and my French
is ghastly."

"You journalists are much too lazy," she declared. "You'll get it all in
English to-morrow."

"To-morrow's no good to me," Pride persisted. "Slip another carbon in
your machine, Miss Borans. It won't take you any longer. I'll wait till
you've finished and we'll have a little dinner."

Catherine shook her head.

"Impossible," she regretted. "You forget that I am now officially
recognised as Andrew's assistant in the position of private secretary to
Mr. Samara. I couldn't possibly be seen dining with an American
journalist who is reputed to give pearl necklaces, motor cars or
millions for news."

"Bunkum!" he scoffed. "You've got another date."

"That may be," Catherine sighed gently. "I am much sought after. I'll
make you a copy of the speech, Mr. Pride, but you mustn't take it as a
precedent. Andrew, please come in and see me before you go. I shall want
you to take these notes to Mr. Samara."

Andrew made no direct reply beyond a little bow. The two men left the
room together and paused for a moment in the main avenue of the floor.
The journalist gazed around with an exclamation of admiration.

"This is certainly a live place!" he pronounced. "Might be a stock
operator's paradise in Chicago. What's the kiosk at the far end with the
open roof and the funnel?"

"Office to receive and decode private wireless," Andrew explained. "They
are in direct communication with the Intelligence Department on the
floor below."

Pride gripped his companion by the arm tightly.

"Look here, young man," he said, "I expect you're wise to what I want to
know. I've got to get my cable off in half an hour. Those Englishmen
aren't over here again for nothing. I want to give them an idea on the
other side as to whether the President is going to speak about the
Second Army to-night."

"You should have asked Miss Borans," Andrew replied. "She is preparing
his notes."

"I might as well have asked the sphinx," the other retorted impatiently.
"That's the worst of a woman. She doesn't think--she obeys. It can't
matter a cent to any one whether I am in a position to say that the
President is going to talk about it or that he isn't--but you can't get
that young lady to understand."

"You've tried her then?"

Pride shrugged his shoulders.

"I did just mention it this afternoon," he admitted. "Nothing doing!"

"Nor with me," Andrew observed shortly. "The Chief!" he exclaimed, in an
altered tone. "If he speaks to you, you can ask him for yourself."

The main door of the hall had been suddenly thrown open by Ivan Rortz,
admitting Samara. Pride stood to attention respectfully, hoping for a
salutation, but Samara passed every one with absolutely unseeing eyes.
At the far end of the broad passage was a heavy oaken door. This, too,
Ivan, hurrying by his master, opened and Samara disappeared into his
private room. The American looked a little disconcerted.

"No luck!" he grumbled. "I'll have to wait until to-night. For the
greatest democrat in the world," he went on ruefully, "Samara is a
perfect wonder at keeping us all just where he wants us."

"The Chief does everything his own way and it is a good way," Andrew
declared. "He would never be able to stir a yard if he allowed every one
to speak to him whenever he chose. Any one from any country in the world
may obtain an audience with him in due course, but no one may speak to
him or even recognise him without permission. That is the only way he is
able to move about amongst us without trouble or hindrance. You'll
excuse me, Mr. Pride. I've some work which I must hurry on. I did not
know that the Chief was expected here to-day."

There came a sudden flash in his eyes and he remained a moment where he
was, looking through the glass partition into Catherine's office. He saw
her answer the telephone, replace the instrument, pick up a notebook,
and move towards the door. He watched her pass along the passage until
she reached the door of the room which Samara had entered. Ivan who was
standing outside on guard, admitted her without question. All the time
the American was studying his companion.

"Say, Mr. Kroupki," he observed, "I sometimes wonder whether you ever
regret that month's illness of yours in New York."

It was a purposeful stroke, designed to bring about trouble of a certain
sort. The young man's dark eyes were black pools of anger now, his lips
quivered. Nevertheless he spoke in a subdued tone.

"It had to happen," he muttered. "It will not last."

Without farewell Andrew Kroupki swung abruptly round and disappeared
into his office. Pride stood for a moment looking after him. Then he,
too, turned away and opened a door, over which was printed in white
letters:

                        SALON No. 11
    _For Accredited Representatives of the Foreign Press_

"A tough job to get a pull here!" he soliloquised, throwing himself into
a comfortable chair and lighting a cigar. "I've offered to immortalise
Samara or marry the girl. There seems to be only Andrew left. What about
Andrew, I wonder?"

Pride smoked steadily on, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. He was face
to face with the eternal problem of his profession. His own instinct had
scented trouble and brought him to Moscow. He was perfectly convinced
that there would be news enough and to spare before many months had
passed, but news which was shared with rivals was to Bromley Pride no
news at all. Catherine was hopeless, and Samara divulged only what he
wished known. Complete failure was a condition, the possibility of which
he never admitted. There was still Andrew--Andrew, impervious to
bribes, impeccable at heart, but plunged suddenly into a maelstrom of
passion!

"Crazy about the girl and madly jealous of her at the same time," he
reflected. "Something should come of the combination!"




CHAPTER II


Samara, that afternoon, was for some reason excited. He showed it in the
manner peculiar to him; his cheeks were a little paler, his eyes seemed
clearer and filled with sombre fire. He sat upright in his high-backed
chair, his fingers drumming upon the table in front of him. He did not
even light a cigarette, generally his first action when he called at
Government Buildings after leaving the Duma. The box stood by his side
unnoticed. All the time his fingers tapped the table and his eyes asked
Catherine questions.

She had paused upon the threshold after Ivan had closed the door behind
her. Then she advanced a little farther into the room. Finally she stood
almost by his side, her hand resting upon the back of a chair.

"You sent for me," she reminded him.

"Yes," he answered. "Sit down."

She resented his tone, as she frequently did, but in his present mood,
obedience from others seemed to become automatic and inevitable. She sat
down and, after a moment or two spent in turning over the pages of her
notebook, looked up enquiringly.

"Tell me about your people over here?" he demanded.

"My people!" she murmured.

"Yes," he went on impatiently. "The Grand Duchess Alexandrina Sophia of
Kossas, your much-to-be-esteemed aunt, and Kirdorff the Moscovite, the
self-elected champion of the young man who has left off selling bonds in
New York, and General Orenburg, the patriarch, and those two others--the
young man who was trying to make an honest living selling automobiles,
and his sister. They are all here, aren't they?"

"They are all here now," she admitted. "You yourself gave them
permission to return. Nicholas came first and the others have followed
him in relays."

"Where did they get the money from?"

"Count Sabaroff--I might, perhaps, call him Cyril, as he is my
cousin--is doing exceedingly well selling Ford cars," she announced.
"His sister has started a milliner's shop."

Samara laughed shortly--not altogether pleasantly.

"A touch of western democracy come to my capital," he observed. "And the
others?"

"Well," she hesitated, "I am not quite sure that I feel free to discuss
their financial position, even with you."

"Don't be foolish," he protested. "They have become citizens of my
republic. I have the right to know all I choose about them--I and my
ministers. There is curiosity in certain quarters as to their means of
livelihood."

Catherine smiled at him. She was silent for a moment, thinking that she
rather liked his appearance when he was inclined to be angry; his mouth,
hard and dominant, his eyes, with all their kindness veiled, keen and
insistent, his tone the tone of a ruler.

"I think I shall tell you," she decided. "It may put you in a better
humour. They are being financed by Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington."

"What the devil do you mean?" he demanded.

"Well, it does sound rather extraordinary, doesn't it?" she continued.
"Almost like the plot of a musical comedy. There was a wonderful
Englishman who lived many years ago--Gilbert, his name was--who would
certainly have jumped at the idea. Nevertheless it is true. Mrs.
Bossington is one of those Western Americans, rapidly becoming extinct,
to whom a title is as the hallmark of divinity. She advanced the money
for every one to come back to Moscow and settle down here."

"On the chance, I suppose," he suggested swiftly, "that some day or
other they might, under more beneficent legislation, regain their
estates and be in a position to reward in courtly fashion their generous
benefactor."

"Rather high-flown," Catherine remarked, with a smile, "but still I have
no doubt that it is a very fair analysis of what is in the back of Mrs.
Bossington's mind. So far as I am concerned, I am glad that Andrew
Kroupki's illness gave me an opportunity of getting here without such
aid. I strongly disapprove of the manner in which some of them--Nicholas
Imanoff in particular--draw upon the Bossington exchequer."

Samara stretched out his hand, took a cigarette from the box and lit it.
It was, for him, a good sign.

"Listen," he said. "I am one of those men who like to move down the
highway of life alone, but I am always open to the advice of my
counsellors, who speak to me freely whensoever they choose. Only this
afternoon one of my ministers, just as I was leaving the Duma, called me
into his room. He wished to consult me upon no less a matter than you."

"That meddlesome policeman, I am sure," Catherine sighed. "He dislikes
me immensely. I had to take him over some reports for you only last
week, and he seemed shocked to think that I should have been trusted to
type them."

"General Trotsk is no fool," Samara pronounced. "He pointed out to me
that having succeeded in crushing Communism, there was yet one other
danger--less a danger of to-day, I believe, than a danger in years to
come--of which we must take account. There is no recognised
imperialistic party at present but I've a shrewd idea that there's one
in embryo. Trotsk goes farther than that. He believes that the party is
already in existence, working chiefly in the great cities and amongst
the army, and assisted by German agents. Incidentally he asked me
frankly whether I thought I was wise in having for my trusted secretary
a young woman who was in close association with the Imperial family of
Russia."

"I think I do the work very well," she said. "Did you explain that you
took me from the Weltmore Typewriting Agency?"

"I did. Trotsk suspects that there was a design in your being sent to
me."

"Then Ivor Trotsk is wrong," Catherine declared firmly. "I was chosen
entirely by accident and, to be quite candid, I at first refused to
come. If you think," she went on, "that my family associations, of which
you know more than any one, render me unfit to be your secretary, send
me away. Andrew Kroupki would be very glad so far as the work is
concerned."

"What do you mean by 'so far as the work is concerned'?" Samara
demanded.

She deliberated for a moment.

"I begin to think," she confessed, "that notwithstanding your stony
attitude towards me, I must be quite attractive to a number of male
human beings. Andrew is very deeply in love with me. I foresee that I
shall have great difficulty with him."

"Better tell him the truth about your identity," Samara advised drily.
"That will cure him."

She shook her head.

"I am not at all sure that I wish him to be cured," she observed.
"Every well-brought-up girl expects to have at least one man in love
with her. Did you send for me, Mr. Samara, merely to tell me of Ivor
Trotsk's suspicions, or is there any work I can do for you?"

"I wish to call upon your aunt," Samara announced. "My car is at the
door. Show me the way, if you please, to where she is living."

Catherine was a little startled.

"My aunt will be honoured," she said. "Do I understand that you expect
me to accompany you?"

"Yes," was the curt reply.

"Whilst I put my hat on," she suggested, "I wonder whether you would
care to see Bromley Pride for a moment. He is aching for a word with
you."

"He can come in for three minutes," Samara assented. "Do not keep me
longer. Tell Ivan as you go out that he can be admitted."

Catherine left the room a little thoughtfully. She knocked at the glass
panelling of the office where Pride was sitting. He came out at once,
his cigar in his hand.

"I've earned that pearl necklace or whatever it was you hinted at," she
told him. "The Chief will see you for exactly three minutes. Don't keep
him any longer. We're going out motoring together."

Pride laid down his cigar and moved eagerly away.

"Say, I'm awfully obliged, Miss Borans," he declared. "See you later."

He hurried off to the audience chamber. Catherine moved towards the
telephone.

"What do you want, Pride?" Samara asked, as the journalist entered. "Sit
down, unless you can talk quicker standing. You can stay for exactly
three minutes."

"Standing, please," was the prompt reply. "I've been looking into the
streets. I saw the last of a million soldiers go their way. What about
the others?"

"Read the report of the Peace Conference, Wednesday week," Samara
suggested. "I am going to London to attend it."

"I want to know beforehand," the journalist rejoined eagerly. "My paper
likes definite forecasts. I see those two Englishmen are over here
again--Lord Edward Fields and Edgar Hammond. It's their third visit. I
guess there's something doing this time. Can't you put me wise, Samara,
just a few hours before the others? We want to be in the know--not to
make absolute statements, but to prophesy--and then be right."

"Excellent from the point of view of your paper," Samara observed drily.
"It doesn't happen to suit me. I can tell you nothing."

"Not a hint?" Pride persisted.

"Not a hint. Understand from me now, please, that I have come to the
conclusion that it would not be to the interests of the Russian Republic
for word of our projected plans to become public property until I give
the signal. That's final!"

Pride sighed.

"Nothing else for me?" he asked a little wistfully.

"My God, man, what do you want!" Samara demanded. "Here you are, most
favoured of all correspondents in the world. You have seen to-day the
passing of that first million. Can't you write about that? Isn't that
dramatic enough for you? A million fire-eating monsters dissolved into
thin air; a million sturdy, self-respecting Russian peasants bending
over their toil, earning food and dwelling and clothes and savings for
their womenkind and children! Feet on the earth, head to the skies--men,
not puppets any longer! Go and write about it. Finished! Please tell
Miss Borans to wait in her office until I fetch her."

Samara waved his visitor away. He never shook hands; seldom indulged in
the ordinary amenities which passed between men. He spoke for a moment
on the telephone, frowned and laid down the instrument. Then he took up
his hat and gloves, left his office and, followed by Ivan, walked
rapidly down the broad central passage. Catherine was waiting for him on
the threshold of her own apartment. He motioned her to step back,
entered and closed the door behind him.

"To whom have you been telephoning?" he demanded.

She looked at him for a moment with immovable face. Then she smiled
faintly.

"To my aunt," she replied.

"Why?"

"To tell her to be sure and see that there were hot cakes for tea," she
confided.

"You think that I believe that?" he exclaimed.

"Why not? It happens to be the truth," she assured him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Samara's manner to older women possessed a charm of which he seldom, in
his general intercourse with the other sex, gave any indication. His bow
to the Grand Duchess was the bow of a courtier; his few words of welcome
were admirably spoken. For the first ten minutes no serious subject was
mooted. It was Alexandrina herself who introduced another note. She was
suddenly deeply and intensely in earnest.

"Mr. Samara," she said, "I should like you to know that in making
possible this return to my own country, you have given an elderly woman
the greatest happiness life could offer. I recognise the generosity of
it. I wish to pay my tribute to it. It is not an easy thing for me to
say to you, but I do say it--I thank you."

Samara bowed gravely.

"Duchess," he pronounced, "it is one of the theories of my life that
every man and every woman, too, lives more naturally and to the best
account in their native land."

He paused for a moment, but was obviously about to continue, when
Colonel Kirdorff was announced, and immediately afterwards General
Orenburg. They both welcomed Samara respectfully but perhaps with some
measure of constraint. A few minutes later the latter rose to take his
leave.

"My visit," he explained, turning a little towards the newcomers, "was
intended to be one of courtesy to Her Highness. Since I have been
fortunate enough to find you, Colonel Kirdorff, and you, General
Orenburg, here together, let me make this further use of it. I want to
say that I am happy to welcome you back to Russia, and I am glad if I
have been able to make your coming possible. So long as you all pursue
the lives of Russian citizens--you, General, and you, Colonel, in the
army, and Your Highness as a Russian lady of society--you will, I am
sure, find no one venture to interfere with you. But I rule, not for
myself, but for my people, and I tell you frankly that my espionage
system is good. If I wished, I could not exclude you from its
activities. I desire, therefore, to give you this warning. If by any
chance any one of you should be discovered plotting against the State,
the fact that I brought you here would count for nothing. If you enter
into any conspiracy of any sort you will be discovered and no
representations to me would be of the slightest avail. I did not put you
on your parole when I asked you back. I did not do so purposely. I ask
you even now for no promises. Live as you think well and shape your
futures as you choose, but even though mine has the name of being a
humane Government, it has no mercy upon those who plot against it."

There was a moment's silence. No one seemed anxious to reply. Samara,
looking round at their expressionless faces, found his mind wandering
off to trifles. He realised that the room was small and overheated and
the atmosphere heavy with the perfume of musk. Alexandrina was wearing
an unbecoming gown but some wonderful old jewellery. The two men had
changed since the New York days. Kirdorff stood differently upon his
feet, looked differently out of his eyes. The General seemed years
younger. As Samara watched them, he was conscious that there was a
mutual and silent understanding between them all from which he was
excluded. He glanced swiftly at Catherine. She, too, was in it. She was
of them--belonged to them. He was a fool to hope even for her fidelity!
In the end it was Alexandrina who spoke. There was a slight stiffness in
her manner.

"One might conspire in New York," she remarked----

"In the salon of Mrs. Bossington, perhaps," he scoffed. "Your
conspiracies there would very surely end in dreams, but
to-day--listen--there is a line which reaches even from this room,
Madame la Duchesse, to the Headquarters of the Second Army at Odensk. I
think if I were you I would snap the line."

Again there was a tense silence in the little room. The two men stood
like graven images. Alexandrina had picked up a paper fan and was
wielding it mechanically. Even Catherine seemed for a moment to have
lost her _savoir faire_. With a curt little gesture of farewell, Samara
took his leave.




CHAPTER III


Bromley Pride and Andrew Kroupki dined together that evening in the
Savoy Grill Room--not the Savoy of the Strand, but the Savoy of a
certain street leading off one of the newly developed boulevards in
Moscow. It was a meal which distinctly lacked all the characteristics of
a festival. No two personalities in all the city could have been so
ill-attuned. Andrew was neurotic, almost neurasthenic; distracted at the
same time by his passion for Catherine and his insane jealousy of her.
Bromley Pride, full of vigorous common sense, sane, healthy and
indefatigable in his profession, saw life as a confirmed materialist,
desired only the possible things, and had scant sympathy with the
emotional wear and tear to which his companion continually subjected
himself. Nevertheless they ate and drank together and made conversation
up to a certain point like any other two men brought together in the
daily affairs of life.

"One of the by-laws for which I suppose your President is responsible,"
Pride remarked, tapping the menu which was printed in Russian.

Andrew glanced at it and nodded.

"A reasonable edict," he declared. "Any one who chooses may print his
wine list or menu in French, but it must also be printed in Russian. Why
not? We are in Moscow. We like French food, we like French wines, but we
want to take them as Russians, not as French people. A nation may be
adaptive and appreciative, but must not be coalescent."

"I guess you're right," Pride admitted. "Russia's a well-governed
country to-day--a country with a definite identity. During the last ten
years you have broken loose from the greatest danger any nation ever
experienced. You have shaken off German thraldom and German influence."

"Without warfare too," Andrew added eagerly. "By just, discriminating
legislation. The man who makes money in Russia, out of Russian
industries or Russian mineral wealth, must spend his money here or face
a different scale of taxation. We have had enough of foreigners tapping
our supplies of wealth, drawing off the profits and flitting to some
other country."

"Does it ever occur to you," Pride remarked, "that you are gradually
making an enemy of Germany?"

"Better that," his companion retorted hotly, "than to be her tame
monkey, ready to pull the chestnuts out of the fire when she gave the
word. That is what we were under the Communists. Five years more of
their government and the Germans would have marched our armies from
Russia to the French frontier and not a soul could have stopped them."

"And now," Pride observed, "it seems that you will very soon have no
armies to march anywhere."

"Why should we need armies?" Andrew demanded. "Invasion of our country
is no longer to be feared. The Peace Conference has tied most of the
nations of the world hand and foot. Germany, through her own cunning,
remains outside, but what would it profit her to cross our frontiers?
Where would she strike, at what, and with what object? The frontiers of
France have been a brazen defiance to Germany for fifty years. All her
coal fields, her manufacturing towns, her wine-growing districts, are
there, like Naboth's vineyard--a stone's throw across the frontier for
jealous eyes to gaze upon. We have nothing like that to offer the
invader. A military establishment for us is a farce."

"I heard Samara speak at Geneva," Pride remarked drily.

His companion was unmoved.

"I plagiarize, I know," he admitted. "Why not? Who can repeat the words
of a greater man?"

The restaurant was crowded; noisy with a babel of talk, blue-hung with
cigarette smoke. In the distance a small orchestra was drowned by the
volume of conversation. Most of the people were Russian; here and there
a few Germans, an occasional Englishman, a few Americans. Newcomers were
still arriving. Pride was immensely interested in the passing of two
very distinguished-looking young people--a short, dark young man and a
young woman, a little taller, dressed in black, with a black picture hat
and ermine wrap, a very graceful carriage, blue eyes with a roving
tendency, and beautifully marked eyebrows.

"Amazing!" the journalist murmured. "I knew that young man in New
York--he was trying to sell Ford motor cars. And the girl--why, she was
in a Fifth Avenue milliner's! What on earth has brought them to Moscow?"

Andrew smiled.

"They are part of the great comedy," he declared. "They own names as
long as this menu. They are aristocrats of the Russia which has passed
away. Yet you are quite right. The young man learnt the automobile trade
in New York and the girl, as you say, was a milliner's assistant. One
must live!--even the children of those who escaped from Russia with
nothing but their lives."

