murder--for such it was in the
intent--by Petrovitch. I shall now tell the story of the justice
meted out by me on the assassin.

As soon as I was safely lodged in my house on the Alexander Quay, I
despatched my assistant, a clever young Frenchman named Breuil, with
a message to the promoter of the Manchurian Syndicate--the real
moving spirit of that War clique in which even the bellicose grand
dukes had only secondary parts.

The wording of the message had been carefully calculated to arouse
curiosity, but not apprehension.

"The agent of a foreign Power," Breuil was instructed to say to this
self-styled patriot, "with very large funds at his disposal, desires
to see you in strict secrecy."

The bait took. Petrovitch, naturally concluding that he was to be
offered a heavy bribe for some act of treachery to Russia, greedily
accepted the invitation.

The infatuated man did not take even the ordinary precaution of
asking for guarantees. He consented to accompany Breuil at once,
merely asking how far he had to go. This recklessness was the result
of his supposed triumphant crime. Believing that I was safely
interred in the English cemetery, he thought there was no one left
for him to fear.

On the way he did his best to extract some information out of my
assistant. But Breuil returned the same answer to all his questions
and hints:

"I am under orders not to converse with you, monsieur."

The doomed man was in good spirits as the droshky put him down at the
door of my house.

"Decidedly an out-of-the-way retreat!" he commented gaily. "I should
hardly be able to find my way here again without your assistance!"

The silent Breuil merely bowed, as he proceeded to open the street
door with a latch key.

Perhaps Petrovitch had been a little more nervous than he allowed to
appear. When he noticed that his escort simply closed the door on the
latch, without locking or bolting it further, he said in a tone of
relief:

"You are not much afraid of being visited by the police, I see."

Breuil, as silent as ever, led the way into a back parlor,
overlooking the Neva, where I was waiting to receive my visitor.

The room was plainly furnished as a study, and I had placed myself in
an arm-chair facing the window, so that my back was turned to the
door as Petrovitch entered.

I pretended to be writing furiously, as a pretext for not turning my
head till the visitor had seated himself.

Breuil said quietly, "M. Petro