"Even I could not protect you to-night," he exclaimed dryly, "no--whatever is to be done must be done to-morrow. But does not that prove to you what eyes and ears these people have. Here we left London as secretly as a man on a love affair. With the single exception of our friend at Hampstead, not a human being should have known of our departure or our destination. And yet we are not three hours in this place before this girl is outside our hotel, as well aware that we have arrived as we are ourselves. That is what baffles our police. They cannot contend with miracles. They are only human, and I tell you that these people are more than human." Alban, still peering down into the press in the hope that he might see Lois' face again, confessed that he could offer no explanation whatever. "They told me the same thing in London," he said, "but I did not believe them. Old Boriskoff used to boast that he knew of things which had happened in Warsaw before the Russian Government. They seem to have spies in every street and every house. If Lois' presence is not a coincidence--" "My dear fellow, are you also a believer in coincidence--the idle excuse of men who will not reason. Forgive me, but I think very little of coincidence. Just figure the chances against such a meeting as this. Would it not run into millions--your first visit to Warsaw; nobody expecting you; nobody knowing your name in the city--and here is the girl waiting under your window before you have changed your clothes. Oh, no, I will have nothing to do with coincidence. These people certainly knew that we had left England--they have been expecting us; they will do their best to baffle us. Yes, and that means that we run some danger. I must think of it--I must see the Chief of the Police to-night. It would be foolish to neglect all reasonable precautions." Alban looked at him with surprise. "None of those people will do me an injury," he exclaimed, "and you, Count, why should you fear them?" The Count lighted a cigarette very deliberately. "There may be reasons," he said--and that was all. Had he told the whole truth, revealed the secrets of his work during the last three years, Alban would have understood very well what those reasons were. A shrewder agent of the Government, a more discreet zealous official of the secret service, did not exist. His very bonhomie and good-fellowship had hitherto been his surest defence against discovery. Men spoke of him as the great gambler and a fine sportsman. The Revolutionaries had been persuaded to look upon him as their friend. Some day they would learn the truth--and then, God help him. Meanwhile, the work was well enough. He found it even more amusing than making love and a vast deal more exciting than big-game hunting.