They had reached the church now and were peering in at the open door. Miss Lee was not impressed; she had seen Russian churches in her beloved New York, and mentally compared them with this one, much to its disadvantage. Wilkins, however, found it all new and interesting. The candles ranged before the icons, the gilt and glass of the altar, the tawdry trappings, all impressed him, and he advanced into the building, studying its details. [Illustration: “PARDON, MADEMOISELLE! I MUST SPEAK TO YOU SECRETLY”] Scarcely had he left the girl when a man dressed in the habiliments of a priest stepped to her side, holding out his hat, as if for alms. As Florence stared at him, he muttered swiftly, in excellent English: “Pardon, mademoiselle! I must speak to you secretly. You have been deceived. You are not Professor Shishkin’s daughter. You are a princess of Russia with a huge fortune. I have come from St. Petersburg to talk with you. Give me a chance, I beg.” Miss Lee turned away. “Say, Mr. Wilkins,” she called. “I left my jacket in the boat. Would you mind chasin’ down and gettin’ it for me? I’ll wait here for you.” When the plainsman had gone, Florence turned to the priest. “Make good,” she ordered briefly. “You look like the Caliph of Bagdad, and I guess you can do the magic. If I’m a face-card instead of a two-spot, of course I want to know it.” The priest did not answer Florence’s speech in words. Turning, he stepped to the door and threw out his hand. “Begone!” he shouted to the curious crowd, and at the word it melted away. Then he came back. “Will you not be seated, Princess?” he inquired courteously, pointing toward a bench that stood against the wall. “I regret that I have no better accommodation to offer you, but----” Florence took the seat. “Cut it out,” she advised. “Get on with the fairy tale.” The priest removed his cap and threw back his vestments, revealing himself as a well-preserved, courtly gentleman of perhaps fifty years of age. Beautiful white hair curled about his brow, while his beard and mustaches were the pink of military perfection. Florence, studying him furtively, found him very good to look upon. To her he represented romance, aristocracy, refinement--all that she had never had in her sordid life. He was too old to play Prince Charming, she concluded, but he was of the type to which she believed Prince Charming belonged. Meanwhile the priest was seating himself. “No fairy tale. Princess,” he contradicted deferentially--“unless we liken it to Cinderella and transform the beautiful, wronged young lady into the princess. Rather let us call it a masquerade. I am not what I seem. You are not what you seem. Your whole expedition is not what it seems. We are all masked. But the time for unmasking is at hand.” Florence stared at him languidly. “I suppose you know what you mean,” she remarked insolently. “But I don’t.” “How should you until I explain? First, Princess, I am not a priest.”