“Listen again,” he said; “this is a priest, very poor, who is seeking to be transferred into another parish somewhere in the south. Avdotia, call on the telephone the secretary of the Synod and tell him that I am very much surprised to hear that Father John has not yet been appointed to another parish. Tell him this must be done at once, and that he must have a good one. I require an immediate answer.” The obedient Avdotia went out again, and we could hear her once more talk on the telephone. “The secretary of the Synod presents his humble compliments to you, Batiouschka,” she said when she returned. “Who cares for his compliments?” interrupted Rasputin. “Will the man have his parish or not? This is all that I want to know.” “The order for his transfer will be presented for the Minister’s signature to-morrow,” said Avdotia. “This is right,” sighed Rasputin with relief. And then turning to me: “Art thou satisfied?” he asked, “and hast thou seen enough to tell to thy friends?” I declared myself entirely satisfied. “Then go,” said Rasputin. “I am busy and cannot talk to thee any longer. I have so much to do. Everybody comes to me for something, and people seem to think that I am here to get them what they need or require. They believe in Gricha, these poor people, and he likes to help them. But as for the question of war, this is all nonsense. We shall not have war, and if we have, then I shall take good care it will not be for long.” He dismissed me with a nod of his head, and his face assumed quite a shocked look when he found that I was retiring without seeming to notice the hand which he was awkwardly stretching out to me. But I knew that he expected people, as a matter of course, to kiss his dirty fingers, and as I was not at all inclined to do so, I made as if I did not notice his gesture. As I was passing into the next room, I could perceive through a half open door leading into another apartment the young lady whom Rasputin had called Marie Ivanovna. She was prostrated before a sacred image hanging in a corner, with a lamp burning in front of it, with her eyes fixed on Heaven, and quite an illuminated expression on her otherwise plain features. St. Theresa might have looked like that. But seen in the light of our incredulous Twentieth Century, she appeared a worthy subject for Charcot, or some such eminent nerve doctor, and her place ought to have been the hospital of “La Salpetriere” rather than the den of the modern Cagliostro, who was making ducks and drakes out of the mighty Russian Empire. As I was going down the stairs, I met an old man slowly climbing them, with a little girl whom he was half carrying, half dragging along with him. He stopped me with the question: “Do you happen to know whether the blessed Gregory receives visitors?” I replied that the “Prophet” was at home, but that I could not say whether he would receive any one or not.