ord to be indifferent; he could afford to greet the
young Italian with a smile. He had laid his plans cunningly.

Zouroff accompanied him to the door, guarded by a big hall-porter. In
a corner of the hall lounged a small dapper man, Peter, his valet, the
lover of Katerina.

"Good-night, Signor. Have you no carriage waiting? Ah, no, I
understand it is a habit of yours to walk. Good! Exercise is a fine
tonic. My secretary will send you a cheque to-morrow for your
services. Again, good-night!"

The door closed on the retreating Corsini. Zouroff turned swiftly to
the small, dapper man, and whispered in his ear.

"After him, Peter. Come back and tell me that they have done their
work."

The hall-porter opened the door at a sign from his imperious master,
and the valet went out with a slow, stealthy tread.

He followed in the wake of Corsini, who marched along gaily, his
violin-case swinging from his hand, his thoughts full of the Princess
Nada, who had been so sweet to him, so gracious.

He hummed one of the gayest of the many gay airs from "Il Barbiere" as
he walked along. It was one of his favourite operas, one in which La
Belle Quero was inimitable.

He was in a very happy frame of mind to-night as he walked through the
silent streets. He even thought tenderly of La Belle Quero, and went
to the length of forgiving her for what he had once considered her
groundless jealousy of the Princess.

In the midst of these happy thoughts, four black shadows loomed up
against him, four men surrounded him.

What a fool he had been not to take the Princess's advice and drive
home! St. Petersburg, like every other populous city, was full of
thieves.

Blindly he struck out with his disengaged hand. Shrilly he called out
for help.

One of the burly men who had surrounded him threw a handkerchief over
his face. In a few seconds his struggles had ceased.

His almost inanimate form was conveyed to the waiting carriage,
standing in a side street not far from the Zouroff Palace. It was
bundled inside, two of the men mounted the box, the others sat inside,
and the horses set off at a fast trot in the direction of the Moscow
road.

The valet, Peter, strolled back home. His master was lounging about in
the vestibule to await the news. Peter whispered them in his ear.

Zouroff smiled a slow smile of gratified malice.

"The bird is trapped," he exulted as he ascended the staircase, to
mingle once more with his guests.