T

HERE were three of us dining together that night in my Paris studio, Count Nicot, Tony DeJong, and myself.

The Count was slim and small and dark, very foreign looking, with a short mustache which he twirled incessantly. DeJong was big and blonde, with a hearty laugh and honest blue eyes. His skin was ruddy and bronzed like a sailor. Dinner was over. We were lingering over our wine and smoke, enjoying the quiet of the dimly lit studio, and DeJong had just finished a yarn of the sea-a weird tale of shipwreck, revenge and a woman, which had left us all shivering-when Nicot's voice broke the lull suddenly. It was a low voice, magnetic, with a carrying quality.

"That's a queer thing, DeJong; one of the queerest I ever heard. You experienced that really yourself, did you?"

The Count and I both looked up with interest.

DeJong was engaged in filling his pipe. He wedged the tobacco well in with his thumb, and held the match to the bowl before answering.

"Experienced it myself?" he said, "what? Why of course I experienced it. There's nothing so queer in this world as the truth. Don't you know that, gentlemen?"

"Sacré!" exclaimed Nicot. "Monsieur, you are right! To some, such an outcome would seem unlikely, but I've seen strange things in the course of my life. Where women are concerned everything is possible. Black skins or white, Asiatics or Europeans, it makes no difference. When their love, their passion, their jealousy is aroused, it is like the spark at the end of the gunpowder fuse. The strongest man--if he takes fire-whiff, bang, gone, goodby!"

The Count laughed as he spoke. "Take the Russian case of Klafsky, for example the most extraordinary affair that

was. All the European papers were full of it a few years ago. You remember? In Paris the feeling ran very high, in Zurich and Geneva they held mass meetings, and in Milan there was a riot. But no one knew the real facts of the case; no one ever will know. The Russian police force were as mystified as the Central Revolutionists. Both were equally in the dark, and both equally swore vengeance. It was a curious situation."

"Klafsky!" cried DeJong, "Klafsky! . . . Wait a moment, Monsieur. Where have I heard that name before? It sounds familiar.”

"My dear sir," said the Count-he began to twirl the ends of his mustache impatiently-"of course you have heard it. Am I not telling you? At the time the thing happened, for a fortnight there, the press, the people, the whole world was in

terested."

"What!" I exclaimed, "You don't mean that Marx affair in Switzerland? The Russian police spy who

"The same," said Nicot. "No wonder you stammer. Who? What? Where? Why? Exactly-was he Marx or was he Klafsky? Was he a police spy, or was he a Revolutionist? . . . Those are the questions that two great counter organizations have been asking themselves many times over, and are still asking themselves to-day. So far as I know, they have found no answer, and they never will."

"I suppose there's a reason for that," said Tony.

The Count gave a quick glance over his shoulder. "Dites, mon ami-are the walls thick?"

"That's all right, Nicot. He doesn't know English. But still, if you like-shall I send him away?"

other slowly. "If the case had been reversed, I should have been three-quarter revolutionist probably instead. As it is, I sympathize and I comprehend. I do not

The Count's eyes flashed.

"I approve of no system, no society, no cause that puts a man in the position of Klafsky. Whatever his motives were, whatever his real character and purpose, it was a terrible problem he had to face. Whatever you may say of him, he faced it squarely. He did what he thought was right as he saw it. Can any man do more? There is no question of political sympathies in this case, gentlemen, because both sides abused and reviled him alike. He had lived between two fires for a dozen years or more-it takes a fairly brave man to do that-and the first time his foot slipped, they both let loose on him.

"If Klafsky were alive now-pray heaven he is not he is either lying at the bottom

"Good heavens, man!" he exclaimed, throwing his pipe down, "All this Russian secretiveness is enough to develop nerves in a cow! In America we shout everything on the housetops, and don't care a continental! . . . There are no police spies in Paris, are there?"