"What I can't catch on to," Pride confessed, "is what has brought them
back to Russia? How do they live?"

"They are back here at Samara's express invitation," Andrew explained.
"A whole nest of Monarchists! The President has revoked all edicts of
banishment except against anarchists. He maintains that every Russian is
entitled to live in his own country and air his own opinions."

"I guess he's right," the other acknowledged. "They'll do no harm and
there are not madmen enough left in the world to preach Tzardom here."

Andrew Kroupki shrugged his shoulders. He drained half the contents of
his glass before he answered.

"How can one reckon on anything?" he demanded. "Two generations of
education have scarcely altered the Russian peasant. He is still the
same simple, faithful human being; seeking for something in the world or
heaven to lean against--a Tzar or a God or anything he can believe in.
He isn't dangerous like the German mob because you can't appeal to his
intellect. You can appeal only to his instinct and I am not so sure as I
should like to be that his instinct for Tzardom is dead. There are many
people, even members of the Cabinet, who think that Samara is doing a
rash thing in interfering with the armies."

"Precisely why?" Pride asked.

"For fear he should disturb some smouldering bonfires of royalist
sentiment," Andrew answered, enlighteningly.

Pride was inclined to be disputatious.

"A cause," he declared, "needs sinews; money, brains, enthusiasm. Who is
there in the world who possesses these things likely to devote them to
the overthrow of such a man as Samara or to placing the country once
more under its old yoke? There's no real danger."

Andrew threw some money on the table and rose abruptly.

"Let us go to the Club, or a music hall, or somewhere," he proposed.
"The atmosphere of this place is stifling."

They left the restaurant and passed along the broad thoroughfare
thronged with human beings, hung with sky signs, a marvel of pulsating
life. It was a warm evening and the open-air cafs were crowded. From
the wide-flung doors, as the two men sauntered along, they heard the
sound of music, occasionally the sharp pattering feet of the
professional dancers. Music halls and cinemas invited their patronage.
In the more dignified streets through which they presently made their
way, most of the larger theatres were situated, every one of which
seemed able to display the warning notice--"House Full." Pride paused at
the corner and looked back. A new sky sign, which was one of the wonders
of the world, was flashing hieroglyphics upon the clouds.

"I have just finished reading a book on Moscow during the third year of
the Communist rule," he confided. "What a transformation! Your Samara is
a great man, Andrew Kroupki!"

"He is one of the world's greatest rulers," was the reverent reply. "No
one else could have drained the poison out of the country as he has done
and then filled her with new and vigorous life."

They stopped in front of the faade of a theatre. Automobiles were still
setting down late arrivals. Pride glanced at the playbill.

"A French comedy," he remarked, "of the type of Edmond About. They sent
me a box this morning. Shall we see it?"

Andrew Kroupki had been seeking for an excuse to break away from his
companion, but before he could find one, Pride had led the way in. A
young man dressed with such precision as to amount almost to
foppishness was finishing a cigarette in the vestibule. He touched
Andrew on the arm as he passed.

"I am forgotten, then?" he asked. "We were at college together, Andrew
Kroupki. We attended the same lectures afterwards."

"Ivor Molsky!" the latter exclaimed. "I remember you quite well. But I
heard----"

He stopped short. The young man smiled. He was rather a
saturnine-looking person with an uncertain gleam in his eyes, and a
restlessness of manner at variance with his immaculate appearance.

"Well, well," he interrupted, "never mind what you heard. I am not so
bad, Andrew. I have often thought about you and our talks. You serve a
great master."

"None greater on earth," was the fervent response.

His friend smiled with an air of tolerance.

"Gabriel Samara is a genius," he acknowledged, "but he is like the
others. He is bound hand and foot, and the handkerchief is across his
eyes. He has the will to go forward but the way into the light has not
been shown him."

An attendant broke in upon their conversation and ushered Andrew and his
companion to a small box in the second tier, next to the one presently
occupied by Molsky. The theatre was unusually full and the performance
was just beginning. Andrew drew his chair behind the curtains and sat a
little gloomily in the background. Pride, on the other hand, leaned over
the ledge and surveyed the house with interest. Nearly every one was in
evening dress. It was an audience distinguished not only for its
apparent opulence but for other and more pleasing qualities. Men and
women were the study of Pride's life. He realised without effort to what
class of the community these people belonged.

"My God!" he exclaimed, in an undertone to Andrew. "Your Russia is
incredible! Marvellous! All over the world, even in Spain, to-day, the
money seems to have got into the wrong hands. You find the wrong people
spending it. This is the only country which seems to be holding the
balance and to be holding it without a court or aristocracy. These women
with their pearls, and these men in their very correct evening clothes,
they are not of the _bourgeoisie_ as we used to understand the word.
They are intellectuals."

Andrew showed a momentary flicker of interest.

"It is the Chief," he said. "Our tabulated taxes are a model for the
world. Inherited wealth is taxed first, commercial next, brains last of
all. That accounts for what you see. Even in England forty years ago
they made ghastly blunders--taxed the brain worker and the artist
equally with the war profiteer. Nothing of that here. Hence this
audience of which you approve."

The play proceeded; clever and well received. During the interval Andrew
touched his companion on the arm.

"My prince of journalists," he murmured, a little satirically, "you have
studied this audience so carefully and yet you have failed to notice the
most interesting people here--the most interesting to you at any rate,
with your journalistic instinct."

"I confess it," Pride acknowledged. "I don't recognise a soul."

"In the box exactly opposite," his companion pointed out,--"the man with
the grey moustache and the clean-shaven man. It is--don't you recognise
them? You must--one is Lord Edward Fields and the other is Edgar
Hammond, the man who they say will be the next British Chancellor of the
Exchequer. They are members of the English Commission over to settle
finally the terms of this second British loan--if it comes off."

Pride scrutinised the two men closely through the opera glasses, which
he procured from an attendant. He sighed as he laid them down.

"If they had belonged to any other nationality in the world," he said,
"I'd have gone across and trusted to my luck to get a word with them. A
Britisher on official business I simply daren't face. Have they seen
Samara yet?"

"Only unofficially," Andrew replied. "They meet the Cabinet to-morrow,
and the Council in the afternoon."

"The Council is 'Samara,'" Pride remarked drily.

"And why not?" was the prompt retort. "There is no brain in the world
like Samara's; no ruler like him. What does he want with a dozen
inferiors, putting in their spoke? The best thing you can say of the
Russian Cabinet is that it recognises a pedagogue."

The curtain went up once more and the play was resumed to the interest
and amusement of its audience, all unconscious of the drama to come. It
was towards the end of the second act, in the middle of a tense scene
between the principal actor and actress that the amazing thing happened.
From the very next box to that occupied by Pride and his companion, a
man suddenly leaned out. His knee seemed to be upon the ledge of the
box, his arm thrown back almost, as Pride said afterwards, with the
action of an American baseball pitcher. His shrill cry rang through the
house.

"To hell with the foreign capitalists!"

Something black, about the size of an orange, travelled in an arc across
the auditorium. The two men watched it with fascinated eyes. It seemed
to them that the Englishmen had plenty of time to spring from their
places. They remained seated, however, utterly unconscious of their
peril. A shout rang through the building.

"A bomb! Beware!"

The missile appeared to pass a little above the box at which it was
aimed. As it struck the wainscotting there was a flash which seemed to
shoot from the floor to the ceiling of the theatre, a roar and trembling
of the earth, the hiss of splintering wood, the dull crash of chairs and
woodwork scattered in every direction. Pride sprang to his feet. Both
men realised at the same moment that the bomb had been thrown from the
next box. They dashed out. The box itself was empty but, coming towards
them, evidently headed in his flight, was Molsky, the man who had been
its occupant and their neighbour.

The change in his appearance was astonishing. The sallowness of his face
had turned to a distinct shade of yellow, his abundant black hair was no
longer smooth, but seemed to have been caught by a tornado, his cynical
lips had parted; nothing remained of the almost meticulous precision of
his toilet. As he came towards them, running with long, uneven
footsteps, they could catch the glint of his yellow teeth, almost like
fangs, the wild, destroying lust of his expression, filled, too, with a
certain joy of the turmoil and roar of his work of destruction. On their
right was an open window from which there was only a short drop on to
the leads. It was obvious that he was making for it. Pride stood
directly in his way. The man screamed something, lowered his head a
little but too late. The American in his younger days had played
halfback at Harvard. He was not a man to be passed. The fugitive seemed
to realise the fact. He steadied himself.

"Let me go!" he shrieked. "This is not for you."

Then he met the impact of Pride's fist and went down like a log. In a
moment they were all upon him--attendants, police, and even members of
the audience. It was simply a heap of passionate, furious humanity, with
little to be seen of the man underneath but a thin stream of blood
across the corridor. In the box opposite one Englishman lay dead and
another apparently dying.

       *       *       *       *       *

"It is a pity," Andrew Kroupki confessed, as the two men left the
theatre half an hour later. "An event like this is nothing more nor less
than a hideous anachronism. It will put us back amongst the nations a
score of years."

"I shouldn't say that," Pride remonstrated. "The man was a fanatic. They
exist in every community."

The younger man shook his head faintly.

"We were students together," he declared, "and afterwards Molsky became
a professor at our premier university. No one could ever fathom what his
political principles were. He hated all forms of what he called
'unauthorised rule' and he wrote some very clever criticisms of Samara
and his attitude towards Communism. Yet the Chief would never have him
touched. He called him his most intelligent critic--read everything he
wrote, would have argued with him if he could."

"A man of education," Pride murmured. "It seems incredible!"

"There is no man in the world," Andrew Kroupki pronounced deliberately,
"so brilliant in his way, so well-read and so amazingly subtle as the
modern anarchist. He derived his first nourishment from the brutalism of
Lenin and Trotsky, was suckled on Marx, and completed his education--God
knows where!"

"What will be his end?"

"Simple enough," was the somewhat terrible reply. "The Chief has an
enactment that any man found even handling a bomb is hung after a
drum-head trial. If there is anything left of Molsky, he will be hung
before eight o'clock to-morrow morning."




CHAPTER IV


Andrew Kroupki's words were in a sense prophetic. Molsky was hung at
dawn on the following morning, and a few days later a hundred thousand
Russians watched with bared heads the passing of the English statesman's
funeral. Edgar Hammond was in hospital and some hopes of his recovery
had been held out. The echoes of Samara's passionate denunciation, both
of the crime and of the hideous code of thought from which it sprang,
had reverberated not only through the country but through Europe. The
simple end of his peroration was always remembered:

"If you wish to kill senselessly," he cried, "kill me. I walk the
streets of Moscow day by day unprotected and unarmed. I stand for the
things of which the man you have slain was only one link in the chain--I
stand for the things themselves. Kill me and do not shame the oldest of
the Russian virtues--hospitality!"

That night Samara walked unattended, save by Ivan, from the Duma to
Government Buildings, and from Government Buildings to the presidential
abode at the corner of the Square. If any would-be avenger of Molsky's
shameful death had sought for his opportunity it was certainly freely
offered to him. Samara, however, was unmolested. Nevertheless Ivan
groaned as the postern gate leading into the courtyard of his master's
home swung to after them. They had walked in leisurely fashion but the
sweat stood out in dark beads upon his forehead.

"It was folly, that, Master!" he exclaimed. "On an ordinary day, yes,
but to-day, with Molsky's body still dangling from the gibbet there
might be madmen abroad."

Samara paused to light one of his cigarettes.

"I expected it, Ivan," he acknowledged simply. "Yet what can one do?
When strangers are slain by our people one must face what may come.
Bring me a brandy and mineral water into the library. I am beginning to
be a coward."

His old housekeeper, imported from the south of Russia, a quaint
survival of medivalism, in her black woollen gown, strange headdress
and dialectic speech, met him in the hall.

"There is a woman, Master, who waits for you," she announced.

Samara's language, for a moment, though incomprehensible, was violent.
The woman listened without change of countenance.

"This woman would not be denied," she continued. "The Master will
understand when he sees her. I tried to send her away but it was not
possible."

Samara handed his coat and hat to Ivan and walked with slow footsteps
across the marble hallway into the great library which was his official
audience chamber. As he recognised the woman who rose to meet him he
gave a little exclamation of surprise. There were others who might have
been there; he had never dreamed of this visit from Catherine.

"I was at the Duma," she announced brusquely. "I heard your speech.
There was something which I felt I must say to you."

"Pray be seated," he begged. "This is the first time you have honoured
my humble abode. You must drink from my samovar and smoke one of my
cigarettes."

She was still in her working clothes; a little tired, apparently a
little dispirited. She accepted the easy-chair he wheeled up for her,
drank her tea and lit a cigarette.

"I should not be here without orders, of course," she admitted, a little
abruptly. "It's a terrible breach of etiquette, I know, but sometimes I
have no chance of speaking to you for days together, and they tell me
that you are going to London."

"London!" he repeated bitterly. "London will probably have nothing to do
with me after last night. They will say what is the good of trying to
help a country who cannot deal with her own madmen?"

"England is not like that," she answered gently. "She certainly is not
to be intimidated. They will grant the loan."

"What brought you here?" he demanded. "You must have had a reason for
coming. You must have had something definite to say."

"Naturally," she assented. "I had a definite object in coming to you. I
wish to give up my work."

"To leave me?"

"Yes."

There was a brief silence--a silence not of indifference, but tense in
its way, and pregnant with much hidden emotion. These two might almost
have been duellists pausing to measure each other's strength--Samara,
grim, almost forbidding-looking, with the drawing together of his heavy
eyebrows, an effective figure in his great oak chair, with a background
of dimly seen tapestried walls; Catherine, more beautiful than ever in
her absolute listlessness. Her skin was clear, bordering upon fragility.
Her eyes were large and soft, even if a little weary. The simplicity of
her gown detracted nothing from the charm of her lithe figure. There was
a certain abandon in her attitude of fatigue, full of attraction from
its almost animal-like naturalness. She sat in a gentle pool of shaded
light, a subdued glimmer which brought out the flecks of gold in her
hair, slightly disarranged after her long day's work. Into her
expression, as she met his steadfast gaze, there crept something of the
light of battle.

"It was to be expected," he admitted slowly. "Your interests lie
elsewhere. You wish to leave at once?"

"I draw my pay weekly," she said. "You are entitled to a week's notice.
Accept it, if you please."

"That is done," he assented.

"I will now tell you," she went on, "why I choose to go. You have
apparently lost your faith in me. You have conceived suspicions of my
friends. It is possible that these are justified. I am only partially in
their confidence."

She paused. He watched her steadily.

"Finish," he insisted. "There is more, I suppose."

"To-morrow," she continued, "you have ordered Andrew to come here for
the day and send his machine. He is a bad typist, a worse stenographer
and he hates all form of dictation. His work has lain along different
lines."

"Proceed, please," Samara invited.

"Andrew's duties," she pointed out, "have always been to act as your
representative at committee meetings of the Duma. He is a sort of
go-between with you and your ministers. He is the one person who enjoys
your complete confidence. I do not complain, but when I came with you
from New York it was as your confidential secretary. I have become your
typist. Now that there is important work to be done even that is taken
from me. I resign."

"You will throw in your lot with your family?" he asked with a sneer.
"You will exist on the bounty of Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington?"

Her eyes flashed angrily.

"That is ungenerous," she exclaimed. "I consider the position of my aunt
and some of her entourage as undignified in the extreme. It is
ungenerous of you, however, to remind me of it."

"Perhaps so," he admitted. "As a matter of fact, I am angry. I do not
wish to lose you."

"You are very gracious," she murmured.

Ivan entered, after ponderous knocking and asked his master a question.
Samara nodded.

"I dine here," he declared. "Have dinner served for two, in an hour's
time."

"For two?" she repeated questioningly.

"You will dine with me," he said curtly. "It shall be either our
farewell or--a celebration."

"A celebration of what?"

"Of a better understanding," he answered, with a faint softening of
those lines at the corners of his mouth.

She lazily removed her hat and smoothed out her hair.

"I shall dine with you as I am," she announced. "I am untidy and my head
aches. This mechanical work depresses and fatigues me. I should like to
go home and put on a pretty frock, but I have not the energy."

He seemed suddenly changed; infinitely more human, responsive to her
altered attitude.

"As you sit there--or should I say, recline?--it seems to me that no
change in your appearance could be for the better," he assured her.

She glanced at him in half-pleased surprise.

"A compliment!" she exclaimed.

He shook his head.

"A compliment implies a certain deviation from the truth," he observed.
"I meant what I said. Now I will deal with your complaint and offer you
an explanation. I have an important document to draw up to-morrow. I was
proposing to take only Andrew into my confidence for one reason, and one
reason only. Trotsk and some others suspect you of imperialistic
sympathies. I, alone, know the truth about you. You are day by day
subject to the influence and persuasions of your family. I do not
consider it fair upon you yourself that you should be in possession of
information which they would give their souls to acquire,
especially----"

She took advantage of his pause.

"It is for what comes after that 'especially' that I wait," she told
him.

"Especially," he concluded, "as you have not yet declared yourself as
between me and Nicholas Imanoff."

"I realise your problem," she admitted. "I am glad that you have been
frank about it."

"Perhaps you have a pronouncement to make," he suggested.

"I wish I had," she replied. "I can at least be truthful. All my life I
have prayed for the return of Tzardom to this country. That I suppose is
in my blood. I have looked upon you with respect because you delivered
Russia from the yoke of the Bolshevists, because you have evolved at
least a sane form of republicanism, but I have looked upon you at the
same time as a stumblingblock in our way."

"Your candour," he declared, "is most attractive. Pray continue."

"I am trying to let you into the back of my mind," she went on
thoughtfully. "I am a daughter of Tzardom and a belief in monarchical
government is in my blood, but I am also a daughter of Russia. Every
spare minute since I returned here I have devoted to studying your
system of government, seeking justification for it. I am not clever; I
often wish I were. I have not even a knowledge of history to guide me.
Of one thing, however, I am still convinced,--that there is exceedingly
little difference between a beneficent Tzardom and the Government of
to-day."

"Absurd!" he scoffed. "The present Government of Russia is the most
democratic in the world."

"And the most autocratic," she retorted coolly. "It is you who rule
Russia."

"By the mandate of the people," he reminded her.

"Nothing of the sort," she objected. "The people elected a republican
government. You travelled the country for a year. You hypnotised them.
They voted according to your decree. What has your Cabinet or even your
Inner Council to do with the Government of Russia? Nothing! You are an
autocrat more supreme than any Tzar who ever lived."

"I make no comment on what you say. Whither does it lead?"

"To this," she replied. "If Russia is to be ruled by one man, why not a
Tzar? The Royalists have learnt their lesson. An Imanoff has more right
upon the throne than you."

"Nicholas Imanoff," he jeered. "You would put him in my place!"

She was a little disconcerted, but she did her best to conceal the fact.

"Nicholas would never assume such powers as you have done," she replied.
"He would govern through his ministers. If you remained a patriotic
Russian you would probably be one of them."

"I am cheaper than a Tzar," he pointed out. "I do not cost the State
even a modest million a year, nor do I----"

He broke off in his speech. His housekeeper was standing upon the
threshold, gazing expectantly towards Catherine.

"My housekeeper will show you where to rearrange your hair, if you
really think that it needs it," he said courteously. "With your
permission, I will not change my clothes. Shall we meet here in twenty
minutes? You shall tell me then whether I can qualify as a bartender
when the Royalists have driven me out of Russia!"

She made a little grimace over her shoulder as she left the room; a
quaintly human touch which seemed to lessen at once the strain of their
relations. He stood with his fingers upon the bell, listening to her
departing footsteps.

The simplicity of Samara's life was typified in the dinner which was
presently served. The house itself was an old palace of the Grand Duke
Nicholas, sacked by the Bolshevists in nineteen-seventeen, occupied by
Lenin for some time during his stay in Moscow, and finally transformed
into the official dwelling house of the Chairman of the Council,
sometimes called President of the Russian Republic. Little remained of
its former splendour, except its architectural proportions and the
tapestry-covered walls of the room in which they sat. Dinner was served
at one end of a long mahogany table, the greater part of which remained
uncovered. The only illumination in the room was that afforded by wax
candles. Ivan waited behind his master's chair, and a single manservant
was the other attendant. The dinner itself was plain but excellent; the
champagne exceptional in age and quality.

"I am free to confess that I am no longer tired," Catherine observed, as
she sipped her wine. "It is wonderful that you should have been alone.
One fancies you always doing something official at night."

"There was a banquet to the Englishmen," he told her. "That had to be
cancelled, of course."

He turned and gave Ivan a few rapid orders. The cloth disappeared as
though by magic. Coffee, fruit and liqueurs alone were left upon the
table. Even Ivan presently withdrew. Catherine was conscious of a little
thrill--she scarcely knew whether of excitement or apprehension--when
she realised, not only that they were alone, but that they were alone
with certain things yet to be said.

"So you want to leave me, Catherine Borans," he remarked.

