Three months before that meeting between Patricia Hildreth and Mr. Tremain—out of which had grown such cynical disillusion on his part, and which had called forth such cogent reasons for his disenchantment—winter still held captive the great metropolis of Petersburg. But a winter of such dazzling brilliancy, such blue skies, such clear and glittering frost and snow, such floods of sunshine, such ringing out of joyful sleigh-bells, such flashing past of fair women robed cap-À-pie in costly furs, and such a constant round of gaiety and frivolity, as to rob the ice-king of his usual hardships and terrors.

Looking on as an unbiassed spectator at the life and vivacity of the scene, the riches and luxury displayed day by day on the Nevski Prospekte, at the line of handsome equipages, the brilliant uniforms of the Tsar's Guard Imperial, at the laughing eyes and fair faces of the fairest women of the world, at the hourly ebb and flow of the splendid pageant, who could believe, or, believing, realise that not a stone's-throw away, beneath the horrible gloomy walls of Peter's fortress, there languished men and women, equal in birth and position to those gay flÂneurs of the present hour, and who once had flaunted their colours as bravely as the best, but who now, owing to the inexorable will of an acknowledged tyrant, wore their hearts away in imprisonment for some political lapse, some inadvertent dereliction, no matter how slight; perhaps but a word whispered in a lover's ear, a note given or taken, an uncontrolled exclamation, a gesture of emotion; and who, victims of that despotic secret police, betrayed, maybe, by their nearest and dearest, were hurled in one moment from comparative security and protection into the terrible, silent, unapproachable dungeons of Petropavlovsk, from which no word or sigh, no cry for help, no appeal for justice ever resounds, and into which no whisper of comfort or encouragement, no sign of love, friendship, or remembrance, ever penetrates, whose only outlook is the still more horrible sentence of exile to Siberia, or perhaps a merciful deliverance through death on the weary march thither?

The very air of the gay city breathes disaffection and suspicion, while upon the brightest countenance, beneath the merriest jest and laugh, one reads the fleeting look of terror, or hears the echo of strained anxiety.

It was of Venice that Lord Byron wrote his famous line:

And yet, surely, it may well be typical of great Petersburg, where fair, and grand, and imperial rises the Winter Palace, guarded night and day by ranks of soldiers and police, within which reign luxury, power, and wealth, though stalked by the grim shadows of treachery, deception, Nihilism; while hard by, the frowning bastions of Peter and Paul tell of the first Peter's cruel tyranny, as of the latter-day hand of iron despotism and oppression; within whose death-encircling walls languish many of Russia's proudest sons and daughters, who, grown hopeless from long and fruitless waiting for deliverance, have become

Thus does history but repeat itself, and the story of Ivan Ivanowich is rehearsed again and again, only the actors changing, not the drama, or the mise-en-scÈne.

On one bright and beautiful morning in January, when all the fashionable world of the famous capital were out and abroad, and to all outward seeming "youth was at the prow, pleasure at the helm" of the day's amusements, a group of some half-dozen men were gathered together in a small inner apartment of the building known as the Imperial Chancellerie. Of these, some were in the police uniform of the Tsar, the others in plain morning dress, in one case enhanced by a great-coat lined with almost priceless sables. Conversation, which had been carried on in low tones, languished somewhat, and the only sounds that broke the increasing silence, were the scratching of a quill-pen over rough paper, or the fall of a coal from time to time from the open fireplace. It was the owner of the fur-lined great-coat who was writing, and as he sat busy and preoccupied, the clear, searching sunlight fell full upon him, and revealed a face of more than usual distinction. The brow was broad at the temples, growing narrow as it reached the hair that fell heavily across it, and which was well streaked with grey; the eyes were intensely black, deep set in cavernous sockets, out of which they flashed and glowed like smouldering fires; the cheeks were thin, the complexion olive; a slight, short beard and moustache accentuated the pointed chin and firm, thin lips; the hand that guided the pen was slender, nervous, long-fingered, and capable.

In a word, the man writing in the inner sanctum of the Petersburg Chancellerie, and the man paying his devoirs to Patricia Hildreth, and conversing amicably with Mr. Tremain, are one and the same, Count Vladimir Mellikoff. It was easy to see that he was the ruling spirit of the group assembled, each one of whom treated him with deference and respect.

The quill-pen continued its noisy progress over the official paper for some moments, and the silence grew so intense that the tinkling of the sleigh-bells and the echoed laughter of the occupants of the droschkies as they flew past could be distinctly heard, despite the heavy double casements. At length the door opened and another person entered, at sight of whom the assembled men fell into attitudes of anxious respect, even Count Mellikoff rising from the table and bowing deferentially to him.

