CHAPTER
I. [THE MEETING]
II. [I AM A NIHILIST]
III. [MY SECONDS]
IV. [THE DUEL]
V. [GETTING DEEPER]
VI. [A LEGACY OF LOVE]
VII. [A LESSON IN NIHILISM]
VIII. [THE RIVERSIDE MEETING]
IX. [DEVINSKY AGAIN]
X. ["THAT BUTCHER, DURESCQ"]
XI. [DANGER FROM A FRESH SOURCE]
XII. [CHRISTIAN TUESKI]
XIII. [OLGA IN A NEW LIGHT]
XIV. [THE DEED WHICH RANG THROUGH RUSSIA]
XV. [A SHE DEVIL]
XVI. [THE NEXT NIHILIST PLOT]
XVII. [AN EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE]
XVIII. [THE REASON OF THE INTRIGUE]
XIX. [OLGA'S ABDUCTION]
XX. [THE RESCUE]
XXI. [THREE TO ONE]
XXII. [THE BEGINNING OF THE END]
XXIII. [CHECKMATE!]
XXIV. [CRISIS]
XXV. [COILS THAT NO MAN COULD BREAK]
XXVI. [MY DECISION]
XXVII. [THE FOUR ALDER TREES]
XXVIII. [THE ATTACK ON THE CZAR]
XXIX. [THE TRUTH OUT AT LAST]
XXX. [AFTERWARDS]

BY RIGHT OF SWORD.

CHAPTER I.

THE MEETING.

Moscow.

"MY DEAR RUPERT.

"Don't worry your head about me. I shall be all right. I did not see you before leaving because of the scene with your sister and Cargill, which they may perhaps tell you about. I have done with England: and as the auspices are all for war, I mean to have a shy in. I went to Vienna, thinking to offer myself to the Turks: but my sixteen years in Russia have made too much of a Russ of me to let me tolerate those lazy cruel beggars. So I turned this way. I'm going on to St Petersburg to-day, for I find all the people I knew here as a lad have gone north. I have made such a mess of things that I shall never set foot in England again. If Russia will have me, I shall volunteer, and I hope with all my soul that a Turkish bullet will find its billet in my body. It shan't be my fault if it doesn't. If I hadn't been afraid of being thought afraid, I'd have taken a shorter way half a score of times. My life is an inexpressible burden, and I only wish to God someone would think it worth while to take it. I don't want to be hard on your sister, but whatever was left in my heart or life, she has emptied, and I only wish she'd ended it at the same time. You'll know I'm pretty bad when not even the thought of our old friendship gives me a moment's pleasure. Good-bye. Don't come out after me. You won't find me if you do.

Your friend,
HAMYLTON TREGETHNER."

The letter was wretchedly inconsequential. When I sat down to write I hadn't meant to tell Rupert Balestier that his sister's treatment had made such a mess of things for me; but my pen ran away with me as it always does, and I wasn't inclined to write the letter all over again. I hate letter writing. I was to leave Moscow, moreover, in an hour or two, and when I had had my things sent to the railway station and followed them, I dropped the letter into the box without altering a word.