The clock was striking eight as I entered the restaurant of the Two-Headed Eagle, in the seaport of Revel on the Gulf of Finland, about a week after the mysterious disappearance of Petrovitch had become the talk of Petersburg.

Picking out a table at which an officer in the uniform of a Russian naval captain was already seated, I went up to it, and sat down in front of him with the formal bow prescribed by etiquette in the circumstances.

The ships intended to sail to the relief of Port Arthur were lying at this time some at Revel and others at Libau on the Baltic. From time to time their departure was officially announced for a certain date, reviews were held, and one or two preliminary trips had been undertaken.

But each time some unseen obstacle was interposed, and M. Auguste continued to draw his weekly stipend.

Nevertheless it was beginning to be evident that the game of see-saw could not go on forever. Autumn was approaching, the nation was becoming impatient, and the scoffs of the foreign press were severely galling the naval pride of Russia.

I had picked up a certain amount of information in the capital itself, where a great number of the officers were on leave. But I wished to get in direct touch with the one man who, I believed, was most likely to be in the confidence of Petrovitch, and, finding there was no chance of his coming to Petersburg, I had been obliged to make the journey to Revel.

Vassileffsky acknowledged my bow with cordiality, at the same time fixing his dark, wicked eyes on me with a look which I well understood.

I was wearing the uniform which I had ordered my assistant to provide me with, and the Captain had been quick to take note of it.

It may be said that the most valuable part of a naval officer’s income in Russia is derived from the peculation of government stores. To carry on this lucrative system of plunder there is always a good understanding between officials of the Stores Department and the combatant officers.

Captain Vassileffsky now studied my face like a man expecting to receive some proposal of the kind. I, on my side, made it my business to say as little as possible to him till dinner was over.

Then I called for a magnum of champagne, and invited my companion to fill a tumbler.

He did so readily enough, and I gave him the toast,

“To the Emperor who wishes us well!”

Vassileffsky started, and gave me a penetrating look.

He did not venture to put a question to me, however, and contented himself with drinking the toast in silence.

Determined not to say anything as long as the Captain remained sober, I plied him with champagne in increasing quantities, while taking as little as possible myself.

On his side Vassileffsky was equally reserved. He saw, of course, that I had a special object in courting his friendship, and was cunning enough to let me make the first advance.

As soon as I thought the wine had had time to confuse his faculties, I leaned forward and whispered,

“I’ve got something to say to you about Petrovitch.”

The Captain looked at me eagerly.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Not so loud. Yes. He has had to disguise himself.”

I spoke in a muffled tone, which Vassileffsky imitated in his response.

“Where is he? I want to see him very badly.”

“I know. He wants to see you. He is here in Revel.”

“In Revel! Isn’t that dangerous?”

“It would be if he weren’t so well disguised. You, yourself, wouldn’t know him.”

Vassileffsky looked incredulous.

“I bet I should.”

“Done with you! What in?”

“A dozen magnums.”

“Pay for them, then. I’m Petrovitch.”

The Captain started, shook himself, and peered drunkenly into my face.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Read that then.”

I drew out the passport, and spread it before him. The Russian spelled his way through it, and nodded solemnly at the end.

“Yes, that’s all right. You must be Petrovitch, I suppose. But you don’t look like him.”

“Didn’t I tell you I was disguised. I had to clear out in a hurry. Some one’s been denouncing me to Nicholas.”

Vassileffsky looked frightened. His eye sought the door, as though he no longer felt at ease in my company.

“You needn’t be afraid,” I assured him. “No one suspects you.”

“Well, what do you want?” he asked sullenly.

“I want you to take me on board your ship.”

An angry frown crossed his face.

“You want me to hide you from the police!”

“Nonsense. The police are all right. They want me to get away. They could have put their hands on me long ago if they had wanted to.”

“Then why have you come here?”

“I told you. I want to have a talk with you about our plans.”

“The plan is all right. But I want to know when we’re to sail.”

“I’m doing all I can. It’s only a question of weeks now.”

Vassileffsky looked hard at me again, bent across the table, and whispered a word which I failed to understand.

Something in his face warned me that it was a password. I recovered myself from my momentary confusion and smiled.

“The word’s changed,” I said with an air of authority. “It’s North Sea and Canal.”

The Russian seemed satisfied.

“Well,” he said, stumbling to his feet, “if we’re going on board we’d better go.”

“Don’t forget the magnums,” I put in, as I rose in my turn.

The reckoning was settled, and the champagne ordered to follow us down to the boat.

Vassileffsky nearly lost his footing as we got out into the fresh air, and caught hold of my arm.

“You’ll have to lead me,” he said, speaking thickly. “Straight along the street, and down the first turning on the quay.”

We walked along, arm-in-arm, my companion appearing to become more helpless every minute.

As we emerged from the narrow lane which conducted us to the waterside, the lights of the harbor burst into view. There on the tide lay a long line of stately battleships, cruisers and dark, low-lying torpedo boats, their riding lights flashing and twinkling in a thousand reflections on the waves.

A drunken hail from the Captain was responded to by a respectful hail from a Russian petty officer, who was lounging at the head of some stone steps.

He came forward and assisted his commanding officer down and into the launch which waited below. I followed, and the bottles of champagne were handed in afterward.

Vassileffsky seized the tiller with more energy than he had seemed capable of, and headed the launch for a great battleship, the Beresina.

In a few minutes we were alongside. A smart landing stage and ladder brought us up on to the deck, and as soon as our feet touched it, Captain Vassileffsky, suddenly drawing himself up, said in distinct and sober tones,

“Consider yourself under arrest, if you please——”

I was a prisoner on board a Russian man-of-war!