"This, Geoffrey, is Ivan Renouf; I daresay you have heard of him. He is now chief of the section of Secret Police attached to our Embassies of London and Paris." I nodded in acknowledgment of the bow of this expert detective who, at the time I had lived in St Petersburg, had been the terror of all criminals. The stories told of his amazing ingenuity in detecting crime were legion, though many of them were perhaps fabulous; yet there was no doubt that he was one of the most experienced police officers in Europe. "Renouf," my friend exclaimed, "I want to ask you a question. What character does Sonia Korolenko bear?" "Sonia?" answered the great detective, reflectively, in fairly good English. "Ah! you mean the daughter of Anton Korolenko who escaped from St Petersburg?--eh?" "Yes. Tell my friend, Deedes," Paul said, with a slow gesture indicating me. "Well," he answered, glancing quickly at me with his searching eyes, "for the past nine months we have kept her under strict surveillance, expecting that she intended to re-commence operations in London. Indeed, I have here in my pocket the report for the last forty-eight hours," and he took from his breast-pocket a long folded paper. "It shows among other things that she has had several visitors at her house in Kensington, one of whom was a gentleman who, according to the description, must have borne a strong resemblance to m'sieur. Two hours before this man had called a lady visited her, and remained with her about an hour." Then, reading from the report, he continued, "the description says, tall, good-looking, blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, straw hat trimmed with pale-blue, brown shoes, light blouse, black cycling skirt." "By Heaven!" I cried excitedly, "that's Ella! Every word of that description tallies, even to the dress, boots and hat!" "She is a frequent visitor," the detective observed. "She calls on her bicycle every day." "Every day!" I echoed in astonishment. "I did not know they were friends." "Did I not tell you that she was concealing the truth?" Paul observed, smiling at my dismay. "Tell m'sieur of the past, Ivan." "Ah! her record is a very black one--very black," the officer of police answered gravely, again fixing his small dark eyes upon me. "Her swindling transactions extend over several years, and she has no doubt acquired quite a fortune, while at least one of her victims has lost his life. By one coup she accomplished in Moscow, with the aid of that soft-spoken old scoundrel, her father, they pocketed nearly one hundred thousand roubles between them." "I really can't believe it," I exclaimed, dumbfounded.