At the hour appointed by the Czar I presented myself at the Winter Palace to assist at the spiritualist experiments of M. Auguste.

I shall not attempt to describe the impression left by the weird scene in the Princess Y——’s oratory.

To those who do not know the Slav temperament, with its strange mixture of sensuality and devotion, of barbarous cruelty and over-civilized cunning, seldom far removed from the brink of insanity, the incident I have recorded will appear incredible. I have narrated it, simply because I have undertaken to narrate everything bearing on the business in which I was engaged. I am well aware that truth is stranger than fiction, and I should have little difficulty, if I were so disposed, in framing a story, full of plausible, commonplace incidents, which no one could doubt or dispute.

I have preferred to take a bolder course, knowing that although I may be discredited for a time, yet when historians in the future come to sift the secret records of the age, I shall be amply vindicated.

I shall only add that I did not linger a moment after the unhappy woman had begun her penance, if such it was, but withdrew from her presence and from the house without speaking a word.

The feelings with which I anticipated my encounter with the medium were very different. Whatever might be my doubts with regard to the unfortunate Sophia—and I honestly began to think that the suicide of Menken had affected her brain—I had no doubt whatever that M. Auguste was a thoroughly unscrupulous man.

The imperial servant to whom I was handed over at the entrance to the Czar’s private apartments conducted me to what I imagine to have been the boudoir of the Czaritza, or at all events the family sitting room.

It was comfortably but plainly furnished in the English style, and was just such a room as one might find in the house of a London citizen, or a small country squire. I noticed that the wall-paper was faded, and the hearth-rug really worn out.

The Emperor of All the Russias was not alone. Seated beside him in front of the English grate was the beautiful young Empress, in whose society he finds a refuge from his greedy courtiers and often unscrupulous ministers, and who, I may add, has skilfully and successfully kept out of any entanglement in politics.

Rising at my entrance, Nicholas II. advanced and shook me by the hand.

“In this room,” he told me, “there are no emperors and no empresses, only Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas.”

He presented me to the Czaritza, who received me in the same style of simple friendliness, and then, pointing to a money-box which formed a conspicuous object on the mantel-shelf, he added:

“For every time the word ‘majesty’ is used in this room there is a fine of one ruble, which goes to our sick and wounded. So be careful, M. V——.”

In spite of this warning I did not fail to make a good many contributions to the money-box in the course of the evening. In my intercourse with royalty I model myself on the British Premier Beaconsfield, and I regard my rubles as well spent.

We all three spoke in English till the arrival of M. Auguste, who knew only French and a few words of Russian. I remarked afterward that the spirit of Madame Blavatsky, a Russian by birth, who had spent half her life in England, appeared to have lost the use of both languages in the other world, and communicated with us exclusively in French.

The appearance of M. Auguste did not help to overcome my prejudice against him. He had too evidently made up for the part of the mystic.

The hair of M. Auguste was black and long, his eyes rolled much in their sockets, and his costume was a compromise between the frock coat and the cassock.

But it was above all his manner that impressed me disagreeably. He affected to be continually falling into fits of abstraction, as if his communings with the spirits were diverting his attention from the affairs of earth. Even on his entrance he went through the forms of greeting his host and hostess as though scarcely conscious of their presence. I caught a sly look turned on myself, however, and when I was presented to him as “Mr. Sterling” his reception of the name made me think that he had expected something else.

The Czar having explained that I was a friend interested in spiritualism, in whose presence he wished to hear again from Madame Blavatsky, M. Auguste rolled his eyes formidably, and agreed to summon the departed theosophist.

A small round table was cleared of the Czaritza’s work-basket—she had been knitting a soldier’s comforter—and we took our seats around it. The electric light was switched off, so that we were in perfect darkness, except for the red glow of the coal fire.

A quarter of an hour or so passed in a solemn silence, broken only by occasional whispers from “Mr. Nicholas” or the medium.

“It is a long time answering,” the Czar whispered at last.

“I fear there is a hostile influence,” M. Auguste responded in the jargon of his craft.

Hardly had the words left his lips when a perfect shower of raps seemed to descend on all parts of the table at once.

Let me say here, once for all, that I am not prepared to offer any explanation of what happened on this occasion. I have read of some of the devices by which such illusions are produced, and I have no doubt a practised conjurer could have very easily fathomed the secrets of M. Auguste. But I had not come there with any intention of detecting or exposing him.

The medium pretended to address the author of the raps.

“If there is any hostile influence which prevents your communicating with us, rap twice.”

Two tremendous raps nearly drowned the last word. The spirit seemed to be quick-tempered.

“If it is a woman, rap once——”

No response. This was decidedly clever.

“If it is myself, rap.”

This time, instead of silence, there was a faint scratching under the surface of the table.

“The negative sign,” M. Auguste explained blandly, for our benefit.

Then, addressing himself once more to the invisible member of the party, he inquired:

“If it is Mr. Nicholas, rap.”

Silence.

“You must excuse me,” the medium said, turning his face in my direction. “If it is Mr. Sterling——”

A shower of raps. I really thought the table would have given way.

This was discouraging. The Czar came to my rescue, however.

“I particularly wish Mr. Sterling to be present,” he observed with a touch of displeasure—whether intended for M. Auguste or the spiritual visitant I could not tell.

The hierophant no doubt saw that he must submit. His retreat was executed with great skill.

“If the obstacle is one that can be removed, rap once.”

A rap.

“Can you spell it for us?”

In the rather cumbrous alphabet in use among the shades, the visitor spelled out in French:

“Son nom.”

“Is there something you object to about his name?”

A rap.

“Is it an assumed name?”

A very loud rap. Decidedly the spirit was indignant.

“Can you tell us his real name? His initials will do?”

“A. V.” spelled the unseen visitor.

