Steinmetz had apparently finished his work. He was sitting back in his
chair, contemplating his companion with a little smile. It apparently
tickled some obtuse Teutonic sense of humor to see this prince doing
work which is usually assigned to clerks--working out statistics and
abstruse calculations as to how much food is required to keep body and
soul together.

The silence of the room was almost oppressive. A Russian village after
nightfall is the quietest human habitation on earth. For the moujik--the
native of a country which will some day supply the universe with
petroleum--cannot afford to light up his humble abode, and therefore
sits in darkness. Had the village of Osterno possessed the liveliness of
a Spanish hamlet, the sound of voices and laughter could not have
reached the castle perched high up on the rock above.

But Osterno was asleep: the castle servants had long gone to rest, and
the great silence of Russia wrapped its wings over all. "When,
therefore, the clear, coughing bark of a wolf was heard, both occupants
of the little room looked up. The sound was repeated, and Steinmetz
slowly rose from his seat.

"I can quite believe that our friend is able to call a wolf or a lynx to
him," he said. "He does it uncannily well."

"I have seen him do so," said Paul, without looking up. "But it is a
common enough accomplishment among the keepers."

Steinmetz had left the room before he finished speaking. One of the
doors of this little room communicated with a large apartment used as a
secretary's office, and through this by a small staircase with a side