"Then why should I trouble to see her?"
"I will tell you all after you have chatted with her. May Féodor invite her in? She is sitting in a droshky outside."
"If you wish," growled Rasputin. "But why all this mystery? I have much to do. I am due at Countess Ignatieff's—and am already late."
"Remain patient, I beg of you, Father," urged the German suavely. "I am acting upon instructions—from Number Seventy."
"From Number Seventy!" echoed the monk, instantly realising that Hardt, an agent of the German Secret Service, was carrying out some well-concealed and ingenious project. "Very well," he said. "I rely upon you not to delay me longer than necessary. Féodor," he added, turning to me with that lofty air which his low mujik mind sometimes conceived to be superiority, "go and find this mysterious young person."
A few minutes later I conducted into the saint's presence a dark-haired, extremely handsome young woman of about thirty, who spoke with considerable refinement and whose arrival mystified me greatly.
Hardt introduced her to the holy man, saying:
"This is Mademoiselle Vera Baltz, of Stavropol, a friend of His Excellency Peter Stolypin."
"Ah! Welcome, my dear mademoiselle," exclaimed the monk affably. "So you are a friend of His Excellency—when he was Governor of Samara, I suppose?"
"Yes. I have come here because I crave your assistance. Monsieur Hardt knows all the circumstances, and will explain."