I pointed out that the allegations were of so serious a character that, in all probability, Wanda would be kept in prison while the matter was being investigated, which would certainly be several months, perhaps years. “But she stole him from me,” my sister replied, with flashing eyes. “She will now have to prove her innocence.” I could see that Mascha was revengeful, and that all argument was useless. The murder created a good deal of sensation in Petersburg; and, as I had anticipated, Wanda was confined in the grim fortress of Peter and Paul. Days, weeks, months passed, but she was not brought before the Court—the police were still investigating. At length, after nearly seven months had gone by, the case was brought to trial, and the accused was acquitted. Strange how Fate directs our course through life. It was about a year afterwards. I had returned to London, and drifting into journalistic work, was representing a certain daily newspaper, that shall be nameless, in the gallery of the House of Commons. I had a reason for entering journalism, but that has nothing to do with the present story. The hour was midnight. The Speaker had ordered a division upon an important question affecting Ireland, and honourable members, stretching themselves, had risen wearily and were strolling out to vote. Many of my _confrères_ had flung down their pens and made for the Press bar; but I was busy. The debate had been almost historical, for, in answer to the objections of the Opposition, Mr. Balfour had made a brilliant and telling reply, therefore I was unfortunately compelled to continue writing, and that at express speed. The _frou-frou_ of silk, mingled with frivolous feminine laughter, caused me to look upward. The ladies’ gallery is over that devoted to the Press, and somewhat in the rear, being irreverently termed the “gridiron,” because feminine beauty is hidden from the curious gaze of honourable members by ornamental iron-work. From the side seats, however, we obtained a good view of the fair ones who came to hear their husbands, fathers, and lovers descant upon their country’s ills, and as I glanced up, I saw two faces behind the iron bars peering down upon the half-empty benches. One was that of an elderly white-haired lady, evidently a patrician. The other was younger, and her features struck me as strangely familiar. Where could I have seen her before? I tried to think, but, with tantalising contrariness, my memory refused to answer. Yet I felt a curious desire to remember who she was. It was almost like a presage of evil. I looked again. Her eyes met mine in a cold, haughty stare, but in a second I had recollected her. She was the woman I had noticed in the Catherinenhoff Gardens! My pen almost fell from my grasp. Although I felt positive I had not mistaken the face, yet I admit the identification was so sudden that I found myself doubting whether it was really the woman I had seen in the dimly illuminated grounds.