xcuses were made for Alexandra Feodorovna's non-appearance. The
truth was that the Empress, full of spiritualistic beliefs, had suddenly
developed a religious mania, centred around the amazing personality of
the mock monk.

Thrice had Her Majesty sent him commands through her pro-German puppet
Fredericks, and thrice he, at Stuermer's suggestion, refused to comply.
This illiterate Siberian monk, ex-horse-thief and betrayer of women,
actually disregarded the Imperial order! He had declared himself to be
the saviour of Russia, and greater than the Romanoffs.

"The Empress is furious!" declared the Bishop Teofan one day as, with his
heavy bejewelled cross upon his breast and wearing clothes of the richest
texture, he sat with the rascal in his den. "Sometimes she is in anger,
at others in despair. Anna Vyrubova is frantic. Why do you not come to
audience?"

"She promised that I should see Nicholas," was the reply. "After I have
spoken with him I will see her. It does a woman good to wait."

"I agree, but your refusal may be stretched too far," said the Bishop.

"None will tell the truth concerning her," Rasputin said. "I hear on one
hand that she thinks herself too fat and is taking the 'Entfettungscur'
against the advice of the Court physician. Others say that she has eczema
and dare not show her face, while others say she is mad. What is the
truth?"

"Come and ascertain for yourself."

"Her devotion is that of a fanatic--I take it?"

"Exactly. She lives only for the entertainment of monks and pilgrims. You
are lucky, my dear Grichka. Madame Vyrubova was evidently entranced by
you at Countess Ignatieff's. She will do your bidding. Only, I beg of you
to come to Court."

The charlatan, however, steadily refused the Bishop's advice. Instead, he
left Petrograd that night alone, and went away to his wife and
sister-disciples at Pokrovsky, in Siberia.

For more than two months he was absent from Petrograd. One day a frantic
message came to me over the telephone from Madame Vyrubova, who inquired
the whereabouts of the Starets.

"The Father has gone to his convent at Pokrovsky, Madame," I replied.

"What!" she gasped. "Gone to Siberia! Why, Her Majesty is daily expecting
him here at the Palace. When will he return?"

"I regret, Madame, that I cannot say," was my reply. "He has told me
nothing."

"Will you please take a confidential message to Boris Stuermer for me?"
she asked. And when I replied in the affirmativ