urred to no one but myself that
such a man might be capable of meddling in politics.

In his more public performances, so far as I could learn, the
revelations of the spirits were confined to more harmless topics,
such as the nature of the future state, or the prospect of an heir
being born to the Russian crown.

In my quest for further light on this remarkable personage, my
thoughts naturally turned to the Princess Y----.

I have not concealed that at our first meeting the charming
collaborator of M. Petrovitch had made a very strong impression on
me. Her subsequent conduct had made me set a guard on myself, and the
memory of the Japanese maiden whose portrait had become my cherished
"mascot," of course insured that my regard for the Princess could
never pass the bounds of platonic friendship.

But the strange scene of the day before had moved me profoundly.
Vanity is not a failing of which I am ever likely to be accused by my
worst detractor, yet it was impossible for me to shut my eyes or ears
to the confession which had been made with equal eloquence by the
looks, the blushes and even the words of the beautiful Russian.

Was ever situation more stupid in all the elements of tragedy! This
unhappy woman, spurred to all kinds of desperate deeds by the awful
fear of the knout, had been overcome by that fatal power which has
wrecked so many careers.

In the full tide of success, in the very midst of a life and death
combat with the man it was her business to outwit and defeat, she had
succumbed to love for him.

And now, to render her painful situation tenfold more painful, she
was holding the dagger at his breast as the only means of keeping it
out of the clutch of some more murderous hand.

Had I the pen of a romancer I might enlarge on this sensational
theme. But I am a man of action, whose business it is to record
facts, not to comment on them.

I sought the mansion on the Nevsky Prospect, and asked to see its
mistress.

Evidently the visit was expected. The groom of the chambers--if that
was his proper description--led me up-stairs, and into a charming
boudoir.

A fire replenished by logs of sandalwood was burning in a malachite
stove, and diffusing a dream-like fragrance through the chamber. The
walls of the room were panelled in ivory, and the curtains that hung
across the window frames were of embroidered silk and gold. Each
separate chair and toy-like table was a work of art--ebony, cinnamon,
and