"A German of the name of Von Wendel--he used to beat her with a stick, it
is said--so naturally such a nature adored him. I did not meet her until
she had got rid of him and he had disappeared. She would sacrifice any
one who stood in her way."

"Your friend, the present husband, looks pretty epuise--one feels sorry
for the poor man."

Then, as ever, at the mention of the debacle of Stanislass,
Verisschenzko's eyes filled with a fierce light.

"She has crushed the hope of Poland--for that, indeed, one day she
must pay."

"But I thought you Russians did not greatly love the Poles?"
Denzil remarked.

"Enlightened Russians can see beyond their old prejudices--and
Stanislass was a lifetime friend. One day a new dawn will come for our
Northern world."

His eyes grew dreamy for an instant, and then resumed their watch of
Harietta. Denzil looked at him and did not speak for a while. He had
always been drawn to Stepan, from a couple of terms at Oxford before the
Russian was sent down for a mad freak, and did not return. He was such a
mixture of idealism and brutal commonsense, a brain so alert and the warm
heart of a generous child--capable of every frenzy and of every
sacrifice. They had planned great things for their afterlives before the
one joined his regiment, and learned discipline, and the other wandered
over many lands--and as they sat there in the Cafe de Paris, the thoughts