On Hardt's arrival the reception was cut short after he had whispered some words to the Starets, who made excuse that he had to leave to return to the palace. Indeed, he went to the telephone at the farther end of the room and held a conversation with the Tsaritza's confidante, Mademoiselle Kamensky. None knew, however, that that private telephone by which the charlatan so impressed his visitors was merely a fake one, its wires not extending farther than the end of the garden. Grichka sometimes when alone rehearsed those conversations, until he succeeded in producing a perfect series of answers which would strike the hearer as a most intimate conversation concerning either Emperor or Empress. From the chatter upon the mock telephone the assembly concluded that his presence was required at the palace immediately, therefore they rose and retired, leaving the mysterious Hardt alone with us. Instead of going to Tsarskoe-Selo we retired to the saint's little den, where we opened a bottle of champagne, of which we all three drank. "Well, my friend Hardt?" asked the monk, flinging himself carelessly into his easy chair and unbuttoning his long black coat for comfort. "What has happened? You can, as you know, speak before our faithful Feodor," he added. "I have waiting outside a young woman whom I want you to see," replied the German agent. "Does she wish to enter our circle?" inquired the monk, adding with his usual avariciousness: "Has she money?" "No--neither," was Hardt's reply. "She does not want to become one of your disciples; indeed, the less you say on that matter the better!" "Then why should I trouble to see her?" "I will tell you all after you have chatted with her. May Feodor invite her in? She is sitting in a droshky outside." "If you wish," growled Rasputin. "But why all this mystery? I have much to do. I am due at Countess Ignatieff's--and am already late." "Remain patient, I beg of you, Father," urged the German suavely. "I am acting upon instructions--from Number Seventy." "From Number Seventy!" echoed the monk, instantly realising that Hardt, an agent of the German Secret Service, was carrying out some well-concealed and ingenious project. "Very well," he said. "I rely upon you not to delay me longer than necessary. Feodor," he added, turning to me with that lofty air which his low mujik mind sometimes conceived to be superiority, "go and find this mysterious young person." A few minutes later I conducted into the saint's presence a dark-haired, extremely handsome young woman of about thirty, who spoke with considerable refinement and whose arrival mystified me greatly. Hardt introduced her to the holy man, saying: "This is Mademoiselle Vera Baltz, of Stavropol, a friend of His Excellency Peter Stolypin." "Ah! Welcome, my dear mademoiselle," exclaimed the monk affably. "So you are a friend of His Excellency--when he was Governor of Samara, I suppose?"