All endeavours to solve the mystery were in vain. I had been the victim of an extraordinary plot; but the fact of my friendliness towards the Revolutionists made its object appear the more incomprehensible. One gloomy day I was sitting before the fire in my bachelor den, lazily enjoying my pipe and a novel, when there came a heavy knock at the outer door, and a boy handed me a telegram. Tearing it open, I read words that caused me to utter a cry of dismay. They were— “Mariána Néstoff arrested. She left Petersburg by _étape_ for Siberia yesterday.—JAKOVLEFF.” “Arrested!” I cried aloud. What, I wondered, could be her crime? She had evidently fallen into the drag-net of the Russian police as a “political,” otherwise Jakovleff would not have telegraphed. The horrors of the journey on foot thousands of versts beyond the Ourals, the privations, the brutality of Cossack escorts, and the terrible existence in the mines to which political exiles are doomed, shut out from the light of hope or mercy, all occurred to me. A dozen times I re-read the telegram, pacing the room in anxiety and despair; then I resolved to leave that night for Petersburg, obtain a permit to travel in Siberia, and endeavour to save her. There was no time to be lost, for it was already three o’clock and I should be compelled to draw money from the bank. My only thought was of Mariána. How bitterly I regretted having left her in Russia, and reproached myself for not having warned her against associating too closely with those suspected of holding pronounced political views. For myself I cared nothing; being prepared to run any risk in order to rescue her from the terrible fate. I had taken out a large portmanteau, and was busy thrusting into it some things I should require on my journey, when I was startled by another loud rat-tat. On opening the door a tall, fair-haired woman entered. She was well dressed; wearing a small, close-fitting bonnet, and a fashionable cape trimmed with costly fur. At first I did not recognise her; but when she had passed through into my sitting-room and lifted her veil, I saw with astonishment that the young and handsome face was that of Agraféna Teréshkevna, a wealthy woman whom I had known in Petersburg as an active member and generous supporter of the Nihilists. “It is with much pleasure that I meet you again, m’sieur,” she exclaimed in Russian, smiling, and extending her hand. “Since you left us I have often thought of you,” she added, seating herself as if quite at home. Then, glancing round, she said, “Ugh! What an untidy room! You want a wife to keep things straight.”