dear Mr.----" she snatched the editor's letter from
her muff and glanced at it--"Mr. Sterling, if I tell you that you are
going to have your journey for nothing. You will have a good time in
Petersburg, all the same. But believe me when I tell you so, your
journey will fortunately be for nothing!"

And with the repetition of these words, and another bright bow and
look which dazzled my senses, the wonderful creature swept past me to
where the chamberlain stood ready to hand her into her carriage.

For nothing?

CHAPTER III

THE HEAD OF THE MANCHURIAN SYNDICATE

No reader can have failed to notice one remarkable point in the
interview between the Princess Y---- and myself. I refer of course to
her invitation to me to dine with her in the course of a day or two.

Unless the etiquette of the Russian Court differed greatly from that
of most others in Europe, it would be most indecorous for a
lady-in-waiting, during her turn of service, to give entertainments
at her private house.

I felt certain that this invitation concealed some trap, but I
puzzled myself uselessly in trying to guess what it could be.

In the meantime I did not neglect certain other friends of mine in
the city on the Neva, from whom I had some hope of receiving
assistance.

Although I have never gone so far as to enroll myself as an active
Nihilist, I am what is known as an Auxiliary. In other words, without
being under the orders of the great secret committee which wages
underground war with the Russian Government, I have sometimes
rendered it voluntary services, and I have at all times the privilege
of communicating with it, and exchanging information.

While waiting for the next move on the part of the Princess,
therefore, I decided to get in touch with the revolutionists.

I made my way on foot to a certain tavern situated near the port, and
chiefly patronized by German and Scandinavian sailors.

The host of the Angel Gabriel, as the house was called, was a
Nihilist of old standing, and one of their most useful agents for
introducing forbidden literature into the empire.

Printed mostly in London, in a suburb called Walworth, the
revolutionary tracts are shipped to Bergen or Lubeck, and brought
thence by these sailors concealed in their bedding. At night, after
the customs officers have departed, a boat with a false keel puts off
from a quay higher up the Neva, and passes down the river to where
the newly arrived ship is lying