"Good evening, Countess. Thank you for coming so promptly. Be seated, won't you?"

Olga Petrovic looked at the Count eagerly, and accepted the chair he indicated. She looked older than when she left Dick Faversham after the interview I have described, and there were indications on her face that she had suffered anxious thoughts, and perhaps keen disappointment. But she was a strikingly beautiful woman still. Tall, magnificently proportioned; and almost regal in her carriage. She was fast approaching thirty, but to a casual observer she appeared only two- or three-and-twenty. She had the air of a grand lady, too, proud and haughty, but a woman still. A woman in a million, somewhat captivating, seductive; a woman to turn the head of any ordinary man, and make him her slave. One felt instinctively that she could play on a man's heart and senses as a skilful musician plays on an instrument.

But not a good woman. She had a world of experience in her eyes. She suggested mystery, mystery which would appear to the unwary as Romance. Because of this she could impress youth and inexperience by her loveliness, she could appear as an angel of light.

She was magnificently dressed, too. Every detail of her glorious figure was set off to the full by her costumier, and her attire spoke of wealth, even while this fact was not ostentatious or even intended. In short, her costumier was an artist who knew her business.

Evidently, if ever she had been in danger by appearing in public, that danger was over. There was no suggestion of fear or apprehension in her demeanour.

"Why do you wish to see me?" she asked abruptly.

"I am quite aware," said Romanoff, without taking any apparent notice of her question, "that I took a liberty in asking you to come here. I should have asked you when it would have been convenient for you to graciously receive me at your flat. For this I must crave your pardon."

There was something mocking in his voice, a subtle insinuation of power which the woman was not slow to see.

"You asked me to come here because you wanted me, and because you knew I should come," she replied. "You knew, too, that I could not afford to disobey you."

"We will let that drop," replied the Count suavely. "I count myself honoured by your visit. How could it be otherwise?" and he cast an admiring glance towards her.

The woman watched him closely. It seemed as though, in spite of their acquaintance, she did not understand him.

"You see," went on Romanoff, "our Bolshevism is a thing of the past. The proletariat of England will have none of it. A few malcontents may have a hankering after it; but as a class the people of England see through it. They see what it has done for Russia, and they know that under a Bolshevist rÉgime all liberty, all safety, all prosperity would be gone for ever."

The woman nodded.

"Besides," went on the Count, "you are in a far more becoming position as the Countess Petrovic, with estates in Russia and elsewhere, than as Olga, the high priestess of a wild and irresponsible set of fanatics."

"You have changed your views about those same fanatics," responded the woman rather sullenly.

"Have I? Who knows?" was the Count's smiling and enigmatical reply. "But I did think they might have served my purpose."

"What purpose?"

"Dear lady, even to you I cannot disclose that. Besides, what does it matter?"

"Because I would like to know. Because—because——" There she broke off suddenly.

"Because through it the man Faversham crossed your path, eh?" and the smile did not leave his face.

"You knew that Bolshevism would fail in England," cried the woman. "You knew that the whole genius of the race was against it. Why then did you try to drag—Faversham into it? Why did you tell me to dazzle him with its possibilities, to get him involved in it to such a degree that he would be compromised?"

"Ah, why?"

"But he would have none of it," retorted the woman. "He saw through it all, saw that it was an impossible dream, because in reality it was, and is, a wild delusion and a nightmare."

"Perhaps that was your fault," replied Romanoff. "Perhaps your powers of fascination were not as great as I thought. Anyhow——"

"Have you seen him lately?" she interrupted. "You know where he is? What he is doing?"

Her voice vibrated with eagerness; she looked towards Romanoff with a flash of pleading in her great lustrous eyes.

"Don't you read the newspapers?"

"Not the English. Why should I? What is there in them for me? Of course I get the Polish and the Russian news."

"If you read the English newspapers you would have no need to ask where he is," replied Romanoff.

"Why, has he become famous?"

As if in answer to her question there was a knock at the door, and a servant entered bringing three London evening papers.

"There," said the Count, pointing to some bold headlines—"there is the answer to your question."

"Great Labour Victory in Eastroyd," she read. "Triumphant Return of Mr. Richard Faversham."

Her eyes were riveted on the paper, and almost unheeding the Count's presence she read an article devoted to the election. Especially was her attention drawn to the Career of the Successful Candidate.

