Gessner heard him with that self-mastery to which his whole life had trained him. Betraying no sign of emotion whatever, he pulled a chair toward the light and invited the stranger to take it. "This is my young kinsman," he said, introducing Alban who still lingered in the garden; "you have heard of him, Count." And then to Alban, "Let me present you to my very old friend, Count Zamoyaki. He is a cavalry soldier, Alban, and there is no finer rider in Europe." Alban took the outstretched hand and, having exchanged a word with the stranger, would have left the place instantly. This, however, Count Zamoyski himself forbade. Speaking rapidly to Gessner in the German tongue, he turned to the lad presently and asked him to remain. "Young heads are wise heads sometimes," he said in excellent English, "you may be able to help us, Mr. Kennedy. Please wait until we have discussed the matter a little more fully." To this the banker assented by a single inclination of his head. "As you say, Count--we shall know presently. Please tell me the story from the beginning." The Count lighted a cigarette, and sinking down into the depths of a monstrous arm-chair, he began to speak in smooth low tones--a tragedy told almost in whispers; for thus complacently, as the great Frenchman has reminded us, do we bear the misfortunes of our neighbors. "I bring news both of failure and of success," he began, "but the failure is of greater moment to us. Your instructions to my Government, that the Boriskoffs, father and daughter, were an embarrassment to you which must be removed, have been faithfully interpreted and acted upon immediately. The father was arrested at Alexandrovf Station, as I promised that he should be--the police have visited the school in Warsaw where the daughter was supposed to reside--this also as I promised you--but their mission has been in vain. So you see that while Paul Boriskoff is now in the old prison at Petersburg, the daughter is heaven knows where, which I may say is nowhere for our purpose. That we did not complete the affair is our misfortune. The girl, we are convinced, is still in Warsaw, but her friends are hiding her. Remember that the police knew the father, but that the daughter is unknown to them. These Polish girls--pardon me, I refer to the peasant classes--are as alike as two roses on a bush. We shall do nothing until we establish identity--and how that is to be done, I do not pretend to say. If you can help us--and it is very necessary for your own safety to do so--you have not a minute to lose. We should act at once, I say, without the loss of a single hour."