“The yacht!” cried Sandoff hoarsely. “Is your yacht here? But don’t you know me, Maurice Dupont?—No, of course you don’t. I am Victor Sandoff.” “Victor Sandoff!” The other repeated the words in an amazed tone. “Can it really be you? How came you here? You, who were sent to Siberia. I heard about it—it was unjust, tyrannical!” Both were silent for an instant, thinking of the time when they had last met in one of the aristocratic clubs of St. Petersburg. “Tell me,” said Dupont, “what does this mean?” Briefly Sandoff recounted the story of his escape, and when he paused, pale and agitated, Maurice Dupont took both his hands in his and held them there. “Your troubles are over, my old friend,” he said, with tears in his eyes. “Tonight, as soon as it is dark, come down to the shore. You will find a boat there with one of my men in it, and once safely on my yacht I defy the Czar himself to take you off. You must be careful, though, for a Russian corvette is lying at anchor near me, watching for a couple of poor devils who escaped in a boat from the convict island of Saghalien last week. In fact, one of the Russian officers came out with me today. He is somewhere at hand now, with a couple of my men. You see I have been wintering in Vladivostok, and came up here a day or two ago for a little sport before starting for _la belle France_—but stop! I hear footsteps. Keep yourself and your companions well hidden, Sandoff, and as soon as it is dark make your way to the beach. You will find the boat opposite my yacht, which you can identify by the red lantern in the bow. Quick! They are coming.” The Frenchman strolled leisurely across the glade while Sandoff darted into the bushes and made his way back to Shamarin and Vera with his burden of joyful news. Through the remainder of that short afternoon the fugitives lay concealed among the rocks on the summit of the ridge, and when darkness came they crept cautiously down to the edge of the bay. Less than a mile from shore lay the steam yacht Grenelle, easily distinguished by the red light that swung from its bow. “If your friend fails to keep his word, we are lost,” said Shamarin. “He may hesitate to assume such a risk——” “He won’t hesitate and he won’t fail,” interrupted Sandoff with decision. “There! What is that now?” “A boat!” cried Vera joyously, and so indeed it was. It lay upon the beach, and as the fugitives drew near a man advanced to meet them—a middle aged bearded sailor, wearing the blue and white uniform of the Grenelle. He bowed politely to Sandoff and said, “The boat is waiting, monsieur. I fear we shall have a rough passage, for the surf is heavy and the wind is rising.” “Then the sooner we start the better,” said Sandoff, answering the sailor in his own tongue.