melody of triumph, "How glorious is our Lord in Sion," a young man appeared, walking quickly, and with long, swinging steps, across the Troitski Bridge. He was tall and straight, and though muffled in a long coat and profuse furs, the yellow tint of his close-cut curls beneath his sable cap, his fresh complexion and boyish gaiety of appearance, at once betrayed him to be Ivor Tolskoi.

He was humming lightly as he walked some half-remembered refrain from last night's ball or opera, but as he reached the middle of the bridge he halted, and folding his arms upon the parapet looked out across the marshy delta of the river, to where the Finnish Gulf made an indistinct grey line.

The gloomy fortress frowned heavily upon him, but the sun's shafts were making merry with the Palace windows, and Ivor's thoughts had more just then to do with hope and love, than with treachery and despair. The opera melody died on his lips unfinished and he heeded it not; his fancy had leapt the bounds of prosaic realism and was wandering as it listed in the realms of conjecture.

It was of Olga he thought as he wondered with idle curiosity which might be her casement among those that glittered and gleamed like jewels in a crystal setting, across the great marble front of the Winter Palace. If he waited long enough would he see the blind raised, the silken hangings withdrawn, and the face of his lady-love look forth to greet the day? Then would he, standing below her, bare his fair head and veil his bold blue eyes, and pray the passing wind to carry to her his message of fealty and true love.

But the windows remained hermetically sealed, the curtains undrawn, and presently Ivor with a shrug of his shoulders, a laugh at his sentimentality, and the fragment of song once more on his lips, passed on his way, looking neither to the right nor the left, and vanished within the heavy portals of the Imperial Chancellerie.

Mounting one flight of stairs with quick step, and passing along a short corridor, Ivor knocked at a closed door, and hearing the sharp French "entrez," opened it and stepped within that inner chamber where so few weeks ago Vladimir Mellikoff had weighed his chances, and made his choice.

Patouchki sat, as then, at the table writing; and without raising his eyes from his occupation, bade the young secretary good-morning, signing him to his place by a gesture of his left hand.

Ivor obeyed at once, and for some time only the rapid passing to and fro of the quill pens upon the paper were the only sounds.

Ivor Tolskoi had removed his heavy outside wraps and thus revealed the fact that he still wore evening-dress, and that a white rose-bud lingered in his button-hole, its freshness somewhat tarnished, but its perfume as sweet as ever.

After about half an hour's silence, Patouchki pushed back his chair and laid down his pen, passing his hand rapidly across his forehead once or twice, and looking keenly at his young companion as he did so. In the cruelly frank and searching morning light the face seemed to lose something of its pristine youth; the faint lines about the eyes and mouth became accentuated, the pallor of the temples more noticeable, the cruelty of lips and chin more pronounced. He did not look up however, though aware of the chief's scrutiny, until Patouchki's harsh voice and bullet-like sentences broke the silence.

"Burning the candle at both ends are you, Ivor? Pardon me if I remind you that wilful waste will scarcely benefit yourself, or us. Let me also remind you that that moderation in all things of which the apostle speaks, has always produced far more lasting results than reckless enthusiasm and imprudent zeal."

The young man flushed slightly as he replied: "If you would imply, chief, that my present dress is scarcely suited to my present occupation, I acknowledge the reproof with all promptitude. I was late at the Court Ball last night, and had not time to return to my apartments before making my journey across the bridge. I could not fail in that, since it was undertaken by your orders, consequently I must beg your pardon for appearing in such attire."

The words were apologetic enough, but the tone was slightly antagonistic. Patouchki looked more closely at him; it was not usual for his subordinates to use any but obsequious words and tones when addressing him, and his quick ear caught the foreign ring in Ivor's voice. He passed it by, however, without open comment, though inscribing it on the tablets of his memory, and replied, calmly:

"And have you brought me confirmation of the business on which I sent you?"

"Yes, chief," answered the young man, shortly. "I saw the man Mattalini, who is a veritable specimen of Southern Italy intrigue and falsehood. He would rather lie than tell the truth, I take it; but he will be faithful enough to the Chancellerie if paid sufficiently. He had arrived only last night from Paris, and brought news of Count Vladimir Mellikoff's occupations and associates in gay Lutetia."

A slight sneer curled Ivor's lips as he spoke the Count's name, which was no more lost upon the chief than the unusual ring in his voice a moment before.

"Tolskoi grows restive," he mused, letting his keen black eyes rest piercingly on the young man's face for several moments; "nor is he quite frank with me. He keeps something back concerning Vladimir, whom I have noticed he never mentions without a covert sneer. There is without doubt a woman in the case. It is always so; Eve's daughters ruin our most promising patriots, sapping their energy, their spirit, their wit, and talent, by slow but sure degrees. And for what? A gleam of white teeth in a dangerous smile, the pressure of a traitorous hand, the hypocrite tears in melting eyes! Ah, bah! It's the old old story of the garden, for ever repeating itself—'the woman tempted me and I did eat;' and eating of the forbidden fruit, have become dead to all things save the unsatisfied desire it creates but never satisfies."

Aloud he said: "Did Mattalini give you no packet or papers for me?"

"Yes, chief," replied Tolskoi, "here they are," taking from his inner pocket a small sealed envelope, and holding it out to Patouchki. As the latter's long fingers closed over it, Ivor continued, in a half-nervous, half-jocular tone, and touching his fair moustache with his white fingers: "Might one interested in the cause inquire, chief, what news you have of Count Mellikoff and his mission? It is something of an open secret why he has gone in certain circles, and I, for one, should be glad to know how far he has succeeded."

"To pass on the information to those of your friends who are so keenly interested in and solicitous for the welfare of our father, the Tsar?" answered the chief, sharply. "Why, Ivor, I did not know you were so much of a gossip."

The young man bit his lip and frowned.

"You mistake me, chief," he said, and once again his voice had a ring of antagonism in its tone, "and you misjudge me. My question was in some sort a warning, and put forth that you might dictate such an answer as best suits the interests of the Tsar and Chancellerie. There are those, chief, who do not hesitate to assert that Stevan Lallovich's murder was but an act of justice on the part of his repudiated wife; those, too, who have the ear of our Empress, and who are never weary of instilling dislike and distrust of the Chancellerie in her mind, and who insinuate that Count Mellikoff's mission has more to do with secret and treacherous intrigues against the Tsar, than with the finding of a fugitive woman. And when the Chancellerie is struck at, you best know for whom the blow is intended. This was my motive for my friendly inquiries regarding Count Mellikoff."

He finished with a slight bow, and stood looking full into Patouchki's face. For a moment the immobility of that sphinx-like countenance was broken up, a wave of dull-red blood rose slowly in the sallow cheeks, the black eyes flashed ominously, a sneer rested on the thin lips and repeated itself in the