"Aren't there?" said Nicot-"My dear fellow, if ever you have occasion to speak of Russian affairs on this side of the water, take my advice-whether it be Paris or Basle, Cologne, the Riviera or Constantinople, look over your shoulder first, and drop the tone of your voice low. Not for your own sake, you understand, but for those whose names you happen to mention. Many a tragedy has come from careless talk in a train or a restaurant, a story told lightly, or an opinion repeated. Even with the utmost caution sometimes, a stray word let fall may prove a matter of life or death."

"You smile, sir?" he turned to DeJong gravely, "but unless you have personal acquaintance with these matters; unless the tragedies, their cause and effect, are brought home to you closely, specially, you cannot understand. For my part, my father was a Frenchman, my mother was a Pole, so I am three-quarter socialist and one quar

of Terror have him fast in their clutches. They vowed they'd get him sooner or later, that there wasn't a prison in all the Tsar's dominions strong enough or deep enough to hide him from their vengeance, so they may have succeeded. Either fate is unspeakable."

We all shuddered, and again the Count glanced over his shoulder, swiftly, fleetingly, behind and about him.

"You give your word, gentlemen ?" As he said this, he stretched out his right hand solemnly, and DeJong and I each shook it in turn, one after the other, across the table. Then the Count sat back and folded his arms.

"You probably think," he said, "most people do, that all Russian tragedies are enacted in Russia; but some of the most pitiful dramas I know have taken place right here in Paris; and in Switzerland, where the exiles congregate, the terrible stories I could tell you are countless. You remember when Bazilieff was extradited? . . . He was tracked to Bern by a Russian spy, and then disappeared; lay low for a while like a fox under cover. It wasn't until nearly a year later, the poor fellow tried to get marriage papers for the sake of his child that had just been born-to legalize the Nihilistic ceremony which had

been interrupted. In a second he was pounced on. All those months some one had been watching, listening, waiting for just that very thing. They knew he would try it sooner or later.

I was in Bern at the time; and his young wife the girl who had escaped with him from Warsaw-she was at the station with the baby in her arms to see him taken back. Bazilieff, when his case was tried, only made one request. "Extradite me, if you must," he said, "but marry us first." The Russian Church refused. So the boy he was just twenty-two they told me he was rushed back to Petersburg under strong police guard, and heaven only knows what became of him there! . . . The one little slip, you see; the mistake they made for love of one another. Their very honesty and morality killed them. Some one had talked.

The reason I mention this case to you, gentlemen, is because of Klafsky's connection with it. Nobody guessed it of course at the time, nobody imagines now outside of official circles; but from this you can see the double nature of the man, and the blacker side of the life he was leading. Condemn him if you please. All Europe condemned him a few years ago, even the side he had been serving, even the side he was driven to serve even Nadine. But before you judge, let me tell you what happened."

Nicot took up his glass of wine, emptied it, and set it down again on the table. Both DeJong and I were listening intently. Again came that quick, instinctive glance around, searching the shadows. The Count then resumed.

"Yes-well, it happened one August. I had a friend with me, a man by the name of Reuss, from Bavaria, and we were travelling together through the Bernese Oberland; lounging in the valleys or climbing to the heights; doing a peak or two here or there, according to our fancies and the weather conditions. Reuss was a painter. You know his work, perhaps, mon ami?" "Oh, very well," I said, "of the Munich set I think, was he not?"

"Just so; a rank impressionist but a good fellow. He was making little magenta daubs of the Alps as we went along regular blotches, with the paint stuck on all at sixes and sevens. His sense of beauty

was a trifle distorted, to my mind at least; but for all that, it was he who first saw Nadine. This is how it occurred."

We were on our way to Interlaken; and the boat from Thun was just out of the river, at the point where they turn, you know, into the lake. We had come on at Scherzligen with a big crowd, for those boats are always packed in the season, and were threading our way in and out through the benches, trying to find places. Suddenly I felt Reuss give a jog to my elbow. "Sacrement! . . . Look over there, will you?"

"Where?" said I, staring about me. The confusion of tourists was anything but inviting.

"Straight ahead, at the bow! The chessplayers-see! Push along, Nicot, I want to get a nearer view of her profile."

"Bon Dieu!" I exclaimed.

