"I don't understand!" she cried, surprised at his attitude. "How can I prevent it?" "It lies in your hands," declared the mock saint. "You are his friend--and also mine. He visits your house--what more easy--than----" "Than what?" "Than you should invite him to take tea with you to-morrow--to discuss myself. He knows that you are a 'disciple,' I suppose?" "Yes, he has somehow learnt it--but my husband is in ignorance, and he has promised not to reveal the truth to him." "If he knows of our friendship he might tell your husband. He is unprincipled, and probably will do so. That is why I suggest you should ask him to tea." As he spoke he crossed to the writing-table, and, opening a drawer with the key upon his chain, he took out the tiny bottle of exquisite Parisian perfume. "What is that you have there?" she asked, with curiosity, noticing the little bottle. "Scent?" "Yes," he said, with a mysterious grin. "It is, my dear sister, the Perfume of Death." "The Perfume of Death?" she echoed. "I don't understand!" "Then I will tell you, Xenie," he replied, his great hypnotic eyes again fixed upon her. "I do not use perfume myself, but others sometimes, on rare occasions, use this. It is unsuspicious, and can be left upon a lady's dressing-table. A drop used upon a handkerchief emits a most delicate odour, like jasmine, but a single drop in a cup of tea means death. For two hours the doomed person feels no effect. But suddenly he or she becomes faint, and succumbs to heart disease." "Ah, I see!" she gasped, half-starting from her chair, her face ashen grey. "I--I realise what you intend, Father! I--I----" And she sank back again in her chair, breathless and aghast, without concluding her sentence. "No!" she shrieked suddenly. "No; I could not be a poisoner--a murderess! _Anything but that!_" "Not for the sake of the one sent by God as saviour of our dear Russia?" he asked reproachfully, in a low, intense tone. "That man Miliukoff is God's enemy--and ours. In your hand lies the means of removing him in secret, without the least suspicion." And slowly the crafty, insinuating criminal took her inert hand, and pressed the little bottle into its soft palm. "One drop placed upon the lemon which he takes in his tea will be sufficient," he whispered. "Only be extremely careful of it yourself, and return the bottle to me afterwards. It is best in my safe keeping." "No! I can't!" cried the wretched woman over whom Rasputin had now once again cast his inexplicable spell. "But you shall, Xenie! I, your holy Father, command you to render this assistance to your land. None shall ever know. Feodor, who knows all my innermost secrets, will remain dumb. The world cannot suspect, because no toxicologist has ever discovered the existence of the perfume, nor are they able to discern that death has not resulted from heart disease." "But I should be a murderess!" gasped the unhappy woman beneath that fateful thraldom.