MY companion was in no hurry to answer the question and we rode some distance before he spoke.

“Why couldn’t you speak of this before the others—I mean those in the house at Brabinsk?”

“Why don’t you all discuss your plans at public meetings? I suppose because you want to keep them secret. So do I now.”

“Why do you lay such stress on secrecy?”

“Because my own safety is my own concern, and no one else’s.”

“Are you a secret police spy?”

“No; had I been, do you think I should have been in command of things at Brabinsk?”

“What are you then?”

“I have told you. I am an American; I have got mixed up in this thing and want to get out of it.”

“You killed M. Vastic?”

“Do you think I was such a fool as to want to kill him? I had no feud with him, nor have I with you. It was a question whether he shot me—thinking I was the Emperor—or whether I got in first. And I had the drop on him.”

“Our comrades do not die unavenged,” he said with a grim significance anything but pleasant to notice. I chewed the reply a while in uneasy silence.

“I may take that as a declaration of war between us. You mean you will try to have my life for his. Not a pleasant lookout—for either of us.” The pause and the last words touched him on the raw.

“What do you mean by that?”“We Americans make ugly enemies when we’re put to it. I know every man of you by sight, and have a rare memory for a face—when I want to remember it.”

“God of the dead and living, have a care, monsieur,” he cried.

“Ivan knows them too, and is a staunch friend of mine,” I returned very quietly and meaningly; and when he made no reply, I added: “You’ve had a sample of American methods to-night, and if it comes to any of this vendetta business, I’ll put up a good hand. You may gamble on that.”

“How came you to be there as the Emperor?” he asked after a pause.

“For reasons that don’t in the least concern you or your comrades; so you needn’t ask for them.”

Another pause followed.

“I happen to have a good deal of influence with very high authorities. It would be a mistake to drive me to use it.”

Angered by this, he thrust his hand to the pocket where I had seen him stow his revolver.

“You’d better not,” I said coolly. “The same authorities who will help me living would avenge me dead. You are all known. Besides, there are the three men at Brabinsk; and Ivan will keep his word.”

He growled out something, an oath, I think, but he drew his hand back and rode on, presently asking abruptly—

“What is it you want?”

“A truce to the whole thing—for all concerned on both sides. Let it end right here. The thing, as you said, has been a terrible mistake. Let it stop at that.”

“That is not in my power to say.” He appeared to speak with some regret, and after thinking a while added: “No, it is impossible. If M. Vastic had not been shot, it might have been.”

I had not expected to make much headway, so I was not very disappointed, and went on to try and get at what was the real object of my questions.

“I believe you yourself regret the thing,” I said. “You mean, I suppose, that if it rested with you, your decision would be for a truce.”

“Yes, I think it would. But the death of M. Vastic is too heavy a blow for the brotherhood. You will be all held to account for it.”

“All. It was my act alone. You mean I shall be accountable.”

Something in my voice must have betrayed me, for he started, and turning in his saddle looked at me.

“What are the others to you? The mademoiselle, for instance?”

“They are nothing to me,” I answered as if indifferently; “except that I have brought this thing on them and shall see them through it.”

“You give yourself a troublesome commission, monsieur.”

“You’re a lot of damned cowards,” I cried. It was a feeble thing to say, but it relieved my feelings, and soon afterwards I reined up my horse.

“I’m going back,” I said curtly.

“Good-night, monsieur. As a man I am sorry for what has happened and for what may have to come. I hope we may not meet again.”

“Wait till we do. Your sorrow may be wanted for your own side;” and without waiting for more, I wheeled my horse round and set off back at a gallop followed by the groom. And I took back with me a very anxious heart and a whole crowd of perplexing doubts and harassing fears.

Turn which way I would, dangers of some kind blocked the path—dangers for Helga or myself separately when they did not threaten us both in common.

I had had a fairly adventurous life, and in my time had run up against some ugly risks; but these had been of the nature of sudden emergencies to be met promptly and overcome. But never before had I been called upon to face such a danger as this threatened to be—enduring, shadowy, secret and all encompassing. And I am not ashamed to admit I was considerably shaken.

It is one thing to take your life in your hands, at a crisis, face the music and fight for all you are worth while the bother lasts; and quite another to pit yourself against a secret society, to find the music a perpetual dirge, threatening constantly to develop into your own funeral march, and to breakfast, dine and sup, walk, sit and sleep, talk, laugh and be merry with the cold circle of a revolver barrel pressed to your forehead.

