Wrenching the weapon from his grasp, I covered him. “The safety of this lady has been entrusted to me, sir,” I said. “I have overheard all that has transpired, and as soon as you sign the document we will withdraw. Until then, we shall remain.” He turned upon me, threatening to have me arrested; but I laughed, informing him that I was an official of the Tzar, holding his Majesty’s personal passport, therefore he had no power to detain me. For nearly half an hour he endeavoured to evade appending his signature, but at last he did so, and we left, Mariána telling him that if she were arrested as a Nihilist her brother would see that his confession was sent immediately to the Tzar. “Who is your brother?” I asked, at last, as we slowly walked together down the frozen road. “My brother and protector is your friend, Paul Cherniávski,” she answered. “Paul—your brother!” I cried, half beside myself with delight. “Then I have no longer any hesitation in asking you to become my wife.” Before we again entered the bare smoke-blackened post-house she had given her promise. CHAPTER VIII. THE VELVET PAW. On leaving Petersburg I had been compelled to part from Mariána Néstoff, nevertheless she wrote me weekly letters full of tenderness. Six months after my return to London an exciting and extraordinary adventure befel me. One foggy December evening I had entered an empty second-class carriage at the Temple Station of the Metropolitan District Railway, when I was followed by a tall girl, neatly attired in black, who seated herself in a corner opposite me. I noticed she was fairly good-looking, about twenty years of age, with auburn hair, clear blue eyes, and well-moulded features; then, after a furtive glance, I took up my newspaper and commenced reading. Scarcely had the train moved off, however, when I felt a light touch upon my arm, and heard a musical voice utter my name with true Russian accent. “I confess you have the advantage of me,” I said, surprised. “Yes, possibly,” she replied, in Russian. “When last we met it was in Petersburg. But we never spoke.” “In Petersburg! You are Russian, then?” She nodded, adding a word by which I knew at once that she was a Nihilist. “You are a friend,” she continued earnestly; “Jakovleff has told me so. Moreover, I have read your articles in the English magazines, in which you exposed the vile treachery of the Secret Police, described the prison horrors, and told the English public the truth about our oppressed people. You have rendered our cause great assistance, and,” she added, looking frankly into my face, “I—I wonder whether I, personally, might count upon your aid!” “What is the nature of your difficulty?” I asked, rather interested.