her along the street.
All the time he was in terror lest the police should call her back, and
desire him to identify her; but nothing happened and they gained
Shaftesbury Avenue and a blessed taxicab.

"To Israel Kensky," she said. "I can't go home like this."

He stretched out of the window and gave fresh instructions.

"I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Hay," she faltered and then covered
her face with her hands. "Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful!"

"What happened?" he asked.

She shook her head. Then suddenly:

"No, no, I must go home. Will you tell the cabman? There is a chance
that I may get into my suite without Boolba seeing. Will you go on to
Israel Kensky after you have left me, and tell him what has happened?"

He nodded, and again gave the change of instructions.

They reached the hotel at a period when most of the guests were either
lingering over their dinner or had gone to the theatre.

"I hate leaving you like this," he said; "how do I know that you will
get in without detection?"

She smiled in spite of her distress.

"You're an inventor, aren't you, Mr. Hay?" she laughed. "But I am afraid
even you could not invent a story which would convince my father if he
knew I had been to that horrible place." Presently she said: "My room
overlooks the street. If I get in without detection I will come to the
window and wave a handkerchief."

He waited in a fit of apprehension, until presently he saw a light leap
up to three windows, and her figure appeared. There was a flutter of a
white handkerchief, and the blinds were drawn. Malcolm Hay drove to
Maida Vale, feeling that the age of romance was not wholly dead.

To his surprise Kensky had had the news before he reached there.

"Is she safe? Is she safe?" asked the old man tremulously. "Now, thank
Jehovah for his manifold blessings and mercies! I feared something was
wrong. Her Highness wrote to me this afternoon, and I did not get the
letter," said Israel. "They waylaid the messenger, and wrote and told
her to go to the Silver Lion--the devils!"

His hand was shaking as he took up the poker to stir the fire.

"He, at any rate, will trouble none of us again," he said with malignant
satisfaction.

"He? Who?"

"Serganoff," said the old man. "He was dead when the police found him!"

"And the American?" asked Hay.

"Only Russians were arrested," said Israel Kensky. "I do not think I
shall see him again."

In this he was wrong, though six years wer