When Ivor Tolskoi quitted the presence of Patouchki, he carried with him the remembrance of the chief's troubled face, and almost imperative appeal:

"Find me the woman, here, in Petersburg, and I shall know how to act."

"I will find her," he had replied, and it needed no strong oath or asseveration to convince Patouchki that Ivor would grudge nothing in the fulfilment of this promise.

It was early afternoon when Tolskoi left the Chancellerie; it was long past sundown ere the chief aroused himself from the anxious reverie into which the young man's suspicions and insinuations had plunged him.

Despite the hardness and impregnability of Patouchki's nature, there existed somewhere, deep down in the inner recesses of his rugged heart, a softer spot than he was ever given credit for, and in that remote and hidden nook he had set up the fidelity and friendship of Vladimir Mellikoff, as the one bright sentiment in which to believe and trust. He had watched his career from the outset, and had spared neither influence nor interest to advance the abilities and talents he believed him to possess. He entertained for him a feeling as nearly approaching love as his temperament was capable of experiencing. And he had beheld with concealed delight the increasing regard manifested by his august master towards his favourite. It was owing entirely to his exertions that this last delicate mission had been entrusted to Mellikoff's skill and courage, and he had for once spoken almost with enthusiasm, at the council, of Vladimir's peculiar fitness for the undertaking. He had said to himself that with his success in this Mellikoff's name might be fearlessly put forward for some signal mark of Imperial favour.

It may be imagined then with what proportionate anger and disappointment he listened to Tolskoi's plausible insinuations. They did not lose one feather's weight of value in Ivor's manner of expressing them; the very candour of his words, the collectedness of his bearing, but increased their reasonability; and Patouchki, with his quick perception, realised this, and gave it more weight, perhaps, because of that weakness which he knew existed in his heart for the absent Vladimir.

There is no judge so cruel and relentless as a human heart that owns but one outlet for its affections. Unlike those happier natures who sympathise, and in a manner love all fellow mortals, because of their common humanity and common redemption, this poor starved soul sets all its store on one poor fallible object, and then, when the floods of doubt and mistrust are let loose and sweep away the idol, marring its beauty and exposing its blemishes, it owns no larger creed to fall back upon, and so drifts into the opposite extreme, and welcomes with sardonic pleasure the mocking devils of resentment and retaliation.

It was so with Patouchki. Out of the very affection he had borne Vladimir, sprang now the hydra-headed demon of doubt; and since he could doubt him in one particular, he could doubt him in all. Ivor had set alight such a train of implacability as even he would have hesitated to fire, could he have foreseen its consequences; for with the downfall of Patouchki's perspicuity came his resolve, to punish the one who had thus dared to set at naught his judgment, and who by playing the rÔle of deceiver had inflicted on his self-love so dire a wound.

It was well for Vladimir Mellikoff that he could not see the chief's face at that moment, for, as the evening shadows closed around the motionless, lonely figure, sitting so still and rigid, they paused, half afraid to creep about the stern hard countenance, whose eyes gleamed with such passionate fire, whose lips were locked in so firm and cruel a line. And so he sat for hours, his busy fingers idle, his active brain absorbed in bitter contemplation of broken trust and ruined faith.

It had appeared to Ivor an easy and simple task to track and find the poor fugitive, AdÈle Lallovich. Petersburg and its environs covered a considerable area, it was true; but these, when compared with Paris or London, sank into insignificance, and yet every day fugitives from justice were hunted down and trapped in those great cities, whose mileage so far exceeded the Muscovite capital.

"It needed but system," so he told himself, with a smile and a shrug of his shoulders at the tactics of the Chancellerie old women. "System and perseverance, and a judicious use of gold," he would back these three against the craft and finesse of any woman. He therefore set about laying the plan of his operations, being careful, however, to keep himself out of the actual work, and to be recognised in it only as the agent of the Chancellerie.

But day succeeded day, and week followed on week, without the least success attending his efforts. Either he had mistaken a chance likeness in some transient worshipper at St. Isaac's for the fugitive, or else AdÈle Lallovich had again made good her escape across the frontier. Each day Patouchki looked at him with the same strange, hard expression, as he asked:

"Have you found her?"

