by way of the armourer's shop.

When his little door was opened on the morning of the 23d, Truxton
King's long, powerful figure shot through as if sped by a catapult. The
man with the candle and the knife went down like a beef, floored by a
blow on the jaw.

The American, his eyes blazing with hope and desperation, kept
onward--to find himself face to face with Olga Platanova!

She was staring at him with frightened eyes, her lips apart, her hands
to her breast. The tableau was brief. He could not strike her down. With
a curse he was turning to the man on the floor, eager to snatch the keys
from his belt. A scream from her drawn lips held him; he whirled and
looked into the now haggard face of the girl he had considered
beautiful. The penalty for her crime was already written there. She was
to die in three days!

"He has not the key!" she cried. "Nor have I. You have no chance to
escape. Go back! Go back! They are coming!"

A key rattled in the door. When it swung open, two men stood in the
aperture, both with drawn pistols. The girl leaped between them and the
helpless, defeated American.

"Remember!" she cried. "You are not to kill him!"

Peter Brutus had risen from the floor, half dazed but furious. He made a
vicious leap at King, his knife ready for the lunge.

"I'm glad it's you," roared King, leaping aside. His fist shot out and
again Brutus went down. The men in the doorway actually laughed.

"A good blow, even if it avails you nothing," said one of them drily.
"He is not an especial favorite with us. Return to your room at once.
Miss Platanova, call your uncle. It is now necessary to bind the
fellow's hands. They are too dangerous to be allowed to roam at large in
this fashion."

All day long Truxton paced his little prison, bitterly lamenting his
ill-timed effort. Now he would be even more carefully guarded. His hands
were bound behind his back; he was powerless. If he had only waited!
Luck had been against him. How was he to know that the guard with the
keys had gone upstairs when Olga brought his breakfast down? It was
fate.

The 23d dragged itself into the past and the 24th was following in the
gloomy wake of its predecessors. Two days more! He began to feel the
approach of madness! His own death was not far away. It would follow
that of the Prince and of Olga Platanova, his friend. But he was not
thinking of his own death; he was thinking of the Prince's life!

The atmosphere of suppressed e