The new-comer was a tall and handsome man, with a stern, uncompromising face, and of alert and dictatorial manner. He was dressed in morning attire, and wore on his coat more than one ribbon of merit or distinction. He advanced rapidly, bowing comprehensively, and took the chair offered him by Count Mellikoff, from which the latter had just arisen, with a courteous word and gesture.

This personage, for he well deserves the grander designation, was Paul Patouchki, a naturalised Russian, who owned Poland as his mother, yet yielded his allegiance to the Tsar; he was the head and chief in Petersburg of that secret section of the Chancellerie whose work it was to keep strict watch and ward over the Imperial subjects, who, from business or pleasure, elected to live without the Tsar's boundaries. Patouchki was trusted implicitly by his superiors, whom, indeed, he had often served at the risk of his life, and by them, the Emperor of all the Russias not excepted, he was entrusted with the organisation and development of the most delicate missions; for by no harsher word were the despotic actions and orders of the Chancellerie ever designated.

Patouchki seated himself and drew towards him a heavily brass-bound despatch-box, and unlocking it with a key suspended from his watch-chain, took from it his morning's correspondence; this he scrutinised rapidly, sorting out the more important papers, and pushing the largest number towards a fair, boyish-looking young man, who had entered with him, with a muttered, "For you, Ivor," and then opening and reading with quick and comprehensive eyes the few special communications he had reserved for his own perusal.

Indeed, every movement and action of this remarkable man bespoke a character of keen perceptions, unbending will, inflexible opinions, and quick deductions. As he finished his letters he folded them neatly and laid them down with nice precision, in due regularity of sequence of importance; this done, he leant back and looked up at the men who stood somewhat back from him in the same respectful attitudes. This slight movement was evidently a signal well known, for each one of the group now advanced in turn and laid before Patouchki their reports, which were in the form of sealed documents; then falling back again, waited for the chief to speak.

When he did so, his voice was harsh and crisp, the words fell from his lips with the precision of bullets from a repeating revolver, and it was noticeable that, whatever the bearing or meaning of his instructions, his countenance and expression never changed or softened; that hard, imperious, unsympathetic human mask was never known to show emotion of any kind.

"Count Vladimir," he said, addressing the most distinguished of the group, after himself, "I have read and considered your report of the work done by you in western France, which, I am requested by his Excellency to say, does you infinite credit; it has been decided by the secret committee of the Chancellerie to give into your hands a somewhat delicate mission. What say you, sir, to an expedition into the heart of Africa?"

"His Excellency knows he has but to command me at all times, and in any mission," replied Count Mellikoff, his musical voice sounding in marked contrast to the other's harsh tones; "my life is at the service of our father the Tsar."

"Well said," replied Patouchki, shortly; then, turning towards the others, he continued: "Gentlemen, we will dispense with your presence; we wish you good morning, sirs."

The salutation was a command, and so understood by those to whom it was addressed; they responded to it by bowing and withdrawing in silence; all but Ivor, who, as the chief's private secretary, was a privileged person.

As the door closed on the last departing agent, Patouchki turned somewhat hastily towards Count Mellikoff, and bade him be seated. Ivor Tolskoi's fair head was bent in studious attention over his official papers, and the chief had learned by experience that Ivor, despite his boyish face and girlish complexion, was both deaf, dumb, and blind when it behoved him to be so in the service of his master, even as his soft dimpled hand could, when occasion required, sheath itself in a gauntlet of iron, and deal a giant's blow.

"Vladimir Mellikoff," said the chief, dropping the more ceremonious title, "we have tried your metal often, and know of what true steel it is fashioned; but the mission I am now desired to commit to your skill and judgment is one requiring even more finesse, delicacy, and determination than any that have gone before. Let me put well before you its hazards and unpleasant features, that you may withdraw your acquiescence, if you so desire."

Count Mellikoff, whose mobile face had responded by varying expressions to Patouchki's warning, now flushed suddenly, and as suddenly paled again; he leant forward impetuously, and spoke rapidly, the nervous fingers of his right hand moving restlessly as he did so.

"In what have I failed, chief, that you should think such words necessary?"

"In nothing, Vladimir Mellikoff," replied the other, coldly and without change of expression or voice; "we have ever found you ready and willing and zealous in our service; indeed, but one reproach can be attributed to you, and that is more an attribute of temperament than a fault; trop de zÈle, Vladimir, trop de zÈle, has ruined more than one diplomat, and frustrated more than one mission."

