a week later catrina, watching from the window of her own small room, saw paul lift etta from the sleigh, and the sight made her clench her hands until the knuckles shone like polished ivory.

she turned and looked at herself in the mirror. no one knew how she had tried one dress after another since luncheon, alone in her two rooms, having sent her maid down stairs. no one knew the bitterness in this girl’s heart as she contemplated her own reflection.

she went slowly down stairs to the long, dimly lighted drawing-room. as she entered she heard her mother’s cackling voice.

“yes, princess,” the countess was saying, “it is a quaint old house; little more than a fortified farm, i know. but my husband’s family were always strange. they seem always to have ignored the little comforts and elegancies of life.”

“it is most interesting,” answered etta’s voice, and catrina stepped forward into the light.

formal greetings were exchanged, and catrina saw etta look anxiously toward the door through which she had just come. she thought that she was looking for her husband. but it was claude de chauxville for whose appearance etta was waiting.

paul and steinmetz entered at the same moment by another door, and catrina, who was talking to maggie in english, suddenly stopped.

“ah, catrina,” said paul, “we have broken new ground for you. there was no track from here to osterno through the forest. i made one this afternoon, so you have no excuse for remaining away, now.”

“thank you,” answered catrina, withdrawing her cold hand hurriedly from his friendly grasp.

“miss delafield,” went on paul, “admires our country as much as you do.”

“i was just telling mademoiselle,” said maggie, speaking french with an honest english accent.

paul nodded, and left them together.

“yes,” the countess was saying at the other end of the gloomy room; “yes, we are greatly attached to thors: catrina, perhaps, more than i. i have some happy associations, and many sorrowful ones. but then—mon dieu!—how isolated we are!”

“it is rather far from—anywhere,” acceded etta, who was not attending, although she appeared to be interested.

“far! princess, i often wonder how paris and thors can be in the same world! before our—our troubles we used to live in paris a portion of the year. at least i did, while my poor husband travelled about. he had a hobby, you know, poor man! humanity was his hobby. i have always found that men who seek to do good to their fellows are never thanked. have you noticed that? the human race is not grateful en gros. there is a little gratitude in the individual, but none in the race.”

“none,” answered etta absently.

“it was so with the charity league,” went on the countess volubly. she paused and looked round with her feeble eyes.

“we are all friends,” she went on; “so it is safe to mention the charity league, is it not?”

“no,” answered steinmetz from the fire-place; “no, madame. there is only one friend to whom you may safely mention that.”

“ah! bad example!” exclaimed the countess playfully. “you are there! i did not see you enter. and who is that friend?”

“the fair lady who looks at you from your mirror,” replied steinmetz, with a face of stone.

the countess laughed and shook her cap to one side.

“well,” she said, “i can do no harm in talking of such things, as i know nothing of them. my poor husband—my poor mistaken stipan—placed no confidence in his wife. and now he is in siberia. i believe he works in a bootmaker’s shop. i pity the people who wear the boots; but perhaps he only puts in the laces. you hear, paul? he placed no confidence in his wife, and now he is in siberia. let that be a warning to you—eh, princess? i hope he tells you everything.”

“put not your trust in princesses,” said steinmetz from the hearth-rug, where he was still warming his hands, for he had driven maggie over. “it says so in the bible.”

“princes, profane one!” exclaimed the countess with a laugh—“princes, not princesses!”

“it may be so. i bow to your superior literary attainments,” replied steinmetz, looking casually and significantly at a pile of yellow-backed foreign novels on a side-table.

“no,” the countess went on, addressing her conversation to etta; “no, my husband—figure to yourself, princess—told me nothing. i never knew that he was implicated in this great scheme. i do not know now who else was concerned in it. it was all so sudden, so unexpected, so terrible. it appears that he kept the papers in this very house—in that room through there. it was his study—”

“my dear countess, silence!” interrupted steinmetz at this moment, breaking into the conversation in his masterful way and enabling etta to get away. catrina, at the other end of the room, was listening, hard-eyed, breathless. it was the sight of catrina’s face that made steinmetz go forward. he had not been looking at catrina, but at etta, who was perfect in her composure and steady self-control.

“do you want to enter the boot trade also?” asked steinmetz cheerfully, in a lowered voice.

“heaven forbid!” cried the countess.

“then let us talk of safer things.”

the short twilight was already brooding over the land. the room, lighted only by small square windows, grew darker and darker until catrina rang for lamps.

“i hate a dark room,” she said shortly to maggie.

when de chauxville came in, a few minutes later, catrina was at the piano. the room was brilliantly lighted, and on the table gleamed and glittered the silver tea-things. the intermediate meal had been disposed of, but the samovar had been left alight, as is the habit at russian afternoon teas.

catrina looked up when the frenchman entered, but did not cease playing.

“there is no need for introductions, i think,” said the countess.

“we all know m. de chauxville,” replied paul quietly, and the two men exchanged a glance.

de chauxville shook hands with the new-comers, and, while the countess prepared tea for him, launched into a long description of the preparations for the bear-hunt of the following day. he addressed his remarks exclusively to paul, as between enthusiasts and fellow-sportsmen. gradually paul thawed a little, and made one or two suggestions which betrayed a deep knowledge and a dawning interest.

