We all descended to the library, where the register was filled up and the signatures affixed, the clergyman handing me the certificate with a murmur of congratulation. A bottle of champagne was produced, and we each drank a glass, after which I was allowed to return to the room alone to make the acquaintance of my wife. I entered on tiptoe, almost breathlessly, and paused for a moment beside the bed, trying to speak. At first my mouth refused to utter a sound. What could I say? Suddenly the Nihilist pass-word flashed across my mind, and I uttered it. It’s effect was almost magical. Struggling, she endeavoured to rise, but could only support herself upon her elbow, at the same time giving me the secret countersign. I was anxious to see her countenance, so I turned up the gas, afterwards bending down to look upon her. It was a pretty, delicate face, but cut and swollen as if by savage blows, discoloured and disfigured, a blanched face in which were obvious signs of insanity! When our eyes met she started, scrutinised me closely, and uttered a shrill scream of joy. I recognised her instantly. While I was living in Petersburg several years before, she had been admitted to our Circle. She gave the name of Muriel Radford, but beyond the fact that she was English and that she apparently had plenty of money at her disposal, we knew nothing of her. At the meetings of the Circle we often met and had many a pleasant _tête-à-tête_. I had admired her and more than once was tempted to declare my love, but I refrained from doing so until too late, for suddenly, one snowy night in midwinter, I was compelled to fly from the Russian capital. Since then I had neither seen nor heard of her. Now I had discovered her under these extraordinary circumstances. She kissed me fondly, passionately, and I was about to explain our strange marriage, when the terrible light of insanity in her eyes caused me to hesitate. Of what use was it to speak? She did not understand. Taking a small bunch of keys from under her lace-edged pillow, she handed them to me, saying— “Go to that cabinet over there and unlock the second drawer. In the right-hand corner you will find a packet. Bring it here and open it.” I did as I was commanded, and brought to the bedside a small packet of letters secured with crimson ribbon. As I untied the knot a cabinet photograph fell out upon the bed. I picked it up and looked at it. It was a picture of myself! “How did you obtain this?” I asked eagerly. “I have never ceased to think of you,” she replied. “I prevailed upon one of your friends in Petersburg to give me the picture. But there is another photograph there. Take it out and look at it.” Searching among the papers, I found the picture she indicated. When I turned it face upwards in the gaslight it almost fell from my grasp, for I recognised it as a portrait of my companion with whom I shared chambers. “Do you know Kassatkin?” I asked, in astonishment.