‘How am I to know that what you have just told me has any truth in it?’ he asked at length, with a strange hoarseness in his voice. ‘What should you, Mora De Vigne, know of secret societies, plots, and conspiracies? Who should speak to you of these things, the secrets of which are known to the initiated alone? No; it is a lie—a lie! Some wretched fool has imposed upon you, or else you have concocted this story yourself in order to frighten me away.’ Looking straight at him, Mora said slowly: ‘_The right hand of the Czar is frozen._’ A low cry burst from the wretched man’s lips; he buried his face in his hands and fell on his knees; he knew that his doom was sealed. A pang of compassion shot through Mora’s heart. She made a step or two forward and then drew back with a shudder. All her womanly instincts revolted against the man. Not even at that supreme moment could she bring herself to go near him. ‘You must go away at once—to-night,’ she said. ‘To-morrow may be too late.’ She found herself repeating the very words of Jules. ‘Go away—where?’ he asked with a groan, turning his haggard face full upon her. ‘All places are alike. There is no escape—none!’ He rose to his feet and staggered across the room to the ottoman, on which he sank, and buried his face in the cushions. ‘Will you allow me to send for Colonel Woodruffe? He will be able to counsel you far better than I as to what had best be done for your safety.’ As Laroche neither assented nor dissented, Nanette was at once despatched in quest of the colonel, who was still with Sir William. He followed close on Nanette’s heels. A few words aside from Mora put him in possession of the facts of the case. ‘Laroche, this is a bad business—a very bad business,’ he said as he crossed to the ottoman and laid a hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder. ‘But sit up, and let us look the situation in the face. Whining is of no use—never is. We have to act. While there’s life there’s hope, and I for one don’t despair of dragging you out of this dilemma, however awkward it may look just now.’ ‘No, monsieur; there is no hope—none,’ cried Laroche. ‘They have tracked me here—they will track me everywhere, till one day their opportunity will arrive. I know—I know!’ His nervous agitation was still so extreme that the words seemed as if they could scarcely form themselves on his lips. ‘Here—drink this,’ said the colonel, handing him a glass containing brandy, which Mora had brought at his request. Laroche swallowed the spirit greedily. It helped to steady his nerves for the time being, if it did him no other good.