We were staying at the Hotel de France, and this man told me one day that a celebrated French _modiste_ had rooms in our hotel, having come there to show her beautiful Parisian costumes, and to take orders as usual from the Russian Royal Family and Ladies of the Court. He also mentioned the Frenchwoman's recent misfortune in hearing--since her arrival in Russia--that her trusted manager in Paris had disappeared suddenly, carrying away with him 100,000 francs. Two nights later I had gone to bed as usual about ten-thirty P.M., and must have slept for nearly four hours, when I awoke feeling the heat very oppressive. It was almost the end of June at the time. Getting out of bed to open my window still farther, I gazed down upon the courtyard which it overlooked, noting the absolute stillness of the house and the hot, oppressive air outside. Suddenly this stillness was rent by the most horrible and appalling shrieks! Peal after peal rang out. I have never heard anything so ghastly nor so blood-curdling either before or since. For a moment it seemed that one _must_ be dreaming. What horrors, to justify such awful shrieks, could be taking place at this quiet hour and in this quiet, respectable hotel? Nothing less than murder suggested itself to me, and I quickly crossed the room, and turned the key in the lock. My next thought was for my companion--the Miss Greenlow of American days. She was sleeping next door to me, with an intervening door between us. I hammered loudly upon this, and finally opened it. I knew she always locked her outer door, but feared she might go into the passage, not realising the danger in the moment of waking, and might fall into the murderer's hands. So I called out: "Wake up--wake up, Miss Greenlow!--_but don't open your door_. Someone is being murdered out there." I had heard every other door in the passage opening, and the scared inmates rushing to and fro, so there was no question of feeling bound to give the alarm. Miss Greenlow, being an extremely lymphatic person, was still sleeping the sleep of the just. I gave her a good shake at last, finding knocks and calls of no avail; but she only turned over sleepily, murmuring: "Oh, it's all right! I don't suppose there is anything much the matter--do go to bed again!" So I returned to my own room, and as the horrible screams had now ceased, I opened my door very gently, and looked down the dimly lighted passage. My room was a corner one, exactly at the head of the wide staircase; to the left-hand side, for anyone mounting the stairs. Exactly opposite my door, with a wide passage between, was the room which had been pointed out to me as belonging to the famous French _modiste_.