ith the many details of the evening that Paul spent, I will not weary you, dear reader. Wandering about the boulevards he went, like one walking in a dream, at times stopping to rest at some quiet table apart from the throng of merry-makers, entirely disregardful of the laughing faces, the friendly glances that now and then searched him out. Like a canker worm misery gnawed at his heart.

He stopped at a cable office and despatched to his mother, the Lady Henrietta, a message which, though she knew it not, was pregnant with meaning.

Paul wondered afterward, as he sat quietly sipping his coffee in a small cafÉ, that in the little breast of one mortal there could be such room for infinite wretchedness. Within his heart that night was nothing but darkness and pain. He felt as though his very heart was breaking and bleeding. The sweat lay cold upon his brow and he sighed deeply.

Alas it was all true. He loved her, though she loved him not; he gave her all, and she gave him nothing; and yet he could not part from her. He could not help his unlucky passion.

Contrary to his wont, he did not, as he sat alone, dream his way back into the past. He looked rather into the mystic haze of the future, and heard not the confused sound of the voices of men and women, nor the gay music which filled the place.

Paul, after all, was no seer. As to what the outcome would be, all the dreaming he might do would tell him nothing. He rose and proceeded to his hÔtel.

But to return for a moment to the source of Paul's unhappiness. He might not have been so wretched as he sat in the little cafÉ could he have seen her in her boudoir, now weeping with wild uncontrollable sobs, now smiling radiantly through her tears.

For Mademoiselle Natalie Vseslavitch was at once the happiest and the most miserable of women. She had taken advantage of the privilege of her sex when she feigned to doubt Paul's fervent declaration that afternoon. She did believe him. Her keen feminine instinct told her that his simple "I love you" were not the idle words she pretended to think them.

And yet with the joy of being loved by the one who was the dearest to her own heart came also the crushing remembrance of the dreadful barrier by which she was forever shut from happiness. However, the indomitable will of her proud ancestry finally asserted itself. She sat down at her dainty writing table, and in a steady hand she wrote:

When Paul received this letter the following morning it was almost more than he could bear. How could she have misjudged him so! A longing seized him to find her—in spite of her charge. The situation was unendurable—he must seek her out and convince her that it was she herself alone that mattered. What was position to him? He had position. He was endowed with worldly goods. And he could marry whom he chose. He looked at the note again.

What could she mean?

Ah! he had it! She was a secret agent—there was no doubt—working probably in the service of the Dalmatian government. Well, for all that Paul cared nothing. The only course of action open to him was to follow her, to the ends of the world, if need be.

He would convince her—she must be convinced—and then, he hoped, all would be well. She cared for him, somewhat—the tone of the letter seemed to show that—though she tried to conceal it, evidently. The Countess was expected back that day—he would seek her help.

Paul wasted no time. Another hour found him at the Dalmatian Embassy, face to face with the Countess Oreshefski, who was instantly all sympathy as she noted his agitation.

"My dear lady," he said to her, "you will not think it strange, I hope, if I ask your help in a matter of great importance to me?"

"What is it, Sir Paul? You know that if I can be of assistance to you in any way it will make me only too happy." And the Countess regarded him with a tender look.

Paul had a strange attraction for women, as I have said, and this fine woman, having lost her only son—Paul's own age—many years before, had always felt a mother's interest in him.

"You are very kind," Paul continued, "and I will be quite frank with you. I shall have to presume upon your good nature to ask your advice and help once more. To come to the point at once: Yesterday, here in your house, I told Mademoiselle Vseslavitch that I loved her. To-day she is gone,—where I do not know." Paul looked at his companion with appealing eyes.

"My dear friend!" the Countess exclaimed, with truly feminine irrelevancy, "I am delighted. I would not be a woman if I were not always ready to enlist in the cause of a lover. And as for helping you, I would do anything for Sir Paul Verdayne which lay in my power. You want to find her at once?" she asked him.

"Yes, Madame."

"Then you are going to Russia—to-day, if I read your face rightly. Well, it is a long journey. I will tell you in two words where to find her—near Kieff. Go to that city; from there a ride of some fifty miles across country awaits you—to the Vseslavitch estate. Everyone in Kieff knows the place. You will have no great difficulty finding it—beyond the inevitable discomforts of travel in that corner of the world. But what are hardships to a man in love?" And she smiled at Paul in a manner so infectious that he already felt his spirits rising.

"You are too kind, my dear lady!" he exclaimed. "You are a real fairy-god-mother. See, with your magic wand you have touched the mountain in my path—and it is gone. And now, god-mother," he said, almost gaily, "tell me—who is this beautiful lady?"

"Ah! that you must learn from her own lips. Simply Mademoiselle Vseslavitch she must be to you until she wills it otherwise." She laughed as she read the sudden disappointment written on Paul's face.

"You remember the old tale of the knight whose kiss transformed the beggar-maid into a king's daughter? Some such method I would suggest, perhaps."

"But I've tried that already!" Paul almost said. But he caught himself in the nick of time.

"How can I ever thank you enough?" he said as he rose to go. "You saw Mademoiselle yourself before she went?" he asked.

"No. She left hurriedly this morning, very early, before my return. My maid told me that she had gone back to her home."

With grateful words Paul made his adieu and hurried away. The door had scarcely closed behind him when a footman entered the morning-room. In his hand he carried a small tray—and on it there lay a letter.

"A note which Mademoiselle Vseslavitch directed me to give you, Madame," he said.

The Countess opened it.

"Dear Lady:

"I am going home. Forgive my seeming rudeness. You know my moods too well, I think, not to understand that I have suddenly felt the call of the steppe. And I charge you, my old friend, as you love me, tell no one of my whereabouts.
Ever your devoted