erfered with. Indeed, they assist me
when necessary. No. It is the Terrorists who would do me harm if they
could. There is a dangerous group here--as you know."

"I know well," said the monk; "only last week Tchapline and Vilieff were
given Stolypin's necktie owing to your denunciations. They came to Russia
from Berlin, and were arrested immediately they set foot across the
frontier."

"No," she protested. "Azef was here. It was he who put papers into their
baggage, and then telegraphed to the police at Wirballen. Neither of the
men was dangerous as far as I could see, but our friend Evno believed
them to be; hence he deemed them better out of the way."

I could see that the young woman had some scruples regarding the dirty
work for which she received money from the Ministry of the Interior in
Petrograd. And surely hers was a highly dangerous profession.

Apparently it was not desired that Rasputin's arrival in Berlin should be
known, for we were shown to our rooms by the stout old Russian woman, and
I heard the handsome Paula speaking on the telephone in a guarded
manner.

"And you will call at half-past nine to-night, eh?" I heard her ask, and
presently she rang off.

We ate our dinner together, the monk being very gracious towards his
mysterious hostess; and almost punctually at half-past nine the door of
the drawing-room opened, and there entered a rather shabbily dressed man,
whom I at once recognised as Count von Wedel, the inseparable companion
of the Kaiser, and titular head of the German Secret Service. With him
was no less a person than the German Foreign Minister, Kiderlen-Waechter.
Our visitors were the two Men Behind the Throne of Imperial Germany.
Standing with them was that man of kaleidoscopic make-up, the great Azef
himself.

That meeting was indeed a dramatic one. Rasputin, taking bribes on every
side from officials in Russia who desired advancement, and from the
Germans to betray Russia into the hands of the Wilhelmstrasse, sat that
evening in the elegant little room listening to the conversation, with
all the craft and cunning of the Russian mujik. He made but few remarks,
but sat with his hands upon his knees, his deep-set, fiery eyes glancing
everywhere about him, his big bejewelled cross scintillating beneath the
electric light of the pretty Paula's elegant, tastily furnished little
room.

Von Wedel, though dressed so shabbily, was the chief spokesman.
Kiderlen-Waechter, who had so cleve