"Count Vladimir Mellikoff, you are arrested in the name of the Emperor. Long live the Tsar."
Vladimir bowed, and a smile for one moment passed over his dark face.
"I am ready, gentlemen," he said, and turning, took up his heavy coat and cap of sables.
In the meantime the second intruder had crossed the room, attracted by the faint odour of burnt paper. He fingered the little pile of ashes suspiciously. Again Vladimir smiled.
"A burnt-out passion, monsieur," he said, "a discarded love-letter. That is all; nothing in any way interesting to the Chancellerie—or, its agents."
Then he put on the heavy furred coat and signified his readiness to depart.
A moment later the three dark figures were lost in the shadowy interior of the waiting droschky, and the curious scraping noise of steel runners upon frozen snow began again.
As one of his captors leant forward to give a last instruction to the officer without, a gleam from the shaded lamp fell across the face beneath the high-peaked hat; in it Vladimir recognised the boyish contour and innocent blue eyes of Ivor Tolskoi.
The heavy equipage moved on, and as the hour of dawn struck from the great cathedral clock, and the chimes clashed out triumphantly the liturgical chant, "How glorious is our Lord in Zion," Vladimir Mellikoff stood a prisoner, within a nameless casemate of the impregnable fortress of Petropavlovsk.