“The Barinia,” said the reporter, in a low voice and with his finger to his lips to warn the faithful attendant to caution.

In two minutes Matrena Petrovna joined Rouletabille in the lodge.

“Well, where is Natacha?” he demanded hurriedly as she kissed his hands quite as though she had made an idol of him.

“She has gone away.  Yes, out.  Oh, I did not keep her.  I did not try to hold her back.  Her expression frightened me, you can understand, my little angel.  My, you are impatient!  What is it about?  How do we stand?  What have you decided?  I am your slave.  Command me.  Command me.  The keys of the villa?”

“Yes, give me a key to the veranda; you must have several.  I must be able to get into the house to-night if it becomes necessary.”

She drew a key from her gown, gave it to the young man and said a few words in Russian to Ermolai, to enforce upon him that he must obey the little domovoi-doukh in anything, day or night.

“Now tell me where Natacha has gone.”

“Boris’s parents came to see us a little while ago, to inquire after the general.  They have taken Natacha away with them, as they often have done.  Natacha went with them readily enough.  Little domovoi, listen to me, listen to Matrena Petrovna — Anyone would have said she was expecting it!”

“Then she has gone to lunch at their house?”

“Doubtless, unless they have gone to a cafe.  I don’t know.  Boris’s father likes to have the family lunch at the Barque when it is fine.  Calm yourself, little domovoi.  What ails you?  Bad news, eh?  Any bad news?”

“No, no; everything is all right.  Quick, the address of Boris’s family.”

“The house at the corner of La Place St. Isaac and la rue de la Poste.”

“Good.  Thank you.  Adieu.”

He started for the Place St. Isaac, and picked up an interpreter at the Grand Morskaia Hotel on the way.  It might be useful to have him.  At the Place St. Isaac he learned the Morazoffs and Natacha Trebassof had gone by train for luncheon at Bergalowe, one of the nearby stations in Finland.

“That is all,” said he, and added apart to himself, “And perhaps that is not true.”

He paid the coachman and the interpreter, and lunched at the Brasserie de Vienne nearby.  He left there a half-hour later, much calmer.  He took his way to the Grand Morskaia Hotel, went inside and asked the schwitzar: 

“Can you give me the address of Mademoiselle Annouchka?”

“The singer of the Krestowsky?”

“That is who I mean.”

“She had luncheon here.  She has just gone away with the prince.”

Without any curiosity as to which prince, Rouletabille cursed his luck and again asked for her address.

“Why, she lives in an apartment just across the way.”

Rouletabille, feeling better, crossed the street, followed by the interpreter that he had engaged.  Across the way he learned on the landing of the first floor that Mademoiselle Annouchka was away for the day.  He descended, still followed by his interpreter, and recalling how someone had told him that in Russia it was always profitable to be generous, he gave five roubles to the interpreter and asked him for some information about Mademoiselle Annouchka’s life in St. Petersburg.  The interpreter whispered: