“There is no appeal, as you know.” “Then I refuse.” The man sprang to his feet. “Refuse, do you?” he cried, in a sibilant hiss that seemed to fill the room. “Refuse? Have you forgotten the penalty of disobedience? Have you forgotten the oath you took?--‘If I fail in obedience, may I be cut off, I and my children and my children’s children, and my name live no more forever.’ Do you remember, Professor Shishkin?” The man paused, and his voice changed. “Believe me, I am sorry,” he murmured; “but I, like yourself, am a subordinate. It is the Brotherhood that speaks, not I. And the Brotherhood speaks for the people--do not forget that--speaks for the great, inarticulate Russian people, struggling to burst their age-long shackles. While we sit here, men are sacrificing their lives and women their honor for the cause. Who are you to hold back? No harm will come to your daughter, but even if the risk were ten times greater, still she must take it. You and she both owe it to Russia.” He paused. “What shall I say to the Brotherhood?” he demanded. The old man bowed his head. “I will obey,” he muttered. “I must obey. I have no choice.” CHAPTER TWO Alston Caruth lived in the Chimneystack Building. When he returned to his apartments at midnight on the day of Gorloff’s visit to Professor Shishkin, he found Marie Fitzhugh, agent of the Brotherhood, awaiting him. She had risen at the sound of his key in the lock, and stood facing him, externally cool and self-possessed, but with apprehension shining in her soft dark eyes. Her fingers trembled as they rested on the edge of the table, and her color came and went. A close observer would have said that she was frightened half to death. Caruth, however, was not a close observer; at least, not at that moment. Amazement showed in his eyes as he snatched off his hat and whipped the cigarette from his parting lips. His fresh young face, flushed from the gaiety of the evening, looked almost boyish in its confusion. His obvious embarrassment seemed to restore the girl’s balance. “Mr. Caruth?” she inquired, with a slight movement of her head. Caruth nodded. For the moment he was beyond words. Her soft, musical voice and air of refinement impressed him, despite the unconventionality of her presence in his rooms at that time of the night, and his attitude became even more respectful. “Yes,” he stammered; “I am Mr. Caruth. What can I do for you?” “I am Miss Fitzhugh. I have come four thousand miles to talk with you, Mr. Caruth. Your valet was kind enough to let me wait, though he was clearly horrified by my desiring to do so. Will you not sit down?” Caruth hesitated. Of medium build, clean-shaven, correctly dressed, he might have stepped out of a Gibson drawing. Every detail was present, even to the strong chin and the firm mouth. “It is late,” he suggested, glancing at the clock, the hands of which stood straight upward. “I am at your service, of course, but perhaps to-morrow----”