Bristow weakened, impressed in spite of himself. “By Jove!” he cried. “It might be done, after all. But you understand what it means! There is always grave danger of these meetings being raided by the police. If you were caught at one of them, nothing could save you. It would be death or life in prison----” “I understand! I’ll take the risk! I’ll take any risk, only get me the chance.” “All right. I’ll try. But we’ll have to be mighty careful. Demidroff is awfully keen on getting this gold. In fact, rumor says his job depends on it.” “Who’s Demidroff?” “He’s chief of the third section of Russian police--the secret police, you know. I wonder you haven’t heard of him. He’s the smartest and the most dreaded man in Russia to-day; to-morrow--well, they do say that his enemies have gotten the ear of the Emperor, and that he is likely to be turned out any minute. However, he isn’t down and out yet and may never be, and he’s keeping a mighty sharp watch on you. So you’ll have to be careful.” “I will be.” “All right. I’ll do my best for you. Hold yourself ready to start at any minute. When the chance comes it won’t wait.” CHAPTER TWENTY Bristow’s efforts to secure Caruth an audience before the Inner Circle proved more successful than the reporter had dared to hope. His request, once started on its way, was transmitted with what seemed to him amazing rapidity: so quickly, in fact, did the answer come back that he would have questioned its authenticity had not the proof of this been unimpeachable. The Inner Circle, it appeared, was as anxious to see Caruth as Caruth was to see it. The answer fixed the very next afternoon for the interview. Caruth was notified to go for a stroll on the Nevski Prospekt, and to submit himself to the guidance of a man who would accost him there and utter certain pass-words. Accordingly, the next afternoon saw Caruth strolling along the designated roadway, staring at the brilliant equipages that crowded that fashionable drive, and rubbing shoulders with the cosmopolitan crowd that passed and repassed. The season was over, and gay St. Petersburg was fleeing away from the capital over which the annual shadow of malaria was slowly growing. Enough remained, however, to illustrate Russian life; and many tourists still lingered, lending color to the scene. Not often, Caruth thought, had he seen so many ornamental women gathered together. His thoughts, however, were not on women, but on the guide who was to meet him and lead him before the council. Which of the tall, bearded men that pressed by him, he wondered, would turn out to be the messenger? “Trouble you for a light, mister?” Caruth turned. A young fellow, by all signs an American tourist, was reaching out his hand for the cigar Caruth held between his lips.