We elbowed our way to the end of the boat.

Beyond the benches, at the extreme bow, was a little group of people, unmistakably Russians, three men and two women. Two were seated on the capstans close together, with their backs against the rail; the others clustered about them. The couple on the capstans held a chess-board between them, on which the eyes of all five were riveted. What struck me in a flash was the extraordinary absorption of the whole party. Evidently the tourists, with their crowding and chatter, did not exist for them. They were as unconscious of their surroundings as though alone by themselves on a desert island; the curious glances passed by them unheeded. Either the panorama of snow mountains was an old story, or they were indifferent to Alpine scenery, for not one of the group paid the slightest attention.

The afternoon was unusually beautiful. One of those clear, crisp days after a storm, and the horns of the Blümli glistened like silver. Off in the distance rose the Bernese range, Jungfrau, Mönch and Eiger, all three, silhouetted in white against the blue of the summer sky; the clouds drifting off from their summits like smoke, delicate, fleecy, hardly to be distinguished from the snow-fields themselves. There were whitecaps on the lake; and the wind came whistling under the awnings, sharp, bracing, straight from the glaciers.

"Get nearer, can't you?" said Reuss softly, "Push ahead to the rail. There's a woman ahead with a veil a yard broad, I can't see a thing! . . . Sacré, but that's odd! Nicot, I say it can't be a tournament?"

"They are Russian students, that's clear," I whispered back, "and they must be chess fiends to play in the midst of a crowd like this. I'd give something to be able to watch their moves! . . . Let me pass please, madame."

We edged still closer, beyond the last bench, and stood against the rail, holding on to our hats. The Russians were now within close range. Reuss began to gaze fixedly across at the Blümli, and I followed suit, lifting my field glasses.

"Colossal, isn't it?" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "Superb!"

other slowly advanced a rook; then she castled to the left and the game went on.

Her opponent was a black-eyed, anæmic young fellow, poorly dressed, roughly shaven, unhealthy looking. He also seemed nervous. Another man of the same type stood directly behind him. At his elbow, watching closely, was the other woman heavily built, very Slavic in feature. She might have been his sister, and her eyes never wavered from the board for a second. When the black knight vanished, she gave a quick sigh of relief, or disappointmentit was hard to tell which.

"No! Ma foi—we're in luck!”

But all this finesse was lost on our neighbors; they never turned an eyelash. From where we stood now, we could make out the board. From the look of it, and the increasing absorption of the circle, the game seemed to be a close one.

"Hiss-st, Reuss!" I whispered, "is that your profile there?"

"Yes," he whispered back, "the girl at the board. That's a rare head, isn't it? Look at the brow, and the curves of the cheek and the chin-they're exquisite. She's winning, too, if I'm not mistaken. What wouldn't I give to get her on canvas like that, with the hood of her cape drawn over her hair, and her curls blown in the wind!... How old would you make her?"

"About twenty or thereabouts; not more. Sacrement, she is winning!"

The girl suddenly lifted her eyes and looked around. She held her opponent's black knight in her hand, and her gaze sought that of the Russian who was nearest us. He was so near that, as their eyes met, we caught her expression, almost as if it were meant for ourselves. It was a curious one, and instinctively we wondered what the man was like, what his look could have been to call forth the other. The girl's hand trembled as she put the knight down; and she lifted her hand to her hood for a moment, as if to draw the folds closer. The

The Russian who was standing beside the girl, was a man of a different stamp, much older. He was a tall, athletic looking fellow, with a loden cape slung over his shoulders, a cap on his head pulled down over his eyes, and something about him compelling. One of those strong personalities that make themselves felt by their presence alone, without the necessity for speech or action. His back was turned to us, so all we could see was his thick black hair slightly tinged with gray, and the freedom and picturesqueness of his poise as he stood there. He was smoking, and his face was bent over the chess players.

"What do you take him to be, Reussthe tall one? He seems a sort of leader."

"I don't know," he whispered, "but I've run across that fellow before somewhere. Where, for the life of me, I can't recall; perhaps it will come to me later! . . . Ha-Nicot!"