And each day Ivor, with a frown, was obliged to reply:

"Not yet! but I shall do so."

Then the chief would turn away with a grim smile, and Tolskoi would vow with hot intemperance that he would be successful, even if his life were to be the penalty.

And so the summer drew on apace, and Petersburg became a desolate wilderness; empty, save for the thousands of poor souls who toiled on and on, irrespective of the seasons' changes, and whose sole recreation was a walk across the Troitski, or Nicholas bridges, stopping for an instant's prayer before the shrine of the good name-saint, or leaning against the granite parapet, drinking in the languid breeze that came, touched with a suspicion of coolness, from off the grey Neva; or an hour's stroll in the Boulevard-park, shorn now of its aristocratic idlers, but gay enough with the brilliant colours in the costumes of the less favoured mondaines.

The Court had long since flown westward; and after a few weeks' halt at Gatschina, the gentle Tsarina had taken a favoured few of her personnel, among whom was Olga Naundorff, and departed for her native Denmark; where, in the dear old home of her childhood, she dropped the restrictions of royalty even as she put off her state robes and jewels, and in a cotton frock and straw hat became a girl again, outvieing even her daughter, the Grand Duchess Xenia, in her happiness and delight.

Neither Patouchki nor Ivor left Petersburg. The former because no place possessed half the charm for him as did the frowning Chancellerie, and his own office within its walls; no music sounded so sweet to his ears as the triumphant clang of the jubilate chimes, or the mournful cadences of the miserere bells; no recreation so well pleased him as an hour passed in reviewing the Chancellerie's past achievements, or in building up vast schemes for its future greatness.

And Ivor stayed because his self-imposed task was not yet accomplished, and because he felt the time growing daily shorter, when, unless he could redeem his word and find the woman AdÈle Lallovich, his rival would return and snatch his prize from out his very arms.

Therefore he waited and he watched with a dogged patience and perseverance. The July days passed into August, and August became September, and still he made no further progress in the path of victory; while on the other hand, according to private despatches from the Italian, Mattalini, Vladimir Mellikoff was apparently succeeding in his undertaking beyond his most sanguine hopes, and spoke confidently of his speedy return to Petersburg.

Ivor felt the situation to be critical, and yet was unable to force the march of events. So far his every effort had miscarried; each well-laid plan, each secret scheme had but resulted in failure. AdÈle Lallovich seemed to have as completely vanished from out the orbit of his machinations, as though she had never come within that of his vision.

And so the 15th of September dawned, and Tolskoi, with the sense of defeat pressing heavily upon him, failed for the first time to report himself at the Chancellerie. He felt he could not bear with equanimity Patouchki's piercing glance, or the harsh tones of his voice as he put the invariable question—"Have you found her?" and still less could he meet the slow, cold smile that curled the chief's lips at the monotony of his negative reply. He knew, too, that this was the day appointed in America for the examination of the warrant papers, under which Count Mellikoff had effected the arrest of a certain person calling herself AdÈle Lamien, and should this inquiry terminate in the establishment of the woman's identity with the murderer of Stevan Lallovich, Mellikoff would lose no time in starting for Russia; and, when once on the ground, and his influence over Patouchki restored, what would become of his, Ivor's, charges against him? The deepest laid schemes must fall to pieces under the pressure of bald fact. It had never been a part of Ivor's design that Vladimir should return triumphant; his defeat and disgrace, while absent, were necessary factors in the carrying out of his project. It was on that very defeat and disgrace that he depended most for his success with Olga; like her royal ancestress, she could not tolerate or forgive the sin of failure.

The day had been very close and hot; what breeze there was came laden with a fiery touch, the great gilded dome of Isaac's Church blazed with blinding intensity, the tall, lance-like spire of the great Petropavlovsk fortress quivered in the palpitating atmosphere; there was no retreat, however secluded, that was not laid bare and permeated by the searching, cruel sunshine.

Ivor had remained a voluntary prisoner all day; but as evening drew on, and the garish sun sank gradually down to rest in a panoply of royal crimson and gold, he roused himself, and passed out into the rapidly filling streets. Walking idly along the Boulevard de Cavalerio, he made his way to the Nevski—the Rue Rivoli of Petersburg—stopping now and then to look in the shop windows, and to wonder aimlessly which one of all the pretty baubles displayed in the Circassian Bazaar would best please Olga's fancy.

