It was winter once more, and the gay Russian capital had returned to its round of festivities and merry-makings.

The Imperial family were in residence at the Winter Palace, and the long salon resounded nightly to the laughter and jests of the Court circle. Not a cloud apparently marred the harmony and well-being of Petersburg.

All without was bright and brilliant; the sun shone on the dazzling snow, the merry sleigh-bells rang out on the frosty air, and the Nevski arcades were thronged with richly-dressed mondaines, who laughed and chatted, and tossed over the costly trifles in the Circassian shop with careless fingers. Within were ease and comfort and luxury; huge fires of keen-scented woods, heavy draperies to shut out the shrewd air, and respectful attendants to minister to the most wilful caprice.

But beyond and below all this brave assumption of security, there lay hidden a terrible passionate hate. Slowly, slowly, the patient masses of that under world had wakened to the consciousness of their wrongs, and with the bitter knowledge of contrast came the thirst for compensation; the burning desire to throw off the hand that had so long oppressed them, the yoke that had galled for centuries.

"What maketh us to differ?" was the cry of thousands; and, with the wording of the dumb misery that had held them silent so long, there awoke also the craving for vengeance. "How long," went up the cry to heaven, "how long, O Lord, shall the wicked oppress us?" And in the pause that ensued between petition and answer, pleasure was stalked by blood-red fear, and distrust kept pace with merriment.

The Countess Vera had opened the season by a grand bal costumÉ, in the huge palace of her name. It was the maddest of all the little Countess's mad freaks, for her guests were to come attired as beasts of the forest, the chase, and the field. Grizzlies from the Rockies elbowed white lambs, elephants and camelopards hob-nobbed with pussy-cats and fawns, while tigers and wolves flirted tentatively with rabbits and red squirrels.

The Countess, in a delightful white-cat costume, with diamond eyes and jewelled paws, was the life and soul of the revels; flying hither and thither, her little feet in their white fur boots treading as lightly as her namesake, and startling more than one king of the forest by the sharp tap of a little fur paw, and the merry smile beneath the pussy-head that covered her giddy little brain.

It was during one of these frolicsome onslaughts that she caught sight of Ivor Tolskoi's fresh face and yellow locks, looking ridiculously out of keeping under the heavy disguise of a polar bear. She ran up to him lightly, and stood before him laughing, a tiny figure set against his feet and inches.

"Oh, my brave Ursa Major!" she exclaimed, "what a beautiful fierce creature you are, to be sure! I am quite frightened to look at you."

Ivor glanced down at her smiling, but he failed to toss back her jesting words with an equally quick repartee.

The little Countess laughed and shook her head, until the diamond eyes in the pussy-cat mask danced with a thousand reflections.

"Oh, what a cross Ursa Major it is!" she cried, "and all because of some one who is not here, and who will not come." Then she came a step nearer, and, dropping her bantering tone, said quickly: "I am sorry for your disappointment, mon cher, but it is one of the prerogatives of beauty, to be fickle. She would, and she would not, and the latter, you see, won the day. Olga Naundorff has declined to honour my ball with her presence. But is that a matter of such grave importance to you? Ah, I see, it is the old story; he who has most, always craves more. You are not satisfied with having won the Court favourite, even to the naming of the wedding day, but you must be miserable because she is not always present to swell your triumph! Be content, my dear boy, you have won her, and broken Vladimir Mellikoff's heart, that ought to suffice; and after you are married, you can force her to attend any and all kinds of festivities."

Ivor did not respond to this pleasant outlook, and Vera, with a mutinous grimace, continued, banteringly:

"For my part, my sympathies all go out to that most unfortunate Count Mellikoff. Only to think of what he has come to! So established as he was in the Emperor's regard, so esteemed by the Chancellerie; such a diplomatist and courtier, so distinguished and beyond reproach. And now, behold, where is he? Poof! he is but a feather, blown about by each contrary wind of prejudice. A failure, a fallen idol, a suspect. Bah, I would rather die than be a failure! Be content, mon cher, be content; you are on the crest of the wave, don't spoil your success by a fit of the sulks."

Then she laughed again, and shook her fan of soft white feathers at him, and fluttered off to a sedate elephant, whose thin cheeks and eagle eyes beneath the grotesque head-gear, betrayed him to be a certain State minister, whose word was law, whose smile power.

"Such a foolish boy I never saw," cooed the Countess Vera in the statesman's ear, "as that Ivor Tolskoi. Not contented with ruining Vladimir Mellikoff, and winning the lady of his affections, he mopes because, forsooth, she is not here to illustrate his triumph. Youth is very hard and illogical, monsieur; it takes older heads and hearts to be merciful." And the little Countess sighed profoundly.