He had pushed his chair around and crossed his legs, so that they were
almost side by side. The chairs themselves were relics of ancient
magnificence, with huge black oak backs and upholstered in worn
rose-coloured damask. Looking at him as he bent forward to light his
cigarette Catherine felt herself compelled to half-reluctant admiration.
The wine which he had drunk freely had brought little more than a faint
flush of colour to his cheeks; his eyes were bright and full of clean
fire; his mouth, as usual, incomprehensible. She found herself wondering
what it would look like if ever he should by chance speak tenderly.

"It is better that I leave you," she said, "since I no longer possess
your full confidence."

"Are you worthy of my full confidence?" he asked, quickly.

"So far I have never abused it," she answered.

"For that very reason," he admitted, "I owe you frankness. You shall
continue to have it. If you had studied history and philosophy of
government, you would understand the truth of what I am going to tell
you. All the beneficent legislation of the world is effected by moderate
government, but a government, even though it brings a country from the
slough of despond to the fields of paradise, cannot exist for ever.
The desire for change in an electorate is an inevitable and
ineradicable instinct. Before many years are gone by I and my
Government will disappear. To which extreme will Russia swing? Back to
communism-cum-anarchy, or in the other direction towards a monarchy?
There is a fear of both. That is why I, who theoretically hate all such
things, keep up a wonderful secret service. I watch the anarchists and I
watch your friends. Your friends, here at my invitation, are already
conspiring. Both of the men to whom I gave posts in the army are already
at work with royalist propaganda. Both of these are your relatives. For
whom are you, Catherine Borans--for them or for me?"

"I am a Monarchist," she said proudly, "but it does not follow that I
should betray your trust."

"The work which I have summoned Andrew Kroupki to do with me to-morrow,"
he went on, "concerns the future of Russia's two remaining armies, deals
with the matter of the new conscriptions, and would be full of the most
amazing interest to your relatives. They would read my proclamations
before they were issued and be prepared with contra-propaganda. They
would also learn the means I am taking to prevent serious trouble. You
still wish to do the work?"

"If I am to remain your secretary," she answered with a certain
unaccustomed doggedness.

"You will be here at nine o'clock to-morrow morning, then," he directed.
"You will take a taxicab first to Government Buildings and collect your
machine, both code books, and instruct Peter Tranchard, the head of the
private printing department, to be prepared for important work during
the afternoon. You will be engaged here for the whole of the day. May I
take it now that your notice is withdrawn?"

"If you wish," she answered a little wistfully. "But are you sure you
still desire to keep me? Other people, if they knew who I was, would
feel the same as General Trotsk. You would be considered very indiscreet
to have a secretary with such connections."

He poured himself out some liqueur brandy and held the glass between his
hands for a moment.

"Indiscreet," he repeated. "Yes, there is indiscretion in keeping you
near me, Catherine Borans, but indiscretion of another sort."

She gave a little sigh of content. Her eyes challenged him.

"This sounds more interesting," she murmured. "Please go on."

"There is nothing further to tell you except this," he replied coldly.
"The indiscretion consists in the fact that you are the only woman whom
I have ever met in my life who could keep my thoughts turned away for a
moment from the things that count. A coward would send you away. You see
I have faith in myself."

"More interesting than I had even dared to hope," she exclaimed. "Have
you never really cared seriously for any woman, then?"

"Never," he assured her fervently. "You are the only one against whom I
have ever had to steel myself. The only one who has ever made me feel
that there are lonely hours in a man's life."

"You were feeling like that, I suppose," she observed quite calmly, but
with the ghost of a tremulous little smile at the corners of her lips,
"the night you kissed me on the steamer."

For a moment she was afraid. She called back the challenge from her
eyes, but it was too late. His arm was around her neck, his lips pressed
to hers. She almost lost her senses in a wave of turmoil, of impotent
resistance to the torrent of passion which surged about her. The perfume
of the roses which decorated the table remained in her thoughts for
years afterwards. Just as she had found his arm around her absolutely
without warning, so, in the same fashion, she saw him a moment or two
later, leaning back in his high-backed chair, gazing at her with steady
but burning eyes.

"As your host, I have transgressed," he admitted, "but I have the great
excuse. If you had been any other woman and I had been any other man, I
should have been your lover."

He lit a cigarette and smoked furiously. Twice she opened her lips and
said nothing. The third time she spoke.

"But you are Samara," she murmured, her eyes swimming in the softness of
incredible things, "and I am Princess Catherine of Imanoff. Well?"

He rose to his feet, almost with a bound, passed behind her chair, and
before she could imagine what he meant to do was standing on the
hearthrug, his finger pressed to the bell. It was answered almost
immediately by Ivan.

"An automobile for Miss Borans," Samara ordered.

The man bowed low and departed, closing the door behind him. Catherine
looked across at her host, still standing upon the hearthrug, and
laughed softly.

"Dismissed," she sighed.

"Would you be willing to pay the price of staying?" he asked bluntly.

The laughter passed from her face. Some part of the wave of emotion
which had driven him from her side suddenly surged up in her. Whether it
was love or hate she scarcely knew, but for the first time in her life
she felt herself dominated.

"The President of the Russian Republic," he began hoarsely, "even though
it were his desire, could never----"

"Is it his desire?" she interrupted, with a sudden wild hatred of those
heavy footsteps in the hall.

The door was thrown open. Ivan, tall and massive, stood to attention.

"The automobile awaits," he announced.

"Not later than nine o'clock in the morning, if you please, Miss
Borans," Samara said, bowing his farewell.

She left the room slowly,--the room which seemed strewn with fragments
of a dream. She followed Ivan down the hall and nodded good night to him
carelessly as she stepped into the automobile. As she drove across the
Square and came within hearing of the night-hum of Moscow,--a medley, it
sounded to her, of strange music and hurrying footsteps--she found
herself suddenly thinking of Sadie Loyes and the Hotel Weltmore
Typewriting Bureau. It was like an anti-climax to her emotions. She
began to laugh softly.




CHAPTER V


Alexandrina breathed a sigh of relief. She was entertaining an
unexpected visitor whom she had found a little difficult.

"At last!" she exclaimed, as Catherine entered. "My dear child, what
extraordinary accident has detained you? We have telephoned to
Government Buildings and every place we could think of. You have met
General von Hartsen, I believe."

The General bowed low and raised Catherine's fingers to his lips.

"In Monte Carlo," he murmured. "It gives me the greatest pleasure,
Princess, to renew our acquaintance."

Catherine glanced around the room, conscious of an acute sense of mental
fatigue, a desire for an impossible seclusion. Kirdorff was there and
Cyril Sabaroff, the former in uniform, but if there had been other
guests, they had all departed. She sank a little wearily into an
easy-chair. She was the only one in morning dress and she was sensible
somehow of a complete lack of sympathy with the little coterie gathered
around her aunt's chair.

"I was working late," she explained with perverse candour, "and I stayed
to dine at Government House."

General von Hartsen was interested.

"Does your work, Princess," he enquired, "still lead you into direct
association with Gabriel Samara?"

"At times," Catherine admitted. "I dined with him to-night. I am working
with him at Government House to-morrow."

There was a moment's silence.

"At Government House," Kirdorff repeated thoughtfully.

Catherine nodded. Her questioner moved a little nearer towards her.

"Have you any idea as to the nature of the work?" he ventured. "I ask,
because we have information----"

Alexandrina intervened with a wave of the hand.

"My dear Kirdorff," she complained, "you think of one thing, and one
thing only. We admit your zeal, and we quite understand that Catherine's
intimate association with Government work just now may prove of great
benefit to our cause. At the same time, we would ask you to remember
that General von Hartsen's mission is of the first importance with us at
the present moment."

"Has General von Hartsen a mission?" Catherine enquired, a little
flippantly. "Tell me, General," she went on, "how is that very
hot-headed young charge of yours who followed me to London? You will
have trouble with that young man when he grows up."

The General stiffened.

"Princess," he begged, "may I ask for your very serious attention to
what I have to say?"

"Frankly I could not promise it," was the somewhat unexpected reply. "I
am very sleepy and my nerves are all tangled. What about to-morrow,
General? I feel, somehow or other, that to-morrow I shall be a different
person. You are not hurrying away from Moscow, I hope."

"That depends upon you, Princess," he answered gravely. "My mission here
is to lay a certain proposal before you."

"Not the same proposal as before, I trust!" Catherine exclaimed.

The General frowned.

"Princess," he said, "the circumstances and conditions under which I now
approach you are entirely different. I asked you then to accept in
marriage the suit of a German nobleman of royal descent, whose future
was of no great account in the world. To-day I am here to beg for your
hand in marriage to Prince Frederick of Wehrenzollern who, I pledge you
my word, before twelve months have passed will be crowned Emperor of
Germany."

"Matrimonially," Catherine murmured, "my destiny seems to lead me to
high places. Have you not been informed, General, that I am already as
good as betrothed to Prince Nicholas of Imanoff, the future Tzar of
Russia?"

"It is upon that point that I desire to speak with you, Princess," was
the earnest reply. "We Germans, if I may say so, are in the last lap of
our struggle towards monarchy. The people are only waiting for a word
and they will lift the roof off the Reichstag with their cheering. The
present parliament is due to be dissolved in two months' time. The
Government will then resign and not a single other statesman will
attempt to form a fresh one. The President, who is also resigning, will
send for Prince Frederick. He will make an announcement. You may hear
the roar of German voices even to your frontier."

"Very interesting," Catherine admitted, "but do I understand that the
object of your mission here is seriously to revert to the subject of a
marriage between myself and Prince Frederick?"

"Dear and gracious young lady," Von Hartsen continued, "the matter now
rests upon an entirely different basis. The road to monarchy in Russia
will be a long and arduous one in any case. The aid of Germany is the
only thing which may shorten it by a span of years. As Kaiserin of
Germany you will be able to do more for the cause of monarchy in this
country than if you remain the betrothed of Prince Nicholas of Imanoff."

"Plausible," Catherine agreed, "but scarcely convincing. What has
Nicholas to say to this?"

"Prince Nicholas," Kirdorff intervened, stepping forward, "was consulted
before General von Hartsen left Berlin. He is deeply sensible of the
potency of the General's arguments. The royalist cause will gain nothing
outside Russia by the intermarriage of yourself and Prince Nicholas. You
will indeed be looked upon doubtfully. Marriage between first cousins
here is not too popular--especially after a decade of Soviet rule. Your
marriage with Prince Frederick, on the other hand, would enable you to
ensure the return of the monarchy to this country. Prince Frederick has
pledged his word to make this a charge upon his conscience if you should
accept his offer."

Alexandrina, who had been watching her niece a little anxiously,
motioned her to her side.

"My dear," she said, "I am aware that this suggestion must have taken
you completely by surprise. I quite appreciate the fact that you have
not had time to think seriously about Frederick as a possible husband.
You would furthermore consider yourself bound in honour to conclude your
alliance with Nicholas. Nicholas, however, has had a very plain hint
dropped to him. He has signified his intention to listen to reason."

"In other words Nicholas is quite agreeable to the transfer," Catherine
remarked.

"It is for the good of his country," Kirdorff reminded her. "Nicholas is
above all things a patriot."

"At the same time," Catherine pointed out, "this trafficking in my
affections seems a little sordid. Nicholas, it appears, is content to do
without me. I have, in other words, regained my liberty. I insist upon
spending the night in that state. To-morrow I will interview General von
Hartsen at the earliest possible moment."

Alexandrina turned towards the frowning ambassador with an ingratiating
smile.

"My niece's attitude appears to me to be correct, General," she said.
"You must not be over-zealous on account of your young master. Lunch
with us here to-morrow."

"Dine," Catherine put in softly. "I shall be away all day."

"Dine with us here to-morrow night, then," the Grand Duchess invited,
"and my niece shall be prepared."

Von Hartsen rose a little unwillingly to his feet.

"I should have preferred to have telephoned favourable news at once to
my august young friend," he confessed. "You will forgive my pointing out
once more that the position he is able to offer his wife is absolutely
and entirely unique. However, I am at Her Highness's disposition."

"I shall have made up my mind by dinner time," Catherine promised him.
"It really is quite an important matter to me, you know."

"It is of vast importance to all Europe," the General agreed. "On the
other hand, I cannot imagine where hesitation could arise."

Catherine smiled cryptically.

"Perhaps not," she admitted, "but then you see you have to do with a
woman. I am not sure that I should not find the Court life at Berlin a
little irksome."

"You, Princess," the General declared, "would be the Court. It would be
for you to set its tone. It is not for me to remind you that the lives
of people even in the highest places have their relaxations at which
even the historian can only guess."

He made his ceremonious farewells. They all waited until the door had
closed behind him. Then a buzz of conversation started.

"My dear," her aunt told Catherine confidentially, "Nicholas has gone
further in self-denial than we permitted General von Hartsen to know. He
abnegates his personal wishes with joy. A friendly monarchy established
at Berlin would assure our own triumph."

"There is not the slightest doubt that the German people are aching for
their Kaiser," Cyril Sabaroff observed. "Frederick can scarcely walk the
streets in comfort nowadays."

"Every illustrated paper has his picture," the Grand Duchess added. "You
can read of his doings every day."

"And every newspaper has anecdotes about him," Kirdorff concluded. "He
is easily the most popular young man in Europe to-day."

"I am very much flattered," Catherine pronounced, "and very sleepy.
To-morrow I will make up my mind whether I shall be Kaiserin of Germany
or Tzarina of Russia or----"

There was a long pause. Rosa Sabaroff at last interposed.

"Or what, Catherine?"

Catherine looked back from the door towards which she had made her way.

"Or return to the Weltmore Typewriting Agency and my American
independence!"




CHAPTER VI


Catherine came face to face with Andrew Kroupki as she was leaving her
office in Government Buildings at an early hour on the following
morning. He stood in the doorway, blocking her exit and his expression
was menacing. She realised at once that there was to be trouble.

"One word with you, if you please, Miss Borans," he insisted.

She gave way and he closed the door behind him, confronting her with a
spot of angry colour burning in his cheeks, wild-eyed and almost
inarticulate.

"It is unbelievable!" he exclaimed. "You must not go to the Chief
to-day! Stay here and I will make your excuses."

"What do you mean, Andrew?" she asked coldly. "I am directed to report
myself at Government House before nine o'clock. Of course I must go."

"You must have begged for the work," he continued, his tone trembling
with agitation. "It is not right that you should have it. It is not
safe. It is a wicked thing!"

"Andrew, you are not yourself," she said gently, almost kindly. "Surely
you know that I must obey orders."

"Orders! The Chief must be mad," he cried. "A moment's indiscretion with
regard to to-day's work and a terrible situation might arise. You are
not of us. You are not for the people of Russia. You are for those who
are already beginning to plot against us."

"That is absurd," she told him. "You must not talk to me so, Andrew. I
have never yet failed in my trust wherever my sympathies may have lain.
Besides, it is not for you to interfere. It is your master who speaks
the word."

He shook for a moment, as though seized with an ague.

"You dined with him alone last night," he cried hysterically. "What was
the argument you used to bring him to folly?"

"I have been very patient with you, Andrew," she said, with a warning
flash in her eyes, "but I am reaching my limits. Perhaps if you desire
to preserve my esteem, you had better stand on one side."

"I think," he sobbed, "that I would rather dig my fingers into your
white throat and wring the life out of you than let you go to Samara
to-day."

Sympathy once more chased the anger from her mind. It was obvious that
he was unstrung, on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"You are very foolish, Andrew," she declared. "The work of to-day is
better done by me. You are a very bad typist and you are very slow with
the new code. It is natural that the Chief should send for me. There are
many matters of graver importance, I am sure, that he would leave in
your hands."

Her kindness seemed only to throw fresh fuel on the fire of his anger.
She suddenly realised that she was in actual physical danger. They were
alone on the floor of the great building. No one arrived at the offices
until nine o'clock and the cleaners had departed. She moved a little
towards the telephone, but he seemed to apprehend her purpose and
blocked her passage.

"It is false," he almost shouted. "He has lost his head. There is
nothing more vital to the State than the scheme which he is to confide
to you to-day. He has lost his head! You have bewitched him as you have
done me--Samara, to whom women have been but play-things!--the idlest of
all his diversions!"

"You are becoming absurd," she said quietly. "Be so kind as to let me
pass."

He shook his clenched fists in the air. His appearance was veritably
tragic. Every moment he was more completely losing control of himself.

"You must answer my question or I think that I shall kill you," he
gasped. "You know very well what it is. You could have saved me this
torture. Is Samara your lover?"

Catherine looked at him steadfastly for a moment; looked at his long
narrow face with its high cheek bones, his lips trembling like a
woman's, at his eyes from which all the kindly dreaminess had gone. It
seemed to take her a few seconds to realise the actual meaning of his
words, but when she did, the strain of inherited savagery, which had
made for purity amongst the women of her race and bravery amongst the
men, leaped into fire in her veins. Her physical strength itself seemed
to swell. With her outstretched hand, she struck Andrew Kroupki a blow
on the side of the face with such unexpected force that he staggered
back half-dazed, blood already commencing to trickle from the place
where her ring had bitten into his flesh. Before he could recover
himself she had gone. To his reeling senses the slam of the door, the
click of her heels upon the polished floor, were full of evil portent.

She made no excuses when she arrived at her destination, though Samara
was manifestly impatient. Their meeting of the night before seemed to
belong to another world. Never, for a single moment did he depart from
the rle of exacting and conscientious employer. He did not even trouble
to present to her Adolph Weirtz, the semitic, brilliant Minister of
Finance, who was present, but plunged at once into their work. At eleven
o'clock Weirtz left. At one o'clock her fingers began to stumble. He
looked at her sharply.

"What is the matter?" he asked curtly. "Do you need luncheon?"

"I do not think that I need it any more than any one else would," she
replied. "Something of the sort is usual. Probably you would have
noticed yourself that it is past one o'clock if you had breakfasted at
seven and if you had not had the resources of your sideboard."

He suddenly and unexpectedly smiled.

"_Touch_," he confessed. "I am a selfish brute."

He rang the bell and gave Ivan a brief order. Then he crossed to the
sideboard, concocted a strange amber-coloured drink which he forced upon
her and pushed cigarettes to her side. He himself had been smoking a
huge pipe most of the morning.

"At four o'clock," he confided, "the other two members of the Council
will be here to approve. So much for my autocracy which you were talking
about."

"And if they disapprove?" she asked.

"The proclamation will be issued just the same," he declared, with a
sudden note of belligerency in his tone.

She laughed quietly; a relaxation which a moment or two later he found
himself sharing. Afterwards he became almost apologetic.

"The principle is already decided upon by the Cabinet," he explained.
"There can be no objection to anything except detail, and, so far as
that is concerned, I am more likely to be right than any of them. You
gathered that Weirtz was against the whole thing?"

"I tried not to listen," she replied. "I gathered that he was
disapproving."

"He looks upon the army as our sole refuge against two smouldering
factions of the community--the Royalists and the anarchists," Samara
expounded. "He agrees that the anarchist influence to-day is negligible
but he has an absurdly exaggerated idea of the significance of the
royalist movement."

"So you admit that there is a royalist movement?" she asked him
curiously.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, I suppose so," he assented. "They're making noise enough, at any
rate. To return to Weirtz. He thinks that the period of interregnum
between the disbanding of the armies and the establishing of a citizen
force will be a period of danger. I disagree with him. The idleness of a
standing army makes it a constant menace; usually a hotbed for intrigue
and conspiracy. They're hard at it now down there. They think I don't
know, but I do. Your friend Kirdorff, a cold-blooded, brainy schemer;
Orenburg--less brains but more courage. They took their commands
willingly enough and drew their pay, and began to plot the next day.
I've no great fancy for your friends, Catherine Borans."

She sighed.

"Why should you have? They look at life differently. They follow other
gods."

"Eat your luncheon," he invited, as soon as Ivan had finished setting
the table. "We must start work again directly. You must have some of
this goulash. I never imagined I was hungry. Ivan, some Rhine wine and
tumblers. Have you seen Andrew to-day?"

"I saw him at Government Buildings," she replied. "He was very angry and
very rude."

"He doubts my wisdom in giving you this work," Samara confided. "He is
quite right from his point of view. No one would do it unless it were
some one like myself, whose life is governed by instinct and not
reason."

She smiled. "Andrew would never understand that."

"I am sorry for him," Samara declared abruptly. "He is jealous of you
and at the same time he is in love with you--a painful condition of mind
for a highly strung and extraordinarily susceptible young man."

"Were you insensible to all human weaknesses when you were young?" she
asked.

"I? Mother of God, no!" he answered carelessly. "I had my fits of
weakness and I yielded to them, when I chose, but they never formed part
of my life. They were the rest houses in the night. They helped one to
draw breath for the morrow. It is these romantic youngsters who seek to
weave their follies into the web of durable things who are to be pitied.
Ivan, some coffee," he ordered. "A cigarette, Catherine Borans. Now let
us start. I have a new vision!"

At four o'clock Samara read the result of his day's work to Weirtz, his
Minister of Finance, to Argoff, the Minister for Home Affairs, and to
General Trotsk, the Chief of the Police. In an inner room Catherine
sipped tea and listened. From the beginning she was conscious of the
attitude of deferential opposition existing amongst Samara's colleagues.
Argoff was the first spokesman.

