"MY DEAR DEMETRIUS,--I hope you got my telegram and are at ease again. I had a lively journey up here, travelling in company with a Government _employé_, who is very proud of his country, and of the Stanislaus cross round his neck. Such a pompous ass I have never met; he beats even our friend, Prince Shoubinoff, in his Sunday clothes, with the _barina_ on his arm. As you may imagine, I drew him out like a telescope. I have many a droll story for you when I return. To come to Paul. I made it my business at once to call upon the publishers--it is one of the largest firms here--and from them I learnt that your son was still at the same address, in the _Kitai-Gorod_, as that given in the first and only letter you have had from him. I did not care about going there direct, for I thought it best that he should be unaware of my presence, in case there should be anything which it would be advisable for me to find out for your information. However, by haunting the neighbourhood of the offices of his newspaper, I caught sight of him within a couple of hours. He has a somewhat over-wrought expression in his countenance, and does not look particularly well. I fancy he is exciting himself about the production of his book. He has not seen me yet, nor shall I let him see me till I ascertain that he is not in any trouble. It is only his silence to you that makes me fancy something may be the matter; otherwise I should unhesitatingly put down his pallor and intensity of expression to over-work and, perhaps, religious fervour. He went straight to the Petrovski Cathedral on leaving the offices. I am here for a few days longer, and will write again. It is frightfully cold. The thermometer is at freezing point. I sit in my _shuba_ and shiver. _Au revoir._ "NICHOLAS ALEXANDROVITCH." There is something not quite satisfying about this letter. It looks as if there was more beneath the surface. Paul is evidently looking ill or ecstatic, or both. But, at any rate, my main anxiety is allayed. I can wait with more composure for Nicholas's second letter. But why does not the boy write himself? He must have got the letter telling him I had been unwell. And yet not a word of sympathy! I don't half like Nicholas's idea of playing the spy, though, as if my son is not to be trusted. What can he suspect? But Nicholas Alexandrovitch dearly loves to invent a mystery for the sake of ferreting it out. These scientific men are so sharp that they often cut themselves. _Friday Afternoon._--At last Paul has written.