"Ah," she said, suddenly, "my heart is all in tune with the fallen Mellikoff. I wonder, monsieur, what is to be the nature of his punishment, and what his—destination?"

But the wary minister was not to be caught even by Vera's casuistry.

"Punishment is so entirely a relative matter," he replied. "I, for instance, can imagine no severer sentence, no more desolate outlook than to be shut away for ever from the light and sweetness of the Countess Vera's presence."

"A thousand thanks," she answered quickly. "I appreciate your chivalry, monsieur; but when one adds the mines, or a casemate in Petropavlovsk, to the lesser evil—what then?"

"Neither are to be desired, madame," he replied, gravely, "and neither can ever come within the experience of the Countess Vera. The mines, and Petropavlovsk, are for those who betray, or mock at, Russia; not for loyal subjects of his Majesty."

"Loyalty is such a very big word," sighed the Countess flippantly; and then she flew away with a laughing gesture. But to herself she said:

"I know your destination now, my poor friend. I back a woman's wits against a statesman's imperturbability. Alas! poor Vladimir!"

It was as the Countess Vera had said. Ivor Tolskoi had triumphed beyond his most sanguine hopes. Olga was now his formally betrothed bride, and the marriage day was in the immediate future.

With the arrest of AdÈle Lallovich in Petersburg, came the downfall of Mellikoff's mission, and the ruin of all his cleverly-laid schemes. He would reach Russia only to find his disgrace had preceded him, and only to find distrust and displeasure on every side. He too well knew the nature of Russia's resentment, to strive to stem the current that set so steadily against him.

It was worse than useless to expect such a thing as justice, at the hands of the Chancellerie, or to look for condonement from the Council.

He had not only failed, but he had bungled, and in so doing had opened the flood-gates of public opinion upon the Imperial policy. Russia never forgave inefficiency, still less inefficiency that brought ridicule in its wake. He knew this, and he knew also that his disgrace was imminent. Still he clung to Patouchki, to his belief in the chief's calm equipoise of judgment. He could endure a public expression of disgrace, if only Patouchki absolved him from intentional failure.

And then, too, was not Olga awaiting him? He had done nothing to alienate her love; she stood far above and beyond the lesser prejudices of political intrigue and jealousy. He was still her lover. What mattered anything so long as he had Olga to cling to; Olga's love and trust for his haven of refuge? He would marry her at once, and take her away, out of the foetid artificial air of Petersburg, out of the network of personal envy and political stratagem, to those wide, far-reaching estates on the Balkan frontier, and there they would be free and untrammelled, removed from the narrow suspicions and cruel dogmatism of the Court.

And so planning, hoping, believing, Vladimir Mellikoff turned his face towards Petersburg. He lingered on his homeward journey, hoping against hope at each halt to receive more pacific communications from the Chancellerie; and thus when at last he reached the Russian capital, the first month of the long Muscovite winter was already on the wane. He drove to his lonely palace on the Neva, where the dark windows and barred doors afforded but a sorry welcome.

It was a dreary home-coming, and Vladimir, as he crossed the threshold and met the cold, damp atmosphere of long-closed and disused rooms, shrank back shuddering. Unsuperstitious though he was, he could not throw off the chill of apprehension which seized him, as he entered the echoing corridor and passed on to a small drawing-room, that served as study and office.

A fire smouldered in the stove, and the curtains were closely drawn, giving a less cheerless aspect to the apartment. A couple of candles in tall silver sticks were lighted on the chimney shelf, and beneath them were arranged the numerous notes and cards of invitation that had accumulated during his absence. Somewhat apart from these lay a small sealed envelope, addressed in a clear, flowing hand.

Vladimir glanced over the notes and cards, holding in his hand the while the huge ticket, covered with a Noah's Ark gallery, by which the Countess Vera had invited her friends to her unique bal costumÉ. With a half smile on his lips, called out by the little Countess's vagaries, Vladimir caught sight of the note lying apart by itself, and in a moment his heart told him who was the sender.

"It is from Olga," he murmured passionately, as he took it up and touched it with his lips. "It is from Olga; it is my welcome home."

Then he broke the seal and drew forth the thick, creamy paper; as he did so a slight, subtle perfume floated across the air.

It was a short letter; brief almost to cruelty. But when one deals a death-blow, it is as well to strike swift and sure.