Count Vladimir drew back as if struck an unexpected blow; his eyes flashed for a moment intemperately, the lines about his mouth tightened; then the habitual and tutored reserve and control of long apprenticeship reasserted itself, and when he bowed in answer to the implied reproof, his face was as expressionless and cold as that of his monitor. Patouchki continued:

"It goes without the saying that your mission will not take you into Africa, that was but a pour-parler; indeed, you must leave the East behind you and travel westward to the great continent of America; your work lies there, and if I mistake not, within the somewhat narrow limits of New York. You have read the minutes of the murder of Count Stevan Lallovich, and you know that our suspicions regarding the murderer all point to a woman, either as instigator or accomplice. You must find that woman, Vladimir. Stop," raising his hand imperatively, "we ask no impossible devoir; you shall have every facility afforded you, and as the case now stands, you will want no deadlier weapons than tact, finesse, and delicacy, the surest tools with which to meet a woman, since they are essentially her own."

"It is but a poor warfare, chief," replied the Count, a smile curving his lips in disdain.

Patouchki frowned.

"No warfare is poor or trivial, Count Vladimir, that sustains the safety of our father the Tsar, or that strengthens the hands of his Government. Women have proved ere now our most dangerous foes; they strike in the dark, and pay no regard to honourable codes. Since, then, we may not fight them openly, let us turn their own forces of cunning, artifice, and falsehood against them. He who would serve the interests of the Tsar must put aside all considerations of sex."

Again Count Mellikoff bowed; and after a moment's silence the chief continued:

"You know the incidents of the murder, Vladimir, no need to recapitulate them; you know Count Stevan's near kinship to the Tsar, and the consequent lesson that must be read to all miscreants who think to spill the Imperial blood of Russia and escape unpunished. You know also of the oath sworn by that wretched woman, when, by Imperial ukase, her marriage to Stevan Lallovich was pronounced void; you know her subsequent career, and the chain of circumstantial evidence that points to her as at least an accessory to the crime. We have reason to believe that she has escaped to America, and is living there in disguise; the chain has narrowed its links until we can confine ourselves to one state and one city of that great country—New York, or a narrow radius therefrom. But so far the Chancellerie has been unable to lay the finger of certainty upon her, so far she has eluded our absolute knowledge; and therefore it is to you we would depute the task of tracking her, dogging her, and bringing her personally within the power and jurisdiction of the Imperial Chancellerie. Are you willing to accept this work, Vladimir? Remember, we ask it in the service of the Tsar, to whose protection you have hitherto, with undeviating fidelity, sworn to be true, even at the cost of your life."

Count Mellikoff, as Patouchki concluded, rose from his chair and walked quickly across the room to the window. As he did so, Ivor Tolskoi raised his fair head and youthful face, and looked after him. "Does he hesitate?" he said within himself. "By our Lady of Kazan, I wish the chance were but offered me. The chief should find me ready, and as adamant against the softest lures of the fairest woman of all her sex." Then he dropped his innocent blue eyes, and continued the monotonous pen-work on which he was engaged.

Vladimir Mellikoff remained for several long moments beside the window, looking out with unseeing eyes upon the well-known scene before him; upon the gaily decorated sleighs and droschkies flying by; upon the frozen Neva, over whose glittering ice the skaters were deftly circling; upon the Austrian band playing before the Admiralty, their light-blue uniforms seeming like a bit of the sky above, fallen to earth; upon the huge Imperial Winter Palace, whose innumerable windows glanced like jewels in the crisp cold sunlight; upon the officers and sentinels relieving guard at its gates; upon the throng of brightly attired pedestrians coming and going, up and down the broad streets, in quick succession; he knew it all so well, had been part of it for so many years. Was not this very scene photographed upon his brain's camera, with all the high lights accentuated, and all the shadows deepened? Who shall say what wave of memory swept over him, as he stood there gazing down, seeing, yet not seeing the ever-changing panorama that since his boyhood had been dear to him; from the unique charm with which only youth and youth's memories can embellish the most ordinary scene?

Did he hesitate, or draw back from this mission laid upon him; did his heart and soul shrink from hounding out a woman, whose wrongs and griefs had hurried her on to the perpetration of a crime, which even he felt to be but an outburst of that savage justice that reigns deep down in every human heart? Did he confess to himself that it was but coward's work to bring to bear upon this wretched fugitive all the political force of the Imperial Chancellerie, with himself at its head as its willing and revengeful agent?

He knew well that if he undertook this mission he would carry it through to the very end, that was his nature; combining something of the sleuth-hound and the bulldog, he could track his prey indefatigably, and could fasten his cruel fangs upon it relentlessly when found. But was it worth his while, was the game noble enough; was not fighting a woman, with her own weapons, but poor sport for one who had won his spurs in signal service under far braver and more dangerous circumstances?

