Sabatoff locked the door. Drexel now made known his need of shelter, and Sabatoff assured him that he could have refuge in this same room till the morrow; that sofa there could be his bed. Drexel then spoke of the possibility of freeing the prisoners. Sabatoff saw little hope, but favoured trying their utmost. However, it would be a waste of time to discuss a scheme until they knew just how matters stood. He would acquaint himself with the situation to-morrow, and they would then consider plans. After Drexel had related his night’s experiences, Sabatoff withdrew--not that he expected to sleep, but it was wisdom to avoid the possibility of his servants missing him from his bed. Though the hour was already four, the night that followed was the longest of Drexel’s life. He could not have a light, he could not move about--either might reveal to the servants that a stranger was in the house. He could only lie motionless upon the couch and wait--wait--wait for the morrow, and think of Sonya in her damp and gloomy dungeon. Morning came at length. Sabatoff smuggled in some fruit and bread. “I have told my servants that I have locked this room to make sure that some papers I have been arranging shall not be disturbed,” he said. “I may not be back till afternoon. Anyhow, it will not be safe for you to leave the house till it’s dark again.” The hours that followed were like the hours that had gone before; hours of tense, inactive waiting, filled with thoughts of Sonya. Once, to be sure, he did recall that to-morrow his cousin was to be married to Berloff, and that he had as yet done nothing to save her from what could only be gilded misery with that relentless villain. But Alice’s approaching misfortune was quickly obliterated by the far greater disaster of her who was a thousand times more dear to him--her whom he had kissed once, then lost. Three o’clock came, and with it darkness. Soon Sabatoff entered the room, locked the door, and lit the gas. There was an ominous whiteness in his face. “What is it?” Drexel whispered, new terror in his heart. “This afternoon while in my office a record passed through my hands that told me something it was plain we revolutionists were not intended to know.” “Yes, yes?” “The worst has happened. Sonya and Borodin are condemned to die.” Drexel’s legs gave way beneath him and he sank slowly to the couch. “Condemned to die?” Sabatoff nodded. “Condemned by their father.” There was silence. Drexel’s lips formed: “When do they----” and stilled. “At four to-morrow morning.” “In twelve hours!” he breathed. Even in this reeling moment Drexel recognized that Freeman was in this crowning calamity. Why had not his hand been stronger out there upon the frozen river! And he recognized in it the diabolic cunning of Berloff--and he recognized that the prince’s motive was the Valenko fortune. He sprang up frantically. “We must do something--at once!” “Yes--but what?” said Sabatoff.