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 "Dear did friend!" she said, "I give you the kiss of gratitude."

She kissed him on both cheeks.

"Come to me at midnight—the same way," pointing to the ante-room, "we must confer."

The old clock by the doorway solemnly beat out the hour of ten.

"Punctual ever," she said, "and true, dear friend. Tonight we will talk of Czarovna and the ghetto."

"And of to-morrow," said Ferrari, significantly.

"Yes," she replied, "of to-morrow!"

The next moment she disappeared behind the portiere into the adjoining room, where her maid awaited her, and thence with stately tread to the head of the grand staircase of the palace. She was radiant.

Her dress was nothing short of an inspiration, so plain was it, yet so effective. The general impression it seemed to convey was that of a rich brocade which, despite its splendor, gave to the figure and fell in pliable and everchanging folds. With the exception of a rich lace stomacher it was made high to the throat, as were all the countess' costumes, for reasons which the reader may probably guess. Lest he should be in doubt, let it be at once remarked, by the way, that the stripes of the Russian knout go down to the grave with the victim who bears them.

The hostess had referred to this in her tragic address to the cruel Governor of Czarovna, the famous Russian general, who, in his death agony, had heard that requiem music of which she had spoken.

While the festal strains were still rippling from the hidden orchestra, he lay dead and awaiting the silent disposition of his executioners.

The countess knew this, and her cheeks flushed; she knew it, and her heart beat with rapture; she knew it, and thought of her father away in the Siberian wilds; she knew