O Margravine of Lautenburg, as you reclined there before me, you were once more the Tartar princess, the fay of the East, the peri of the Volga's mystic waters. * * * * * * She asked me to tell her the circumstances which had brought me to Lautenburg, She had heard some of the details from Marçais, but from the smile with which she told me this I had no difficulty in guessing her opinion of that diplomatist's perspicacity. It was plain that she wanted to know my story, and I met her wishes with straightforward simplicity. Towards the end, as I felt her interested and friendly, I could not help giving her a moving picture of the distress our first meeting had caused me, I who had no sooner set eyes on her than my sole idea in life had been to gain her regard. Melusine von Graffenfried nodded approval, closing her eyes as she blew rings from her cigarette to the ceiling. "Please let us forget all that, Monsieur Vignerte," said the Grand Duchess. "Give me your hand." Then, turning to Melusine, she spoke in Russian, not knowing that I had a smattering of her native tongue. "It's no good relying on him for my admission to the _Kirchhaus_." Fräulein von Graffenfried replied with a shake of the head, which might be interpreted as "Didn't I say so?" "Melusine," said the Grand Duchess, "light the samovar." While the girl arranged the teacups round the heavy, humming tower of burnished copper, Aurora rose from the bed and opened a small secretaire. She beckoned me to her. "Do you know that writing?" she asked, holding out a letter. I examined the paper. I had never seen the writing in question. "It is the hand of the late Grand Duke Rudolph," she said simply. My surprise grew to amazement. She could not restrain a smile. "But, excuse me, madame. I don't understand. Then whose is the document I sent you, to which I owe ..." "Don't get excited; keep calm, Monsieur Vignerte. The paper to which you owe my regard--nay, my friendship--was not written by my husband, the late Grand Duke. But it is not without its value for me. It may even have a greater value." As she spoke she unfolded the document "I see there a name," she said. "Sangha. Do you know where it is?" "Yes," I answered. "I found out this morning. It is a miserable village in the Cameroons--the last German post, ten leagues from Fort Flatters, the first French post." "That's the place," she added, "and you don't seem to know that it was in that very village that the Grand Duke Rudolph died of sunstroke on the 10th of May, 1911. He is buried there. Now you will realize my feelings on seeing in the list of projected stages of his journey the name of the place where he was to stay for ever." "But whose is this list, then? Who drew it up?"