“Is that right?” M. Auguste inquired with well-assumed curiosity.

“It is marvelous!” ejaculated the Emperor. “You will understand, of course, Auguste, that this must be kept a secret among ourselves.”

“Ask if it is Madame Blavatsky,” said the Czar.

We learned that the apostle of theosophy was indeed present.

“Would you like to hear from any other spirits?” M. Auguste asked the company.

“I should be glad of a word with Bismarck,” I suggested.

In five minutes the Iron Chancellor announced himself. His rap was sharp, quick and decided, quite a characteristic rap.

“Ask if he approves of the present policy of the German Emperor?”

A hearty rap. Evidently the spirit had greatly changed its views in the other world.

“Ask if he remembers telling me, the last time I saw him, that Russia was smothering Germany in bed?”

“Do you refuse to answer that question?” M. Auguste put in adroitly.

An expressive rap.

“Will you answer any other questions from this gentleman?”

Then the spirit of Bismarck spoke out. It denounced me as a worker of evil, a source of strife, and particularly as one who was acting injuriously to the Russian Empire. I confess M. Auguste scored.

“In his lifetime he would have said all that, if he had thought I was working in the interest of Russia and against Germany,” I remarked in my own defence.

The spirit of the Iron Chancellor was dismissed, and that of Madame Blavatsky recalled.

It was evident that the Czar placed particular confidence in his late subject. Indeed, if the issues at stake had been less serious, I think I should have made an attempt to shake the Emperor’s blind faith in the performances of M. Auguste.

But my sole object was to read, if I could, the secret plans and intentions of a very different imperial character, whose agent I believed the spirit to be.

M. Auguste, I quickly discovered, was distracted between fear of offending Nicholas by too much reserve, and dread of enabling me to see his game. In the end the Czar’s persistence triumphed, and we obtained something like a revelation.

“Tell us what you can see, that it concerns the Emperor to know,” M. Auguste had adjured his familiar.

“I see”—the reply was rapped out with irritating slowness—I quite longed for a slate—“an English dockyard. The workmen are secretly at work by night, with muffled hammers. They are building a torpedo boat. It is to the order of the Japanese Government. The English police have received secret instructions from the Minister of the Interior not to interfere.”

“Minister of the Interior” was a blunder. With my knowledge of English politics I am able to say that the correct title of this personage should be “Secretary of State for the Domestic Department.” But few foreigners except myself have been able to master the intricacies of the British Constitution.

“For what is this torpedo boat designed?” M. Auguste inquired.

“It is for service against the Baltic Fleet. The Russian sailors are the bravest in the world, but they are too honest to be a match for the heathen Japanese,” the spirit pursued, with some inconsistency.

I could not help reflecting that Madame Blavatsky in her lifetime had professed the Buddhist faith, which is that of the majority in Japan.

“Do you see anything else?”

“I see other dockyards where the same work is being carried on. A whole fleet of warships is being prepared by the perfidious British for use against the fleet of Russia.”

“Ask her to cast her eye over the German dockyards,” I put in.

“Spirits have no sex,” M. Auguste corrected severely. “I will ask it.”

A succession of raps conveyed the information that Germany was preserving a perfectly correct course, as usual. Her sole departure from the attitude of strict neutrality was to permit certain pilots, familiar with the North Sea navigation, to offer their services to the Russian fleet.

“Glance into the future,” said the Czar. “Tell us what you see about to happen.”

“I see the Baltic Fleet setting out. The Admiral has issued the strictest orders to neutral shipping to retire to their harbors and leave the sea clear for the warships of Russia. He has threatened to sink any neutral ship that comes within range of his guns.

“As long as he is in the Baltic these orders are obeyed. The German, Swedish and Danish flags are lowered at his approach, as is right.

“Now he passes out into the North Sea. The haughty and hostile English defy his commands. Their merchant ships go forth as usual. Presuming on their knowledge of international law, they annoy and vex the Russian warships by sailing past them. The blood of the brave Russian officers begins to boil. Ask me no more.”

M. Auguste, prompted by the deeply interested Czar, did ask more.

“I see,” the obedient seeress resumed, “torpedo boats secretly creeping out from the British ports. They do not openly fly the Japanese flag, but lurk among the English ships, with the connivance of the treacherous islanders.

“The Baltic Fleet approaches. The torpedo boats, skulking behind the shelter of their friends, steal closer to the Russian ships. Then the brave Russian Admiral remembers his promise. Just in time to save his fleet from destruction, he signals to the British to retire.

“They obstinately refuse. The Russian fleet opens fire.

“I can see no more.”

The spirit of the seeress, it will be observed, broke off its revelations at the most interesting point, with the skill of a practised writer of serials.

But the Czar, fairly carried away by excitement, insisted on knowing more.

“Ask the spirit if there will be any foreign complications,” he said.

I had already remarked that our invisible companion showed a good deal of deference to the wishes of Nicholas II., perhaps in his character of Head of the Orthodox Church.

After a little hesitation it rapped out:

“The English are angry, but they are restrained by the fear of Germany. The German Michael casts his shield in front of Russia, and the islanders are cowed. I cannot see all that follows. But in the end I see that the Yellow Peril is averted by the joint action of Russia and Germany.”

This answer confirmed to the full my suspicions regarding the source of M. Auguste’s inspiration. I believed firmly that there was a spirit present, but it was not the spirit of the deceased theosophist, rather of a monarch who is very much alive.

The medium now professed to feel exhausted, and Madame Blavatsky was permitted to retire.

I rose to accompany M. Auguste as soon as he made a move to retire.

“If you will let me drive you as far as my hotel,” I said to him, “I think I can show you something which will repay you for coming with me.”

The wizard looked me in the face for the first time, as he said deliberately:

“I shall be very pleased to come.”