"Sir," he said to Samara, "you have faithfully embodied in these
proclamations and directions the decision of the Cabinet as arrived at
last Thursday. We three were in a hopeless minority then; we are in a
hopeless minority now. I personally look upon the action you propose to
take as fraught with the greatest danger to the future of the
Republic."

"And you, Weirtz?" Samara asked.

"I agree with Argoff," was the unhesitating reply. "The disbanding of
the Third Army was sound and brilliant legislation. To go further in the
same direction would, I think, expose the country to unnecessary
dangers."

"What have you to say, General?" Samara concluded.

General Trotsk--a thin, grey man, with the face of a sphinx--was in
reality the most discomposed of the three, although he did not betray
it.

"Gabriel Samara," he said, "before you came into power there were those
who called you a visionary. You have silenced your critics in the
establishment of what might well become the greatest republic in the
world's history. I beg you to beware lest one single mistake should
bring to naught all that you have done."

"Aye, and more than that," Weirtz put in, "plunge this country once more
into the throes of rebellion and disorder. To all appearance," he went
on, "Russia is to-day a contented and happy nation, yet under the
surface, as I very well know, there is discontent and grumbling because
it is human nature that this should be so amongst the worthless, the
quixotes, the criminals. There is always fuel for a burning brand.
Frankly, my agent's report from Odensk is that the great mass of the
Second Army do not desire demobilisation. A civilian life does not
appeal to them. They like their uniform, the routine of their daily
life, the freedom from all personal anxieties and responsibilities. They
do not doubt your beneficent schemes for their welfare, but they prefer
to remain soldiers. It is this feeling which is making them ready
listeners to the propaganda which is going on amongst them."

"The love of the military life," Samara pronounced, "is an unnatural
affection. The sooner it is stamped out the better."

"Theoretically very right," Weirtz agreed, "but practically there are
difficulties. Can even you, Gabriel Samara, force a million men out of a
life which is dear to them, into a new and untried career?"

"Nonsense," was the impatient reply. "Half of them were peasant
agriculturists in their youth, with land to till and a homestead to look
after. They will soon find themselves. Besides, you and I, General,
should know that the Russian soldier is never insubordinate. He will
obey orders. There will be nothing else left for him to do. On the day
these proclamations are posted, every ammunition dump in the camp will
be blown up, and their bayonets withdrawn. It will be simply a million
unarmed men, pouring through the great clearing house which will be
ready for them next month at the rate of thirty thousand a day."

"It is to my mind," General Trotsk declared, "a most rash and hazardous
experiment."

"Where is the hazard?" Samara demanded. "The First Army is within a
day's march of the city, fully equipped and fully armed. But far be it
from me to suggest such a thing as a conflict. Their mere existence
would prevent it."

"There is yet another danger," General Trotsk pointed out. "Supposing
word of this projected destruction of their ammunition were to reach the
army; it would be easy enough for them to guard against it."

"Such a supposition infers the presence of a traitor amongst us," Samara
argued. "Not another breathing soul knows my plans. Peter Tranchard, who
controls the private printing press of the Home Office, you yourself
would vouch for, Argoff. Not one of his compositors can read, but, as
in the case of the proclamation addressed to the Poles two years ago,
these men are locked up in quarters for a week after their work is
done."

"There is your secretary," Weirtz suggested bluntly.

"I will answer for her," Samara promised, with a flash in his eyes. "I
admit the need for secrecy. It is because of it that I dealt with this
measure before the Cabinet instead of the General Assembly. You have no
reason to doubt the loyalty of the First Army, General?"

"There is some disquiet," Trotsk admitted. "I have only this morning
caused seventy of my men to be enrolled in the ranks."

"The plot to restablish Soviet conditions," Weirtz remarked, "was
never, I think, a serious one. I suspect that the plotting such as it is
to-day, emanates from a different source."

"Royalist?" Samara enquired.

"Royalist, beyond a doubt," Trotsk affirmed. "The Russian of to-day
hates the very sound of the word 'Bolshevist' or 'anarchist.' It is the
reactionary swing of the pendulum which is to be feared. It is my firm
belief that there are a million more Royalists in the country to-day
than any one imagines."

Samara laughed confidently.

"There may be amazing surprises in store for us in this world," he said,
"but I do not think that Nicholas Imanoff, bond seller of New York, will
ever be crowned Tzar of Russia. You have read the proclamations, my
friends. Apart from the fact that you are not in entire sympathy with me
and with the majority of the Cabinet as to the policy of which they are
the outcome, you have no criticism to make?"

"I have none except those I made before the Cabinet," Adolph Weirtz
declared. "I maintain that as it seems to be the wish of the Cabinet
that the Second Army should be disbanded, it should be done gradually--a
hundred thousand a year, the men to be selected by lot."

"Too slow," Samara observed brusquely. "Anything else?"

"I propose," Trotsk said, "that you, sir, visit the district personally,
address the soldiers, and study their disposition. I have reports from
my subordinates every day which I find disquieting."

"That I have decided to do," Samara assented. "And you, Argoff?"

"I have but one suggestion to make," was the prompt reply. "Burn your
morning's work, Mr. President, and expunge the decree from the archives
of the Cabinet. You are trifling with destiny."

"Every reformer the world has ever known," Samara answered deliberately,
"has sat at the table of chance."

Samara drew back the curtains of the inner room as soon as he was alone.
Catherine came quietly forward to meet him.

"Well?" he asked. "You heard everything?"

"Everything!"

"And what is your opinion?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I am twenty-five years old," she said. "Twenty-three years of my life
have been spent in New York. I am a Russian only by instinct. I have yet
to learn the temper of my people."

"Never mind your lack of experience. Answer me from that instinct."

She acquiesced unwillingly.

"You have made Russia a great and prosperous country," she said. "You
have succeeded in reducing her army by a million men. I do not see why
you take this further risk."

"Sophist," he growled. "Instinct only. I insist."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Yesterday," she confided, "I looked upon the royalist cause in Russia
as a forlorn thing. To-morrow, if you persist, I shall begin to wonder
what it would feel like to marry Nicholas and be Tzarina of all the
Russias."

       *       *       *       *       *

Samara seemed afflicted by a curious fit of lethargy after Catherine's
departure. He sat in his great bare room till the twilight filled it
with shadows; until, in fact, he was disturbed by stealthy footsteps
behind his chair. He turned abruptly round. A tall, gaunt figure was
standing before the safe. Samara, after a second's scrutiny, withdrew
his hand from the butt of the pistol towards which it had sprung.

"Andrew!" he exclaimed. "What the devil are you doing here?"

The young man faced him. Even in the gloom of the apartment the wound on
his cheek was clearly visible.

"I was restless, Master," he said. "I entered by the side gate. I have
come to ask a favour."

"What is it, and what has happened to you?" Samara demanded.

"I have met with an accident," was the dreary confession. "Something
very terrible has happened. I cannot breathe here in Moscow. I must get
away."

"Go on."

"We were to start for London on Monday. Let me go by the early morning
boat and wait for you there. There are things to be done before you
arrive. I can see to them."

"What have you been doing to yourself?" Samara asked, looking at the
scar upon his face.

"An accident has happened," Andrew replied. "A very terrible accident! I
must get away at once. Give me permission to go to England, please."

"Is this because Catherine Borans has been working for me to-day?"
Samara enquired bluntly.

Andrew shivered. He had winced at the sound of her name as though some
one had struck him with a whip.

"I have no more feeling of that sort," he groaned. "It is finished. I
simply want to get away."

Samara wrote a few lines upon a sheet of foolscap and passed them over.

"Very well," he assented. "There is your order, and the name of the
hotel where you will stay when you reach London. If all goes well I
shall follow you on Thursday."

"Aye, on Thursday," Andrew muttered.

Samara glanced at him curiously.

"Have you seen your doctor lately, Andrew?" he enquired.

The young man laughed bitterly.

"I am ill," he acknowledged, "but no doctor can cure me."

Samara indulged in a moment's deliberation. Distinctly something had
happened.

"Are you sure that you are fit to travel?" he asked.

"If I stay here for another day, I shall shoot myself or some one else.
Better let me go. I am of no use to any one just now. I could not work.
I could not be trusted. Let me go, please."

"You are talking foolishly, Andrew," his master declared. "I have
trusted you with the secrets of my life. You could not betray me if you
would. There is something beneath all this. Why not give me your
confidence?"

"It is too late," Andrew groaned, shuffling towards the door.

Samara stopped him with an imperative monosyllable.

"Andrew," he asked, "is it a woman who has done this? Well, I see it is.
I am going to use the surgeon's knife. Never in this world could
Catherine Borans be anything to you."

The young man's face for a moment was like the face of a devil.

"Blast you, don't I know it?" he cried. "Don't I know whose woman she
is? That's why I'm getting away--why I choose hell rather than stay
here!"

For once his master's call was disobeyed. The slam of the door echoed
through the huge half-empty house. Samara's few seconds of spellbound
agitation were all the start Andrew needed. He was gone!




CHAPTER VII


Catherine, standing that evening in a corner of her aunt's little salon,
with Nicholas in close attendance, watched, with a disquietude which she
found it hard to conceal, the continual stream of visitors pouring all
the time through the open doors. Alexandrina's first "At Home" six
months ago had resulted in the visit of less than a dozen rather shabby,
melancholy men and women, who seemed like the ghosts of their own
unhappy pasts. Conversation had been almost pathetic and had consisted
principally of reminiscences. They spoke of the great families which
formed the connecting links between them, of the branches which had died
out, of others whose members were scattered all over the world. To-day
the memory of that first gathering seemed like a dream. There were at
least a hundred and fifty visitors in the small suite of rooms, and more
arriving all the time. The people, themselves, were different. There was
an air of subdued interest, almost excitement, in their demeanour, a new
spring in their walk, and a note of suppressed jubilance in many
fragments of smothered conversation. Kirdorff was there in brilliant
regimentals, surrounded by a little group of eager but cautious
questioners. The names of the men and women who came and went so freely
recalled all the splendours of a St. Petersburg Court of fifty years
ago. Nicholas played with the hilt of his sword and stroked his
incipient moustache with an almost fatuous air of self-satisfaction.
Nearly every newcomer, after paying his or her respects to their
hostess, came to address a few words to him. The presence of Mrs. Saxon
J. Bossington, in a dress of magenta velvet with a hat to match, her
neck and arms ablaze with jewels, and a priceless ermine stole about her
shoulders, seemed the only discordant feature, and even she, through
sheer magnificence, presented a striking appearance.

"I wonder if all this is wise," Catherine murmured to her cousin.

He smiled condescendingly.

"You are afraid that it might offend your friend, Samara?" he observed
with a superior smile.

"Thanks to whom you are no longer selling bonds in New York," she
retorted sharply. "As it happens, I was not thinking of Mr. Samara. Is
not full-dress uniform now against the laws of the country?"

"It may be," he admitted. "We shall soon make our own laws. Since that
man's name has been mentioned, Catherine," he went on, "I have a word to
say to you. The time has arrived when you should cease to be his
secretary."

"Why?" she enquired.

He stared at her, as though astonished at her lack of comprehension.

"In the beginning," he explained, "your position was naturally of great
benefit to us. Those times are passing. When one thinks of the future,
it will not do for people to be able to look back and remember the time
when you were his paid assistant."

"You seem quite sure that I am going to marry you," she remarked. "Is
this because I have sent General von Hartsen back to Berlin?"

"Not at all," he answered confidently. "It is your destiny to be Tzarina
of all the Russias. The other scheme was absurd."

"It seems almost a pity," she sighed, "that I was brought up in New
York."

"Why?" he asked.

"One gets so foolishly democratic," she replied. "As a royal wooer I
think I rather preferred Frederick. He quite lost his head about me."

Nicholas laughed scornfully.

"Frederick was a little premature," he observed. "Things may not move so
quickly in Germany as he imagines. Tell me about General von Hartsen and
his ridiculous mission. How did he take your refusal of his proposal?"

"Badly," she answered. "He left before dinner was half over to catch the
night boat to Berlin."

"The worst of these Germans," he sneered, in a self-satisfied manner.
"As soon as they are thwarted they lose their tempers."

Mrs. Bossington sailed up to them and Nicholas promptly made his escape.

"My dear," she exclaimed, "it's good to see some one who knew me in New
York, where we were somebody! I am getting quite confused with all these
Princesses and Duchesses and Grand Duchesses, and they tell me that
after all, even if Saxon does buy the whole of that Ardenburg
estate--dozens and dozens of square miles, my dear--he will only be a
Count!"

"Well, that should do for a start," Catherine declared, smiling. "As a
matter of fact," she went on, "if I were you, I wouldn't talk about it
too much. I think my aunt and Nicholas and all of them here have rather
lost their heads. To discuss such things openly, to speak of the future
as we continually do, is treason to-day."

"You don't think there's any doubt about this thing coming off?" Mrs.
Bossington asked anxiously.

"I prefer not to discuss it," Catherine replied. "I even go further. I
think that it is in bad taste to speak of it as blatantly as my people
are doing. After all, we are here on sufferance."

"You came on sufferance, perhaps," Mrs. Bossington amended, "but you
should hear what Colonel Kirdorff has to say about the army. Your friend
Mr. Samara has been making himself pretty unpopular."

"The army is still not Russia," Catherine reminded her.

Mrs. Bossington smiled cryptically.

"I don't know whether you are aware," she remarked, dropping her voice a
little, "that I was admitted to the last meeting of Colonel Kirdorff's
secret council. There were delegates from the southern provinces, from
Petrograd, and I don't know how many places. They all seemed to agree
that the peasants at any rate and the lower _bourgeoisie_ all want their
Tzar back again. As for the army, there is scarcely an officer who isn't
a Royalist, since the Germans got the sack, and the soldiers themselves
are all furious against Samara because of this talk of disbandment.
Saxon's no slouch, my dear, as you know, and he declares the whole
thing's a cinch, as long as it's managed on a business footing. I want
him to take an interest in politics. A man with a business head like his
would be worth having anywhere. If he were Finance Minister, for
instance, he might easily be made a Prince."

"I must go and talk to my aunt," Catherine said abruptly. "I quite
realise all that you have done for my family and my friends, Mrs.
Bossington, and I hope that some day you may be rewarded for it, but I
earnestly advise you not to talk so openly of your hopes."

She crossed the room towards where her aunt was seated, the centre of an
animated little group. She was on the point of being surrounded herself
when two new guests were announced. As though of a purpose, the
major-domo who stood at the doors raised his voice as he spoke the
names:

"General Trotsk--Captain Irdron."

The babel of conversation ceased as though by magic. It was amidst
almost a complete silence that the two men, both clad in the plain dark
uniform of the State Police, approached Alexandrina. The General
saluted, as he came to a standstill before the hostess of the little
assembly. Everybody seemed to recognise the sombre, almost menacing note
which their arrival had introduced.

"Madame," he said, "I have taken the liberty of paying you a visit. I
beg leave to present my aide-de-camp, Captain Irdron."

Alexandrina acknowledged the salute of her two visitors a little
stiffly.

"You are very welcome, General," she replied. "I do not remember,
however, that your name is upon my visiting list."

"Madame," was the somewhat curt retort, "by virtue of my office under
the Republic, my name is upon any visiting list where I choose to place
it. We will, since you prefer it, consider my visit official."

He saluted again and turned deliberately away, murmuring a word or two
to his companion, who appeared to be taking notes of the names of some
of those present. He exchanged a few cold words with Catherine.

"You find time occasionally, then, Mademoiselle, to attend social
functions," he remarked.

"One has one's family duties," Catherine rejoined with faint irony.

The General turned on his heel. The silence in the room remained
unbroken. Every one was curious, a little agitated. The Minister of
Police approached Kirdorff, who was talking to Nicholas. His expression
was grim and official. The atmosphere of the salon became tense.

"Sir," he said, addressing Kirdorff, "I have to inform you that you are
wearing a uniform which is contrary to the regulations of the Republican
Government of Russia."

"In what respect is it at fault?" Kirdorff enquired.

"In every respect, sir," Trotsk answered harshly. "The uniforms worn by
the officers in the Republican Army are supplied by Commissariat
Department C. You are wearing a full-dress uniform of the monarchical
army, abolished by law in nineteen-nineteen. Your name, sir?" he asked,
turning to Nicholas.

"Nicholas Imanoff," was the contemptuous reply. "I was not aware that a
policeman had anything to do with the uniform of the army."

The smile of the Minister of Police was gentle, almost urbane.

"Naturally you are ignorant of Russia and its military regulations," he
murmured. "You have, I think, lived all your life in New York and been
engaged in other pursuits. You will report at the War Office, to the
Chief of the Staff, within a quarter of an hour. He will give you
further instructions."

Kirdorff laid his hand on Nicholas' shoulder in time to check an angry
retort.

"By what authority, sir, do you of the police," he demanded, "issue
orders to officers in the Russian Army?"

The Minister smiled.

"Your long absence from the country, sir, is your only excuse for such a
question," he declared. "I represent the supreme power in the
country--the Armies of the Service of the State. You can obey my orders
voluntarily or, in five minutes, under escort."

There was a brief pause. Kirdorff turned away, bowed low and raised his
hostess's fingers to his lips.

"Madame," he whispered, "we do well to bend. Nothing must prevent my
being able to rejoin the army."

"I have confidence in you, Colonel," she assured him.

The two men left the room. As soon as he was sure of their absence, the
Chief of the Police himself saluted Alexandrina.

"Madame," he said, "I regret to have interrupted your social gathering
and to have deprived you of doubtless honoured guests. I shall now take
my departure. For the present," he added, "it is sufficient for me to
remind you that in this city you are the guests of the Russian
Republic."

"I am a Russian citizeness, Monsieur le Commissionaire," Alexandrina
answered, with a touch of hauteur in her tone; "my opinions and my
actions are a matter for my own conscience."

The Grand Duchess had at least the triumph of the last word, for her
visitor made no reply. He left the room followed by his attendant. There
was a little gasp as the door was closed behind them, a silence broken
by old Prince Dromidor, eighty-seven years of age, back from his little
villa at Kensington after thirty years' absence from his country, to pay
his respects to the returned refugees.

"It is the beginning," he cried. "They have shown their fear."

Mrs. Saxon J. Bossington laid her hand upon Catherine's arm.

"My dear," she said impressively, "let me put you wise to one thing.
I've lived in New York and I know. Don't you let your aunt get in wrong
with the police. What was he, an inspector or an assistant
commissioner?"

Catherine smiled.

"As a matter of fact," she confided, "he is a Cabinet Minister. He is
one of the three who, with Mr. Samara, rule Russia."

"Really!" Mrs. Bossington murmured, with some chagrin. "And I never met
him!"




CHAPTER VIII


Samara greeted Catherine with a grin of delight when, in response to his
telephone summons, she appeared at Government House on the following
morning. General Trotsk's report had appealed immensely to his sense of
humour.

"So your aunt is giving royalist tea parties," he remarked, "and your
relatives are sporting the uniforms of the Imperial Guard. Were you
there when the fun began?"

"I was there," she admitted. "I didn't think it very funny."

"You are quite right," he confessed. "It is not funny. It is pathetic.
These people have lived in the past so long that they have taught
themselves to believe in its reincarnation. All the same, your aunt
seems to have been behaving very badly."

Catherine shrugged her shoulders.

"Is there any reason why she should not entertain her old friends?" she
enquired.

"Not the slightest," Samara agreed. "I should not have interfered in a
thousand years. Trotsk takes himself too seriously. He speaks already of
the royalist movement--as though there could be such a thing."

"General Trotsk may err too much in one direction," Catherine observed.
"As an impartial looker-on, I should say that you erred too much in
another."

"Are you an impartial looker-on?" he asked quickly. "Trotsk will have it
that you are one of the gang."

"I am a Royalist at heart, of course," she acknowledged, "but I am not a
conspirator."

"What have you been doing to Andrew Kroupki?" he asked abruptly.

"Quarrelled with him, more or less," she replied. "As a matter of fact,
the quarrel was not of my seeking. He insulted me the other morning."

"Is it true that you knocked him down?"

"Perfectly," Catherine admitted. "I was delighted to find how strong I
was."

Samara looked at her gravely.

"It is a terrible thing," he declared, "for a man to strike a woman,
although she often deserves it. For a woman to strike a man is a
tragedy. What was his offence?"

Catherine had seated herself at her table a few yards away. She swung
round and faced her questioner.

"He asked me if you were my lover," she said coolly.

"A very natural question," he remarked, taking up a pile of letters and
beginning to look them through. "Was that your only provocation?"

She turned away, opened her desk, and drew out her work.

"I have always understood," she reflected, "that the standard of morals
amongst the educated portion of the Russian _bourgeoisie_ was
exceedingly low."

"Meaning me?" he asked cheerfully.

"Yes."

"The cap, alas, does not fit," he assured her. "I have no pretensions to
rank amongst the _bourgeoisie_. I am of peasant stock."

"You do not surprise me," she replied.

He rose to his feet and set into operation the machinery which unlocked
the great private safe. In a minute or two he appeared with a roll of
manuscript.