"Although Mr. Faversham, because of his deep sympathy with the aims of the working classes, has been returned to Parliament by them," she read, "he is not a typical Labour Member. As the son of a scholar, and the product of one of our best public schools, he has naturally been associated with a class different from that which has just given him its confidence. Years ago he was regarded as the heir of one of our great commercial magnates, and for some time was in possession of a great country house. His association with the middle classes, however, has not lessened his passionate interest in the welfare of the poor, and although he has of late become less advanced in his views, there can be no doubt that he will be a strong tower to the party with which he has identified himself."

"He will be in London to-morrow," remarked Romanoff, when presently the woman lifted her head.

"In London? To-morrow!"

The Count noted the eagerness with which she spoke.

"Yes," he said; "to-morrow."

"And he will be a great man?"

"Not necessarily so," answered Romanoff. "He will be a Labour Member at four hundred pounds a year. He will have to be obedient to the orders of his party."

"He never will! He is not a man of that sort!"

Her voice was almost passionate. Evidently her interest in him was deep.

"Won't he? We shall see. But he will find it hard to live in London on four hundred pounds a year. London is not a cheap city in these days. You see he has all the instincts of his class."

"Will he be one of the working men? Will he live as they live? Will he be of their order?" asked Olga.

"You seem greatly interested, Countess."

"Naturally. I—I——"

"Yes, I remember your last interview."

The woman's eyes flashed with anger. She suggested the "woman scorned."

"You made love to him, didn't you, Countess? And he—he politely declined your advances?" Romanoff laughed as he spoke.

The woman started to her feet. "Did you get me here to taunt me with that?" she cried. "Besides, did I not obey your bidding? Was it not at your command that I——"

"Yes, but not against your will, Countess. You had what our French neighbours call the grand passion for Faversham, eh?"

"Why do you taunt me with that?"

"Because the game is not played out. I do not break my promise, and I promised you that he should be yours—yours. Well, the time has come when my promise may be fulfilled."

"What do you mean?"

"Countess, are you still in love with Faversham?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I hate him. Tell me, why have you brought me here to-day?"

"To give you your opportunity. To tell you how, if you still love Faversham, you can win him; and how, if you hate him, you can have your revenge. Surely, Olga Petrovic, you are not the kind of woman who sits down meekly to a snub. To offer your love to a man, and then accept a cold rebuff. I thought I knew you better."

Deeply as his words wounded her, she did not forget her caution.

"What interest have you in him?" she asked. "I have never been able to understand you."

"No, I am not easily understood, and I do not make my motives public property. But Faversham will in future live in London. He, although he is a Labour Member, will have but little sympathy, little in common with his confrÈres. He will be lonely; he will long for the society of women, especially for those who are educated, fascinating, beautiful. Olga, are you the woman to be beaten? Listen, he with his tastes, will need money. You can give it to him. He will be lonely; he will need companionship. You have a beautiful flat in Mayfair, and you can be as fascinating as an angel."

She listened to every word he said, but her mind might be far away.

"Why do I care for him?" she cried passionately. "What is he to me? A middle-class Englishman, with an Englishman's tastes and desires, an Englishman with the morality of his class. Just a plain, stupid, uninteresting bourgeois, a specimen of the self-satisfied Puritan."

"You found him vastly interesting though."

"Yes, but why should I? Why do I care what becomes of him? He is nothing to me."

"He can be something to you though, Countess; you are a beautiful, fascinating woman. You can appeal to every man's weaknesses, no matter what they are. With time and opportunity no man can resist you. Say the word, and I will give you these opportunities."

"You mean——?"

"That I want him to be yours. You want him, and I owe you at least this."

"You have some other purpose."

"And if I have, what then? He will be yours, body and soul. Tell me, are you still in love with him?"

The woman walked to the window, and looked out on the tide of human traffic in Piccadilly. For some time she seemed to be lost in thought, then she burst out passionately.

"I am angry whenever I think of him. He was as cold as an icicle; I was like a woman pleading with a stone. Something seemed to stand between us—something—I don't know what."

"What, you?" and there was a taunt in the Count's voice. "You, Olga Petrovic, said to be the most beautiful, the most dangerous woman in Europe, you whom no man has been able to resist, but who have fascinated them as serpents fascinate birds? Are you going to be beaten by this middle-class Englishman, this Labour Member of Parliament with £400 a year? Will you have him boast that Countess Olga Petrovic threw herself at him, and that he declined her without thanks?"