“we shall only be three rifles,” said de chauxville, “steinmetz, you, and i; and i must ask you to bear in mind the fact that i am no shot—a mere amateur, my dear prince. the countess has been good enough to leave the whole matter in my hands. i have seen the keepers, and i have arranged that they come to-night at eleven o’clock to see us and to report progress. they know of three bears, and are attempting to ring them.”

the frenchman was really full of information and enthusiasm. there were many details upon which he required paul’s advice, and the two men talked together with less constraint than they had hitherto done. de chauxville had picked up a vast deal of technical matter, and handled his little knowledge with a skill which bade fair to deprive it of its proverbial danger. he presently left steinmetz and the prince engaged in a controversy with the countess as to a meeting-place at the luncheon-hour.

maggie and catrina were at the piano. etta was looking at a book of photographs.

“a charming house, princess,” said de chauxville, in a voice that all could hear while the music happened to be soft. but catrina’s music was more remarkable for strength than for softness.

“charming,” replied etta.

the music rose into a swelling burst of harmonious chords.

“i must see you, princess,” said de chauxville.

etta glanced across the room toward her husband and steinmetz.

“alone,” added the frenchman coolly.

etta turned a page of the album and looked critically into a photograph.

“must!” she said, with a little frown.

“must!” repeated de chauxville.

“a word i do not care about,” said etta, with raised eyebrows.

the music was soft again.

“it is ten years since i held a rifle,” said de chauxville. “ah, madame, you do not know the excitement. i pity ladies, for they have no sport—no big game.”

“personally, monsieur,” answered etta, with a bright laugh, “i do not grudge you your big game. suppose you miss the bear, or whatever it may be?”

“then,” said de chauxville, with a brave shrug of the shoulders, “it is the turn of the bear. the excitement is his—the laugh is with him.”

catrina’s foot was upon the loud pedal again.

“nevertheless, madame,” said de chauxville, “i make so bold as to use the word. you perhaps know me well enough to be aware that i am rarely bold unless my ground is sure.”

“i should not boast of it,” answered etta; “there is nothing to be proud of. it is easy enough to be bold if you are certain of victory.”

“when defeat would be intolerable, even a certain victory requires care! and i cannot afford to lose.”

“lose what?” enquired etta.

de chauxville looked at her, but he did not answer. the music was soft again.

“i suppose that at osterno you set no value upon a bear-skin,” he said after a pause.

“we have many,” admitted etta. “but i love fur, or trophies of any description. paul has killed a great deal.”

“ah!”

“yes,” answered etta, and the music rose again. “i should like to know,” she went on, “upon what assumption you make use of a word which does not often—annoy me.”

“i have a good memory, madame. besides,” he paused, looking round the room, “there are associations within these walls which stimulate the memory.”

“what do you mean?” asked etta, in a hard voice. the hand holding the album suddenly shook like a leaf in the wind.

de chauxville had stood upright, his hand at his mustache, after the manner of a man whose small-talk is exhausted. it would appear that he was wondering how he could gracefully get away from the princess to pay his devoirs elsewhere.

“i cannot tell you now,” he answered; “catrina is watching us across the piano. you must beware, madame, of those cold blue eyes.”

he moved away, going toward the piano, where maggie was standing behind catrina’s chair. he was like a woman, inasmuch as he could not keep away from his failures.

“are you advanced, miss delafield?” he asked, with his deferential little bow. “are you modern?”

“i am neither; i have no desire for even the cheapest form of notoriety. why do you ask?” replied maggie.

“i was merely wondering whether we were to count you among our rifles to-morrow. one never knows what ladies will do next; not ladies—i apologize—women. i suppose it is those who are not by birth ladies who aspire to the proud name of women. the modern woman—with a capital w—is not a lady—n’est ce pas?”

“she does not mind your abuse, monsieur,” laughed maggie. “so long as you do not ignore her, she is happy. but you may set your mind at rest as regards to-morrow. i have never let off a gun in my life, and i am sensible enough not to begin on bears.”

de chauxville made a suitable reply, and remained by the piano talking to the two young ladies until etta rose and came toward them. he then crossed to the other side of the room and engaged paul in the discussion of further plans for the morrow.

it was soon time to dress for dinner, and etta was forced to forego the opportunity she sought to exchange a word alone with de chauxville. that astute gentleman carefully avoided allowing her this opportunity. he knew the value of a little suspense.

during dinner and afterward, when at length the gentlemen came to the drawing-room, the conversation was of a sporting tendency. bears, bear-hunting, and bear stories held supreme sway. more than once de chauxvilie returned to this subject. twice he avoided etta.

in some ways this man was courageous. he delayed giving etta her opportunity until there was a question of retiring to bed in view of the early start required by the next day’s arrangements. it had been finally settled that the three younger ladies should drive over to a woodman’s cottage at the far end of the forest, where luncheon was to be served. while this item of the programme was arranged de chauxville looked straight at etta across the table.

at length she had the chance afforded to her, deliberately, by de chauxville.

“what did you mean?” she asked at once.

“i have received information which, had i known it three months ago, would have made a difference in your life.”

“what difference?”

“i should have been your husband, instead of that thick-headed giant.”

etta laughed, but her lips were for the moment colorless.

“when am i to see you alone?”

etta shrugged her shoulders. she had plenty of spirit.

“please do not be dramatic or mysterious; i am tired. good-night.”

she rose and concealed a simulated yawn.

de chauxville looked at her with his sinister smile, and etta suddenly saw the resemblance which paul had noted between this man and the grinning mask of the lynx in the smoking-room at osterno.

“when?” repeated he.

etta shrugged her shoulders.

“i wish to speak to you about the charity league,” said de chauxville.

etta’s eyes dilated. she made a step or two away from him, but she came back.

“i shall not go to the luncheon to-morrow, if you care to leave the hunt early.”

de chauxville bowed.