ntments, and for suggesting that young men of good family
should be given sinecures, I was never able to discover.

Personally, I believe he paid certain persons whose wives were
"disciples" hush-money. But his power was such that I could never see why
he should do so. Yet the mujik mind always works in a mysterious way.

The true facts concerning the desperate conspiracy against Generals
Brusiloff and Korniloff have never been told, though several French
writers have attempted to reveal them, and the revolutionists themselves
have endeavoured to delve into the mystery. As secretary to the Starets,
I am able to disclose the actual and most amazing truth.

It will be remembered by my readers that General Brusiloff, early in
June, 1916, had his four armies well in hand, and made a superhuman
effort to defeat the Central Powers between the Pripet and the Roumanian
frontier. He was a fearless and brilliant tactician, and within two
months had succeeded in capturing 7,757 officers and 350,845 men, with
805 guns--and remember that this was in face of all the obstacles that
the Minister of War, who was working with Rasputin as Germany's friend,
had placed in his way.

Brusiloff had done splendidly. No Russian general has eclipsed him in
this war. He performed miracles of strategy, and Berlin had very
naturally become genuinely alarmed. All their negotiations with Stuermer,
Protopopoff, Rasputin and others of the "Black Force" had apparently been
of no avail. They had staked millions of roubles, but without much
result. Our armies were advancing, and the combined German and Austrian
forces were daily being entrapped into the marshes or forced back.

Even Rasputin realised the seriousness of the position, and more than
once referred to it.

Early one morning, before I was up, Hardt, the secret messenger from
Berlin, arrived.

After greeting me, he informed me that he had an urgent secret despatch
for the Father--to be delivered only into his own hands. Therefore I at
once conducted the travel-worn messenger to Rasputin's bedroom, where he
delivered a crumpled letter from the belt which he wore next his skin.

"Read it to me, Feodor," said the "saint," sitting up in bed and rubbing
his eyes after a drunken sleep.

Opening it, I found it to be in a code in what was known as "Sentence
number seven"--words which, truth to tell, spelt an ancient Russian
proverb, which translated into English means: "Actions befit men; words