As he stood thus, wavering within himself, a hoarse and mighty shout went echoing up to the blue vaulted sky; then came the clank of arms, the rattle of metal trappings, and a mounted guard swept into sight, their scarlet kaftans brilliant against the snow, the precursors of the Imperial equipage, in which, as it dashed past, Vladimir recognised the Tsar and Tsarina, enveloped though they were in robes and mantles of rarest furs. Behind them came another sleigh in which sat two ladies and an equerry; as they passed the Chancellerie, the lady nearest Vladimir's window lifted her face and turned it towards the grim walls; it was a pale and beautiful face, enhanced by the rich cap of sables that seemed to embrace lovingly the waves and masses of golden brown hair beneath it. As Count Vladimir caught sight of that proud, fair countenance, a sudden smile broke over it, called forth by some remark of her companion's, and melted all the pure still lines into the tenderest curves of youth.

It was but an instant. Then the sleigh had passed by, and was already far down the Nevski Prospekte, while the shouts and cries of "Long live the Tsar! Long live the Little Father!" grew fainter and fainter as the crowd followed in the wake of the Imperial cortÈge.

Count Vladimir started as from a reverie, and unconsciously drew up his tall figure proudly, while his face became haughty and resolved. Well he knew that fair, proud woman, and long had he served her as the most ardent and loving of her slaves. She had been a hard task-mistress, but he loved her, and to win her would gladly have sold his soul to the Prince of Darkness. She had given him some half-encouragement when last he urged his suit, and laughing half tenderly as she dismissed him, bade him bring her yet one more proof of his undeviating fidelity to the Tsar, augment by one more public expression his unqualified loyalty, add one more ribbon to those he already wore on State occasions, and then—why, then, she, Olga the beautiful, the Tsarina's favourite, most beloved and loving maid of honour, Olga the cold, the proud, the unbending, would consider his passionate pleadings, his long service, and perhaps reward it in the way he implored.

"You must hesitate at nothing, Count Vladimir," she had ended, "if it is to serve our father the Tsar. Remember, it is in small actions, rather than in great ones, that we prove our loyalty. Nothing can be too trivial or too heroic if it be undertaken for him."

And Vladimir had gone from her presence resolved to win her at any cost. Here then, lay his opportunity close to his hand. He turned abruptly from the window, and met Ivor Tolskoi's eager blue eyes with such an expression of determination and pride that that youth dropped his abashed, and felt his chances of superseding Count Mellikoff to be but vain and delusive hopes.

"Your pardon, chief," said Vladimir, in a quiet voice, once more taking the chair facing Patouchki; "I have taken, perhaps, too much time to consider the flattering mission his Excellency would honour me with. My answer is, as it ever has been, and ever will be, that I am at the disposal of my gracious father the Tsar. My life is his, consequently what his Government elect for me to do, I can but consider as an Imperial command, and consecrate myself to its fulfilment. I am ready to leave Petersburg at a moment's notice."

"It is well said, Vladimir," replied Patouchki, over whose composed features passed the faintest suspicion of relief. "My instructions are that you leave within the week; to-morrow your papers of detail will be given you. I need not remind so faithful a servant of the Tsar that secrecy, despatch, and caution should be your watchwords. Be discreet, Vladimir, and watchful. Remember how much depends upon our having this woman within our power; and remember, also, that in choosing you as their emissary, the secret committee have had particular regard to the exigencies of the case, and to the fact that you will have to deal with people of the upper classes, and through them work your way to the completion of the chain of evidence. Distrust every one, Vladimir; but, above all, distrust the ladies of the great world, they are our cleverest enemies, even as they are our best friends. Your letters of introduction and credit will be sent you in due course. And now, good-bye, Vladimir, for the present. You have carried good luck with you so far, may it not fail you now."

A week later saw Count Vladimir Mellikoff on his way to Paris, en route for the United States, and as he settled himself comfortably in the salon coupÉ reserved for him in the train de luxe going southward, it was with the memory of Olga's blue eyes looking kindly on him, and Olga's hand resting just a moment longer in his than was necessary for good-bye, and his heart was warm within him, and he smiled as he watched the outlines of magnificent Petersburg fading in the distance.

His glance lingered longest on the glittering spire of Petropavlovsk, as it rose above the Neva, and when at last this was lost in the distance, he murmured, with a sigh upon his lips:

"Fate is stronger than conscience. I go to make war upon a woman, with a woman's smile as my reward!"