patches safely delivered, there would be a
raid on the newspaper office, an arrest in the street. Of course there
was always the hope that he might come in for a chance shot in a
scrimmage, but that was too much luck to expect.

He had nothing to wait for now after what he had heard to-night, and
the sooner he put himself out of the way, the better. He would
volunteer at once for the St. Petersburg mission. The usual custom was
to cast lots, unless some enthusiast begged for the privilege of a
speedy doom. By virtue of his long service he had a right to claim
that privilege.

If he could go to-morrow so much the better. After what Arithelli had
confessed it would be dangerous for them both if he stayed. For a
moment the primaeval man in him leapt up, telling him that he had only
to pit himself against Vardri, and the victory would be assuredly his
own. His rival was only a boy, and Emile knew that if there came the
struggle between male and male, the odds were all in his own favour.
Arithelli had grown into the habit of obedience to him, and if he
wished it he could make it practically impossible for her to see Vardri
without his knowledge and consent. She would sorrow for her lover at
first, but he was a man, and he could make her forget.

A thousand little devils crowded close, whispering how easy it would be
to get Vardri sent out of the way. A few words to Sobrenski, and the
whole thing would be done.

His sense of justice reminded him that he least of all people had a
right to grudge her a few hours of happiness. If he obliterated
himself he was only making her a deserved reparation for some of the
things she had suffered. Through him she had joined the Anarchist
ranks, and through him she had taken vows that despoiled her of the
hopes and joys of womanhood, and transformed her into an instrument of
vengeance. She had apparently never realised that she had been in any
way injured, for she had never blamed him, and been invariably grateful
for anything he had done for her physical comfort.

She loved Vardri, or imagined that she did. Emile told himself
savagely that he was a fool who deserved no pity, for he had had his
own chance and missed it. He had been with her by night and day, and
her life had been in his own hands all these months, but he had never
made love to her. He had only bullied her, taught her, made her work,
looked after her clothes and food, and, he knew it now too late, loved