apidly to Gessner in the German
tongue, he turned to the lad presently and asked him to remain.

"Young heads are wise heads sometimes," he said in excellent English,
"you may be able to help us, Mr. Kennedy. Please wait until we have
discussed the matter a little more fully."

To this the banker assented by a single inclination of his head.

"As you say, Count--we shall know presently. Please tell me the story
from the beginning."

The Count lighted a cigarette, and sinking down into the depths of a
monstrous arm-chair, he began to speak in smooth low tones--a tragedy
told almost in whispers; for thus complacently, as the great Frenchman
has reminded us, do we bear the misfortunes of our neighbors.

"I bring news both of failure and of success," he began, "but the
failure is of greater moment to us. Your instructions to my Government,
that the Boriskoffs, father and daughter, were an embarrassment to you
which must be removed, have been faithfully interpreted and acted upon
immediately. The father was arrested at Alexandrovf Station, as I
promised that he should be--the police have visited the school in Warsaw
where the daughter was supposed to reside--this also as I promised
you--but their mission has been in vain. So you see that while Paul
Boriskoff is now in the old prison at Petersburg, the daughter is heaven
knows where, which I may say is nowhere for our purpose. That we did not
complete the affair is our misfortune. The girl, we are convinced, is
still in Warsaw, but her friends are hiding her. Remember that the
police knew the father, but that the daughter is unknown to them. These
Polish girls--pardon me, I refer to the peasant classes--are as alike as
two roses on a bush. We shall do nothing until we establish
identity--and how that is to be done, I do not pretend to say. If you
can help us--and it is very necessary for your own safety to do so--you
have not a minute to lose. We should act at once, I say, without the
loss of a single hour."

Thus did this man of affairs, one who had been deep in many a brave
intrigue, make known to the man who had employed him the supreme
misfortune of their adventure. Had he said, "Your life is in such peril
that you may not have another hour to live," it would have been no more
than the truth. Their plot had failed and the story of it was abroad.
This had he come from Paris to tell--this was the news that Richard
Gessner heard with less apparent emotion than though o