ent from you, upon this subject. Indeed I should prefer that you
make none. You cannot please me better than by listening to me in
silence, so that when I leave you presently, you will know and I will
know, that I will have no more knowledge concerning you and your
entanglements with those people, than I possessed before I came. I
would have it that way. I would have it no other way."

She nodded her head, gazing at him intently, but with that same
changeless expression of impersonal interest, as if she were listening
to the discussion of a third party who was not known to her save by
name.
_
"Zara," he continued, "you will receive other cards than mine to-day,
and you should know that every man or woman who will call upon you in
behalf of the nihilists, is marked and known. You cannot engage in the
business that brought you here, and afterward return to Russia in
safety. The secret police of our empire extends all over the world, and
is as efficient in the city of New York, as it is in Moscow or St.
Petersburg, so far as its requirements demand. I warn you, not in
behalf of your party, the principals of which I despise and abhor; not
in behalf of any individual member of that revolutionist sect, but
wholly in behalf of Zara de Echeveria, the daughter of my best friend,
the offspring of the only woman I ever loved. To-day while I talk to
you, I am not Alexis Saberevski the friend of the czar, but I am Alexis
Saberevski _your_ friend. I have stepped outside my duty; I have taken
it upon myself to come here to perform what may be a disloyal act to my
emperor, in order to warn you against a course which can have but one
end, and which can bring you to but one fate--Siberia."

He left his chair and stood beside her. He reached down and took one of
her hands, pressing it between the palms of both his own.

"Zara," he said, with deep-toned feeling, "in some ways you are like a
daughter to me; in others you are the reincarnation of the woman I
loved so dearly. I love you for yourself, and for the sake of those two
who gave you life. I shall never plead with you again. My duty will
probably nevermore call me into your presence. When we part this day,
it is likely to be for the last time. If danger befalls you because of
the conditions you create through this entanglement, I cannot go to
your rescue, or even to your assistance. I speak to you as with a voice
from the grave, beseeching you in the names of your father and mothe