grim
stakes,--nothing less than life and liberty!

Three days later I arrived, at last, in Petersburg, to find letters from
England awaiting me,--one from my cousin Mary, to whom I had already
written, merely telling her that I missed Anne at Berlin, and asking if
she had news of her. There could be no harm in that. Anne had played her
part so well that, though Jim had evidently suspected her,--I wondered
now how he came to do so, though I'd have to wait a while before I could
hope to ask him,--Mary, I was certain, had not the least idea that her
stay with them was an episode in a kind of game of hide and seek. To her
the visit was but the fulfilment of the promise made when they were
school-girls together. And I guessed that Anne would keep up the
deception, which was forced upon her in a way, and that she would write
to Mary. She would lie to her, directly or indirectly; that was almost
inevitable. But she would write, just because she loved Mary, and
therefore would not willingly cause her anxiety. I was sure of that in
my own mind; and I hungered for news of her; even second-hand news. But
she had not written!

"I am so anxious about Anne," my cousin's letter ran. "We've had no
word from her since that post-card from Calais, and I can't think why!
She has no clothes with her, to speak of, for she only took her
dressing-bag; and I don't like to send her things on till I hear from
her; besides, I hoped she would come back to us soon! Did you see her at
Berlin?"

I put the letter aside; I could not answer it at present. Mary would
receive mine from Dunaburg, and would forward me any news that might
have reached her in the interval.

And meanwhile I had little to distract my mind. Things were very quiet,
stagnant in fact, in Petersburg during those hot days of early summer;
even the fashionable cafes in the Nevski Prospekt were practically
deserted, doubtless because the heat, that had set in earlier than
usual, had driven away such of their gay frequenters as were not
detained in the city on duty.

I slept ill during those hot nights, and was usually abroad early. One
lovely June morning my matutinal stroll led me,--aimlessly I thought,
though who knows what subtle influences may direct our most seemingly
purposeless actions, and thereby shape our destiny--along the
Ismailskaia Prospekt,--which, nearly a year back, had been the scene of
the assassination of De Plehve, the man who for two years had controlled
Pe