ched the
proceedings of the Syndicate for some months for reasons of my own.

Every student of modern history has remarked the fact that all recent
wars have been promoted by great combinations of capitalists. The
causes which formerly led to war between nation and nation have
ceased to operate. Causes, or at least pretexts, for war continue to
occur, but whether they are followed up depends mainly on commercial
considerations. A distant Government is oppressing its subjects, it
may be in Turkey, it may be in Cuba, it may be in Africa. No matter,
some great Power suddenly discovers it is interested; the drums are
beaten, the flag is unfurled, and armies are launched on their path.
The next year, perhaps, the same Power sees its own subjects
massacred wantonly off its own coasts by a foreign fleet. Nothing
happens; a few speeches are made, and the whole incident is referred
to arbitration, and forgotten.

It is the consideration of money which decides between peace and war.

Perceiving it was useless to ask any assistance of the Nihilists in
my forlorn enterprise, I returned sadly to my hotel.

Hardly had I finished the immense lunch on which I was compelled to
gorge myself, when a waiter brought me a card, the name on which gave
me an electric shock.

"_M. Petrovitch._"

Every one has heard of this man, the promoter of the Manchurian
Syndicate, and, if report spoke truly, the possessor of an influence
over the young Czar which could be attributed only to some occult
art.

I could not doubt that this powerful personage had been instigated to
call on me by the Princess Y----.

What then? Was it likely that she would have sent the most
influential man in the imperial circle to wait upon a traveling
fanatic, a visionary humanitarian from Exeter Hall?

Impossible! Somehow something must have leaked out to rouse the
suspicions of this astute plotter, and make her guess that I was not
what I seemed.

It was with the sensations of a man struggling in the meshes of an
invisible net that I saw M. Petrovitch enter the room.

The celebrated wire-puller, whose name was familiar to every
statesman and stock-broker in Europe, had an appearance very unlike
his reputation.

He was the court dandy personified. Every detail of his dress was
elaborated to the point of effeminacy. His hands were like a girl's,
his long hair was curled and scented, he walked with a limp and spoke
with a lisp, removing a gold-tipped cigarette