“Next to Ekaterina’s devotion to the cause is her devotion to science,” said Kazanovitch, opening a door to a little room.  Then he added:  “If she were not a woman, or if your universities were less prejudiced, she would be welcome anywhere as a professor.  See, here is her laboratory.  It is the best we—­she can afford.  Organic chemistry, as you call it in English, interests me too, but of course I am not a trained scientist—­I am a novelist.”

The laboratory was simple, almost bare.  Photographs of Koch, Ehrlich, Metchnikoff, and a number of other scientists adorned the walls.  The deeply stained deal table was littered with beakers and test-tubes.

“How is Saratovsky?” asked the writer of the doctor, aside, as we gazed curiously about.

Kharkoff shook his head gravely.  “We have just come from his room.  He was too weak to talk, but he asked that you tell Mr. Kennedy anything that it is necessary he should know about our suspicions.”

“It is that we are living with the sword of Damocles constantly dangling over our heads, gentlemen,” cried Kazanovitch passionately, turning toward us.  “You will excuse me if I get some cigarettes downstairs?  Over them I will tell you what we fear.”

A call from Saratovsky took the doctor away also at the same moment, and we were left alone.

“A queer situation, Craig,” I remarked, glancing involuntarily at the heap of feminine finery on the chair, as I sat down before Kazanovitch’s desk.

“Queer for New York; not for St. Petersburg,” was his laconic reply, as he looked around for another chair.  Everything was littered with books, and papers, and at last he leaned over and lifted the dress from the chair to place it on the bed, as the easiest way of securing a seat in the scantily furnished room.

A pocketbook and a letter fell to the floor from the folds of the dress.  He stooped to pick them up, and I saw a strange look of surprise on his face.  Without a moment’s hesitation he shoved the letter into his pocket and replaced the other things as he had found them.

A moment later Kazanovitch returned with a large box of Russian cigarettes.  “Be seated, sir,” he said to Kennedy, sweeping a mass of books and papers off a large divan.  “When Nevsky is not here the room gets sadly disarranged.  I have no genius for order.”

Amid the clouds of fragrant light smoke we waited for Kazanovitch to break the silence.

“Perhaps you think that the iron hand of the Russian prime minister has broken the backbone of revolution in Russia,” he began at length.  “But because the Duma is subservient, it does not mean that all is over.  Not at all.  We are not asleep.  Revolution is smouldering, ready to break forth at any moment.  The agents of the government know it.  They are desperate.  There is no means they would not use to crush us.  Their long arm reaches even to New York, in this land of freedom.”