As time went on it was plain that Sophie’s love for him increased, while on his part he adored her, sending her boxes of choice flowers daily, and making her several costly presents of jewellery. I became more puzzled as to the object of her mission by an event which occurred about three weeks later. I had been out during the day, and returned about seven o’clock. As I passed the door of our sitting-room I noticed that it was ajar, and pushing it open, entered noiselessly. Sophie, who did not notice my entrance, stood facing the fire, bending and examining intently something she held in her hand. Creeping up behind her, and peeping over her shoulder, I saw, to my surprise, that she held in her hand a morocco case, containing a pretty ornament, evidently intended for the adornment of the hair. It was in the shape of a rapier, the tapering blade being of steel, while the hilt was set with diamonds. Intending to frighten her, I suddenly grasped her wrist, and snatched the ornament from its bed of crimson satin. “_Dieu!_” she cried, “I—I didn’t know you were here, Anton. You startled me!” “What a pretty pin,” I remarked. “Where did you get it from?” “It is mine,” she replied. At that moment I made pretence of lunging at her with it, when she shrank back with expressions of fear and repugnance that amazed me. “Is it sharp?” I inquired, feeling the point with my thumb. “_Gran’ Dieu!_ what would you do? You will kill yourself!” she cried in alarm. “What do you mean?” I asked, as she wrested the pin from my fingers. “I mean that a puncture with this would prove fatal,” she said in a low, serious tone. “You understand?” “Is it poisoned, then?” She nodded her head, and, holding the pin nearer the shaded lamp, showed that for about an inch from the point it was discoloured by some black substance. “Why do you carry about such a dangerous weapon?” “Cannot you guess?” she asked hoarsely, at the same time unbuttoning the breast of her dress, and drawing forth a letter, which she handed me. Then she sank into a chair, and covering her face with her small white hands, burst into tears. The letter was in Russian. It acknowledged receipt of the facts regarding Feodor Matvyèich, and stated that the death sentence had been passed upon him. Appended was the warrant of the Moscow Circle, ordering her to kill him. In a moment the object of her secret mission was plain. “And you love him, Sophie?” I said in a low tone. “Yes,” she sobbed. “I came here to discover how he intended to act on his return to Moscow. I have betrayed him, and the Circle have passed sentence. In spite of myself, I have grown to love him, and must save him. But how can I? To warn him would be to place the whole Circle in danger, besides bringing the vengeance of the Party upon myself.” Jumping up, she paced the room excitedly, while I stood watching her sorrowfully, unable to give advice or render assistance.