After half an hour's wandering through the arcades he turned in the direction of the church of Our Lady of Kazan. The great doors stood open, and on either side the semi-circular colonnades, like those of St. Peter's at Rome, made deep and shadowy resting-places for the weary.

Pushing past the kneeling beggars gathered about the entrance, Ivor passed in to the deep stillness and tranquillity of the grand interior. No service was going on, and the hushed silence was unbroken save for the occasional footsteps of coming or retreating worshippers. The rich glory of colour and ornament, for which Our Lady of Kazan is famous, were half hidden by the gathering on of night; here and there, where a taper gleamed, the sparkle of gems, the reflection of gold, the green of malachite, or the blue of lapis-lazuli would flash out, lost again in the feeble, flickering rays.

Half hidden by one of the great columns, Ivor watched the ever-changing stream of visitors, as they came and went, and fell to speculating upon the nature of the petitions they pleaded so earnestly, throwing themselves on their knees, bowing their heads, beating their breasts, and making unceasingly the sacred symbol upon brow and heart. He did not kneel himself; he would have told you that he had out-grown all such old-world superstitions, but he watched with half-amused, half-sympathetic toleration the rapt devotion of those about him.

Presently a woman, some little distance away, got up from her knees, and, after a moment's hesitation, turned and walked swiftly down the dim aisle. Ivor looked at her without much thought beyond the half-formed one that her long cloak of black serge and closely-veiled bonnet were ill fitted for the heat of that summer evening. As she drew near to him his attention wandered, caught by the trifling incident of a baby's cry, and when his thoughts returned to the heavily-draped figure it had vanished out of sight.

In another moment Ivor also quitted the now dark church and retraced his steps to the Nevski, where fascinated again by the frivolities in the Circassian shop he halted, and returned to the vexed question of Olga's taste in the matter of a gift.

Next door to the Bazaar was a small, rather bare-looking shop, whose only sign of business was the significant one of St. Nicholas' three golden balls. The entrance door was low, and as it opened or shut a tiny bell above the transbeam gave out a warning jangle. It was this bell that aroused Tolskoi's attention and caused him to look up suddenly. As he did so, a tall figure dressed in a thick black serge cloak and close bonnet came out of the low door; the nature of the woman's errand was painfully apparent, for in her hand were two or three coins, over which her head was bent down.

Ivor at once recognised her to be the same woman he had seen in the church of Our Lady of Kazan, not half an hour before, and his interest thus reawakened, he watched her not unkindly.

As she passed him the light wind caught at her long black veil, floating out one end of it; she put up her hand to catch it, turning a little as she did so, and there, in the half lights, partially concealed by the black folds surrounding it, Ivor saw again the face that had haunted him for so many months; the face he had seen wild and haggard and imploring at the great door of St. Isaac's—the face of AdÈle Lallovich!

His first impulse in his excitement was to cry out, to speak to her, to stop her further progress, to make her his prisoner by violence if necessary, to force her to accompany him to the Chancellerie. Then as swiftly reason reasserted itself, and he determined to do nothing rash; he had no power to arrest, he would but give her another chance of escape if he raised a street Émeute against her. He understood too well the organised power of the Nihilists; at one cry from this woman a dozen defenders would spring to her assistance; she would be rescued before his very eyes, and he should get but a fool's recompense for his pains.

No, what he must do was this. He must follow her adroitly, without arousing her suspicions; he must track her to her place of abode, and when sure of her refuge, send for Patouchki and deliver her into his hands.

The woman walked on swiftly, threading her way deftly between the droschkies and heavier vehicles that thronged the Nevski, and as stealthily as a sleuth-hound, Ivor kept pace behind her. At the door of a good-sized, respectable house she stopped, raised her hand and knocked twice; in an instant the door opened on a cord, and she passed into a narrow passage. The pent-up shadows rushed forward to greet her, and swallowed her up in their dark embrace. Then the door swung to noiselessly, and Ivor was left without, staring vacantly at the non-committal walls and casements.

