of doubt seemed able to take a permanent hold of him.

"No, I am not mad," he said. "But on the other hand, Dumnoff, it is my
conviction that you are exceedingly drunk. No other hypothesis can account
for your very singular remarks about me."

"Oh, I am drunk, am I?" laughed the peasant. "It is very likely, and in
that case I had better go to sleep. Good-night, and do not forget that you
are to take me with you to Russia."

"I will not forget," said the Count.

Dumnoff stretched his heavy limbs on the wooden pallet, rolled his great
head once or twice from side to side until his fur-like hair made
something like a cushion and then, in the course of three minutes, fell
fast asleep.

The Count sat upright in his place, drumming with his fingers upon one
knee.

"It is a wonder that I am not mad," he said to himself. "But Vjera never
thought it of me--and that fellow is evidently the worse for liquor."

CHAPTER VI.

Johann Schmidt had not fled from the scene of action out of any
consideration for his personal safety. He was, indeed, a braver man than
Dumnoff, in proportion as he was more intelligent, and though of a very
different temper, by no means averse to a fight if it came into his way.
He had foreseen what was sure to happen, and had realised sooner than any
one else that the only person who could set everything straight was
Fischelowitz himself. So soon as he was clear of pursuit, therefore, he
turned in the direction of the tobacconist's dwelling, walking as quickly
as he could where there were many people and running at the top of his
speed through such empty by-streets as lay in the direct line of his
course. He rushed up the three flights of steps and rang sharply at the
door.

Akulina's unmistakable step was heard in the passage a moment later.
Schmidt would have preferred that Fischelowitz should have come himself,
though he managed to live on very good terms with Akulina. Though far from
tactful he guessed that in a matter concerning the Count, the tobacconist
would prove more obliging than his wife.

"What is the matter?" inquired the mistress of the house, opening the door
wide after she had recognised the Cossack in the feeble light of the
staircase, by looking through the little hole in the panel.

"Good-evening, Frau Fischelowitz," said Schmidt, trying to appear as calm
and collected as possible. "I would like to speak to your husband upon a
little matter of business."

"He is not