elbow indicated the other woman, who was still talking, gesticulating behind them. "She was frightened for him." The fool! Bah-they're poor stuff for patriots! I'm not afraid, Marx! I'm not that sort."

The man gave her a sudden strange look, half proud, half tender, inscrutable; and his fist clenched as it rested on the rail.

"No," he said, "you're not-you're not, Nadine. You've got more courage in that little finger of yours than ten of Mieke put together. And you'll need it all to-night, all the nerve you have, child! . . . Are you sure of yourself?"

"Yes."

"You won't flinch?"

She threw back her head and her eyes flashed up at him. He studied them for a moment, staring down into their depths. "Regardless of consequences-remem

ber."

"I remember."

The girl laughed out, but her lip we saw was quivering. The man made a sudden movement as if to put his arm around her, a movement checked half-way as he realized the crowd. That the two understood one another was evident. The absolute trust in her face was beautiful.

"We're nearly there," he said, "we'll be in Interlaken directly. You know where to meet me to-night-and when?"

"The pavilion-eight o'clock-on the Harder path. You will bring the "

"Sh-h-h!" he whispered, looking over his shoulder, "Yes, I'll have it all ready. You're to go to the Kursaal, you know, straight from there."

"Mélikoff is certain, is he?"

"Chut! . . . He has ordered a table reserved, and you're to have the next, number twenty-four."

As the Russian said this the girl blanched, shrinking back with instinctive recoil as from a blow. And then to our amazement we saw that she was trembling. There could be no doubt of the fact this time. In every limb, in every muscle she was trembling like a leaf.

Whether the man noticed or not, we could not tell. If he did, he made no comment. There was silence between them. The two stood side by side against the rail, staring down into the water.

By this time the boat was approaching the pier, and the passengers began to move

"That's so," I exclaimed, "We're both on pins and needles, Count! By George, I remember distinctly when the picture of Marx first came out in the papers. Cossack type-wasn't he? Strong-featured, dark-browed, striking-looking fellow? And Nadine, a pretty little wistful-eyed thing? . . . Not much of the criminal about either one of them. He didn't look a traitor, and as for that child-well, you can't tell much from a newspaper print."

The Count shook his head.

"Nor from the human countenance either, study it as you may. You're a portrait painter, my friend, so you'll bear me out in this! Far from understanding others, we shall probably be puzzled by ourselves some day. As far as I can make it-in any very strongly developed individuality, there are a number of different characters involved. Which of them finally wins out is determined by what-influence, circumstances, training-who can say? With Marx, they had all combined to make him what he was-up to a certain period. He didn't choose his career. Nature gave him certain talents; his country recognized and used them. To earn his bread he started-was forced you might say-along a certain road, just as most of us are. The line of least resistance or the line of most, according to our cravings. With him, it was the latter case. Struggle, danger, excitement-they were the very breath of life to him. His nerves were strong, his wits were keen, and he tried to

心

vilion. If you keep an eye on table 24, I'll do the same with that couple up yonder. Eight o'clock was it-the Harder Promenade?"

"Yes. There's time enough still."

"All right. When that interview takes place I'll be present. I know that pavilion. We'll find out, Reuss, between us, and save the old Tartar from his fate a while longer. Fancy that sort of thing in peaceful little Interlaken!"

Reuss drew his brows together.

"It isn't the plot that puzzles me," he said, "I've run up against these people before and I recognize their ways. The girl's a tool of course; an excitable child, full of visions and fancies. You could see for yourself she was wax in his hands. Why, she'd walk into hell at a glance from that man! . . . No, it's the chief himself that disturbs me, their leader! What was it the girl called him, Nicot?"

"She spoke to him as Marx." "Exactly-Marx! Well," Reuss gave a strange laugh, "the last time I saw himI remember it now perfectly. It was six months or so ago, and I was painting the portrait of Glazov-ex-Governor of Elisabetpol, and a man of high position. He had something to do with the secret police, just what I don't know, but one day-it was in his private salon in the hotel at Nauheim-he was sitting to me. Sacré, how it all comes back! Suddenly there came a light tap at the door.

"Come in," said Glazov, "Is that you, Klafsky?"

"And in walked this fellow with a portfolio under his arm. The very same man, that I'd swear to. The same build, the same swing to his shoulders, the same deep-set, piercing eyes, the same strong, vibrating personality.

"Glazov excused himself for a moment, and the two proceeded to go over the portfolio right there before me. You know, Nicot, it's my business to study faces. Once I've studied them I never forget. That Klafsky was an agent, a Russian police spy reporting to his chief. They went over a long list of names together; and after some they put a cross, and after some they put a question. Whatever the report was, Glazov looked pleased as Punch.

"You'll get an order for this some day, Klafsky; you're the best man we have.

Why during the last years, since you've been on the force, every one of their schemes has miscarried. Thanks to you we've foiled them all, one after the other. If it hadn't been for you the Minister of Education, the Minister of the Interior, the Vice-Governor of Ufa, Prince Androkof, the Chief of Police of Vladikavkaz, the Grand-Duke Boris himself, and hosts of others-they were all doomed men, and they owe their lives to you."

