I now come to a part of my chronicle which I plainly foresee must expose me to grave criticism.

To that criticism it is no part of my purpose to attempt any reply.

In the long run, I have found, men’s minds are not much affected by argument and advocacy. Facts tell their own story, and men’s judgments are usually the result of their personal prejudices.

For that reason I shall confine myself to relating facts. I have already told the story of my murder—for such it was in the intent—by Petrovitch. I shall now tell the story of the justice meted out by me on the assassin.

As soon as I was safely lodged in my house on the Alexander Quay, I despatched my assistant, a clever young Frenchman named Breuil, with a message to the promoter of the Manchurian Syndicate—the real moving spirit of that War clique in which even the bellicose grand dukes had only secondary parts.

The wording of the message had been carefully calculated to arouse curiosity, but not apprehension.

“The agent of a foreign Power,” Breuil was instructed to say to this self-styled patriot, “with very large funds at his disposal, desires to see you in strict secrecy.”

The bait took. Petrovitch, naturally concluding that he was to be offered a heavy bribe for some act of treachery to Russia, greedily accepted the invitation.

The infatuated man did not take even the ordinary precaution of asking for guarantees. He consented to accompany Breuil at once, merely asking how far he had to go. This recklessness was the result of his supposed triumphant crime. Believing that I was safely interred in the English cemetery, he thought there was no one left for him to fear.

On the way he did his best to extract some information out of my assistant. But Breuil returned the same answer to all his questions and hints:

“I am under orders not to converse with you, monsieur.”

The doomed man was in good spirits as the droshky put him down at the door of my house.

“Decidedly an out-of-the-way retreat!” he commented gaily. “I should hardly be able to find my way here again without your assistance!”

The silent Breuil merely bowed, as he proceeded to open the street door with a latch key.

Perhaps Petrovitch had been a little more nervous than he allowed to appear. When he noticed that his escort simply closed the door on the latch, without locking or bolting it further, he said in a tone of relief:

“You are not much afraid of being visited by the police, I see.”

Breuil, as silent as ever, led the way into a back parlor, overlooking the Neva, where I was waiting to receive my visitor.

The room was plainly furnished as a study, and I had placed myself in an arm-chair facing the window, so that my back was turned to the door as Petrovitch entered.

I pretended to be writing furiously, as a pretext for not turning my head till the visitor had seated himself.

Breuil said quietly, “M. Petrovitch is here,” and went out of the room.

As the door closed I tossed away my pen and turned around, facing my assassin.

“I am pleased to see you, M. Petrovitch.”

“Monsieur V——!”

I thought he would have lost his senses. His whole countenance changed. He clung to his chair, and his eyes were fixed on me with an expression of panic.

So complete was his collapse that he did not attempt to speak or excuse himself. I saw that he was hardly in a condition to listen to anything I had to say.

“I fear you are unwell, M. Petrovitch. Allow me to offer you a little brandy.”

The wretched man watched me with bewildered looks, as I took a bottle and glasses from a cupboard and helped first him and then myself.

“It is quite wholesome, I assure you.”

As I said the words I raised my own glass to my lips and sipped.

A choking cry escaped from the author of the war. He seized the glass I had set before him and feverishly drained it.

I saw that he was burning to know by what means I had escaped the fate prepared for me. But I had no object in gratifying his curiosity, and mere boasting is not a weakness of mine.

Steadfastly preserving the tone of a business interview between men who understand each other, I went on to say:

“I am here, as you know, in the joint interests of England and Japan.”

My murderer nodded faintly. I could see him making a tremendous effort to control his nerves, and enter into conversation with me on my own terms.

“I think I should be glad of a little more brandy. Thank you!—I am not at all myself.”

I shook my head compassionately.

“You should be careful to avoid too much excitement,” I said. “Any sudden shock is bad for a man with your nerves.”

The promoter gasped. The situation was clearly beyond him.

“You,” I went on in my most matter-of-fact tone, “on the contrary, are acting on behalf of Germany.”

“Who says so!” He was beginning to speak fiercely; but his eye met mine, and the words died on his lips.

