We turned, and saw a pale, beautiful woman, attired in a handsome dinner-gown. "Ethel! You?" we both cried in amazement. "Dick!" she gasped. "You--you have found me!" She reeled backwards, and before we could save her, fell senseless to the floor. A few words of excuse and explanation, and we left the Count, who, kneeling beside his wife and endeavouring to resuscitate her, was completely mystified at the strange recognition. Dick, almost beside himself with grief at discovering his idol already married, returned at once to London, while I remained at an inn at Oxted in order to glean some further information. Inquiries showed that the Count had met her while travelling in America, and had married her. Since that time they had apparently lived happily, and not a breath of scandal had besmirched her fair name. The reason she always refused us her address was now clear; and it was evident that, while in residence at her London house in Park Lane, she had been in the habit of paying us visits unknown to her husband, assuming the character of an unmarried and flighty _Bohemienne_. On the following day I called at the Park to inquire after the Countess's health. The footman looked pale and grave when I asked after her ladyship. "I much regret to inform you, sir, that my mistress is dead," he said. "Dead?" I cried. "Impossible!" "Yes, sir. Her maid discovered her in her boudoir late last night, and found that she had taken an overdose of morphia. We sent for the doctor, but before his arrival life was extinct. The Count is insane with grief, more especially because the maid discovered that her ladyship had left a letter to some man she calls Dick, telling him that she loved him, and could live no longer." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dick rarely smiles, and is invariably gloomy and sad, poor fellow. The Count, ignorant of the truth, has hung his latest purchase in the private gallery of his great palace in Rome, little dreaming that the "Masked Circe" is actually the picture of his dead wife. CHAPTER FOUR. THE MAN WITH THE FATAL FINGER. Three years ago, while I was writing a novel which deals with Nihilism, and which brought the heavy hand of the Press Bureau at Petersburg upon me, I contrived, in order to sketch my characters from life, to obtain an introduction to the little colony of Russian revolutionists which exists in secret in a northwestern suburb of London. I eventually won their confidence, and ingratiated myself with them by advocating Russian freedom in a series of articles in a certain London journal, which had the effect of enlisting public sympathy with the exiles in such a manner, that the editor received a number of donations, which he handed to me, while I in turn conveyed the money to my friend, Paul Grigorovitch, the head of the branch of the Narodnoe Pravo.