But they were disappointed, for a quarter of an hour later I dropped Nikiforovitch's bomb into the Thames from Waterloo Bridge, and next day an urchin was rewarded with a shilling for bringing to my chambers a copy of Lamb's works. It was sadly soiled and damaged, but bore on its fly-leaf my name and address. He said he had found it in the gutter in Burleigh Street! Events have occurred rapidly since that memorable evening. The Tzarevitch, unaware of how near he was to a swift and terrible death, is now Nicholas II of Russia; while the pretty Sonia Ostroff, still in ignorance of how her plot was thwarted, is at the present moment toiling in the gloomy depths of the Savenski mine in Eastern Siberia. CHAPTER EIGHT. ONE WOMAN'S SIN. Frith Street is the centre of the foreign quarter of London. The narrow, shabby thoroughfare retains, even on the brightest day in summer, its habitual depressing air of grimy cheerlessness; but enveloped in the yellow fog of a November evening, its aspect is unutterably dismal. Its denizens are a very shady colony, mostly the scum of Continental cities, who, owing to various causes, have been compelled to flee from the police and seek a safe asylum in the region between Shaftesbury Avenue and Oxford Street. In a meagrely furnished sitting-room on the top floor of one of the dingiest houses in this mean street, a young man sat gazing moodily into the fire. He was of foreign appearance, about twenty-six years of age-- tall, dark, and rather good-looking. His negligence of attire gave him a dash of the genial good-for-nothing, yet his pale face wore a grave, thoughtful expression, as his chin rested upon his hand in an utterly dejected attitude. Beside him, with her hand placed tenderly upon his shoulder, stood a tall, fair-haired woman several years his junior. She was eminently beautiful, with delicately-moulded features and soft grey eyes that betrayed an intense anxiety. It was evident that she was not an inhabitant of that dismal quarter, for the hat she wore was of the latest French mode, her cloak, which had fallen unheeded to the floor, was heavily lined with sable, while upon her hand were several fine rings, that gleamed and sparkled in the feeble rays of the solitary candle. "But, Paul, why cannot you remain? Here in London you are safe," she argued, speaking in French, and bending over him with earnestness. "Impossible," he replied, shaking his head gloomily. "It is unsafe to stay here. I must start for America to-morrow." "And leave me?" she cried. "No, no; we must not part. You know how madly I love you;" and she smoothed his hair tenderly. "Ah, Adine," he sighed, "Heaven knows, mine will be a bitter sorrow!" Taking her hand, he raised it reverently to his lips. In the silence that followed, the bells of a neighbouring church chimed slowly.