I gazed into her face, entranced by her marvellous beauty. Toying with her Watteau fan, she turned her eyes full upon me, and the faintest flush suffused her cheek; then she made pretence of reading her programme, and afterwards became interested in the performance. When I went out to smoke during the _entr’acte_ I passed her, and in doing so uttered an apology in Russian, to which she responded in the same language, with a kindly smile. According to information I had obtained, she was the wife of Prince Kochkaryòv, a noble in the third degree, some twenty years her senior. Their marriage had been fraught with much unhappiness, and after a year they agreed to separate. Since that time the Prince had remained at his gloomy old palace near Markovka, in Little Russia, while his wife, accompanied by an old man-servant and her maid, had resided for brief periods in Petersburg, Paris, and London. Since her arrival in England it was apparent that she was fulfilling some mission as a Russian Government agent, yet the suspicion she excited in some quarters in no way hindered her from obtaining social influence, and she dispensed hospitality to a very select circle. She went everywhere, and her daily doings were chronicled in the personal columns of the newspapers. I had been watching her for several days, and on this evening had followed her to the theatre in order, if possible, to become acquainted with her. When the curtain descended and we rose to leave I turned, and said to her politely in Russian— “You are alone, Madame. Will you permit me to find your carriage?” “Thanks, you are very kind,” she said in English, with a pretty hesitating accent. “My man has buff livery.” “And the name, Madame?” “The Princess Kochkaryòv,” she replied, adding, “We are compatriots, are we not, m’sieur?” “Yes,” I replied, smiling. “It is always pleasant to meet Russians in a foreign land,” at the same time handing her a card which gave my name as Vladimir Mordvinoff and my address at a suite of furnished chambers I rented in Shaftesbury Avenue. A few moments later I handed her into her carriage, and as she thanked me and drove away, I walked, morose and thoughtful, up Northumberland Avenue towards my rooms. During the week that followed we met several times. She showed herself in no way averse to my companionship, for she told me that she was always at home on Thursdays and would be pleased to see me. This invitation I accepted, and thus I became a frequent visitor. One afternoon I had called and lingered. The guests had departed. In the fading light of the summer’s evening I was sitting with her in her pretty drawing-room that overlooked the dusty trees. As she lolled gracefully against the window the last ray of sunlight fell upon her, and she looked daintily bewitching.