y little dear," grinned Boolba. "That is fine music."

But it was not her own danger which had provoked the cry. It was that
vision, twice seen in her lifetime, of dead white hands, blue-veined,
coming from the curtain and holding this time a scarlet cord.

It was about Boolba's neck before he realized what had happened. With a
strangled cry he released the girl, and she fell back again on the
table, overturning it with a crash.

"This way, Highness," said a hollow voice, and she darted through the
curtains.

She heard the shock of Boolba's body as it fell to the ground, and then
Israel Kensky darted past her, flung open the door and pushed her
through.

"The servants' way," he said, and she ran to the narrow staircase which
led below to the kitchen, and above to the attics in which the servants
slept.

Down the stairs, two at a time, she raced, the old man behind her. The
stairway ended in a square hall. There was a door, half ajar, leading to
the kitchen, which was filled with merrymakers, and a second door
leading into the street, and this was also open. She knew the way
blindfolded. They were in what had been the coach-yard of the Palace,
and she knew there were half a dozen ways into the street. Israel chose
the most unlikely, one which led again to the front of the house.

A drosky was waiting, and into this he bundled her, jumping in by her
side, holding her about the waist as the driver whipped up his two
horses and sped through the deserted streets of Moscow.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] "Kreml" is literally Kremlin, one of the places of
detention in Moscow.

CHAPTER XVI

THE BOOK OF ALL-POWER

Malcolm was the first to hear the sound of wheels on the roadway, and
the party listened in silence till a low whistle sounded and their host
darted out of the room.

"What was that?" asked Malinkoff. "Somebody has come to the front door."

A few minutes later Petroff staggered through the doorway, carrying the
limp figure of Irene. It was Malcolm who took the girl in his arms and
laid her upon the sofa.

"She is not dead," said a voice behind him.

He looked up; it was Israel Kensky. The old man looked white and ill. He
took the glass of wine which Ivan brought him with a shaking hand, and
wiped his beard as he looked down at the girl. There was neither
friendliness nor pity in his glance, only the curious tranquillity which
comes to the face of a man who has done that which he set out to do.

"What of