At nine o’clock on the next evening, Paul Denissoff, pale-faced and haggard-eyed, entered the hall of the great house of the Orlovskis.
“I must see madame at once,” he said to a lackey. “Take me to her.”
A few moments later he was ushered along a spacious corridor filled with palms and exotics, through a great white and gold ballroom, and presently admitted into a small, exquisitely furnished little apartment, wherein sat Adine, in a lounge chair, doing fancy needlework.
“Ah, Paul?” she cried, starting to her feet. “Why, what ails you?”
“Hush, Adine,” he said hoarsely, when the door had closed. “Some one has denounced you to the executive as a traitor. The council have passed sentence of death, and I—I have drawn the fatal number. You must fly—you must leave Russia at once—to-night—for at midnight I must return here to—to murder you!”
“Dieu!” she gasped. “Then my secret has been divulged! I confess—it is true, Paul. I have been guilty of double dealing, but it was to save—Hark! Listen!”
There were sounds of voices outside the door, which a moment afterwards was flung open, revealing two ordinary-looking individuals, accompanied by several grey-coated police officers.
“Paul Denissoff,” exclaimed one of the detectives, stepping forward, “in the name of our father, the Tzar, I arrest you for conspiracy.”
“By Heaven! I’ll not go with you. I—”
In a moment he had drawn a revolver and placed himself on the defensive; but a second later the weapon was wrenched from his grasp. Adine, pale and weeping, threw herself between him and his captors, but she was roughly thrust aside, and he was handcuffed and conveyed away to the Police Bureau.