“What do you think it means?” asked the prince.

“Heaven only knows!”

“And you will go?”

“Of course,” replied Steinmetz.  “I love a mystery, especially in Petersburg.  It sounds so like a romance written in the Kennington Road by a lady who has never been nearer to Russia than Margate.”

“I had better go with you,” said Paul.

“Gott!  No!” exclaimed Steinmetz; “I must go alone.  I will take Parks to drive the sleigh, if I may, though.  Parks is a steady man, who loves a rough-and-tumble.  A typical British coachman—­the brave Parks!”

“Back in time for dinner?” asked Paul.

“I hope so.  I have had such mysterious appointments thrust upon me before.  It is probably a friend who wants a hundred-ruble note until next Monday.”

The cathedral clock struck six as Karl Steinmetz turned out of the Nevski Prospekt into the large square before the sacred edifice.  He soon found the Kazan Passage—­a very nest of toyshops—­and, following the directions given, he mounted a narrow staircase.  He knocked at the door on the left hand at the top of the stairs.

“Come in!” said a voice which caused him to start.

He pushed open the door.  The room was a small one, brilliantly lighted by a paraffin lamp.  At the table sat an old man with broad benevolent face, high forehead, thin hair, and that smile which savors of the milk of human kindness, and in England suggests Nonconformity.

“You!” ejaculated Steinmetz.  “Stepan!”

“Yes.  Come in and close the door.”

He laid aside his pen, extended his hand, and, rising, kissed Karl Steinmetz on both cheeks after the manner of Russians.

“Yes, my dear Karl.  It seems that the good God has still a little work for Stepan Lanovitch to do.  I got away quite easily, in the usual way, through a paid Evasion Agency.  I have been forwarded from pillar to post like a prize fowl, and reached Petersburg last night.  I have not long to stay.  I am going south.  I may be able to do some good yet.  I hear that Paul is working wonders in Tver.”

“What about money?” asked Steinmetz, who was always practical.

“Catrina sent it, the dear child!  That is one of the conditions made by the Agency—­a hard one.  I am to see no relations.  My wife—­well, bon Dieu! it does not matter much.  She is occupied in keeping herself warm, no doubt.  But Catrina! that is a different matter.  Tell me—­how is she?  That is the first thing I want to know.”

“She is well,” answered Steinmetz.  “I saw her yesterday.”

“And happy?” The broad-faced man looked into Steinmetz’s face with considerable keenness.

“Yes.”

It was a moment for mental reservations.  One wonders whether such are taken account of in heaven.

“And Paul?” asked the Count Stepan Lanovitch at once.  “Tell me about him.”

“He is married,” answered Steinmetz.