from me
that as Christ had enemies so, of course, he has. But his enemies cannot
do him injury." Then rising and going across to a beautiful buhl
escritoire, she added: "I will write to him. I sent him another letter by
messenger only yesterday--eight letters, and not a line of response!"

For ten minutes or so, while the Empress sat writing, I chatted with
Madame Vyrubova, and gave to her news of the monk.

"Tell him to return as quickly as possible," the woman said in a low,
confidential voice. "If there really is a plot on foot against him he is
safer in Petrograd than in Perm. Besides, being on the spot, he will be
able to combat his enemies with a swift and relentless hand."

As Her Majesty was writing the telephone rang. Next moment it was plain
that she was speaking with the Emperor, who was away at the headquarters
of the army in Poland.

Having listened to something he told her, she said:

"The holy Father's secretary is here with me. The Father still remains at
Perm. I am writing him urgently asking him to return to us. I wish you
also to send a messenger to him to induce him to come back to Petrograd.
You will be back here next Friday, and is it not wise to hold another
seance next day, eh?"

Then she listened eagerly.

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "I am glad you agree with me, Nikki. Yes, let us try
and get the Father back by Saturday at latest. Good-bye."

And having rung off, she calmly finished the letter and secured it with
the well-known big seal of black wax.

"Remember," she said as she gave it to me, "the Father must be here next
Saturday for the seance, which the Emperor will attend. He wishes again
to consult the spirit of his father Alexander. Urge the Father to return
at once."

I promised to do her bidding, and, retiring, at once left the palace, and
at midnight was on my way back to the far-off town on the Kama.

On the evening of the following day I drove up to the monastery and there
found Rasputin at dinner with the ex-conjurer Rouchine. When I entered
the cosy little room in which the pair were seated, Rasputin had removed
his long robe and was seated in his shirt-sleeves like the peasant he
was. I handed him the letter from the German-born Empress, whereupon he
said:

"Oh! read it to me, Feodor. The woman's handwriting is always a puzzle to
me."

I knew how illiterate he was and the reason of his excuse.

I tore open the envelope and quickly scanned the scribbled lines.

"No,"