"You have heard," he began, "that I am here in two characters. I come in the ordinary way to visit a great country, for which my own land has always entertained a friendly feeling; I come to inspect her institutions, her educational universities, her great cities, her fine rivers; I come to admire and to learn, and to carry back with me pleasant recollections of a too-hospitable and charming people. That is I, in my proper aspect, without disguise or concealment; but that is not my first object, or my real errand. Mademoiselle, I come to seek, to trace, to find--a woman. One who has flown to your country for protection, to escape the penalty of crime; who is a fugitive from justice, and who thinks, poor fool! thus to avoid the power and the vengeance of Russia. Mademoiselle, it is in this work I ask your assistance." As he spoke, Miss James had risen to her feet, and now stood before him, her face blanched and haggard, her eyes glowing dark and angry, her breath coming quick and short; her arms hung straight down by her sides, the loose gloves falling about the thin wrists and leaving bare the slender arms; the feather fan lay unheeded at her feet. "Why do you ask _me_, Count Mellikoff?" she cried, in a strained, harsh voice, her eyes never leaving his face. "Why do you ask me to help you to track a woman, to hunt a fugitive, a poor, wretched, heart-broken fugitive, no doubt flying for her life from your cruel country and its cruel laws? What do you see in me that makes you think I will lend myself to your mad schemes? What am I that you should so count upon my co-operation?" She stopped, and Vladimir, who had also risen and stood facing her, cool and unmoved, bent down and, lifting up the _marquise_ fan, handed it to her with a bow before he replied. When he spoke his voice was keen and sharp, his words cutting and cruel. "What do I see in you, mademoiselle? Nay, let me rather answer your question by a line from an English poet: '_I see--a woman scorned----_' How does the couplet end?" But Miss James made him no reply, her hands closed vehemently on the fan she held; under their pressure the frail pearl sticks snapped in two and fell apart. She looked at him fixedly; the crimson blood had rushed in a torrent to her face, and the red stain lingered there. Suddenly she faltered, trembled, swayed a little, and sinking down upon the low _causeuse_, covered her face with her hands and burst into long-drawn sobs and tears. It was late that night before Miss James sought her own room; as she passed out of the drawing-room Count Vladimir held back the heavy _portières_ with respectful attention, bending his head in salutation as she went by him. Behind her, on the velvet carpet, lay the strewn petals of a golden-hued rose, about whose torn beauty a subtle fragrance still lingered, and the broken pearl sticks of a _marquise_ feather fan. CHAPTER XII. A PINK BILLET-DOUX.