One day the German agent, who was an exceedingly wily person, came to Rasputin and told him that he had induced the young lady of Kharkof to reveal to him certain secrets concerning the dealings of Soukhomlinoff and the supply of machine-guns for the Army--facts which had been presented in strictest confidence by one of the War Minister's enemies to the President of the Kharkof tribunal. Rasputin smiled in triumph when he heard the exact details which Madame Doukhovski had divulged. "Sit down yonder, my friend, and put that into writing, and sign it," said the monk, indicating the table by the window. "You will not punish her for her indiscretion, I hope," remarked the man, who was at the moment plotting that series of terrible disasters. "Not in the least," Rasputin assured him. "Your friend is my friend. But when such statements are made I like to have them on record. If Soukhomlinoff comes up for trial--which I very much doubt--then the memorandum may be of use to prove what silly and baseless gossip has been in circulation." In consequence of this assurance, Lachkarioff wrote down what had been told him by the judge's wife, a document which the "saint" preserved with much care--until the Obukhov catastrophe had taken place and its author was out of Russia. Then he wrote to Madame Doukhovski and asked her to call upon him upon an urgent matter concerning her husband. In surprise, and perhaps a little anxious, she kept the appointment one afternoon, and I ushered her into the monk's room. He rose, and, addressing her roughly, said: "So you have obeyed me, woman! And it is best for you that you have done so. Hitherto you have held me in contempt and refused all invitations to visit me. Why?" "Because I am not a believer," was her open, straightforward answer. "Then you will believe me ere I have done," he declared, with an evil grin, stroking his ragged beard, and fixing his eyes upon her. "You insult me," she cried angrily. "Why should you speak to me like this?" "Because you have been an associate of Felix Lachkarioff--a traitor and a spy," he declared in that deep, hard voice of his. "Oh! you cannot deny it. Your husband has no knowledge that you were an intimate friend of the man who has fled from Russia after causing that frightful disaster at Obukhov. Is not that so?" The handsome, dark-haired woman whom the spy had so grossly betrayed turned pale, and sat utterly staggered that her secret was out. She had never dreamed that the handsome, polite man who had one day been presented to her in the lounge of the Hotel d'Europe was a German agent, that he was engaged in committing outrages on behalf of the enemy, or that he was friendly with the monk. "Your husband does not know that spy? Answer me?" demanded Rasputin roughly. "I have told my husband nothing," was her faltering reply.