her thought reached
him.

"I know so much," he said, "that it is safest to tell me more. I offered
you my friendship because I think that no woman could carry through your
difficulties unaided. Princess, the admiration of Claude de Chauxville
may be pleasant, but I venture to think that my friendship is
essential."

Etta raised her head a little. She was within an ace of handing over to
Karl Steinmetz the rod of power held over her by the Frenchman. There
was something in Steinmetz that appealed to her and softened her,
something that reached a tender part of her heart through the coating of
vanity, through the hardness of worldly experience.

"I have known De Chauxville twenty-five years," he went on, and Etta
deferred her confession. "We have never been good friends, I admit. I am
no saint, princess, but De Chauxville is a villain. Some day you may
discover, when it is too late, that it would have been for Paul's
happiness, for your happiness, for every one's good to have nothing more
to do with Claude de Chauxville, I want to save you that discovery. Will
you act upon my advice? Will you make a stand now? Will you come to me
and tell me all that De Chauxville knows about you that he could ever
use against you? Will you give yourself into my hands--give me your
battle to fight? You cannot do it alone. Only believe in my friendship,
princess. That is all I ask."

Etta shook her head.

"I think not," she answered, in a voice too light, too superficial, too
hopelessly shallow for the depth of the moment. She was thinking only of
Sydney Bamborough, and of that dread secret. She fought with what arms
she wielded best--the lightest, the quickest, the most baffling.

"As you will," said Steinmetz.

CHAPTER XXXV

ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM

A Russian village kabak, with a smoking lamp, of which the chimney is
broken. The greasy curtains drawn across the small windows exclude the
faintest possibility of a draught. The moujik does not like a draught;
in fact, he hates the fresh air of heaven. Air that has been breathed
three or four times over is the air for him; it is warmer. The
atmosphere of this particular inn is not unlike that of every other inn
in the White Empire, inasmuch as it is heavily seasoned with the scent
of cabbage soup. The odor of this nourishing compound is only exceeded
in unpleasantness by the taste of the same. Added to this warm smell
there is the smoke of a score of the very cheapest