"Please get on with this manifesto," he begged. "You are at your best
this morning. It would be a pity to waste such intelligence."

She took the papers. "I should like to know what has become of Andrew,"
she said.

"He has gone to London as my advance agent. I do not think that he will
ever come back--not unless you leave me. Of course," he went on, "if
this little tea-party scheme of your aunt's comes off, you are booked
for the part of Tzarina, I suppose."

"There is always that hope," she admitted.

"Heaven preserve me from another woman secretary!" he exclaimed. "One
never gets the last word."

Catherine was studiously silent. Samara waited for a moment or two. Then
he left the room, slamming the door violently. It was an hour before he
returned, and when he did he closed the door behind him and locked it.
Catherine looked up questioningly.

"What is that for?" she asked.

"So that you don't leave me before I am ready for you to go," he
answered. "Also to make sure that we are not interrupted."

"It seems a little absurd," she complained. "I have no idea of going
until I have finished my work."

"How long will that take you?"

"Another half an hour."

"Finish it, then," he directed. "Afterwards I have something to say to
you."

She continued her task. Samara studied a handful of the documents which
he had brought back with him, signing some and throwing others on one
side. Once or twice he spoke on the telephone. Finally Catherine turned
towards him.

"I have finished," she announced. "Will you check my transcription?"

"Presently," he acquiesced.

"You had something to say to me," she reminded him.

"I had. I find that after all old Trotsk wasn't such an idiot. There is
a genuine monarchist plot afoot."

She sat watching him, without faltering, with no sign of
self-consciousness.

"Started in your aunt's drawing-room without a doubt," he went on,
"subscribed to and joined in by all that shabby down-at-heel crew I
brought home from a second-rate American boarding-house, making its way
in the army, they tell me--especially the Second Army. Do you know that
I have to postpone my journey to England and go down to Odensk to
harangue these recalcitrant subjects? That's the result of trying to
make good Russians of men like Kirdorff and Orenburg. What do they care
about Russia? It's their blasted selves they think of."

"They have a right to their convictions," she rejoined.

"And I have a right to have them shot," he answered. "They've been
guilty of treason against the State. Trotsk has just given me a copy of
one of Kirdorff's speeches to the Fourth Army Corps. He'd have been
tried by court-martial and shot a few years ago. I hate to kill fools,
but something must be done. Trotsk would have the whole lot out of the
country, or facing the firing line in ten minutes, and I am not sure
that he isn't right. Advise me, Miss Secretary. What am I to do with
this nest of vipers? Not much poison about them, but enough to hurt,
Trotsk says. Tell me how to deal with them."

"Too great a responsibility for me," she replied.

"What if I were to shoot Nicholas Imanoff, or banish him?" he suggested.
"There isn't another Imanoff amongst them. They can't make a Tzar out of
an ordinary person, can they--even an aristocrat?"

"There is me," she remarked meditatively. "I am an Imanoff. They might
make me Tzarina and permit me to choose my consort."

"You had a predecessor," he reminded her scornfully. "A pretty mess
you'd make of things!"

"That would depend upon my consort," she replied. "I might choose you.
How would you like that?"

He stood like a statue, looking at her across the bare, lofty room. She
was not near enough to see the knuckles whiten about his clenched fists
or to catch the fugitive gleam of something unusual in his hard,
brilliant eyes. She noticed with surprise, however, the slight break in
his voice.

"Curse you, can't you ever be serious?" he exclaimed. "I've a good mind
to throw the lot of them into prison."

"I should only intercede on behalf of my aunt," Catherine assured him.
"She is really quite a dear old thing, but Tzardom to her is very much
like his Bible to an English Methodist."

The private telephone on Samara's table rang. He picked up the receiver
and listened for a moment or two, frowning. Then he nodded and laid it
down.

"Your friends," he said, turning to Catherine, "are beginning to annoy
me. Trotsk is outside with an amazing story. You had better stop and
listen to what he has to say."

General Trotsk was ushered in shortly afterwards. He entered the room
and saluted, looking grimmer than ever.

"Sir," he announced, "I have a report to make."

"I am at your service, General," Samara replied.

The visitor indicated Catherine with a little wave of the hand. Samara
only smiled.

"I should prefer you to speak before Miss Borans," he said. "I have a
certain amount of confidence in her, but apart from that, she is in a
way responsible for my ever having invited this nest of conspirators
over here."

"Miss Borans may yet find, then, that her responsibility is a heavy
one," General Trotsk declared, with portentous coldness. "I have already
reported, sir," he continued, "that I found Colonel Kirdorff and
Lieutenant Nicholas Imanoff attending a private function yesterday
wearing the uniform of the late Imperial Army. I ordered them to report
at once at the War Office. It has now come to my knowledge that they
failed to do so. They left the city instead, travelling by motor car in
the direction of Odensk."

Samara nodded.

"Well," he remarked, "I suppose you did not allow them to get very far?"

"They were arrested by my orders at Miltou," the General went on, "and
were brought back to the city under escort. I am here to ask your
instructions, sir. The Minister of War is at Odensk, as is also General
Denkers, commanding the Second Army."

Samara glanced at his watch.

"Bring them here at three o'clock," he directed. "I will deal with this
matter summarily."

The Minister of Police saluted.

"I have your permission, sir, to speak frankly?" he asked.

"By all means," Samara replied. "You can discard officialdom altogether
if you will. Light a cigarette and speak to me as my trusted minister."

The Minister of Police made no movement towards the box of cigarettes
which Samara proffered. Catherine was watching him from across the room
with fascinated eyes. There was something inhuman about this man's slow,
deliberate speech, his waxen complexion, his lack of all earnestness;
something sinister about the cold detachment of his words.

"My reports as to the condition of the morale of the Second Army are
unsatisfactory," he declared. "These two men in their persons and by
their precepts have broken the laws of Russia and are largely
responsible for the disaffection. I recommend that under Section Seven
of the Military Discipline Act they be shot this afternoon. It is
possible that such action will avert grave results."

"I shall bear what you say seriously in mind, General," Samara promised.

The Minister of Police saluted stiffly and withdrew. Samara waited until
the door was closed behind him.

"You heard Trotsk's suggestion," he observed, turning to Catherine. "It
seems to me that your chances of wearing that crown are slipping away."




CHAPTER IX


Samara broke through precedent that afternoon. He consented to receive a
visitor who came without an appointment. Alexandrina, her good-humoured
face wrinkled with anxiety, her clothes badly arranged, and out of
breath already with the exertion of climbing the long flight of steps
and crossing the great stone hall of Government House, was ushered into
his presence. Nothing of the _grande dame_ remained but her manner.

"I owe you my thanks for receiving me, Mr. Samara," she said, as he rose
to greet her. "Will you allow me to sit down? I am out of breath. I
remember your house and that flight of steps when it was the palace of
my cousin, the Grand Duke Cyril. In those days, however, steps meant
nothing to me."

Samara placed a chair for her with grave courtesy and returned to his
own seat. He preserved his somewhat ominous demeanour.

"I have been trying to find my niece," Alexandrina continued. "At
Government Buildings they would not admit me. I thought, perhaps, that
she might be here."

"She will arrive in half an hour," Samara confided. "She is now at
Government Buildings finishing some work for me. If you would care to
wait for her here, my housekeeper shall show you a salon where you may
be comfortable."

"Thank you very much," was the grateful reply, "but since I am fortunate
enough to have your ear for a moment, I will tell you my mission. I came
to ask Catherine to intercede with you on behalf of my hot-headed nephew
and Colonel Kirdorff."

"On what grounds, madame?" Samara asked.

"Nicholas is young and he is an Imanoff," she said. "This is his Russia
by the grace of God. How can he be expected to yield to the discipline
of an artificial constitution?"

A slight smile played about Samara's lips. This was greater candour than
he had expected.

"Madame," he reminded her, "I did myself the honour of paying you a
visit a few weeks ago. Rumours of the activities of your friends had
reached me. I offered you then a warning. You had accepted the
hospitality of the Republican Government of Russia. In plotting against
it, you or any other were guilty of a dishonourable action."

"Mr. Samara," Alexandrina said simply, "I cannot argue with you. I live
by my convictions. You are without doubt a great statesman and you have
been a great benefactor to this country. I appeal to you only as a man.
I beg that you will not treat Nicholas' misdemeanour too seriously."

"I have heard you, madame," Samara replied. "I can make you no promise.
I am the servant of the State."

The Grand Duchess rose to her feet. Samara's face was like stone. She
knew very well that further speech was useless.

"At least," she concluded, "I thank you for receiving me. I read in New
York, and I have been told here, that your rgime in this country is one
of mercy. I shall pray for your forbearance, sir, and for you, if you
extend it to my nephew."

She left the room, escorted by Ivan, and without further word from
Samara. He sat, in his chair for a time, thoughtfully studying the mass
of papers, by which he was surrounded. Presently Catherine entered,
carrying her despatch box. She came straight over to his desk.

"The work is finished," she announced. "You will remember that Andrew is
not here. Do you wish me to communicate with the Chief of the
Ministerial Printing Press?"

"Presently," he answered. "Lock the despatch box in the safe."

"I do not understand the mechanism," she reminded him.

He rose to his feet and began to demonstrate it. She suddenly seized his
arm.

"Why do you trust me like this?" she expostulated. "You seem surer of me
than I am of myself."

"I must trust some one," he observed. "Andrew was the only other person
who knew the secret and he is not available."

"But why me?" she protested. "You know that there are reasons why you
should not."

"I trust or distrust by instinct only," he replied. "I govern in the
same way."

"Then you make a gamble of life and government," she declared. "Sooner
or later the crash will come."

"Meanwhile watch me," he directed. "The combinations you will have to
learn."

Presently the telephone bell rang. He took down the receiver and his
face hardened as he listened.

"In ten minutes," he decided.

Catherine turned towards the door. He called her back.

"Have you nothing further to say to me?" he asked.

"Nothing," she answered.

"You know that your aunt has been here?"

"I have been told so," she admitted. "I can add nothing to what she has
probably already said."

"Your personality might have more weight," he suggested.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Put it in the scale then, by all means," she enjoined.

"In plain words," he persisted, "you are too proud to ask a favour of
me."

"I know you too well," she assured him. "You will do what you choose,
what you think fit and right. Nothing that I or anybody else in the
world could say would make any difference."

Her hand was upon the door. Again he called her back.

"I desire you to remain during my interview with your friends," he said.
"They will be here almost immediately."

"Why should I be present?" she asked coldly.

"So that you may know the truth without perversion. Go to your desk in
the alcove. You can hear there but you will be invisible."

She still hesitated.

"I have every instinct towards insubordination," she told him.

"Conquer them," he insisted. "I may need you to bear witness for me in
the future."

She had scarcely reached her alcove before General Trotsk was ushered
in. Kirdorff and Nicholas Imanoff followed, wearing military greatcoats
buttoned to their throats. Behind came a guard of two soldiers with
fixed bayonets. The Minister of Police saluted.

"According to your instructions, sir," he announced.

Samara seated himself at his desk. Kirdorff and Imanoff stood opposite
to him; on either side of them a soldier, the Minister of Police,
immovable and grave, a few feet away.

"Boris Kirdorff and Nicholas Imanoff," Samara began, "less than twelve
months ago you accepted my offer to return to this country and become
Russian citizens. I gave you both posts in the Republican Army. I told
you that I was prepared to view your monarchical principles with
toleration. Every one in this country has a right to his own opinions
and has a right also to ventilate them. So far as you could influence
people openly and honourably, by lectures and literature, you were at
liberty to do so. You have ignored the honourable means of propaganda.
You have stooped not only to underground conspiracy but to conspiracy
with a foreign power. You have made use of your position in the army to
initiate a seditious plot amongst the soldiers of the State, directed
against this Republic. Do you require evidence? I can give it to you."

"I desire no evidence," Kirdorff replied. "It is quite true that I have
endeavoured to awaken the people of Russia to a sense of what is due to
themselves and their natural ruler."

"And I," Nicholas added, "being by descent and the grace of God, Tzar of
all the Russias, can be guilty of treason to no one."

"A very comfortable self-assurance," Samara remarked with a faint sneer.
"To proceed to a minor point. You were discovered yesterday wearing a
uniform which is contrary to the regulations of the army in which you
serve."

"So long as there is a Russian army," Nicholas argued, "so long must
there be a regiment of Imperial Guards."

"An entire fallacy," Samara assured him. "To continue. You were directed
by the Chief of Police to report at the War Office. You failed to do
so."

"We are only subject to military discipline," Kirdorff observed.

"You display a shameless ignorance of existing conditions," Samara said
sternly. "The Chief of Police ranks as a Major General in the army. To
disobey his orders amounts to gross insubordination, the penalty for
which you know."

"On a technical point," Kirdorff admitted, "we appear to be guilty. I
have never in my experience connected any part of the civil
administration with the army."

"It should be your duty to learn the regulations of the army whose
uniform you wear and whose pay you draw," Samara reminded them coldly.
"You are both, on your own showing, guilty of military insubordination
and treason against the Army of the Republic. The penalty for both
offences is death."

"I demand to be tried by court-martial," Kirdorff exclaimed.

"And I," Nicholas echoed.

"Again your ignorance of the regulations amazes me," Samara declared. "I
am the Commander in Chief of the Russian Republican Army. I and General
Trotsk form an ever-existing court-martial, empowered to deal summarily
with any cases which we direct to be brought before us."

For the first time both men lost confidence. Nicholas' air of somewhat
fatuous bravado had disappeared and he was tugging nervously at his
moustache. Kirdorff was obviously taken aback.

"Your republic, then," he ventured, "is a more autocratic institution
than any monarchy which I remember."

"Your criticism may be just but it is irrelevant," Samara observed. "We
are a competent tribunal, your offences are acknowledged. The penalty
is beyond dispute. Have you anything further to say as to why this
sentence should not be carried out upon you?"

"The army will rise to a man," Nicholas threatened, shaking with
emotion.

"Young sir," Samara enjoined, "you would be wiser to omit all mention of
an army in which you have served merely to gain your own purposes.
Furthermore, half-past five is the time at which our firing parties
generally parade. Odensk is some distance away."

Nicholas was almost beside himself with mingled fear and passion.

"It is unheard of, this," he cried. "I have still my American
citizenship. I appeal!"

"Spare me a few illusions," Samara begged. "For a Russian seeking to
obtain a lofty position in his own country by virtue of his birth to
attempt to shelter himself in a moment of danger under a foreign flag is
scarcely in accord with the traditions of your race. Now, listen to me,
both of you. I have addressed you as a judge to the offenders brought
before him. Your crime is admitted. The penalty is acknowledged. Now, I
am going to speak to you as one human being to another."

A sudden gleam of hope flashed in Kirdorff's eyes. Samara paused for a
few minutes as though to collect his thoughts.

"From the point of view of an ordinary human being," he continued, "you
two cannot be judged as normal malefactors. Behind everything that you
have done there stands, if not an excuse, a reason. How you can justify
yourselves as men of honour, I do not know. You have accepted my
invitation to come here. You accepted the positions I offered you in the
army, and you started at once to plot against the Government of a
country which has never been so stable and prosperous as she is to-day.
I will still bear with you. I will look upon you as men afflicted with a
Jesuitical turn of mind. You believe that the code of honour may be
abnegated if the cause itself be great enough. Very well. You believe
that monarchy is a great cause. You believe that Russia would be better
governed by a monarchy than it is as a republic. I believe the contrary.
Very well. Go and preach your doctrines, and I will preach mine. If you
can convert this country to Tzardom, do so. Only, do it, in future,
openly, not by conspiracies and sedition. Don't pretend to be faithful
soldiers of the Republic, when you only wear their uniform to preach
treason against it."

The two men stood with their eyes fastened upon Samara. Nicholas was
moistening his lips nervously. Kirdorff had already realised that
respite was at hand. The most gloomy figure was that of the Minister of
Police.

"My decision is this," Samara concluded, turning to the latter. "You
will escort these two ex-soldiers of the Republic to your headquarters,
where you will strip them of their uniforms and provide them with
civilian clothes. You will expunge their names from the Army List, but
you will give them passes to cross the lines at Odensk and to travel
wherever they will in the country. That is all. Remove your prisoners,
General."

"We are to be set free?" Nicholas gasped.

"I hoped that I had made myself clear," Samara observed drily.

"You will permit me to say, sir," Kirdorff ventured, "that you are
treating us in an extremely chivalrous fashion."

Samara rose to his feet.

"I do not desire your thanks," he said. "As criminals, I have absolved
you. As men of honour, I shall be glad to be relieved of your presence."

The Minister of Police knew better than to argue. He made his protest,
however.

"You have allowed yourself the luxury of quixotic altruism, sir," he
said, "at the expense of your duty to the Republic."

"That may be the verdict of posterity, General," Samara replied. "If so,
I must accept it."

The little procession filed out, Kirdorff and Nicholas alike momentarily
drained of dignity, men to whom unexpected generosity had brought a
sense of shame. Samara sat still at his desk and waited. There came no
sign from Catherine. He rose to his feet and crossed the room at last to
her alcove. On the threshold he stood still, amazed. She was leaning
forward, her head buried in her hands, her shoulders convulsed. He came
a little nearer.

"Catherine," he said quietly.

She held out her hand towards him without looking up. He gripped it
tightly. Then he leaned over her. He asked no questions--there was that
much of understanding between them. He kissed her fingers tenderly and
turned away. Ivan's stentorian voice was announcing the arrival of his
Cabinet in the outer room.




CHAPTER X


Catherine, a little tired, a little anxious, more than a little unhappy,
lay stretched upon the sofa in her aunt's drawing-room, smoking an
after-dinner cigarette. Opposite her, Alexandrina, with half a dozen
newspapers by her side, her spectacles slipped on to the edge of her
nose, her voice unsteady with excitement, was reading aloud occasional
paragraphs.

"Listen to this, Catherine!" she exclaimed. "This is from the leading
socialist paper in Berlin:

     "THE POLITICAL CRISIS STILL CONTINUES

     "Herr Brandt has confessed himself wholly unable to form a ministry
     and Dr. Beither has also refused responsibility. Meanwhile the
     Imperialist Party have openly avowed that they are in a position at
     any time to form a government which will command the entire support
     of the whole country. Prince Frederick is unable to leave his house
     in the Wilhelmstrasse owing to the crowds which surround it night
     and day. The announcement of a change of constitution is expected
     hourly."

Catherine listened unmoved.

"I seem to have missed a great chance," she murmured. "The young man was
very much in love with me."

Alexandrina smiled.

"You are one of the fortunate ones of the earth, Catherine," she said.
"No other woman in history has quite occupied your position. You could
have been Kaiserin of Germany, and instead you will become Tzarina of
Russia."

Catherine poured herself out some coffee from the copper pot which stood
by her side. She clapped her hands and a somewhat uncouth-looking
Russian servant entered.

"Sugar, Paul," she ordered, "and the samovar for Her Highness. See if
that is a later edition of the paper they are calling in the street,
too."

The man withdrew stolidly.

"Even if the Royalists succeed in Germany," Catherine continued, "I
cannot see that our chances are much improved. They have no Samara to
deal with there."

"Gabriel Samara is a great man," her aunt admitted, "but his dominion is
on the wane. His ministers have allowed all the power to drift into his
hands simply because they have had no will to resist. Many have resented
it, however. His final proposals with regard to the completion of this
demobilisation scheme are unpopular throughout the whole country. They
only passed the Duma by less than a dozen votes."

Catherine leaned back thoughtfully, with her hands clasped around her
knees.

"He is rash like all great men," she said. "He should have gone more
quietly with these altruistic ventures of his. The people do not
understand, and he is always a little impatient of opposition. But he
has genius, and a man with genius is not easily crushed."

The servant returned with the sugar and the evening paper. Alexandrina
glanced the latter through.

"Nothing fresh," she declared. "Samara is to address the last of his
series of meetings at Odensk to-night."

The door was thrown open. General Orenburg was announced. They both
turned towards him eagerly.

"Any news?" Catherine asked.

"Nothing within the last few hours," the General answered, seating
himself by his hostess's side on the divan. "I came, wondering whether
you had heard anything from Kirdorff."

"Nothing," Alexandrina replied. "The news from Berlin is amazing."

"Amazing indeed," Orenburg assented. "Six months ago the German Liberal
Party appeared to have an ample majority and to be thoroughly
established. The Imperialists scarcely dared to let their voices be
heard. They were the weakest party in the State. Now a cataclysm seems
to have taken place, a fever seems to have spread throughout the
country. Every moment one expects to hear that Frederick has been
proclaimed Kaiser."

"What do you think about the position here?" Catherine enquired
curiously.

"In the light of what has happened in Germany, it is hard to say," the
General admitted. "Six months ago Samara was his country's god, and the
Duma were prepared to follow him blindly. If there had been another
election he could have nominated every candidate. To-day there seems to
be a strange undercurrent of political reaction. The people do not
understand this demobilisation. The peasants and work-people are afraid
of undue competition, the soldiers of privations, the _bourgeoisie_ of
invasion. They have suddenly begun to wonder whether their idol is only
a great theorist. How far the pendulum will swing back, I cannot tell.
We know that the Russian people are faithful and dogged. It seems hard
to believe that in a few months' time they could forget and discard the
man who slew their dragon."

