Several days passed. Lebedeff was detained for inquiries, and nothing had been heard of Natalya. Although our Organisation exerted every effort to trace the girl, no clue to her whereabouts could be discovered. She had mysteriously disappeared, and we were seriously handicapped in our search by the fact that it was not considered wise policy to inquire of Gaston Guéneau, as he evidently had some secret understanding with General Martianoff. One morning, a fortnight after Lebedeff’s arrest, I was present at the Correctional Court of the Seine, when he was charged with being in the possession of explosives, contrary to the Code. Evidence was given by several detectives, while Martianoff, disguised as an honest-looking workman, stood at the rear of the Court watching the proceedings. When the evidence regarding the bombs was complete the Public Prosecutor made an application. He stated that the prisoner had been identified by police agents from Petersburg as one who was “wanted” in that city in connection with the laying of a mine of dynamite under the Norwinski Strasse, in order to make an attempt upon the life of the Tzar. Further evidence was then given by an _attaché_ of the Russian Embassy and two agents of the Secret Police, the prisoner eventually being formally committed for extradition to Russia. I left the court with a conviction that the escape of my compatriot was hopeless, and that Siberian hard labour would inevitably be his sentence. While walking along the Boulevard des Italiens, immersed in my own thoughts, Paramòn Pouzàtov accosted me, and dragged me into a quiet café. “Look,” he exclaimed in a low tone, producing from his pocket a soiled and crumpled copy of that day’s _Gaulois_; “Read that!” and he pointed to a paragraph. The few lines were as follows:— “Last night a bargeman, named Hovelacque, while steering his craft on the Seine near Croissy, noticed a dark object floating in the water. He grappled it with his boat-hook, and when he drew it on board was horrified to find that it was the body of a well-dressed young girl. Nothing was found upon her whereby her identity could be established, and the body was conveyed to the Morgue.” “Well?” I said, interrogatively, after I had read it. “Do you think it can be Natalya Lebedeff?” “Ah!” I ejaculated, suddenly recollecting her mysterious disappearance. “We will go to the Morgue and ascertain.” We at once left the Boulevard and proceeded to the house of the dead behind Notre Dame. It needed not a second glance at the rigid body lying upon its cold slate slab to tell that Pouzàtov’s surmise was correct. The body was that of the pretty Natalya. Instantly my thoughts reverted to Gaston Guéneau. Could he be her murderer?