"Sh-h-h!"

"There's something up between him and the girl."

"Looks like it."

"There's something up between the whole lot of them, something more than we think."

I nodded.

"There's more at stake than a mere game of chess. From the absorption of them all and the way they take it, you'd suppose it was a matter of life or death. Sacré! . . . That's queer!" "What?"

"Pretend to be admiring the Blümli, Nicot; don't attract attention. Mon Dieu, did you see that?"

The young man had made a move with his queen; the girl brought hers forward.

He advanced a black bishop; the girl moved her knight. Just as pretty a play as you ever saw. "Check king!" she said.

At this exclamation, the tall man behind her threw away his cigar and made a motion as if to protest. His manner was strange, half startled, like one who is fighting for self-control. The girl glanced up again. She was smiling faintly, and he laid his hand on her shoulder, coming nearer. When she felt his touch-it was plain to see a little shiver seemed to run through her, and the blood rushed away from her cheeks and lips, leaving her pale almost as he was. Several more moves were made in silence.

With each play the intensity of the atmosphere seemed to increase. The waits were interminable, the manoeuvres intricate, the outcome still uncertain. The two were well matched and were evidently playing a very strong game. But why such emotion? Why such extraordinary interest? It was out of all proportion. Reuss shrugged his shoulders.

"These Russians must be an excitable set," he muttered, "Either that, or

"Or what?"

"They are playing for a purpose, and to win or lose means more than we think it does."

Scarcely had he whispered these words in my ear than the tall Russian turned, and we caught his face full. The agony expressed in it I shall never forget. It was as if you saw a man in the midst of a death struggle. Fear, even terror, were written large in every feature, in every line, but the fear and the terror were not for himself. The struggle was not for his own life. Although we were only a few feet away, and his gaze was straight toward us, it was clear enough that he saw nothing, he felt nothing, he heard nothing. His mind was absorbed in something apart.

Whether the touch on her shoulder communicated his thought to the girl or not, she began shivering again; and all of a sudden she dashed her queen forward.

"Check king! . . . Check king!" The tone of her voice was indescribable. It was triumphant like a battle cry; and then in the midst her breath seemed to fail her. Her opponent gave a quick exclamation, which the man and the woman behind him echoed. It seemed one almost of

satisfaction. Instantly, as if stunned, the tall Russian passed his hand over his eyes, hiding them from the light. It was the gesture of one who is drawing on a mask. Then his hand dropped, in a flash he was changed. The expression was gone, and his manner careless.

"She's winning," said Reuss, "and for some reason that tall fellow there, the leader -parbleu, now where have I seen him before? . . . Look, Nicot."

The girl had thrown back her head with a laugh, an odd little laugh, like a child half pleased with itself, half frightened.

"Boje moi!" she cried, "my God-it's checkmate!"

For a moment all five of them seemed transfixed. Nobody moved, nobody spoke; they all stood staring down at the chessboard.

"That's a funny thing," said Reuss softly. "She's won sure enough, but she's pale as death! I don't understand this exalté strain. Why don't they congratulate her? What's the matter with them?"

Before I could answer, the spell broke. The Russians began to talk excitedly together, gesticulating freely. One of the young men folded the chess-board up, slipping the chessmen into his pocket. The boat had just left Beatenbucht. As we watched, the girl rose slowly, unsteadily, to her feet, and drew aside a little, back toward the rail where the tall man was leaning. The two put their heads close and they spoke in a whisper, but Reuss and I were very near. As we understood Russian we could not help hearing. This is what they said, word for word, as I remember it. The girl's voice first, soft as a breath.

"Well-it's settled now, Marx." The man murmured something.

"Don't worry. It shall all be carried out just as you planned, to the very letter. Can I not do it as well as he? . . . Why are you sad?"

"You are too sort of business. You ought not to have drawn for the game at all. If I had dreamed-but Mieke is one of our best players, and he told me, he swore to

young, Nadine, for this

me

"I know," the girl interrupted contemptuously, "he wanted to do it himself. It was she!" A little backward thrust of her