said De Chauxville, watching the face of his companion, "is
all you can tell me?"

"To be quite frank with you," replied the man who had never been quite
frank in his life, "that is all I want to tell you."

De Chauxville lighted a cigarette, with exaggerated interest in the
match.

"Paul is a friend of mine," he said calmly. "I may be staying at Osterno
with him."

The rigid smile never relaxed.

"Not with Karl Steinmetz on the premises," said Vassili imperturbably.

"The astute Mr. Steinmetz may be removed to some other sphere of
usefulness. There is a new spoke in his Teutonic wheel."

"Ah!"

"Prince Paul is about to marry--the widow of Sydney Bamborough."

"Sydney Bamborough," repeated Vassili musingly, with a perfect
expression of innocence on his well-cut face. "I have heard that name
before."

De Chauxville laughed quietly, as if in appreciation of a pretty trick
which he knew as well as its performer.

"She is a friend of mine."

The attache, as he was pleased to call himself, to the Russian Embassy,
leant his arms on the table, bending forward and bringing his large,
fleshy face within a few inches of De Chauxville's keen countenance.

"That makes all the difference," he said.

"I thought it would," answered De Chauxville, meeting the steady gaze
firmly.

CHAPTER XV

IN A WINTER CITY

St. Petersburg under snow is the most picturesque city in the world. The
town is at its best when a high wind has come from the north to blow all
the snow from the cupola of St. Isaac's, leaving that golden dome, in
all its brilliancy, to gleam and flash over the whitened sepulchre of a
city.

In winter the Neva is a broad, silent thoroughfare between the Vassili
Ostrow and the Admiralty Gardens. In the winter the pestilential rattle
of the cobble-stones in the side streets is at last silent, and the
merry music of sleigh-bells takes its place. In the winter the
depressing damp of this northern Venice is crystallized and harmless.

On the English Quay a tall, narrow house stands looking glumly across
the river. It is a suspected house, and watched; for here dwelt Stepan
Lanovitch, secretary and organizer of the Charity League.

Although the outward appearance of the house is uninviting, the interior
is warm and dainty. The odor of delicate hot-house plants is in the
slightly enervating atmosphere of the apartments. It is a Russian fancy
to fill the dwelling-rooms with delicate, forced foliage an