But it had to be done, it seemed, so long as I remained in Russia, and how long that would be must depend upon an extremely explosive contingency—Helga’s intentions.

My hope was to get her to give up her country and adopt mine; but it was impossible to be sanguine. They say a woman can bear pain far better than a man, and it seemed to me that, given the requisite courage and a sufficient motive, she could also bear the strain of ever-present danger with greater fortitude.

So far as I could judge, Helga had been for years risking the kind of danger which now loomed upon me as so formidable; and I saw very little reason to believe she would regard the new development as anything worse than just a fresh complication which had to be faced, and from which she would steadily refuse to run away.

When I got back to the house I very soon had reason to see that this was her frame of mind, and that there was more in this visit of the Duchess Stephanie than I had yet had time to learn.

The night’s experiences, coupled with his wife’s arguments and entreaties, had made an end of Boreski as a conspirator. He had persuaded himself, or she had persuaded him, which came to the same thing, that he had now nothing to hope for from the elaborate scheme by which he had designed to force the Imperial consent to his marriage and everything to gain by abandoning it. I found the two of them importuning Helga to take a similar view; and some high words seemed to have passed.

“We shall leave Russia for a time,” the Duchess was saying as I entered.

“I think you are right to go under the circumstances,” agreed Helga. “But what has occurred to-night has not weakened my position by a thread. The key of everything is the possession of these papers which the Government dare not allow to fall into other hands than their own. I still possess them.”

“But even if you persist, you cannot use them, Helga,” cried the Duchess Stephanie. “These wretches alone would not let you live to do that. I declare I tremble all over when I think of that fearful time when we were in their power.”

“Why? They did us no harm. They just stopped us from crying out, took us over to the stable and locked us in with a guard until the mistake was discovered. As soon as that was plain, they released us and left the place. Surely it is no very awful thing to be locked up in a stable for an hour. It is not like a prison or a Siberian hell.”

“You forget what I told you, mademoiselle,” said Boreski; “that the men left us and released you only because we had caught three of their number and M. Denver threatened to have them shot. They would never leave you in peace—nor us, indeed, if we were to remain.”

“If you think that, by all means leave the country.”

There was a spice of contemptuousness in Helga’s reply, although spoken with apparent earnestness.

“What do you think, M. Denver?” asked Boreski.

“I think as you do, that that is the only safe course.”

“It will at any rate please M. Denver’s friends among the authorities,” said Helga, with a flash at me.“We owe our liberty to M. Denver and probably our lives as well, and I don’t think you should say such things.”

This from the Duchess Stephanie surprised me vastly.

“We also owe it to him that the dangers ever arose at all,” retorted Helga quickly. “But I congratulate him upon having won you over so completely to his side that you forget that. My memory is longer. But by all means take his advice.”

“I shall help you best by taking no part in this discussion. There is still something to be done,” I said, and left the room, in the middle of a protest by the Duchess Stephanie against what she termed Helga’s rank ungenerosity.

It was the truth of Helga’s bitter words that hurt me. I had caused the trouble and brought the danger upon them, and I knew only too well that the danger was but averted for a time.

I went in search of Ivan, and with him released our prisoners and Drexel and saw them well away on their return to the city. As we went back to the house Ivan said—

“You will not let the mademoiselle remain here, monsieur?”

“Why not, Ivan?”

“The brotherhood, monsieur. They will hunt her down, and you and M. Boreski.”

“Do you think them really dangerous?”

“Great God of my fathers, can any one doubt it?”

“What of yourself, then?”

“What is to be will be,” he answered with a shrug.

“You mean you don’t care?”

“When the storm rages over the forest, monsieur, it is the big trees which feel it and fall, the little trees are passed over. I am only a little one.”

“Would you like to have money to fly?”

“Lord of all Powers, if I had not seen you to-night, I should think you a coward to give such counsel. I am not a cur, monsieur, but a watchdog.”

“I said it merely to test you, and I ask your pardon. I was certain of your answer, though. We shall work together to save the mademoiselle. But if we are to succeed, you must not do again what you did to-night.”

“Your pardon, monsieur?” he asked, not understanding.

“You told her my plan and brought her to me.”

“When you would have thrown away your life, and would not let me go with you, monsieur. What else could I do?” and he shrugged his great shoulders. “But I will follow you now anywhere and obey you implicitly.”

“At present I do not know what to do. I see no way, Ivan.”

“You will think of something—or Mademoiselle Helga will. But she should not stay here. There are places where she can hide safely, monsieur. We have done it before.”