"Has he boasted that?" she cried hoarsely.

"What do you think?" laughed the Count. "Is he not that kind of man?"

"No," the word came from her involuntarily. "Only——"

"Only he is much in favour with the ladies at Eastroyd. I have just been told that."

"I hate him!" she said, and her voice was hoarse.

"I wonder?" queried the Count mockingly.

"Do you know, have you found out who his visitors were that day, that morning when I saw him last?"

"An old man and a chit of a girl."

"Yes, I know that; I saw them as I left the room. The man might have been a poet, an artist, and the girl was an unformed, commonplace miss. But he did not regard them as commonplace. His eyes burnt with a new light as he read their cards. I saw it. I believe I should have had him but for that. I had conquered him; he was ready to fall at my feet; but when he read their names, I knew I had lost. Who were they?"

"I have not discovered. They could have been only casual acquaintances. I have had him watched ever since he left London that day, and he has never seen them since. Of course he may be in love with her. It may be that he prefers an English wayside flower to such a tropical plant as yourself. That he would rather have youth and innocence than a woman twenty-eight years of age, who—who has had a past."

"He never shall! Never!"

Her eyes flashed dangerously. She had evidently decided on her course.

"You may have to play a bold, daring game," insinuated the Count.

"I will play any game. I'll not be beaten."

"You love him still—you who never loved any man for more than a month! And Faversham——"

"You must find out where he lives, you must let me know."

"And then?"

"You may leave everything to me."

"Mind, Olga, you may have to appear an Angel of Light in order to win him. In fact I think that will have to be your plan. He has all the old-fashioned morality of the middle-classes."

"We shall see!" cried the woman triumphantly.

"I may trust you then?"

"Tell me why you wish this? Suppose I—I love him really, suppose I am willing to become his slave? Suppose I want to settle down to—to quiet domestic happiness, to loving motherhood? Suppose I want to be good—and to pray?"

The Count's eyes burnt red with anger as she spoke, while his features were contorted as if with pain.

"Stop that," he almost snarled. "I know you, Olga Petrovic, I know too much about you. Besides, the Bolshevists have taken your estates, and—but why argue? You love luxury, don't you? Love beautiful dresses, love your life of ease, love what money can buy, money that you can't get without me?"

"You must tell me all I need to know," she answered with sullen submissiveness.

"Yes."

"Then I will go."

"And you will not fail?"

"No, I will not fail."

She left the room without another word, while Romanoff returned to his chair, and sat for some time immovable. His face was like a mask. His deep impenetrable eyes were fixed on vacancy.

"Yes, Polonius, you can come in. I can see that you are almost tired of watching me. But my face tells you nothing, my little man."

Polonius Slyme slinked into the room like a whipped cur.

"Look here, little man," went on the Count, "I pay you to watch others, not me. The moment you begin to spy on me, that moment you cease to be my servant. Do you understand?"

"But, indeed, your lordship——"

"Do not try to deny. I know everything. I forgive you for this once; but never again. Obey me blindly, unquestioningly, and all will be well with you, but try to spy upon me, to discover anything about me, and the lost souls in hell may pity you. Ah, I see yow understand."

"Forgive me, my lord. I will obey you like a slave."

"What do you think of her?"

"She is magnificent, glorious! She can turn any man's brain. She is a Circe, a Sybil, a Venus—no man with blood in his veins can resist her!"

"That is your opinion, eh?"

"I never saw such a creature before. And—and she has no conscience!"

The Count laughed. "Now, Slyme, I have some more work for you."

"To watch her!" he cried eagerly, rubbing his hands.

"No, not yet. That may be necessary some time, but not now. I have other work for you."

"Yes, my lord."

"To-morrow morning you will go to Surrey. I will give you all particulars about the trains and the stations presently. You will go to a place known as Wendover Park. Near one of the lodge gates of this house is a pretty cottage. It was occupied, and probably still is, by a man called Hugh Stanmore and his granddaughter. You must find out whether he is still there, and learn all you can about them. Report all to me. You understand?"

"Perfectly, your Highness," replied Polonius, whose terminology in relation to the Count was uncertain.

"You will report to me."

"Yes, certainly, my lord, everything."

"Very well, now go."

The night came on, and the room grew dark, but Count Romanoff did not switch on the light. He sat alone in the dark thinking, thinking.

"I have him now," he muttered presently. "Master, you shall have Richard Faversham's soul."