d to a struggling genius, had done him
such a good turn, after all.

True, he had made certain strides in his calling: he might be said now
to have gained a European reputation in place of a purely local one.
On the other hand, he was mixed up in the political schemes of
Golitzine. He had been kidnapped, and but for the tenderness of a
woman, perhaps two women, might have been done to death by now.

On the whole, England seemed a safer place than Russia. In Russia
there was only one bright spot. And that was the presence of the
Princess Nada.

And this constant, ubiquitous bodyguard annoyed him. Of course he was
quite sensible enough to know that it was necessary. Whoever his
enemy might be, Zouroff or another, he would try and kidnap him again,
undeterred by the failure of the first attempt. Golitzine and the
Chief of Police were quite right to put a cordon round him.

It irked him very much, this body of four patient men who guarded him
day and night, not in any way obtrusively, but always within
reach--lurking in the corridor of his hotel, in the passages and
lobbies of the Opera House, always ready to rush to his assistance if
he were suddenly surprised.

In London he could walk east, west, south, or north without fear--to
the breezy heights of Hampstead, the sylvan glades of Richmond. For,
if he were to seek inspiration, he must fly from closed rooms, from
shut doors, and hold communion with the stars.

On the second night of his return, the four patient men accompanied
him on one of his walks, scattering discreetly, but ever on the alert.

Inspiration had come to him. The fugitive notes, with difficulty
recaptured, were shaping themselves into music in his brain. Suddenly
a tall figure loomed out of the darkness and stood in front of him.
The four silent watching men formed up and drew closer.

"Do not fear," whispered the man; "I am a friend. I see there are men
looking after you. They are members of the police, I am sure. Tell
them not to be afraid for your safety; but I would like them to
withdraw out of earshot."

"I seem to remember your voice, I have a faint recollection of your
face," answered Corsini, "but at the moment I cannot recall when and
where we met."

The big man laughed softly. "Throw back your memory a little while. A
lonely road leading out of a still more lonely village filled with
troops and mounted police. Your train had broken down, you had taken a
quiet walk. You were saying y