It was all strange, they said--wonderfully, wonderfully strange. And not the least strange of all was a later episode. There had been a third condemned prisoner, the American correspondent, James Freeman. When the guards had come at four o’clock to lead him to his execution, he had protested that he was no revolutionist, but a spy, and his being there was but a spy’s stratagem, and that an order for his release was on the way and should have been there an hour gone. They had regarded the talk as the hysterical ravings of one undone by fear, and had dragged him from his cell. When he had seen there was no hope, he had taken on a cynical courage. He had ordered the hangman to keep his greasy paws off him, and had himself, with steady hands, settled the soaped cord about his neck, and with a nod and a sneering, “Good-morning, gentlemen,” had swung out of the world. And an hour later the order for his release had been found in the breast of the dead Berloff! While Drexel listened, his eyes fixed on his paper, there was a rustle beside him. He looked up. Into the empty chair across the table had slipped the Countess Baronova. Her manner was smilingly composed. But he saw that she was pale, high-wrought, and that there were dark rings about her eyes. She leaned forward. “I have come here--especially to try to see you,” she whispered with an effort. “Yes?” “You know--what I have been. From your point of view--and I do not blame you--it is your duty to expose me to the revolutionists. I have come to tell you that this is not necessary.” He did not reply. “After what has happened--the last few days--last night--I cannot be what I used to be any more. I wanted you to know that.” “I am glad,” he whispered. “I am leaving Russia. After what has happened--I can’t stand it here--and it will be safest. I think that is all. Except”--and she looked him straight in the eyes, and her voice dropped to a barest breath--“I believe I know who this Captain Laroque is.” “Yes?” “What he did was--was wonderful!” Her dark eyes looked a quick, subdued admiration. “That is all. Good-bye.” She rose and was leaving him, but he followed her to the tapestried doorway. Here, very pale, she inclined her head to him and was sweeping away--when suddenly he held out his hand. “Good-bye,” he said. “And I hope--I hope--” “Thank you. Good-bye.” For an instant her hand pressed his with quivering tensity. Then she bowed again, and moved away. Drexel returned to his table and again set his ears open, but heard nothing more of consequence. He thought of his relatives above; of Alice, even now, perhaps, beginning excitedly to prepare for the wedding. He was rising to go upstairs and discharge his painful duty, when he saw that Prince Valenko had entered the room and was bearing in his direction. They exchanged a few words of commonplace, then they drew apart to a window and made a show of gazing out.