"Do you not remember the case of the refugee, Anton Korolenko, the man who, after being hounded all over Europe, in Vienna, in Madrid, in Paris, by the _agents provocateurs_ of the Secret Police, found an asylum in London?" she inquired, surprised. "They said we need not fear the _Okhrannoe Otdelenie_ here, in your free England, but no sooner had we arrived than, owing to the treachery of one of our brotherhood, a warrant for our extradition was issued by General Sekerzhinski, chief of the Department in St Petersburg. News of this was telegraphed to us, and I applied to your Minister for protection. You yourself saw me and gave me your promise of assistance, a promise which you kept; the warrant was returned to Russia unexecuted, and you thus saved us from the fate we dreaded." "Ah, yes," I answered quickly. "Of course, I remember now. It is fully two years ago; but you have so altered that I scarcely knew you." "I was a girl then," she smiled. "Now I feel quite a woman. Since I saw you last I have sustained a bereavement. My poor father is, alas! dead." "Dead!" I echoed sympathetically. "Yes," she sighed, with bitterness. "He died of a broken heart. On the day we escaped from St Petersburg, my mother, who was perfectly innocent, had unfortunately fallen into the drag-net of the police. She was imprisoned for six months, then sent to Siberia, but died of cold and fever on the road there. Her tragic end proved such a terrible blow to my father that, even here in safety, he grew morose, his health, already broken by long years of imprisonment, failed, and six months ago he died, and I was left alone."