The frantic, despairing woman, bursting into tears, threw herself at the feet of the "miracle worker," begging hard for mercy.
"Think!" she cried. "Think what it will mean to my husband and myself. He will probably be placed under arrest and lose his post, while I—I would rather die than face such exposure."
"Ah! my dear Madame," said Rasputin tauntingly. "Life is very sweet, you know."
"But you must not do this!" she shrieked loudly. "Promise me, Father, that you will not! Promise me—do!"
Rasputin drew his hand roughly from her, for she had seized it as she implored him to show her mercy.
"There may be some extenuating circumstances in your case—but I doubt it," he said.
"There are!" she declared. "I grew to love the man. I was blind, mad, infatuated—but now I hate him! Would that I could kill the man who wrought such disaster in our land! Would that I could kill him with my own hand!"
Rasputin drew a long breath. The wish she expressed had suddenly aroused within his inventive brain a means of executing a sharp and bitter revenge.
"Perhaps one day, ere long, you may be afforded opportunity," he said in a changed voice. "If so, I will call you here again and explain what I mean."
"Ah! Then I may hope for your pity and indulgence, eh?" she cried quickly, but still in deep anxiety.