An hour later and night had thrown her sombre mantle over the gay city. One by one as the hours crept on, the noise of returning revellers grew fainter and less frequent; gradually the peace of midnight settled down upon the myriads of human souls who make up the sum of Petersburg's life. The heavens were dark and formless, save for the millions of shining stars; Isaac's golden dome loomed up in giant outline against the sombre sky; only the glittering lance-like spire of Peter's fortress caught and held a transitory gleam upon its slender shaft.

And then presently a noise of wheels broke the stillness, wheels that came ever nearer and nearer; down the Boulevard first, and then into the Nevski, where the pace slackened, and a covered droschky drew up in front of the commodious and respectable house, before which Ivor had stood baffled.

Three persons got out of the carriage, two of whom were easily recognisable, despite the disguise of mufflers and low hats, as Patouchki and Tolskoi. Not a word passed between them, while Ivor, stepping a little in advance, knocked twice distinctly. Instantly the door swung back on its cord, and the three men entering shut it quietly behind them.

A light gleamed at the head of the stairs, and a woman's figure detached itself from the surrounding gloom. She held a lamp high up above her head, from which the close black bonnet had been removed. And thus looking down upon them, calm and unsuspecting, they saw the beautiful face of the fugitive AdÈle Lallovich.

For, indeed, she was still very beautiful, despite the lines passion and pain had graven on her forehead, and about her eyes. The eyes themselves were deep blue beneath black pencilled brows; the dusky hair, wherein a thousand golden tints played at hide and seek, fell loosely about her throat; the curve of the lips was proud, with a touch of suffering in its downward droop.

This, then, was the woman they sought! This was the defenceless being against whom they came armed with Russia's law! This was Stevan Lallovich's wife—this was his murderer!

For a moment they hesitated, stayed by the fearlessness and dependence of her position; then Patouchki stepped forward and ascended the staircase. She watched him as he came, step by step, and she knew that her days were numbered.

She was alone in the house, save only for a little serving-maid; any resistance would be but vain. She did not mean to resist. She had prayed night and day for months that some release might come to her. Had she not that very evening begged Our Lady of Kazan to have a little pity upon her; to give her some little respite from the horrible dreams and spectres that haunted her; to let her forget for only one small fraction of time, the horror and reproach that had settled on her lover's face when she dealt him his death-wound?

Our Lady of Kazan never turns a deaf ear, it is said. Was not this her answer to that wild, imploring cry?

Patouchki reached her at last. She faced him boldly and with eyes that never flinched; the lamp in her upraised hand burnt on steadily, no tremble of weakness made its flame flicker, or grow dim.

And now Patouchki laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"You are AdÈle Lamien," he said, in his harsh, bullet-like tones, "and as such I arrest you, for the murder of Count Stevan Lallovich."

She made no gesture either of assent or dissent, she only looked at him, with all her soul in her wonderful eyes. Then she spoke slowly and with deliberation.

"I am AdÈle Lallovich," she said, "I recognise no other name."

"That makes small difference," replied Patouchki. "I must trouble you, madam, to accompany me."

Again she raised her beautiful eyes to his, and spoke, this time a little wildly.

"I am AdÈle Lallovich—and I killed him—my husband—with my own hand."

Then she turned, and walked with quick steps across a narrow hall, where on a peg hung her black cloak and bonnet. She set down the lamp, and with dexterous fingers put on her outside garments. When this was accomplished she took some money from her pocket—the few silver pieces Ivor had seen her counting over in her palm—and, wrapping them in a bit of paper, wrote across it.

"It is for Paulina," she said in explanation, "my little maid."

Then she turned, and motioning Patouchki to precede her, followed him down the stairs and along the passage. The door opened as noiselessly as before, and was closed with equal caution. There was a moment's whispered consultation, the slight dark figure stepped into the waiting droschky without assistance, followed by Ivor and Patouchki; the door was shut, and the vehicle moved quickly away down the deserted Nevski in the direction of the Chancellerie, whose frowning portals were watched over by Petropavlovsk's grim fortress.

As the noise of the wheels grew fainter, the sad miserere bells rang out the quarter past midnight.

On the following morning Patouchki, with an unusual light in his eyes, and a cruel smile on his lips, wrote out the telegraphic cable, that sounded the death-knell to Vladimir Mellikoff's love and hope.