which came to Tsarkoe Selo, and attributes them to quite another person. The actual writer was myself, and the confusion respecting the signature arose from the fact that I had used a fanciful name composed of that of Titi and myself. There was not, and never has been, any “Mysterious Personage” as Kobilinsky’s deposition leads one to suppose. “Are you Madame Dehn?” asked Kobilinsky, eyeing me with some degree of curiosity. “Yes, Commandant!” “Are these from you?...” he continued, handing me a packet of letters. “Most certainly. They are all in my handwriting,” I said. “Then why on earth don’t you sign your full name when you write?” he queried testily. “Because I’ve never been in the habit of doing so. ‘Tili’ is a fanciful name, a combination of ‘Lili’ and ‘Titi.’” “I don’t believe you,” he said bluntly. “It is the name of another lady.” “Why don’t you make enquiries if you doubt my word?” I returned. “You’ll easily find out that I’m telling the truth.” “Well, well,” he grumbled. “I suppose I must believe you. But, see here, Madame, you’ve got to promise me something. You _must_ agree to destroy all the letters which the Empress has sent you. If you don’t, I won’t allow you to write or to receive any more letters. I suppose,” he added, “that such a devoted friend as yourself has not come to-day without bringing some letters for the Family?” I acknowledged that such was the case. Kobilinsky smiled, and took the letters. He then signified that the interview was over. Kobilinsky “passed” many letters to and from the Empress after this, but I was always haunted by the fear lest my precious correspondence might be stolen, or else forcibly destroyed. Fortune favoured me, and an opportunity occurred to send my letters and certain private papers to England under the safe conduct of General Poole. These papers were ultimately deposited in a safe in London belonging to Prince George Shrinsky-Shihmatoff.