"Samara has ruled Russia for fifteen years," Alexandrina said
solemnly--"ruled her for her own good, we must admit, but ruled her
like an autocrat. All the same, just as I believe in God as our
spiritual Master, so I believe that every human being is born with the
reverent instinct and desire for temporal government by an anointed
head. Germany's period of madness lasted for a short time only. When
France, too, comes to her senses and an Emperor reigns once more at
Versailles, then the wounds of the world will be healed and not before.
So far as we are concerned, there has never been a time like the
present. If we can secure the army, our moment may have arrived."

Once more the door was hurriedly opened, this time to admit a more
unexpected arrival. Nicholas Imanoff entered, wearing a long brown
leather coat and carrying dark spectacles in his hand. He was still a
little breathless and had the air of one who has just concluded a rapid
journey.

"Have you heard the news from Berlin?" he cried.

"Nothing for some hours," Orenburg replied.

"Frederick was proclaimed Kaiser early this afternoon!" he announced.
"The whole city is _en fte_, and to-morrow has been declared a national
holiday!"

"Wonderful!" Alexandrina murmured, the tears standing in her eyes.

"What news of Odensk?" the General asked.

"Samara is like King Canute," Nicholas pronounced. "He has a great
following there. He is enthusiastically received, but the men are on our
side, and he cannot keep back the tide."

"You have a mission here?" Orenburg enquired.

The young man nodded, threw his coat over the back of a chair, and
called to the domestic for brandy.

"I have flown from Odensk," he explained. "All goes well, but one of our
recruits insists that there are now in print secret orders to every army
corps commander, to be issued some time within the next week, which
might affect our plans. It is absolutely necessary that we get hold of
those orders."

He looked across at Catherine. She tossed her cigarette into the fire
and smiled at him pleasantly.

"You seem to have established a secret service already, Nicholas," she
remarked.

"Kirdorff is organiser," he acknowledged. "I speak in his name. It is he
who has found out about these proclamations and secret orders. They are
in code at present, but I think we could find some one who could deal
with them. Do you know anything about them, Catherine?"

"Very likely," she replied.

"Splendid!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "Kirdorff hates mystery. He
had always felt that Samara had something up his sleeve or he would
never have dared to make this an open struggle."

"'Dare' is scarcely the word to use in connection with Samara,"
Catherine observed. "He may have made glorious mistakes but he has the
courage of a lion."

"No one wishes to deny that Samara is a great man," Nicholas declared, a
little impatiently. "His time is over, though. If he behaves sensibly
and leaves the country without provoking a conflict, no harm will happen
to him. Catherine, I want a copy of that secret order. I shall fly back
with it to Odensk to-night."

"How do you know that I can give it to you?" she demanded.

"That is of no consequence," he answered. "The knowledge has come to us.
It was you alone who worked for Samara on the day when he thought out
his scheme. Why do you hesitate? What other reason had you for working
for this man than to aid the cause?"

Catherine rose from the sofa, shook out her skirt and stood by her
aunt's side.

"Aunt," she said, "what is your opinion? I became Mr. Samara's secretary
intending to betray him at the first possible opportunity. I am still a
Royalist, I am still as anxious as any of you to see Nicholas Tzar of
Russia. On the other hand, Samara is a great and honourable man. Shall I
do well--I, a Princess Royal of Russia--to betray his confidence?"

Alexandrina looked a little disturbed. She was almost brutally frank.

"My dear," she confided, "I never dreamed that you would hesitate for a
single moment."

Catherine turned to Orenburg.

"What is your opinion, General?" she asked him.

"I sympathise with your position, Princess," he said, "but the Cause
must come before everything."

Catherine was standing in the glow of a tall rose-shaded electric
standard. Her expression was unusually serious. Nicholas, fresh from the
drab barbarities of a huge garrison cantonment, thought that she had
never appeared so desirable.

"The best friends in the world," she said, "must sometimes agree to
differ. I am a Royalist and by any honourable means I would try to help
Nicholas. The thing you ask of me I will not do."

"You desert us?" Nicholas exclaimed with passionate emphasis.

"I do nothing of the sort," she replied. "I am against Samara; I am for
you, but let us fight fairly. Samara himself has set you a great
example."

Nicholas poured himself out more brandy. His fingers were shaking. He
dared not trust himself to speech. Alexandrina stretched out her hand
and took up her knitting.

"If Catherine has made up her mind," she remarked, "it is of no use
trying to change her."

"The young are like that," General Orenburg agreed with quiet
resignation. "As they grow older, the light they carry burns less
brightly, and the journey becomes easier. The Princess must have her
way."

Nicholas indulged in one final outburst. He set down his tumbler empty
and caught up his coat.

"I am to go back, then, and report failure," he protested. "I am to
report that whilst we may sell our souls and bodies for the Cause my
affianced wife has scruples about betraying the confidences of a
usurper. We shall find another way into the secret, though. Be sure of
that."

"I doubt it," Catherine rejoined coldly.

Nicholas forgot for a moment to be cautious.

"You think that it is your secret and his alone," he sneered. "You are
mistaken. There is another."

"There is only Andrew Kroupki," she declared, "and he is in London."

Nicholas buttoned up his coat without a word.

"I had hoped to stay a little longer," he said, kissing his aunt's
fingers. "Catherine's decision drives me back to the camp at once,
however. I must let them know of my failure."

He hurried off. Between Catherine and him there passed only the
slightest of farewells. They heard the front door slam and the sound of
his automobile driving away. Alexandrina rose with a little sigh,
fetched the cribbage board and sat down opposite to the General.
Catherine moved to the window and stood listening to the cry of the
newspaper boys in the street.




CHAPTER XI


The mind of Europe was suddenly swayed and distorted by an avalanche of
strange happenings. Once more the Imperial flag flew from the Royal
residences in Berlin and Potsdam. A proclamation, studiously moderate in
tone, almost democratic in its general outline, and without a single
bombastic reference to the military powers by whose machinations his
success had been achieved, had marvellously consolidated the young
Emperor's position. Austria was reported to be on the point of begging
for inclusion in the German Empire. Italy, with the grasp of the
Socialists upon her throat, could only look on and wonder. France, with
a deep groan, went at once into military conclave, counted her armies
and found them insufficient, inspected her forts and found them
vulnerable, but with the amazing and patient heroism of her race, set
herself to face the inevitable. England, the most faithful subscriber to
the Limitation of Armaments which Germany had so flagrantly disregarded,
postponed the Peace Conference and sent out half a dozen commissions of
ingenuous and credulous men to study conditions in the various countries
which had subscribed to the League. America looked on from afar and
tried not to feel the thrill of gratitude and superiority with which her
great ocean barrier usually inspired the less far-seeing of her
citizens. Russia itself, after twenty years of peace and content, felt
the throb of political emotion--a new sensation in her giant body. She
was bewildered at the strength of her own feelings. The more intelligent
portion of the community looked with something like reverence upon that
amazing rekindling of monarchical, almost religious sentiment on the
part of the peasant class. Only a minority of them could remember rule
under Tzardom; could remember the whispers of "a little father," a being
nearer than God in their thoughts, as making a more tangible and real
appeal to their imaginations. Samara's action, regarded with wondering
admiration in other countries, almost stunned his own supporters. He
dissolved the Duma as soon as he recognised the strength of the
monarchist movement and issued a proclamation in every electoral
district requiring the people to nominate their representative on the
question of the constitution of the country. He himself, immersed in the
one scheme so near his heart, yet the scheme which had temporarily
shaken his power, remained at Odensk and in the neighbourhood, patiently
addressing audience after audience of his dissatisfied soldiery, trying
to convince the most difficult race upon the earth, realising his slow
progress, yet fascinated with his task and deaf to the pleadings of his
advisers to seek a wider field. The acme of his quixotism, however, was
yet to come.

Catherine found herself living in an atmosphere of excitement from which
she was to some extent excluded. Alexandrina, after Nicholas' visit, had
never once alluded to its purpose. Nevertheless, Catherine had felt the
veil fall. She discussed the situation with no one but she pondered over
it. She compared the Russia of her dreams with the Russia which Samara
had created; compared the man in his daily life and ideals as she now
knew them with the narrow monarchical judgment which branded him simply
as a usurper and a demagogue. Tzardom she had accepted very much as she
had accepted the Bible. Both, it seemed to her, were fundamentals. The
atheist was by the very fact of his existence a debased creature; the
anarchist, vermin of a different race to human beings; the republican
or anti-monarchist of any type, a person outside argument or
consideration. Monarchy was God's system of government. Any other form
was a species of blasphemy. It was really after all a somewhat clarified
vision of the point of view once held by fifty million peasants. Samara,
in the days of her earlier acquaintance with him, she had looked upon
with a certain toleration, simply from the fact that she regarded him as
one of the milestones on the way from the ruin of her country to its
regeneration, to be disregarded ruthlessly enough when the whole light
of sanity once more returned to the people. The ethics of his system of
government she had never even considered. She had marvelled at its
results, but all the time with the feeling that the same and better
results would have been attained under monarchical rule. She had never
even doubted that if the longed for day of restablishment should come,
she would marry Nicholas and reign over Russia. She scarcely doubted
that even now, although for once their wills had crossed.

Yet, in these days, she found herself comparing the two men. She found
herself asking, in the spirit of a new-born heresy, whether Nicholas
indeed possessed a single one of Samara's gifts, whether indeed it were
possible for him, ruling by divine grace, to attain similar results to
those which Samara's genius had achieved. In those days of disquiet
after her few hours of daily work at Government Buildings, necessarily
restricted, owing to Samara's absence, she took to walking the streets
in the late afternoon, when twilight offered a sort of shelter--streets
now as safe as the thoroughfares of any European capital of the world,
thanks to the wonderful system of police. Nearly always her way led her
past Government House. One evening, to her surprise, she found a crowd
collected in the street--a patient crowd, watching a thin thread of
light through the curtained windows of a room on the lower floor. She
paused for a moment and listened, gathering from the whispers that
Samara had returned. In front of the door stood a high-powered motor
car. She retreated a little from the throng and passed into a side
street, unlocked a postern door in the wall with a key which she carried
always with her, and made her way up the narrow strip of artificial
garden to the back of the house. A manservant admitted her without
question, and she hastened towards Samara's room on the ground floor.
Ivan stood on duty outside the door.

"One may enter?" she enquired.

Ivan shook his head.

"General Trotsk is within," he replied, "and Minister Argoff. There is
to be no interruption."

Catherine fetched herself a chair and sat down. The conference was
obviously of a disturbed nature. Often she heard Argoff's voice raised
almost to passion, and more than once the cold anger which burned at the
back of Trotsk's measured words filled them with unusual and ominous
volume. Samara's voice, alone, seemed unchanged, but sometimes in his
intonation she detected a sign of the strain from which he must be
suffering. At last came silence--then the throwing open of the door. The
Minister of Police and Argoff came out together. The former glanced
steadily at Catherine, saluted, hesitated and passed on. Ivan stood on
one side and she crossed the threshold. As the door was closed behind
her, she stopped short. Samara's head was buried in his hands.
Instinctively she felt like an intruder, and hesitated, wondering
whether she could withdraw unheard. Samara, however, with his amazing
sensibility, seemed to be suddenly conscious of her presence. The
flutter of her skirt, a waft of perfume from the bunch of dying violets
she wore, or perhaps the sound of her quick indrawn breath, warned him
of her coming. He looked up, rose an inch or two from his chair and
nodded in friendly fashion.

"The light tires my eyes," he said, as though in explanation of his
posture. "How did you know that I was here?"

"By the people outside, not from you," she replied a little
reproachfully.

"I nearly sent for you," he admitted, "just to indulge in the very
weakness of sharing my woes."

"The Peace Conference, I am told, is postponed," she said. "Why is
Andrew not back from London?"

The question seemed to perplex him.

"I wish I knew," he admitted. "I cabled him to return. For ten days I
have had no word from him. He is perhaps ill."

"It is I who have robbed you of the one person who should have been by
your side," she exclaimed remorsefully.

He shook his head.

"I am not sure whether Andrew would be any comfort to me if he were
here," he confided. "He behaved most strangely before he left and he
never sympathised with my demobilisation schemes. I rather fancy that he
would go over to the great majority and side against me."

He sat quite still for a moment, as though deliberating. Catherine,
venturing to watch him a little more closely, was shocked at the change
in his appearance. There were hollows underneath those always somewhat
high cheek bones. His mouth, in its straight firm lines, seemed to have
lost the possibility of any tenderness or humour. His eyes had surely
receded a little and hardened. The wistful gleam of the visionary was
still lurking in their depths, but the light of hope seemed to have
grown weak.

"This room is insufferable," he declared wearily. "I dare not open the
windows because of the people. Come up to the top. I have a fancy to
talk with you there."

She followed him from the room by a door opening out of the alcove,
along a narrow passage and into the self-adjusting lift, then up the
final flights of stairs, on to the leaded parapets. From the recess to
which he presently led her the whole of the city westwards was visible,
enclosed in an arc of lights, with a glimpse beyond of the great plain
rolling and falling to an indefinable horizon. The new city was tangled
with the old, high buildings and straight-hewn streets cleaving their
way through the jumble of ancient tenements, decayed mansions, half
palaces, half hovels, the churches with their strangely shaped roofs and
towers, the gim-crack lodging houses of Soviet erection. In the half
light one seemed to be able to visualise the eternal struggle between
modernity and antiquity; the utilitarian triumphing, magnificent in
victory, here and there an old street or square left only partially
destroyed, lending a touch of beauty to the stern and intruding
materialism of brick and iron. Samara laid his hand upon Catherine's
sleeve, his other arm outflung to where the canopy of lights ended.

"This has been my hardest task," he said, "and this has become the city
I love. When they asked me to do what I could for Russia there was
scarcely a light to be seen from here, scarcely a sound building. The
streets were full of holes and ruts, the sewers were open, no man or
woman could walk safely for a hundred yards in any direction. There was
scarcely a shop doing business, prices were ridiculous, people died of
starvation in the street. And to-day, see! Even this below is only the
birth of a great city, but it grows hour by hour. The stores are full,
prices are normal. Look at that blaze of light westward. Those are
factories working overtime on American contracts."

"Russia will never forget what you have done for her," she assured him
softly.

"History may remind her in the future," he answered. "Your passer-by in
the streets below to-night has forgotten. Strange things are happening
hour by hour. Marshall Phildivia, Commander in Chief of the Russian
armies, received instructions to report here to-day. He failed to do so.
They tell me that after receiving the mandate he flew instead to Odensk.
Trotsk, my one really strong man, has asked to-night for permission to
resign his position."

"I do not understand," she confessed. "Are you preparing to abdicate
without even a fight?"

"A fight!" he repeated. "I have been fighting every minute of every day
for the last three weeks. I shall fight to the end, but concerning one
thing I have sworn an oath in heaven, and no one shall make me perjure
myself. Enough blood has been shed in Russia. What there is left is best
preserved. I shall resist monarchy with the last breath of my body, but
not a single Russian soldier shall lose his life for or against me."

"It is a wonderful decision," she murmured. "What about the First Army,
then?"

"It is because of the First Army that Trotsk deserts me," he replied. "I
will not have them mobilised. I will not have them fight against their
fellows. While I live, Russia shall not fight Russia."

"But surely you need a certain measure of defence," she protested. "May
I be quite frank?"

"Naturally," he answered.

"From what I can learn," she went on, "I think that your mission to
Odensk has been more or less a failure. What you can demonstrate to a
logician you cannot hammer into the head of a Russian peasant. I have
read some of your speeches. They are wonderful. They have almost
convinced me--a Royalist from the cradle. They are utterly wasted upon
the men of the Second Army to whom you have addressed them."

"I believe you are right," he admitted gloomily. "Yet, what does it
matter? It is not the Second Army which will decide this problem. It is
the whole electorate. Trotsk wants to mobilise the First Army and bring
them across the river to the city. Why should I? The danger from Odensk
is less than they have any idea of. Only you and I know that secret. But
if it were greater, I would never see army against army. The people of
Russia shall judge between what I have done and what Nicholas Imanoff
may promise them."

"You are a Quixote amongst rulers," she exclaimed. "The First Army is
still yours, uncorrupted and patriotic. With their help you could hold
your own against anything the others could do. Why do you hesitate? It
is without a doubt your best chance."

"If it were my only one," he answered, "I should not change. The people
shall decide."

"There is something tragical about it all," she sighed. "You do not mind
if I continue to speak frankly?"

"Mind? Go on, please."

"If it were left to the class you despise most--the _bourgeoisie_--there
would be no doubt of the result. These are the people who read a little
and think a little, who study foreign politics and realise the amazing
change in their own country. You are sure of them. Their vote is yours
to a man. It is the peasants whom you love--the peasants to whom you
have spoken as a father to his children--who are the doubtful quantity.
They are superstitious, at heart deeply religious, but very, very
narrow; very prone to rely upon a passing feeling."

"I know them," he admitted. "I must confess that they are the doubtful
quantity. I am still content to leave the issue to their judgment."

"So you have announced," Catherine said. "But has it ever struck you
that it may not suit the other side to wait? The electorate is, after
all, unreliable. If they believed that it was in their power to seize
Moscow without the possibility of any resistance, don't you think that
they would do so?"

"There is no chance of that," he answered. "You and I best know why."

"Supposing the corps commanders should refuse to destroy the ammunition
dumps?" she persisted.

"They will not refuse," he assured her. "They are all my men. You must
not imagine either that it will be a matter of hours. It will be a
matter of seconds--the turning of a single prepared switch."

"Supposing the Royalists should get to know your plans and save the
ammunition?"

"It would have to be a very wonderful betrayal," he observed. "The
secret is known to exactly three people in the world--yourself, myself
and Andrew. Problem--find the traitor!"

"I am on the side of the Royalists," she reminded him. "It is absurdly
rash of you to trust me with such a secret!"

"You might fight," he answered, "if you were a man. You would never
betray."

For some reason unintelligible to either of them, they both relapsed
into a curiously prolonged silence. Samara, a few feet back from the
edge of the parapet, was leaning against a great block of masonry, his
arms folded, his eyes fixed first upon the dark pall of clouds which had
suddenly risen up on the horizon, but later on Catherine, whose face was
a little turned from him. She stood on the extreme edge of the parapet,
the upper part of her figure outlined against the black chasm of sky and
space; a curiously effective background. She was like a pastel in real
life, something fine in line and exquisite in conception, but amazingly
human. She looked into the empty places, but without the air of a
visionary. There were human thoughts which throbbed in her brain; human
passions which stirred in her veins. Life, which since her departure
from New York had moved so swiftly for her, seemed all the time to be
piling up problems which even at that moment filled her mind--problems
which she faced without a touch of neurotic disability but with a
simplicity and breadth of vision essentially racial. Even her smooth and
beautiful forehead was unruffled as she studied the issues which had
risen up before her. Samara, watching more and more intently, was
puzzled. He remembered ever afterwards that in these, his hours of fate,
the most strenuous effort of his mind was directed towards a wistful,
intense desire to read the thoughts of one who certainly might have been
counted outside the cycle of his fate.

The breaking of the storm disturbed them. The whole of the black curtain
of clouds seemed suddenly to open and disclose a background of fire. For
a moment the light on her face appeared to him almost unearthly. Then
she turned towards him with a very human little exclamation.

"Come along down," she cried. "The rain will be here in a moment."

The end of her words was lost in the crash of thunder which seemed to
shake the building around them. She grasped his arm. He held her tightly
and for a moment he did not move.

"An allegory," he whispered. "I came to look out upon this city because
its splendour is mine. I made it, brought it into being. All this is
nothing to the meeting of the clouds. To-morrow the sun will shine down
again on my work."

Suddenly he felt the cling of her arms, the touch of her body against
his. A spell of forgetfulness swept him off his feet as his lips were
pressed to hers. There was a moment of deep, intense silence, then the
blaze of light again all around them. She broke away, with a perfectly
human, unembarrassed laugh, though underneath was a curious new
undertone.

"Another second," she warned him, "and all Moscow would have seen us.
Perhaps they did, as it is. Come!"

She ran with flying footsteps across the leads, down the iron ladder and
along the passage. He was breathless when he rejoined her in the great
wainscotted library. The telephone bell on his desk was ringing without
intermission. She pointed to it silently. He took off the receiver,
listened for a time, spoke again and hung it up. Then he turned to
Catherine.

"The Cabinet are holding a private session at Government Buildings," he
explained. "They have heard that I am back from Odensk and they have
done me the courtesy to desire my presence. I must go there at once.
Except for Trotsk, Argoff assures me that they are perfectly sound."

"Have they to seek election?" she enquired.

"Only by the Duma," he answered. "They are in office until Parliament
reassembles."

"Are you coming back here afterwards?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"This must be good night," he told her. "I am addressing the officers at
Odensk to-morrow morning and I shall fly back as soon as the storm is
over. Before I go, I want to ask you one question."