With that Klafsky made a low bow and went out.

But that expression on the General's face, you can see it in the portrait now-the look that Klafsky brought there, the look of the cat when the bird is in its claws. It was Klafsky put the bird there. And nowha-ha! His name is Marx, is it? A revolutionist-a leader? . . . Do you follow all this, Nicot?"

"No," said I, "I don't! It's a damned queer business. But if he's luring that Russian girl on to her death-these provocative agents, I've heard of them before-they are perfect devils!... Good-by, Reuss, I'm off. That Harder path will be a dark meeting place to-night. Don't forget the Kursaal!"

"Bah, Nicot! It's not Mélikoff I'm worried about-it's the girl! If that fellow really is Klafsky, why he'll head her off himself. The moment she's in deep enough, caught in his trap, he'll hand the proofs over secretly to the Russian police. She'll be in prison for life, just as quick as thatand she'll never know what struck her! Mélikoff! Parbleu, he's safe enough! They'll never let her touch him!... Well, good-by, Nicot, good luck!"

"Gentlemen"-the Count paused"when Reuss and I parted that night-he sipping his coffee on the hotel terrace, I striding down the Höheweg off into the darkness-we both little dreamed what we had ahead of us. The moon, which had come up earlier in the evening, had gone under a cloud, so once out of the village it was black as pitch. The trees along the path loomed up like gaunt spectres. The forest stretched out mysterious and vast, silent as the grave. Below were the lights in the valley twinkling. Above were the stars. Beyond were the snow peaks. So I groped my way upward. The walk is twenty minutes, but it seemed hours.

You know that pavilion, don't you? It stands on a ledge overlooking the valley, and is charming in the sunshine; but at that. time of night, you can imagine, the place was lonely as a cave. I stole in on tiptoe and hid myself in a shadowy corner, and waited and listened. It was nervous work. The waiting was even worse than the walk. It was too dark to see my watch face, and I dared not strike a match. Was it eight o'clock- -was it past? Were they coming? Was it the wrong pavilion perhaps? Was there another beyond? Had I misunderstood, or had something kept them?

Just as I was asking myself these questions, standing first on one foot then on the other, peering out into the open space at the head of the path, all of a sudden a shadow crossed it. It passed so quickly, I could not be sure—and then came another. The shadows flitted across the entrance of the pavilion. A large one, a small one, and then I could see nothing, but I heard breathing. The smaller shadow seemed to be panting.

"Sh-h-h!"

The hiss was so close that I started back.

"Did you hear anything, Marx?" "Chut!"

"It must have been the leaves crackling."

"No-it was a movement." "Perhaps it was your own!"

"Perhaps! . . . Come nearer, Nadine, come nearer! Tell me, you would go anywhere, you would do anything that I told you would you?"

"Yes, Marx."

"No matter what the risk, no matter what the consequences-life imprisonment, even death?"

"Yes-Marx."

"Why would you, Nadine?"

"For the cause's sake," said the girl faintly. I could tell from the tone that her breath was still fluttering, but the words were unmistakable. "Are you not our chief? You have suffered everything, you have braved everything. You are our leader, and there is no one in all the revolutionary party who has done what you have done, who has been what you have been. Have you not planned the attacks for years now? And have we not always followed your call, blindly unfalteringly at a demi-mot?"

"You have, Nadine! God help meyou have!”

The man's voice came suddenly hoarse, full of passion.

"You trust me so much then? . . . Ha!” he laughed aloud roughly, "You trust me as much as that, do you? . . . Speak! Why don't you speak?"

"Yes, yes-I trust you."

"Come then, douscha moja,* sit down beside me. Put your hand in mine, and let us look at the stars together. The night is too beautiful for the Kursaal, for vengeance! Forget it, little one. I love you. I love you as I never loved a woman before! . . . Come nearer, put your head on my shoulder. I love you!"

The girl gave a low cry. Whether she resisted him in the darkness, I could not tell. The man went on talking, pleading, in rough, passionate Russian phrases. "If you trust me as much as that, douschka,† then you love me too! You are so dear to me- -so dear to me! God! Come closer. Let me look at your face, let me read your eyes, let me kiss you on your lips!"

For a moment or two there was silence in the pavilion, and all I could hear was their hurried breathing. Then the girl seemed to rouse."

"Is it time to go? Look! The music has just begun in the Kursaal. Don't you hear it from here? . . . Let me go, Marx, don't hold me. You are trying to test me, dearest. You think I'm afraid?"

"Stay with me," said the man.
"Let me go-Marx!”

"Is the murder of Mélikoff more than my love?"

"Murder!" The girl started so that I felt it from where I stood. "Murder! Why, hasn't the Tribunal tried him fairly and condemned him? Wasn't it you who planned it all, who signed the paper? Didn't you give out the orders yourself? What do you mean?"

"Nothing," said the man, "I've changed my mind, that's all. The orders are revoked."

"But the vow, Marx-you forget I am bound!”

"No matter."