. The other man handled the violin-case which had
dropped from Corsini's hand when so suddenly assailed. His eyes
betrayed a covetous gleam.

"This is worth something, I expect, but we dare not handle it."

"More than our lives are worth," replied the other ruffian, in an
equally regretful tone. "There will be a hue and cry in St. Petersburg
to-morrow when it is known that the Director of the Imperial Opera has
disappeared. We must all lie low. Any attempt to realise on that
violin would give us away at once. Besides, we are being very
handsomely paid."

"That is true," grunted his companion in villainy, as he sank back on
his seat beside the unconscious man. "We don't ask too many questions,
but we can pretty shrewdly guess who is working this job. Peter is a
wary bird and doesn't let out much, but we know who is his master."

The carriage sped on through the gathering night till it reached
Pavlovsk. Here there had been ordered a relay of horses, which was
awaiting them at a small posting-house.

Corsini was still wrapt in a profound slumber. Once he had shown signs
of consciousness, and one of the two miscreants had given him another
dose of the powerful narcotic. It saved trouble, to keep him in that
condition till they reached their destination.

It had been a cold drive. The two men who had guarded the prisoner
stepped outside and stamped their feet. The other two, who were more
chilled, dismounted from the box.

The leader of the party peered at the unconscious figure. "He is still
in the land of dreams, my dear friends," he said. "Well, while he is
sleeping and we are changing horses, we will get a warm drink."

The four men tramped into the bar of the small inn, where they
comforted themselves with the refreshment they desired. They had no
wish to delay their departure, but it would take a few minutes to
change the tired horses, they might as well enjoy themselves in the
interval. They were members of the criminal class whom Peter, the
valet, had employed in his master's interests, but they were very game
fellows. They would never round on their old friend Peter.

Suddenly in the midst of their revels, for the one original drink had
extended itself to three or four, a decrepit old ostler shambled in
with a white and scared face. He was an aged man, toothless, and with
a voice that scarcely rose above a hoarse whisper.

"Every man who wants to save himself had better run as fast as he
can," he croaked