“Well, we shall see,” I answered a little hopelessly as we entered the house.

Helga was waiting for us in the hall, and seemed angry and excited.

“Ivan, get M. Boreski’s carriage, and, if he wishes it, go with him to the city. He starts as soon as possible. M. Denver will probably go with him.”

Ivan looked the picture of perplexity.

“And yourself, mademoiselle?” he asked.

“Do as I say, Ivan, and at once.”

He went away without a word but he glanced at me.

“To tell the truth, mademoiselle,” I said, “I’m afraid I am rather too tired for so long a drive just at present.”

Boreski and the Duchess came out as I finished and caught the last few words.

“It is not very long, M. Denver, only some three hours at most,” he said, “and the Duchess will be very glad of your company. It will be an added protection.”

“I hope you will come, monsieur. It is really the safest thing—in fact, the only safe thing.”

“I think you had better go,” declared Helga firmly.

“Of course you wish to get out of the country as soon as possible,” said the Duchess.

“As soon as practicable, naturally,” I agreed. “But I have one or two things to arrange first.”

“If you are wise you will lose no time about it,” said Boreski, who was manifestly eager for me to accompany him.

“You have completely forgiven me then for the deception I practised upon you in coming here?” I asked.

“Many things have happened since,” he replied. “I have abandoned that part of my plan, and my wife has found a way of escape from the difficulties which troubled us. Our marriage need no longer be kept secret. Indeed, the Emperor already knows of it.”

“The real Emperor,” put in Helga quietly.

“Besides, we owe you much for to-night; I feel that,” he continued, and went on to thank me in his courteous and dignified manner. I was so entirely surprised by this most queer and unexpected turn of things that I could find nothing to say.

Then the Duchess turned to Helga.

“Let me make a last appeal to you, Helga.”

“It is useless, madame.” The reply was curt, decisive and angry.

“You have no right to keep them. It was I who brought them to you, and they are mine. Why not do as I say, throw yourself upon the Emperor’s mercy and seek his forgiveness?”

I stared from one to the other in amazement.

“The Duchess saw the Emperor this morning,” said Boreski to me in an aside.

“You have had my decision, madame,” said Helga coldly.“I think you’re a very wicked woman. You want to ruin me just when I have succeeded in everything.”

“You make my position very invidious, mademoiselle,” said Boreski, looking profoundly uneasy.

“M. Denver, you have some influence with Mademoiselle Helga,” said the Duchess to me. “Use it now, I beg of you, to urge her to give back these papers to me.”

“M. Denver has no influence with me,” declared Helga. “The papers were obtained at my suggestion and for my own purpose, and no power in Russia shall drag them from me until that purpose is accomplished.”

“But I have pledged my word,” cried the Duchess with tears in her eyes.

“And have done your best to keep it. But the papers must remain with me. Nothing can change my resolve.”

We heard the carriage at the door then.

“I think that in honour you should give them up,” said Boreski.

Helga looked at him very angrily.

“I bid you good-night, M. Boreski,” she said stiffly.

But the Duchess, having tried ineffectually entreaties and tears, had a last shaft in the quiver. She laughed angrily.

“They will do you no good. You have to account for how you obtained them, and I will swear, if necessary, that I forged them myself. You shall not ruin me. We have been your dupes too long.”

“Your carriage is waiting, madame. Good-night, messieurs,” and with a bow which included me as well as Boreski, she turned her back upon us and went into an adjoining room.

“We had better go,” said Boreski.

“She is a dangerous, deceitful, treacherous woman,” exclaimed the Duchess passionately. “Come, M. Denver.”

“Excuse me, madame, I am remaining,” I said.“You will repent it, monsieur,” she exclaimed angrily as she swept past me.

“Possibly, madame; but at present I see nothing but congratulation in being able to number myself among Mademoiselle Helga’s friends.”

“The Emperor will hear of it from me.”

Boreski lingered a moment as if wishful to speak to me, but his wife called him sharply, and he contented himself with a glance which may have meant many things to him but nothing to me, and they drove off.

I looked after the carriage thoughtfully and went back into the house. Ivan was in the hall.

“You did not go with the carriage, then?” I said in some surprise.

“No, monsieur, mademoiselle said, if M. Boreski wished it, and he did not say so.”

“I am glad, Ivan.”

“Thank you, monsieur. I thought you would wish it. What are we to do next?”

“I don’t know. I will see Mademoiselle Helga,” and I went to the room where she was.