“Bien, m’sieur.”

I turned to the little writing-table and scribbled a few hasty lines to my love, announcing my presence, and asking her to grant me an interview in secret as soon as Woodroffe was absent.  I also warned her of the search for her instigated by the Baron, and urged her to send me a line in reply.

The note was delivered into her hand, but although I waited in suspense nearly all day she sent no reply.  While Woodroffe was in the hotel I dared not show myself lest he should recognize me, therefore I was compelled to sham indisposition and to eat my meals alone in my room.

Both the means by which she had met Martin Woodroffe and the motive were equally an enigma.  By that letter she had written to her schoolfellow it was apparent that she had some secret of his, for had she not wished to send him a message of reassurance that she had divulged nothing?  This would seem that they were close friends; yet, on the other hand, something seemed to tell me that he was acting falsely, and was really an ally of the Baron’s.

Why had he brought her to Petersburg?  If he had desired to rescue her he would have taken her in the opposite direction—­to Stockholm, where she would be free—­whereas he took her, an escaped prisoner, into the very midst of peril.  It was true that her passport was in order, yet I remembered that an order had been issued for her transportation to Saghalien, and now once arrested she must be lost to me for ever.  This thought filled me with fierce anxiety.  She was in Petersburg, that city where police spies swarm, and where every fresh arrival is noted and his antecedents inquired into.  No attempt had been made to disguise who she was, therefore before long the police would undoubtedly come and arrest her as the escaped criminal from Kajana.

For several hours I sat at my window watching the life and movement down in the street below, my mind full of wonder and dark forebodings.  Was Martin Woodroffe playing her false?

Just after half-past six o’clock the waiter entered, and handing me a note on a salver, said—­

“Mademoiselle has, I believe, only this moment been able to write in secret.”

I tore it open and read as follows:—­

DEAR FRIEND.—­I am so surprised.  I thought you were still in Abo.  Woodroffe has an appointment at eight o’clock on the other side of the city, therefore come to me at 8.15.  I must see you, and at once.  I am in peril.—­ELMA HEATH.

My love was in peril!  It was just as I had feared.  I thanked Providence that I had been sent to help her and extricate her from that awful fate to which “The Strangler of Finland” had consigned her.

At the hour she named, after the waiter had come to me and announced the Englishman’s departure, I descended to her sitting-room and entered without rapping, for if I had rapped she could not, alas! have heard.

The apartment was spacious and comfortable, thickly carpeted, with heavy furniture and gilding.  Before the long window were drawn curtains of dark green plush, and on one side was the high stove of white porcelain with shining brass bands, while from her low lounge-chair a slim wan figure sprang up quickly and came forward to greet me, holding out both her hands and smiling happily.