"Yes," I answered mechanically. The man was none other than Ivan Renouf, the great Russian detective. CHAPTER NINETEEN. A BLADE OF GRASS. Nearly three months had slipped away. It was mid-November. The cloud that had darkened my days had lifted, the sun shone out, and life and hope sprang up and ran riot in my heart. The long, anxious weeks were over, for Ella was now my wife, and our lives were full of joy and love. With utter contempt for the warning words of the ingenuous Russian who left so mysteriously without fulfilling her promise, I had taken the dearest other half of my soul, happy in the knowledge that I would be a solitary wretch no more. After a quiet wedding at St Peter's, Eaton Square, at which, however, a large number of our friends were present, including Paul Verblioudovitch, the reception had been held at Pont Street, and we left to spend our honeymoon on the Continent while our house in Phillimore Gardens, Kensington, was being prepared. I loved my wife with the whole strength of my being. Her beauty was incomparable, her grace charming, and I could not doubt that she loved me with her whole soul, and that her vows came direct from her heart. The reason of Renouf's presence in Mrs Laing's household was an enigma. Since the night when I had first seen him there I had visited Pont Street each day, and on several occasions had managed to speak with him alone. To all my inquiries, however, he remained dumb. One night, when I had called and found Ella and her mother had gone to the theatre, I closed the door of the room into which I had been ushered, and asked him point-blank whether his presence there was not calculated to arouse suspicions in my mind. With an imperturbable smile he replied,-- "There is no allegation whatever against mother or daughter, therefore set your mind entirely at rest. We desire to ascertain something. That is all." His manner angered me. "If I were to denounce you as a spy you would be thrown out of this house very quickly," I said, indignant that this ill-featured man should, for some mysterious reason, watch every action of my well-beloved. He glanced at me with an amused expression, as he answered in a half whisper,-- "By betraying me, m'sieur would betray one of his closest friends." "Oh! How's that?" "A word from you to either of these women," he exclaimed, with brows slightly knit, "and the department in St Petersburg will know the reason that Sonia Korolenko was enabled to pass the frontier at Verjbolovo; they will know that Paul Verblioudovitch, the Secretary of Embassy, has assisted a criminal to escape." "You scoundrel!" I cried, facing him fiercely. "You listened to our conversation!" He shrugged his shoulders, and with the same grim smile, answered,-- "My ears are trained, m'sieur. It is part of my profession."