Drexel knew that Sabatoff, the better to maintain his character of an orthodox official, the better to keep suspicious eyes turned from him, had surrounded himself with stupid servants who had an inherited loyalty to the Czar. But he considered that, fugitive though he was, his gendarme’s uniform would pass him by these hirelings, and so the event proved. He found the Keeper of the Seals making a pretense of examining some documents of his department; whatever might happen, he had to play his part. Sabatoff also believed that their plans had been betrayed by some one of their number; only through a traitor could the Government have learned such exact details. The man could not be Delwig, for he would hardly betray himself; nor Freeman, nor Razoff, for they were under arrest--and one by one Sabatoff counted off the others who had been concerned in the plan. Unquestionably it had been none of them. Yet a spy, a traitor, there certainly had been. Drexel had told Sabatoff in detail all the happenings of the evening, and Sabatoff now thought upon them for a long space. At length he looked up. “The lady who warned you,” he said slowly, “she loves you, does she not?” Drexel could not deny what he had plainly seen. “But what has that to do with the matter?” “Does it not explain why she warned you--and you alone?” Drexel sprang up as Sabatoff’s meaning broke upon him. “You think she is a spy?” “I do.” “But how did she learn our plans?” he cried. “And how do you explain this?” And he told him of his escape with the countess from Berloff’s. “I cannot explain that. And I do not know how she learned our plans. Yet I do know she is a spy. She knew our plans, and also the plans of the police; who but a spy could know both? It is plain she wished the police to succeed in every detail except the capture of you. If she were the revolutionist she claims to be, instead of trying to save you alone, why did she not give warning to you all in that note she sent?” “You are right! I never thought of that!” He seized his cap and was gone. Not knowing what he purposed doing, impelled by a blind, overmastering desire to make the person suffer who had brought on the night’s disaster, he sped away to the countess. He hastened up to her apartment and rang. She herself opened the door. Her face was blanched and strained. She started at the sight of him. “You! Thank God, you are safe!” she cried--and there was a world of relief in her voice. He walked in without a word. “Tell me, how did you escape? No, no, not now!” Breathlessly she pushed him toward the door. “Go, go! It’s dangerous for you here. Some one is coming--” She now noticed his face, black with awful accusation. She stepped back with widened eyes. “What is it?” she whispered. “Oh, you damnable spy!” The life went out of her almost as though his words had been a bullet into her heart. She stared at him, silent, shrinking, stricken with consternation. “I see you cannot deny it!”