Drawn up within the shadow of the deep porte-cochère, standing out black and distinct against the white background, stood a covered droschky; the horses' flanks steaming in the chill air, the lamps carefully shaded. A figure stood beside the vehicle, wrapped in a heavy coat and peaked fur cap; where the folds of the coat opened a gleam of steel was visible.
Vladimir dropped the curtain and came back to the centre of the room.
"It has come," he said in a half whisper. "It is my turn at last. I, who have gloried in Russia's stern vengeance, am I to feel her power now?"
Then his eye caught the open letter on the carpet.
He picked it up, touching it half-tenderly.
"How little it matters to me, now!" he said. "But you, Olga, shall be freed from all reproach, and no one shall ever know that it is through you the heaviest disgrace of all has come upon me. That much I can still spare you."
He looked at the signature she had written with so firm a hand—Olga Naundorff—"Good-bye," he said again, "good-bye."
He pressed his lips to her name, then held the paper in the candle-flame with a steady hand, and watched it burn slowly, slowly.
As the last bit fell from his fingers and fluttered down to the little heap of ashes on the velvet mantel-shelf, the door opened without noise, and two men stepped within the room.
Vladimir turned and faced them. The foremost spoke quietly, and without menace or threat.