Vladimir read the words through, again and again, without comprehension, without understanding; and then, suddenly, as their meaning struck him, one low and terrible cry burst from him; he flung himself down on his knees, burying his face in his hands. The letter floated slowly from his grasp and fell noiselessly upon the carpet, the distinct careful penmanship plainly visible in the candlelight.

"Vladimir," the lines ran, "I never forgive or forget treachery or failure. You have failed, and you are a traitor. Knowing this, you must also realise that all is over for ever between you and

"Olga Naundorff."

That was all. No word of regret, no expression of sorrow, no hint of personal grief and pain.

Simply he had failed: failure was a sin never to be condoned by Mdlle. Naundorff. It was shipwreck utter and entire—shipwreck without a chance or hope of rescue. He knew it, he realised it, as perfectly as though Olga had stood before him in her proud beauty, and spoken the cruel words in her sweet, cold voice.

What was death compared to this agony of loss that overwhelmed him? What was life—oh, God! what could life be without Olga?

How long he knelt there he never knew. The hours crept on long past midnight, the great house was silent as a tomb. Outside, the stars shone in myriad numbers, lighting the cold, dark heavens with thousands of fairy lamps. The snow lay dense and white, stretching miles away, in unbroken masses along the Neva's banks.

Presently the cathedral chimes struck the quarter, and the miserere bells followed with their minor chant, "Have mercy upon me, O Lord, have mercy upon me."

As the last note died away Vladimir arose; and with the change of attitude he became aware of a stealthy, muffled sound—a sound that came ever nearer and nearer; and that was neither the sweeping up of the wind, nor the jangle of bells, but a sliding, creaking noise, as of two smooth surfaces in friction.

A low exclamation escaped him, a look of horror crept over his dark face. For a moment he stood as if paralysed, then he moved suddenly, with soft, quick steps, towards one of the heavily-draped windows.

The stealthy, creaking noise had ceased.

He cautiously drew back a corner of the heavy curtain and peered out. All was still and silent; a great field of glistening snow, with the dull swish of the Neva against its banks. Was he mistaken? Had he not heard aright? For a moment the wild beating of his heart threatened to overpower him, then as suddenly it grew still.

Drawn up within the shadow of the deep porte-cochÈre, standing out black and distinct against the white background, stood a covered droschky; the horses' flanks steaming in the chill air, the lamps carefully shaded. A figure stood beside the vehicle, wrapped in a heavy coat and peaked fur cap; where the folds of the coat opened a gleam of steel was visible.

Vladimir dropped the curtain and came back to the centre of the room.

"It has come," he said in a half whisper. "It is my turn at last. I, who have gloried in Russia's stern vengeance, am I to feel her power now?"

Then his eye caught the open letter on the carpet.

He picked it up, touching it half-tenderly.

"How little it matters to me, now!" he said. "But you, Olga, shall be freed from all reproach, and no one shall ever know that it is through you the heaviest disgrace of all has come upon me. That much I can still spare you."

He looked at the signature she had written with so firm a hand—Olga Naundorff—"Good-bye," he said again, "good-bye."

He pressed his lips to her name, then held the paper in the candle-flame with a steady hand, and watched it burn slowly, slowly.

As the last bit fell from his fingers and fluttered down to the little heap of ashes on the velvet mantel-shelf, the door opened without noise, and two men stepped within the room.

Vladimir turned and faced them. The foremost spoke quietly, and without menace or threat.

"Count Vladimir Mellikoff, you are arrested in the name of the Emperor. Long live the Tsar."

Vladimir bowed, and a smile for one moment passed over his dark face.

"I am ready, gentlemen," he said, and turning, took up his heavy coat and cap of sables.

In the meantime the second intruder had crossed the room, attracted by the faint odour of burnt paper. He fingered the little pile of ashes suspiciously. Again Vladimir smiled.

"A burnt-out passion, monsieur," he said, "a discarded love-letter. That is all; nothing in any way interesting to the Chancellerie—or, its agents."

Then he put on the heavy furred coat and signified his readiness to depart.

A moment later the three dark figures were lost in the shadowy interior of the waiting droschky, and the curious scraping noise of steel runners upon frozen snow began again.

As one of his captors leant forward to give a last instruction to the officer without, a gleam from the shaded lamp fell across the face beneath the high-peaked hat; in it Vladimir recognised the boyish contour and innocent blue eyes of Ivor Tolskoi.

The heavy equipage moved on, and as the hour of dawn struck from the great cathedral clock, and the chimes clashed out triumphantly the liturgical chant, "How glorious is our Lord in Zion," Vladimir Mellikoff stood a prisoner, within a nameless casemate of the impregnable fortress of Petropavlovsk.