"Well?"

"What were you thinking of to-night when the thunder crashed down upon
us?"

She smiled reminiscently.

"Of you," she admitted. "I will tell you what I was thinking. I was
remembering first of all a saying of Voltaire's that 'Every great man in
the world at some time or another makes one huge mistake.' Do you know
what yours is?"

"No."

"You have despised women. You have been too proud to share yourself, to
live anywhere else except in the unalterable ego. You have classed women
with flowers and wine and sunshine--a great mistake, Gabriel Samara!"

"There are not many women like you," he said, after a moment's pause.

"That is part of your folly," she insisted. "A woman is what her own
love makes her, or the love of the man she loves. You know what yours
would have made of any woman whom you had taken into your life? It would
have made her practical, far-seeing. She would have supplied just that
leaven of common sense, of human outlook, which would have kept your
feet on the ground. You have kept your head turned to the skies just one
hour too long. The woman would have pointed across the plain. You could
have had this, Gabriel Samara, and the wine, and the sunshine, and the
flowers."

He shook his head a little sadly.

"You may be right," he confessed, "but if you are, salvation would still
have been impossible for me."

She smiled across at him delightfully.

"I am too much of a woman to refuse the compliment," she murmured.

At the door, he turned back. He pointed to the safe with its marvellous
array of bars and cross-bars.

"I have never asked you for an assurance before," he said, "but I ask
you now--will you hold that secret for me for forty-eight hours?"

"I promise," she answered readily.




CHAPTER XII


Catherine, on her homeward way that night, paused at the corner of the
Square, astounded. Streets and pavement alike were closely packed with a
surging crowd, many of them, as she saw at once, students from the
universities, but the great majority of the working class. They waited
very patiently, almost in silence, always gazing at the upper windows of
her aunt's house. Even whilst she lingered there for a moment, the
windows leading out on to the balcony were opened and Nicholas, not for
the first time, she gathered, made his appearance. With a little catch
of the breath, she noticed that he was wearing the old uniform of the
Imperial Army. The people realised it too, and there was a low, hoarse
murmur of restrained applause. Nicholas stood at the salute. The
applause swelled and grew, but only one or two amongst the crowd were
venturesome enough to dare the spoken word.

"Long live Nicholas Imanoff, Tzar of Russia!" some one cried shrilly
from the centre of the throng.

The applause increased still further to a roar. Catherine turned to one
of the great policemen who was standing, placid, by her side.

"Is this allowed?" she enquired.

"All this is permitted, lady," was the respectful reply. "Save the
anarchists, every one in the city has the right of free speech. An edict
confirming this has just been issued from the Home Office, signed by
Samara himself."

"Do you think I could get to my home?" she asked.

"Where is it that you wish to go?"

"To the house where Nicholas Imanoff is standing upon the balcony."

"You are a member of the household?"

"I am his cousin, Catherine Zygoff of Urulsk."

"In that case, gracious lady," the policeman assured her, "a way shall
be made."

He held his baton above his head and shouted in strident Russian at the
top of his voice.

"Way for the Princess Catherine Zygoff of Urulsk, who seeks to return to
the house of the Grand Duchess. Give way for the gracious Princess! Give
way, you loiterers!"

The spirit of orderliness was in the crowd, perhaps because it was so
seldom questioned. A lane was made for Catherine at once. People in the
background stood on tiptoe to see her. From the heart of the assembly
came the same shrill voice.

"Way for the Princess Catherine Zygoff of Urulsk, cousin of Nicholas
Imanoff, future Tzarina of Russia."

There was a moment's breathless pause. Liberty of speech was a new gift
to Russia and something of the old dread lingered. In a few seconds,
however, hesitation vanished. Catherine regained her roof through an
avenue of wildly applauding, hat-waving youths. She passed into the
house without a sign. At the top of the stairs Nicholas met her, his
face flushed.

"Come and stand by my side, Catherine," he invited. "The people demand
it. It is our betrothal."

"Do not be absurd," she answered scornfully. "What are these but a few
handfuls of sight-seers, out for any sensation they can get hold of.
There are just as many yelling themselves hoarse at Samara's gates. One
loses dignity in accepting such tribute."

The young man's eyes flashed with anger.

"It is from the small beginnings that the great things come," he cried.
"These people have sought me out of their own will. You have not heard.
We bring news from Odensk. There have been demonstrations at Petrograd.
The country is with us!"

"It will be quite time enough for us to accept the homage of the
people," Catherine insisted, "when the elections have convinced us that
it is the people's will that we should be restored to our proper
places."

"You talk like Samara himself," he sneered. "Have you no Russian blood
in your veins?"

"Catherine!"

The suddenness of the interruption startled her into momentary silence.
Alexandrina had pushed her way past Nicholas and stood below him upon
the stairs. She was like a woman transformed. The disabilities of her
figure seemed to have vanished. It was the voice of a great lady who
spoke.

"You have forgotten what is due to your cousin and to your destiny,
Catherine," she said. "These are the first of the millions who will yet
claim you. Do not hesitate for another moment. Let these people see you
standing by Nicholas' side. All Russia will hear of it and know."

Catherine was torn with a terrible indetermination. Nicholas made room
for her to pass and followed her as she slowly ascended the stairs. She
was in a state of furious revolt, but she had somehow the feeling that
she was obeying an immutable law. They entered the salon and moved
towards the wide-flung window.

"This is no small matter, Catherine," Nicholas exclaimed eagerly. "We
bring wonderful news. People are flocking here from all parts of the
city. There are students there, too--the class we want. Smile at them
and at me, Catherine. This is the beginning of the greater days."

She took her place beside him on the balcony and looked downwards into
the upturned faces. Once more hats were waved; a roar of voices seemed
to come to her from an indefinite space. She felt her hand grasped
tightly by Nicholas, and the volume of applause suddenly increased. Her
fingers were limp and passive and cold. She seemed to remember that
earlier in the evening she had stood in a windier paradise and on a
greater height.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dinner that night at Alexandrina's flat was a disturbed and tumultuous
meal. Nicholas was full of his personal triumphs at Odensk. Even though
he had been compelled to appear there as a civilian, the common soldiers
had broken all rules of discipline and saluted him. The meetings which
Kirdorff had arranged had been packed, the enthusiasm enormous. The
excitement seemed somehow to have benefited Nicholas, to have raised for
a few moments his feet from the ground. He was vainglorious, but
confident.

"I have promised the people," he announced, "a government which shall
give them as much liberty as the present one--liberty of speech and
liberty of religion. I have promised them to alter nothing which is for
their good. In return, they will know that they are being governed, not
by a usurper, but by divine and moral right."

"You are becoming amazingly eloquent, dear cousin," Catherine murmured.
"To tell you the truth," she went on, "your eagerness for my presence
to-night astonished me. I had fancied, from our last parting, that I was
written out of your scheme of things."

"That could not be," Nicholas replied solemnly. "It could not be in the
first place because our alliance is the one thing necessary to make our
position sure in the face of the Russian people. You and I represent
all that is left of our great House."

"The union," Alexandrina declared, "has been blessed in heaven and
sanctioned by the Head of our Church. It is one of the great and happy
features of the new day."

"As for our last parting," Nicholas concluded, "I remember very well my
anger. That, however, is finished. We ask no further service of you,
Catherine. To-night we start afresh."

Catherine looked at him reflectively. A vague sense of trouble was
gathering in her mind. To cross-question him further at present,
however, was impossible. They had finished dinner now and moved into the
small salon, where all the time a little stream of callers presented
themselves and, having paid their respects, passed on to make room for
others. Nicholas accepted the homage paid him readily and with dignity.
Catherine was gracious but noncommittal.

"We move too fast," she insisted more than once. "Later, perhaps."

She sought her opportunity for speech with her cousin. Towards the end
of the evening it came.

"Nicholas," she said, "I must ask you what you meant when you assured me
that you would cease your attempts to persuade me to betray Samara's
confidence? You know that I have in my keeping a secret. When you left
the house that evening you were very angry because I refused to divulge
it."

He smiled at her in condescending fashion.

"Put the matter behind you, my dear Catherine," he begged. "It is
finished. The world itself is opening before us. All that we seek to
learn we shall learn, and that without delay."

He moved away to greet some fresh arrivals. The cloud of uneasiness in
Catherine's mind increased. She was seized with a very definite and
persistent apprehension. As soon as it was possible she slipped
unnoticed from the room and made her way to her own apartment.

There were still people in the Square when, at a few minutes after
midnight, Catherine left the house by the back entrance and turned
towards Government House. She had changed her gown for a plain walking
costume of dark material, and she wore a small hat with a thick veil.
There was something hard and comforting in her pocket and the thrill of
adventure in her pulses. The back streets through which she passed were
almost deserted, but in the broader thoroughfares the lights were still
flaming and people were promenading in such numbers that the tread of
their feet sounded like the march of a distant army. Samara's boast,
however, that the streets of Moscow were now as safe as the streets of
New York and London was justified in her person that night. Except for a
few good-humoured greetings she passed on her way unnoticed until she
reached the side entrance to Government House. She entered by the
postern door, closed it behind her noiselessly, and stood for a moment
peering into the shadows of the courtyard. There was no one stirring, no
sound of following footsteps from the street outside. Yet, for the first
time, Catherine was unaccountably nervous. She moved forward
reluctantly. She paused at every other step to listen. There were two
tall elm trees on her left through which the wind seemed to pass with a
sort of shuddering sigh, sending pattering down upon her drops of rain
from the recent storm. The house itself presented a great white blank,
the blinds drawn and the shutters tightly fastened. She approached
nearer and nearer to it, climbed the steps and stopped once more to
listen. The silence was still unbroken, save for the dull reverberation
of those ceaseless footsteps in the distance, the sharp honk of a motor
horn on the boulevard, an occasional murmur of voices. She entered the
house, shut the door behind her, groped her way for a few steps into the
gulf of darkness, and found the switch. The great hall was flooded at
once with light--an instantaneous though unaccountable relief to her.
She passed on and opened the door of the anteroom, itself furnished as a
library, at the further end of which lay the entrance to the room she
sought. One light only was burning here from the ceiling; so inadequate
an illumination of the lofty chamber that she could scarcely see across
it. By degrees, as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she could
dimly discern the great table round which the counsellors had been used
to sit, the plain wood panels reaching to the ceiling, with here and
there fragments of the ancient tapestry, and, most reassuring sight of
all, at the end of the room, seated on guard before the closed door of
his master's private apartment, Ivan. She recognised him with a throb of
relief and moved at once towards him.

"Ivan!" she cried.

He took no notice. He was bending a little forward, motionless and
apparently asleep.

"Ivan!" she called again.

Still he did not reply. She stretched out her hand and gripped him by
the shoulder. Her fingers fell upon something hard and as she leaned
over him she saw the horror in his distorted face. Her lips parted. It
was the effort of her life to keep back the shriek which rose to her
lips. In Ivan's back was a dagger. There were some faint drops of blood
upon his coat. His face was the face of a dead man and from underneath
the chink of the door in front of her, she could distinguish a pale
shaft of light.




CHAPTER XIII


The first shivering moments of panic were past and Catherine was
comparatively calm, almost collected. In her right hand she held the
small revolver which Samara had given her on the steamer; with her left
she turned the handle of the door and entered the room. She entered so
softly that the man busied with the safe, his back turned towards her,
proceeded with his task undisturbed. She drew a little nearer. Then
surprise forced from her the exclamation which terror had failed to
wring from her lips.

"Andrew!" she cried. "Andrew Kroupki!"

He turned round quite slowly; stiffly, as though it were against his
will. The change in him was so startling that she almost wondered that
she had recognised him. His face had grown lanker and thinner than ever,
his mouth seemed to have taken to itself the character of a wolf's, his
sunken eyes seemed at once to have lost expression and yet have gained
in brilliancy. With a little thrill of horror she saw the scar upon his
cheek. He drew himself gradually upright.

"Catherine Borans!" he muttered. "What do you want?"

"When did you come back from England?" she asked.

"I did not go to England," he answered. "Samara thought that I was
there. He was wrong. I went to Odensk."

"Odensk!" she repeated incredulously.

"Yes. You haven't heard, then? But how would you? I swore them to
secrecy. I have betrayed Samara. I am selling his secrets to your
friends, the Royalists--selling them day by day. They tell me you have
some foolish scruples. So they sent me here for the great one. Scruples!
I have none, but I thank the Father of Russia that you came to-night."

"Why?"

He struck himself on the side of the head. He had the appearance of a
madman.

"Because my mind is going," he groaned. "My memory is failing. I
remembered the hiding place of the key. I remembered the adjustment of
the bars--four panels to the left, three to the right, two back--I
remembered it all as well as ever--the combination for Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday and Thursday--I know them by heart. To-day is Friday, and I
have forgotten. Here I stand, with those proclamations only a few inches
off, the secret orders I have promised there within my grasp--and I have
forgotten. It is well you came. Tell it me quickly. The password for
Friday? My head is hot with the emptiness of it. Quick!"

"To whom are those secret orders going when you have them?" she asked.

"To your friends, the enemies of Samara. Quick!"

She made no movement.

"What has Gabriel Samara done to you," she demanded, "that you should
betray him like this?"

"Robbed me," he shouted fiercely. "Robbed me of you!"

"You poor fool!" she scoffed. "Do you know who I am?"

"Catherine Borans," he answered. "The Chief brought you from New York.
But they tell me that you are a Russian--a Monarchist. Well, I am a
Monarchist too. Damn Samara!"

"They might have told you the truth," she said. "It really doesn't
matter. I am the Princess Catherine Zygoff of Urulsk, betrothed--if I
carry out my contract--to Nicholas of Russia, whom you say you serve."

He glared at her, speechless for several moments.

"Now I know that I am mad," he muttered at last. "A Princess of the
Royal House! You were in the Weltmore Typewriting Agency!"

"Quite true," she admitted. "So was Nicholas selling bonds on
commission. Kirdorff was secretary to a foreigners' club. My aunt, the
Grand Duchess, designed artificial flowers. It is none the less true
that we are what we are."

He sank into Samara's chair. For a few moments he seemed to have
forgotten his mission.

"Did Samara know?" he gasped.

"He knew at Monte Carlo," she answered. "General von Hartsen told him."

He sat at the table perfectly limp. Something in his attitude reminded
her with a little thrill of renewed horror of the man outside.

"Now that you know who I am," she continued quietly, "you know that I
have a right to speak on the matter of those papers. You and I are the
only two whom Samara has trusted. Royalist though I am, I have no mind
to betray him. Neither shall you. Close up the safe, Andrew Kroupki. Go
home and ask your God to pardon you for the terrible thing you have done
to-night, and the terrible purpose that was in your mind."

He stiffened slightly in his place. Something from which she shrank came
into his expression.

"I have finished with Samara," he announced. "He is only a woman. He has
not the courage to fight for the people. He is a coward."

"Samara is a great man and you are a liar," she answered.

The fury was back in his face.

"It was always true what I feared," he went on. "You love him. You
cannot deny it. In your heart--even though Nicholas takes you to his
throne--you are Samara's woman."

"You are becoming a little absurd," she said quietly, struggling against
what seemed to be a shortness of breath. "Do as I directed. Leave this
room and go home."

He rose from his chair and began moving slowly round the table which
separated them.

"No," he decided, "I shall not do that. I shall fulfill the purpose for
which I came. Tell me the password for Friday, Catherine Borans."

"I shall never tell it to you," she retorted with determination.

He was clear of the table now, within a dozen yards of her.

"You shall tell me the password," he insisted, his voice rising, "and
you shall do other things that I bid you. I have lost my soul since I
bore the shame of a woman's blow. There is a little left in life and I
will take it. First tell me the password."

Her hand came from the folds of her dress. The feeble light shone on the
bright metal of the revolver she held out.

"I shall tell you nothing," she warned him, "and I will not have you a
step nearer."

He laughed.

"Those who are sold to the devil," he cried, "have no fear of hell!"

She would have aimed at his mouth but a chance word of advice of
Samara's, never to aim too high, came into her mind. She dropped her
arm a few inches and fired. Within the four walls of the room the report
seemed to her tremendous--almost deafening. He came on another couple of
paces, undeterred. Her finger was on the trigger again, when he suddenly
faltered and spun round. He clutched at the air, grasping as though for
something to seize hold of, and fell a crumpled heap upon the floor.
Catherine stood for a moment looking at him. She watched the slight
colour drain from his cheeks, saw the little hole just underneath his
shoulder from which a dark spot of blood was oozing. She felt no pity
for him; only a great and wonderful relief. If by any chance she had
missed! The thought was paralysing in its horror! She retraced her steps
for a minute to the door and stood listening. The domestic part of the
establishment was some distance away and no one apparently had been
disturbed by the report of her revolver. Ivan was still there, terrible
in his limp inertness. Again she retraced her steps, made her way to the
front of the safe, laid her revolver down upon the table and began the
task of securing the intricate fastenings. Once she paused and listened.
She fancied that there had been some movement in the room. There was
nothing to be heard, however, except the muffled and distant sounds from
the street. The safe itself was a miracle of ingenuity, the work of one
of Russia's foremost engineers, and familiar though she was with its
mechanism, it still absorbed her whole attention. Her task was
approaching completion. There was only one more bar to coax into its
place. Then the horror came again. She felt her heart almost cease to
beat. There was a hot breath upon her cheek. She turned around
fearfully, and this time she shrieked as one who looks into hell. It was
Andrew's face, white and drawn with pain and passion--Andrew who had
dragged himself to his feet and found strength in his madness.

"Nothing but a flesh wound," he muttered. "I'll have the password from
you, and then--the password first. Tell it to me!"

She struck at him with all her force, and for a moment it seemed as
though her blow had gone home, for he reeled upon his feet and his
new-found strength appeared to have left him. With a fierce effort,
however, he recovered himself. His fingers were upon her throat. His
knee pinned her to the safe door.

"The password! The password first!"

She put forth all the strength of her youth and supple limbs, and
suddenly realised that it was hopeless. His fingers were like burning
pincers; his arm like a band of iron. Already the room seemed to be
going round, the light must have been extinguished. Then there was
another sound--a roar at first, a whisper, a roar again. Where had she
heard it before, she wondered with the last efforts of her ebbing
consciousness? The steamer! Samara with the would-be assassin in his
grasp! The body hurtling through the air! Then she opened her eyes and
tried to smile. She was filled with an ineffable sense of relief. The
arms which were holding her so firmly and yet so tenderly were
Samara's.




CHAPTER XIV


There followed days during which Moscow scarcely knew itself; days of
excitement and processions, rumours and counter rumours, meetings in
every public hall, at every street corner; telegrams and wireless
messages in the plate-glass windows and in nearly every one of the great
shops. Curiously enough, all the time business went on almost as usual.
The restaurants and cafs were packed with surging crowds, who thronged
the boulevards at night singing patriotic songs. Sometimes the crowds
were thickest outside Government House, sometimes outside Alexandrina's
modest abode. Everywhere people were asking themselves what it all
meant. Was it a military rising of the Royalists? If so, why was
Nicholas Imanoff, in civilian clothes, to be seen day by day on the
balcony of his aunt's house, alighting at the aerodrome on hurried
visits from Odensk, driving in an automobile through the streets?

Then Samara addressed two great meetings, one at the Skating Rink, and
another at the Opera House, and on the following morning the city awoke
to find a proclamation signed by him on every wall. At last they began
to understand. It was theirs to make the choice; the restoration of the
monarchy under Nicholas Imanoff, or the continuation of the republic
under Samara and his Council. The people should decide, Samara promised
with persistent passion. No portion of the army should be used even to
defend the city against any possible military coup. No blow should be
struck, no blood be shed. Samara's invocation to the Russian people
was:

    CHOOSE WHO SHALL GOVERN YOU

As the days passed on, Catherine became conscious of a sense of growing
excitement in her aunt's disturbed household. Kirdorff, Orenburg and
most of the younger men of the party were now absent. Finally Nicholas
himself departed. The air was filled with rumours. It was the quiet
before the storm. In two days the initial electioneering results would
be proclaimed. Catherine, who for the first time in anybody's
recollection had been confined to her room with a bad throat, came down
late one afternoon, with a red rose in her waistband, and a great bundle
of papers under her arm. She passed smiling amongst the little groups of
her aunt's visitors. She wore an unusual band of velvet around her neck,
but seemed otherwise very much as usual. Only the immediate members of
the household who had not retired on the night when she had been brought
home by Samara's physician in his own car had any idea that she had been
suffering from anything but an ordinary indisposition.

"So after all," she remarked, "this great Samara will keep his word. It
seems too amazing to think of a change like this without a gun being
fired or a blow struck."

An octogenarian baron, once the owner of vast estates in Southern
Russia, and now a pensioner at Monaco, took snuff and grunted.

"You forget, Princess," he reminded her, "there may be no change at all.
Samara may prove to have been too clever for us. If I had been Kirdorff
and the others, I would have let Samara talk of peace and then asked him
to look down the barrels of a hundred thousand rifles from Odensk."

