As the door closed behind him, memory brought Vita a fleeting unease. She remembered Ruxton's warning about Vassilitz. He had suggested his possible connection with the Secret Service. It seemed impossible. And yet Ruxton had been definite. How long had she known him? She cast back in her mind. Why, as long as she could remember. She remembered him as a village lout, who sometimes worked for her father in his garden. Then he had been taken away to the army, as they were all taken away by the cruel conscript laws. Yes, of course, he had been away in the army, and--they had lost sight of him all that time--the time he was in the army. Then she dismissed the matter. Ruxton must be right. She was sure he would not say such a thing without some reason. She would send Vassilitz back to his home. There must be no unnecessary risk of her father's safety. Having settled the matter, the fiery caverns in the grate absorbed her attention once more, and every beat of her heart helped to bridge the distance which separated her from the lover who had so suddenly thrust himself into her life. How long she sat crouching over the crackling fire, dreaming those dreams of life, which afterwards become the most sacred treasures of a woman's memory, Vita never knew. Later, when she reviewed those moments, conviction remained that never for one moment had her eyes closed in response to the seductive warmth of the fire. Yet she knew that in some strange manner oblivion must have stolen upon her. Without a shadow of warning she found herself sitting bolt upright, every drop of blood seeming to have receded from her veins, leaving her shivering in a frigid panic. The cold, hard tones of a man's voice were addressing her. "The Princess will forgive the unceremonious nature of this visit," it said. "It is imperative, for--it is made under the direct authority of those who claim all subjects of the Fatherland." The words were in German. They were without a shadow of inflection, and thereby gained in the consummate tyranny of their meaning. Vita was on her feet. Nor had the wild panic which swept through her every nerve centre power to rob her of the regal poise natural to her. She battled fiercely for calmness, but only achieved it superficially. In the dark of the room she could see nothing of the intruder distinctly. A shadowy outline in the direction of the closed door was all she could make out. Then, with a swift movement, one arm was thrust out towards the wall beside the fireplace. Her fingers encountered a group of electric switches. In a moment the room was flooded with a shaded, mellow light. "Frederick von Berger! You!" It was the only exclamation that escaped her parched lips. But it expressed all the terror which would no longer be denied.