She struck a vesta and lit hers quite naturally. Then, as she seated herself upon a low chair, I recognised that she was very handsome, and that every lineament and feature was perfect. Her countenance had an expression of charming ingenuousness and blushing candour, while her dark brilliant eyes had an intense and bewitching glance. In her brown hair was a handsome crescent of diamonds, and her evening dress of soft black net disclosed her white chest and arms. "Were you surprised at my curt note?" she asked suddenly, blowing a cloud of smoke from her pursed-up lips. "Well, to tell the truth, I was," I admitted. "You see, we are strangers." "Ah, I forgot! I suppose I ought to introduce myself," she said, laughing. "I'm Prascovie Souvaroff. I know your name, and have heard how you assisted our cause." After I had acknowledged the compliment, we commenced a commonplace conversation, which was interrupted by the entrance of a tall, elderly man, whose thin face, sunken cheeks, and deeply furrowed brow were indicative of heavy toil or long imprisonment. Prascovie rose quickly and introduced him. "Ivan Souvaroff, my father," she exclaimed, and when we had exchanged greetings, she said, "Now I'll go, because you want to talk. When you have finished your conversation, ring the bell, and I will return and bore you." And, laughing gaily, she tripped out of the room. Souvaroff took a cigarette, lit it, and, seating himself thoughtfully, looked into my face and said-- "I have to thank you for coming here to-night, sir; but the matter about which I desired to see you is one of urgency. I have heard from Grigorovitch and others how you have assisted us in London and in Petersburg, and I thought it probable you would render me a small personal service." "If it is in my power, I shall be most happy," I replied. "It is quite easy if you will only do it; it is merely to insert a paragraph in the papers as news. I have it here, ready written." Then, taking a slip of paper from his pocket, he read the following announcement: "Prascovie, only daughter of Ivan Souvaroff, who escaped from Siberia after five years at the mines, died in London yesterday." "Died?" I repeated, in surprise. "What do you mean? Your daughter was here, alive and well, a few moments ago!" "I'm aware of that," he replied, smiling mysteriously. "You are not one of Us, otherwise I could tell you the reason." "Does she know?" "No, no," he exclaimed quickly. "Don't tell her. Promise to keep the matter strictly secret. If you publish the paragraph, I will see she does not get hold of a copy of the paper." "Very well," I said; "I'll do as you wish." It was a puzzling paragraph, but I had already ceased to be astonished at any action on the part of these men, for the more I thought over their secrets, the more complicated they always appeared.