"The Baron is right," a woman from the other end of the room declared
eagerly. "The whole of the army at Odensk is almost in a state of mutiny
at the idea of demobilisation. Nicholas has made no compact with Samara.
He could march into Moscow at the head of a quarter of a million of
soldiers in two days, and the victory would be won."

The Grand Duchess smiled. She looked across at Catherine and smiled
again.

"One never knows," she murmured.

But Nicholas had not the chance of marching into Moscow at the head of
even a hundred thousand soldiers. He arrived instead, very sulky and
wet, about half-past eleven that night, soon after the last of the
guests had departed. His anger blazed up at the sight of Catherine.

"It is you whom we have to thank for this failure," he exclaimed
furiously. "You and that lunatic, Andrew Kroupki, who seems to have
tumbled off the edge of the earth."

"What has happened?" his aunt cried. "All day long we have been
listening for the rumbling of the trains and the sound of your guns."

"Guns!" he scoffed. "Samara's secret was simple enough. It has paralysed
the entire army. Yesterday the whole of the ammunition within five
hundred miles of us was destroyed, and the men's bayonets seized. There
is an army still, it is true--armed with walking sticks!"

"Samara has at least been consistent," Catherine pointed out. "He fights
harder to avoid bloodshed than for his own cause. Do you realise that if
he chose to, he could bring the First Army into the city, fully armed
and equipped?"

Nicholas sprawled in an easy-chair and drank brandy.

"How could he?" he asked cynically. "After his declaration of pacifism?
We could show fight--not he."

"My opinion of you and your counsellors is that you are a brainless
lot," she retorted. "You have lost a magnificent opportunity of
impressing Moscow and the whole world."

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Simply this. You say that practically the whole of the Second Army are
on your side."

"Except for a percentage of the officers, they are."

"You have your hundred trains waiting and your commissariat," she
continued. "Why don't you bring your soldiers up unarmed? You can issue
a proclamation and say that, agreeing with Samara in his great desire
that not a single life should be lost, you are content to show by
peaceful illustration the will of the army."

Nicholas looked across at her for a moment blankly and afterwards in
almost fervent admiration. Then he rose to his feet.

"I'm going to the telephone," he declared. "You are a genius,
Catherine!"

Catherine herself waited until the small hours of the morning. Then she
stole downstairs to the room on the ground floor where the telephone
was, and asked for that secret number which only she and a few others
knew. Almost immediately Samara answered her.

"You should be in bed," she told him severely.

"One does not sleep these days," he answered. "You are better?"

"Absolutely," she assured him. "What about Andrew?" she added, after a
moment's hesitation.

"He died in hospital this morning," was the cool reply. "I only wish
that he had died in New York twelve months ago."

"I have news for you," Catherine confided.

"Well?"

"The Second Army are going to march on Moscow just the same, but as
pacifists. They are coming to protest against being demobilised and to
shout themselves hoarse for Nicholas. My idea entirely."

"A very excellent one," Samara admitted after a moment's pause, "but
I'll counteract it. Some busybody has mobilised the First Army against
my orders. I'll disarm them and bring them in also."

"I gather that Moscow will be becoming lively during the next few days,"
she remarked. "How do you think things are going?"

"In the direction of change," he answered a little sadly. "It is always
like that. The pendulum of political impulses will never cease to swing.
Are you to be crowned in Moscow?"

"It has been suggested," she assented. "Shall I send you a card?"

"I shall escape from your magnificence," he declared. "There is that
little villa down in the South of France which I showed you on our way
back from America. I fixed upon it then as my ultimate retreat. I
scarcely thought, though, that it would be so soon."

"Nothing is settled yet," she reminded him. "You may win at the polls.
If you do, there is only one way to avoid trouble in the future. Send
Nicholas back to New York to sell bonds and my aunt with him to make her
artificial roses."

"And you?"

"Back to the Weltmore Typewriting Agency. I am sure they'd take me. It
was such a good advertisement for them when I left New York with you."

"Are you by any chance being flippant?" he asked.

"No, I'm just sleepy," she confided. "Good night!"




CHAPTER XV


Two days later a new sensation presented itself to the already
distracted inhabitants of Moscow. Soon after dawn from every railway
terminus and even along some of the main thoroughfares outside, columns
of soldiers in blue-grey uniform came creeping into the city. By noon it
was estimated that there were nearly a hundred thousand from the Second
Army alone encamped in the streets and squares. To add to the
bewilderment of the people, from northwards came a steady stream of
soldiers from the First Army, also unarmed. The streets were hung with a
proclamation:

     A portion of the Second Army will arrive in Moscow to-day to
     protest against demobilisation. Anxious in every way to show my
     accord with the desire of your President to avoid bloodshed, the
     troops at my advice will come unarmed.

     (_Signed_) NICHOLAS.

Samara showed his first signs of anger when a copy of this proclamation
was brought to him. He tore it promptly in two and flung the pieces
across the table.

"It is untrue," he told the little conclave of ministers who were with
him in almost hourly consultation. "If a woman had not been faithful,
Nicholas would have made a shambles of the city. As it is, under whose
orders do these troops march? Where is General Denkers?"

It was a Cabinet Meeting but there were many vacancies down the long
table. Argoff leaned forward in his place.

"The General telephoned half an hour ago to say that he would call at
Government House on his way into the city," he announced.

"If he is here, admit him," Samara directed shortly.

Argoff left the Council Chamber and returned a few moments later
ushering in the Commander in Chief of the Second Army--General Denkers.
The latter saluted gravely and stood with his hands resting lightly on
the back of the chair to which Samara pointed.

"By whose orders, General, have you brought these troops to Moscow?"
Samara demanded.

"I have to report, sir," was the momentous reply, "that in common with a
large majority of the officers under my command, I, two nights ago, took
the oath of allegiance to Nicholas Imanoff, future Tzar of Russia."

"Are you not anticipating a little, General?" Samara enquired
imperturbably. "It is true that I have issued a proclamation that the
constitution of this country shall be according to the desire of the
people. The people as yet have not spoken."

"Sir," the General answered, "the army has spoken."

Samara smiled with faint sarcasm.

"And, but for an unexpected shortage of ammunition," he remarked, "I
imagine that the army would have spoken in a different tongue. It is
perhaps fortunate that my agents advised me of your probable attitude."

The General remained silent. He had been a soldier of Samara's own
choosing, a fine disciplinarian, a strong, conscientious man. It was
very certain that if he had declared for the Tzar, it was because he had
believed in Tzardom.

"Supposing I order the First Army to march upon the city?" Samara
suggested. "They are perfectly armed, accoutered, and loyal to the
Republic."

"Such a step would be contrary to your own proclamation, sir," General
Denkers rejoined quickly. "You have announced your earnest desire to
have the future of this country decided upon without the shedding of
blood."

"I wonder," Samara asked, looking at him steadily, "whether you would
have respected my appeal if the bombs had been there for your
aeroplanes, the cartridges for your rifles and machine guns, and the
ammunition for your heavy artillery?"

The General made no reply. His silence was in itself a confession.

"You are dismissed, General," Samara concluded. "In the name of the
State, I charge you to issue orders to your officers that all property
be respected and that any acts of insubordination are immediately
punished."

"We shall use our most strenuous efforts in that direction, sir," were
the General's final words.

Samara looked down the table. There were eight ministers present; five
others, including Trotsk, already deserters.

"Gentlemen," he announced, "the Government of this country is in
suspense. Until the new Duma is elected and meets, constitutionally we
are impotent. Such measures as must be taken for the good of the country
can be left to my associates, Weirtz and Argoff, together with myself.
You are dismissed."

The Minister of Finance rose to his feet.

"Sir," he said, "we are passing through one of the strangest upheavals
of history. It may be that we shall none of us meet again in this
chamber as officials of the Russian Government. Before we part, let me
say on my own account, at least, that if we and the rest of the country
should yield to the popular desire for a change of constitution, there
will still be not one of us who will not think of you, Mr. President,
with the deepest gratitude and respect. You have been a great ruler of
this country in troublous times and a patriot in this hour of adversity,
as these days of bloodlessness prove. I claim the privilege of shaking
hands with you, sir, even though I venture to tell you that if the
people's call for a monarchy is, as seems at present, unanimous, I shall
tender my services to Nicholas Imanoff."

There was a chorus of assent. Samara shook hands with every one. They
filed out a little reluctantly. At the very last moment one of the
official secretaries rushed in with a telephonic dispatch.

Samara read it through.

"Gentlemen," he announced, raising his voice a little so that every one
might hear, "the result of the elections in twenty-three districts is
herewith proclaimed. Twenty-one have voted for the representative
pledged to the restoration of the monarchy."

A murmur of amazement, almost of consternation, was clearly audible.
Nothing so sweeping as this had been expected. Argoff and Weirtz would
have lingered with their Chief, but Samara waved them away.

"It is useless," he said, "to discuss affairs of state. You will find me
here if I am wanted."

He retired into his inner chamber--the faithful Ivan no longer there to
guard the door--telephoned to the servants outside, denying himself to
all callers, and spent several hours looking through his private papers.
Once a privileged servant came silently in with the samovar upon a
silver tray. He waved him away.

"A bottle of brandy," he ordered.

He helped himself liberally, refilled his glass and sent over to
Government Buildings for one or two minor officials with whom he
completed some unfinished business. Later on an official from the Home
Office presented himself with another list of election results. The
young man handed him the sheet almost apologetically and Samara read it
with genuine astonishment. The returns were now in for over half the
seats in the Duma, and out of a hundred and thirty districts, a hundred
and seven had voted for the monarchist representative.

"What does it mean, Paul Metzger?" Samara asked curiously. "Where did it
come from, all this fever for a monarch? Why was there no evidence of it
before?"

"There isn't a man in Russia who isn't asking himself the same question,
sir," the young official declared. "In the cafs, on the streets, and in
the clubs, there is nothing but sheer amazement. All that the most
clear-sighted can say is that it is the swing of the pendulum. The army
started it, of course, but why the country districts should all be on
fire to see the monarchy back again is inexplicable."

"I wonder whether Bromley Pride is still in Moscow?" Samara ruminated.

"He is one of about a hundred waiting in the anteroom, sir," Metzger
replied.

"I will see him," Samara announced. "Send the others away."

Pride came lumbering in, as breezy and cheerful as ever. He was too much
a man of the world to pull a long face and offer sympathy.

"You've earned immortality, Mr. President," he said, as he shook hands.
"I'm just from Berlin. I was at the start of things there. I've seen
half a dozen South American republics come and go, although perhaps they
don't count any. I'm supposed to be an authority upon revolutions and
changes of constitution in a country, but I want to tell you this is the
most astounding business I ever knew. No one could conceive of such a
thing. There are a hundred thousand unarmed soldiers in the city,
hobnobbing with a hundred thousand civilians; there are gala dinners at
all the swagger restaurants, you can't get within a dozen yards of a
table at any of the ordinary cafs, and I haven't heard an angry word or
seen a blow struck. I was out early this morning. There the crowds were,
as patient as you please, waiting for the election returns. I met dozens
of people I knew slightly and I asked them all the same question. 'Which
is it going to be?' I got the same answer right away from every one of
them. 'The elections are to decide,' they said. And I tell you this,
Samara," the journalist concluded impressively, "if the country had
voted the other way, they'd have taken it all right. Talk about a
bloodless revolution! I never believed in such a thing before. I didn't
think human nature could stand the strain."

Samara pushed over the bottle of brandy and lit a cigarette.

"Pride," he said, "you are one of the few men in the world whose
judgment I would believe in as soon as my own. You are there amongst the
people, and you see the truth. What does it all mean? I have governed
these people for fifteen years. No country in the history of the world
has prospered as Russia has done under my rule. Yet along comes this
young scion of the Imanoffs, whom I found selling bonds in New York,
shows himself to the people, makes use of a little propaganda in the
army, and behold he seems suddenly to have become a god. You have seen
the voting?"

Pride nodded.

"When you've learned not to care, Samara," he said, "you'll understand
it better. This is at the root of the whole thing. The commonest evil
quality in all human nature is ingratitude. It isn't a conscious evil
quality. It's the philosophical evolution of the profound egotism of
human nature. The whole country's prosperous and happy and cheerful. The
people don't stop to realise that it's your administration which has
brought that about. They honestly believe that they have done it all
themselves. You've had the privilege of being at the head of the
government. They don't grudge it to you. They have no ill-will towards
you. They're simply dazzled by the prospect of a more picturesque form
of government. It never enters into their heads for a moment that the
present prosperity might not continue. They have accepted it as a matter
of course. They think it will continue as a matter of course. That's as
near as I or any one else can get at an explanation of what is going on
to-day. It has nothing to do with you. You made just one mistake and
only one."

"Demobilisation," Samara murmured.

Pride signified his assent.

"You will remember I warned you in New York," he continued. "A soldier
doesn't look far enough ahead. Your men were well-fed, well looked
after, well pensioned. They weren't philosophers. They didn't appreciate
the fact that theirs, from your point of view, was an unnatural
existence. You tried to pitchfork them out into civil life without
preparing them sufficiently for the change. Then arrived that little
nest of conspirators you brought back from New York, and the whole thing
was easy. You went too fast, Samara. You brought it off with the first
million, but you ought to have waited for a year or so afterwards."

Samara nodded and changed the subject almost abruptly.

"What's the last move in the city?" he asked.

Pride shrugged his shoulders.

"This is such a kid glove sort of affair," he observed, "that I should
have thought Nicholas Imanoff would have been round here to consult you.
There's some talk about a ceremony to-morrow of some description. I
heard there were a hundred men working upon the cathedral bells."

Metzger rentered with the air of one who brings tidings.

"Sir," he announced, "the Archbishop is here and begs to be received."

"You can show his Lordship in at once," Samara directed. "Don't go away,
Pride. It's as well there should be some historian of the period
present. Sit at the other end there and listen if you wish to."

The Archbishop, followed by a chaplain, was shown in with some
formality. He was a large, bulky man, with a black beard, commanding
physique, a splendid forehead and piercing eyes. Even in his strangely
fashioned vestments he was a person of dignity.

"Mr. President," he said, as Samara rose to receive him, "you will
permit me to explain the reason of my visit."

"If your Lordship will be seated," Samara begged.

The Bishop leaned his elbow upon the table and played for a moment with
one of his rings.

"You are doubtless in touch, sir," he proceeded, "with the trend of
events. I have been asked to-morrow morning to open the cathedral and to
administer the sacrament to Nicholas Imanoff and the Princess Catherine
of Urulsk, his intended bride."

Samara made no movement. He sat quite still, looking beyond the walls of
his room.

"You and I, sir," the Archbishop went on, after a moment's pause, "have
had little to do with one another during the years of your office--much
sometimes to my regret. From the material point of view, Russia will
never be able to forget what it owes you. You have brought the country
out of a state of pitiful misery and filled her veins with new and
vigorous health. If it has not seemed good to you, or according to your
convictions, to think also of her spiritual welfare, that, alas, in
these days, is no uncommon thing. You cannot blame me, however, if, as
the head of the Church, I welcome frankly a new rgime which
incorporates at least the outward observances of the Christian faith
with its ceremonies of state."

"I do not blame you, indeed, Archbishop," Samara acknowledged. "From
your point of view, this must be a wonderful change. The pageantry of
monarchy needs the background of ecclesiastical ceremony."

"Not only the outward form, I trust," the Archbishop ventured earnestly.
"The ceremonies of our Church, even that one which will take place
to-morrow, are as nothing if they are not symbolic of spiritual things."

Samara bowed.

"Your Lordship has done kindly in coming to visit me," he said. "My work
for Russia is over. The new government will bring you a larger sphere of
action and greater responsibility. You have my best wishes."

The Archbishop rose to his feet.

"You, sir," he pronounced, "stood shoulder to shoulder with the Church
when you struck at the great dragon of atheism, and for that reason I
beg you to accept my blessing."

Samara bent his head. For a moment the sonorous voice of the priest
seemed to be attuned to some deep note of music. Then his hand flashed
back and followed by his chaplain, he was gone. Samara looked after him
like a man in a dream.

Presently Pride came up to offer his adieux.

"What are your plans?" he asked.

"I am going abroad at once," Samara confided. "I am going to live in the
most beautiful country I know; grow olives and grapes, farm a little,
read a little, write a little. After all, I have earned a rest."

"What part of the world do you choose?" Pride enquired.

Samara shook his head.

"When my wine press makes its first revolution," he replied, "and I
gather my first crop of olives, you shall know."




CHAPTER XVI


No person had a finer view than Samara himself of the great pageant
which transformed Moscow on the following day into a city of amazing
beauty and splendour. He stood upon the roof of Government House,
leaning against the solid parapet, looking down upon the great
thoroughfare below, at the streets beyond, at the great dome of the
cathedral above which the bells, silent for many years, were making
clamorous music. Every house was decked with flags, every person in the
crowded streets seemed to be carrying flowers or waving banners. With a
grim smile he watched Trotsk, with an escort of mounted police, pass up
towards the cathedral, pushing the people back on either side. They
stood eight or nine deep upon the pavement--a solid phalanx; soldiers
and civilians mixed together, good-humoured, cheering at everything,
festive with the joy of a great holiday. Samara gazed down at them a
little wistfully. After all it was his city; it was his brain which had
made her what she was. Those two universities, the finest in the world,
had been his conception. The hospitals, white-fronted, flower
begarlanded and hung with hundreds of flags, were of his building. It
was he who had cleared out the dreaded foreign quarter, which the Soviet
Government had allowed to become a very sewer of humanity, and erected
the great warehouses there, every one of which was filled now to the
topmost storey. It was he who, with a mayor of his own choosing, had
studied deeply the question of civic administration, who was responsible
for the wonderful transport, the perfect sanitary system, the broadening
of the streets, the wonderful schools. All these things had come under
his rule, almost at his instigation. Pride was right. It was unconscious
ingratitude. The people had these things--they belonged to them--all
thought as to their source had passed. Not once for him had those
cathedral bells rung out their almost barbaric note of welcome. Not once
had any crowd, such as he saw now, filled the streets and waited for his
coming. Blazoned upon a hundred huge banners reared in prominent places
he could read from where he stood the amazing electoral results. Nobody
wanted anything more to do with the government which had brought
prosperity to their doors, which had restablished them in twelve short
years amongst the nations of the world. Nobody even thought of these
things. There must lie somewhere engrained in the minds of men, he
reflected, a sort of craving for the pageantry of life; to see life
itself decked out with the trappings of ceremonial usage, an unconscious
survival of the delight of savage ancestors in processions and
drum-beatings. When the time came for the natural revulsion of
sentiment, people would think of him without a doubt, historians would
praise him, they might even raise a statue to his memory. And in the
meantime those hideous figures telling their humiliating story of his
defeat, and a crowd beside itself with delight!

Trotsk and his men, who had ridden back, reappeared. In the distance,
coming nearer, was a slowly breaking wave of sound, of rapturous
welcome. Samara felt a sudden quietness steal over him. He had come to
this place that he might fully realise and ever afterwards forget this
great blow of fate, that he might never look upon it as in any way
accidental or dubious in its import. He was discarded by the will of the
people. The hurt and grievousness of his humiliation seemed to him just
then as nothing compared to the sharp pain at his heart when, from the
sudden baring of heads, he knew that the moment had arrived. He gazed
down, tense and motionless. The open automobile came into sight. Inside
was a solitary figure--Nicholas Imanoff, in his prohibited uniform of
white and silver, his hand to the salute, looking to the right and to
the left--Nicholas, alone!

"I am afraid," a familiar voice said behind him, "that I have rather
spoilt the procession."

Samara turned slowly round. He gripped the iron bar above his head until
he almost fancied that it bent in his grasp. He stared incredulously at
this impossible vision.

"Such a beautiful gown it was they had for me to wear!" Catherine went
on. "White, all covered with pearls, and a real Russian headdress. It
would have suited me wonderfully!"

"What are you doing here, like this?" he asked, and for once in his life
his voice was broken and choked.

She laughed up at him. She was wearing the plain dark clothes and small
hat with the rather faded flower, in which he had first seen her. On the
ground by her feet was a square black box, she had just set down.

"I am Miss Catherine Borans, from the Weltmore Typewriting Agency," she
announced. "You observe that I have not forgotten even the typewriter.
Like a perfect secretary," she went on, "I have made all the
arrangements. I have an automobile waiting at the side entrance. The
streets at the back are absolutely empty. Your bag is packed and in the
car with mine. We have just twenty minutes to catch the train."

"Where to?" he asked, a little dazed.

"The perfect secretary," she whispered, with a wonderful smile, "knows
exactly where to go. A little way beyond Monaco, a little way into the
hills, a few yards down a rose-entwined avenue of olives! We have plenty
of time, but I think we ought to go!"

Nicholas Imanoff was mounting the steps of the cathedral. The bells,
which had ceased for a moment or two, suddenly pealed out in their
widest clamour.

"For us," she murmured, her arms stealing out towards him. "Wasn't it
wonderful for that to happen just as you are going to kiss me!"


THE END




[End of Gabriel Samara, Peacemaker, by E. Phillips Oppenheim]
