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 know—for I don't suppose you are quite as unknowing as you seem—and apparently is all for Bulgaria and the Bulgarians. Like you, she is a Roumanian, and like you, if I read you right, she is driven from her country by the all-powerful Russian predominance—at least, that's what she says. Isn't that why you left?" she asked, with quick shrewdness.

"The Russian predominance there is undoubted," I answered.

She liked the answer and laughed.

"Good! you are cautious, and I don't blame you. For the lips that breathe out rashness breathe in danger, my friend. But now, will you join us? You can see the career that awaits such a man as yourself here—at the right hand of the Prince."

"But if the Princess Christina is opposed to Russia, how does she threaten Bulgaria?"

"Aye, if?" and she laughed scornfully. "There is another complication. The woman has sold herself to the Russians. She is betrothed secretly to one of the worst of them all, a man of infinite vileness and treachery—the Duke Sergius. And the plot is that as soon as this Christina is on the throne, the precious pair are to be married, and Russia triumphs in despite of anything Europe may say to the contrary."

"I see," and so in truth I did; for in a moment the kernel of the whole movement was laid bare to me, as well as the objective of all my work in Bulgaria. I remained some moments buried in thought, and all the time my companion's eyes were searching my face for a clue to my thoughts. "It is very Russian," I said at length, equivocally; and at the words she made a quick gesture of impatience.

"You will not give me a sign," she cried, and jumped