"Because I am not a believer," was her open, straightforward answer.
"Then you will believe me ere I have done," he declared, with an evil grin, stroking his ragged beard, and fixing his eyes upon her.
"You insult me," she cried angrily. "Why should you speak to me like this?"
"Because you have been an associate of Felix Lachkarioff—a traitor and a spy," he declared in that deep, hard voice of his. "Oh! you cannot deny it. Your husband has no knowledge that you were an intimate friend of the man who has fled from Russia after causing that frightful disaster at Obukhov. Is not that so?"
The handsome, dark-haired woman whom the spy had so grossly betrayed turned pale, and sat utterly staggered that her secret was out. She had never dreamed that the handsome, polite man who had one day been presented to her in the lounge of the Hôtel d'Europe was a German agent, that he was engaged in committing outrages on behalf of the enemy, or that he was friendly with the monk.
"Your husband does not know that spy? Answer me?" demanded Rasputin roughly.
"I have told my husband nothing," was her faltering reply.
"That is not surprising, Madame," laughed the "saint," leaning back in the chair where he had seated himself, "especially when you have told that spy certain secrets of our Government, which you obtained by examining the dossiers which have been passing through your husband's hands."
"What do you mean?" she cried, starting up in indignation.
"Ah, no," he said; "it is useless to pretend ignorance, Madame. Read this!"