“We will say I dreamed it, if you like,” I responded drily. “I have very remarkable dreams sometimes, and learn a great deal from them.

“To confine ourselves to business. I have caused the sailing of this Baltic Fleet to be put off, because——”

“You—have caused it!”

The interruption burst from him in spite of himself.

I affected to shrug my shoulders with a certain annoyance.

“Your opinion of my powers does not seem to be a very high one, unfortunately,” I remarked with irony. “It would be better if you accepted me as a serious antagonist, believe me.”

Petrovitch lowered his eyes in confusion, as he muttered,

“I apologize, Monsieur V——. I have blundered, as I now perceive.”

“Let us resume. I was about to say that I had prevented the sailing of this fleet, because I feared that its voyage might be marked by some incident likely to bring Great Britain and Russia into collision.”

The financier raised his head and watched me keenly.

“You, yourself, M. Petrovitch, have been active, I believe, in preparing the mind of the Czar and the Russian public for something of the sort. Doubtless you have not done so without very good grounds.”

“My information leads me to think that a flotilla of torpedo boats is being kept ready in the English ports for a night attack on our fleet during its progress through the North Sea.”

I smiled disdainfully.

“That is a false report. I have asked you to call here in the hope that I might find you ready to assist me in discrediting it.”

The Russian continued to watch me out of his narrow eyes.

“And, also,” I added, “to assist me in preventing any attempt to give color to it.”

“I am not sure that I understand you, Monsieur V——.”

“That is quite possible. I will speak more plainly. There are some prophets who take a little trouble to make their prophesies come true. I wish to know whether you and your friends have determined that this particular prophesy shall come true—perhaps to fulfill it yourselves?”

Petrovitch frowned and compressed his lips.

“So that is why you got me here?”

“I wished to see,” I said blandly, “if it was possible for me to offer you terms which might induce you to alter your views altogether—in short, to stop the war.”

The financier looked thunderstruck.

“Monsieur V——, you don’t know what you ask! But you—would a million rubles tempt you to come over, to be neutral, even?”

“I am a member, by adoption, of the imperial family of Japan,” I replied laconically.

Petrovitch was past surprise. If I had informed him that I was the Mikado in disguise, I think he would have taken it as a matter of course.

“This war is worth ten millions to me,” he confessed hoarsely.

I shook my head with resignation.

“The price is too high. We must be enemies, not friends, I perceive.”

The author of the war, who had regained his self-possession, did not blanch at these words.

“I regret it,” he said with a courteous inclination.

“You have reason to.”

He gave me a questioning glance.

“Up to the present I have been on the defensive,” I explained. “I dislike violent measures. But from this moment I shall hold myself at liberty to use them.”

“I am afraid I have gone rather too far,” the promoter hesitated.

“You have drugged me. You have robbed me. You have murdered me.”

“You are alive, however,” he ventured to retort with an impudent smile.

“Unfortunately,” I went on sternly, “in murdering me you exceeded your instructions.”

“How——”

“I dreamed that I heard you tell your accomplice so,” I put in, without giving him a chance to speak.

He ceased to meet my gaze.

“You are therefore not even a political criminal. You are a common felon. As such I warn you that I shall execute you without notice, and without reprieve.”

The Russian scowled fiercely.

“We will see about that,” he blustered. “I have a loaded revolver in my pocket.”

I waved my hand scornfully.

“Undeceive yourself, George Petrovitch. I am not proposing a duel. I cannot be expected to fight with a condemned murderer. I sentence you to death—and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

“By what right?” he demanded furiously.

“I am accredited by the Emperor of Japan to the Emperor of Russia. This house is Japanese soil. Farewell!”

Petrovitch rose from his chair, wavering between indignation and alarm.

“I shall defend myself!” he exclaimed, edging slowly toward the door.

“You will do better to confess yourself. Is there no prayer that you wish to say?”

The Russian smiled incredulously.

“You seem very confident,” he sneered.

I saw that it was useless to try to rouse him to a sense of his peril. I pointed to the door, and pressed a knob on the wall.

The murderer made two steps from me, laid his fingers on the door-handle—and dropped dead instantly.