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the place where you found me."

      Stranleigh laughed.

      "In one at least of your Easterly religions there are seven heavens, and I prefer to send you to the seventh rather than the first. And now let us introduce ourselves. My name is Stranleigh."

      "I am Vassili Nicolaievna. Until recently I was a student at the University of St. Petersburg."

      "Did you fake a literary course there? I have guessed you to be a poet. Am I right or wrong?"

      "Both, Gospodín Stranleigh. I dream poetry, but cannot express it in words. Still, I try to give expression to my dreams through these." He stretched out his hands; white, slight, but nevertheless powerful. "I have devoted my life to music, and so did not finish the course at the University. May I give you a song for my supper?"

      He waved a hand towards the very splendid ​grand piano which stood at the end of the dining-room, ready, when Stranleigh gave a bachelor dinner, for the entertainment of his guests.

      "I should be delighted," said his lordship.

      The Russian opened the instrument, and sat down, plunging into a weird, fantastic, rather terrible selection that Stranleigh had never heard before. Then, after a moment's pause, he made the piano sing like a nightingale.

      "Heaven prosper us!" ejaculated Stranleigh, when he rose, "I have never before heard that piano. You possess all the power of Rubinstein and all the delicacy of Paderewski. Who wrote that music?"

      "Mine, mine, mine!" cried Nicolaievna. "Rubinstein was a Russian, and Paderewski is a Pole, but in music both belong to the past. 'Tis not up their stairway I am climbing. Wagner is the first step in my ascent, then Strauss, with his 'Elektra'; by and by it will be Vassili Nicolaievna. I came to London to play my soul-stirring symphony of humanity; a composition to echo round the world. I expected help from my musical brethren, but such is the jealousy in the ranks of those who should most appreciate me that they turned the cold shoulder. They declare I am not to be heard, and without money I am powerless."

      ​"I should have thought," said Stranleigh, "that any true musician would welcome you with open arms."

      "It is not so!" exclaimed Vassili. "They are all comfortably situated here, and why should I come to disturb their slumbers? Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy! Each knows in his heart that I tower above him as the peak of the Kremlin looks down upon the lowest hovel in Petersburg."

      Stranleigh could scarcely repress a smile at the colossal conceit of the man, but nevertheless, from his playing and his composition, he deemed it justifiable, and attributed its blatant expression to the influence of vodka. The Russian's arms were gesticulating like those of a Sicilian actor, as he continued:

      "My great symphony of humanity, could I but be allowed to render it here in London, will concentrate upon me the attention of the universe. The echoes of its harmonies and its discords will ring down the ages, and yet am I nullified for the lack of a hundred roubles."

      "No; you are not," said Stranleigh. "You wish to collect a critical audience here in London, and perform before it?"

      "Yes," answered the Russian.

      ​"Very well, I will finance you. Not with a hundred roubles, but ten thousand, if you desire them, and the money is at your disposal to-morrow morning."

      Greatly to Stranleigh's embarrassment the mad musician flung himself at his lordship's feet, seized a reluctant hand, and covered it with kisses.

      "Tut-tut!" cried Stranleigh, with an uneasy laugh. "We are not rehearsing a sentimental play, you know. You are overwrought, and so, for that matter, am I. I consider you the greatest genius I have ever met, and your music will haunt me while I live. Have no fear that you will languish for lack of opportunity, but meantime let us to bed, for there is strenuous work to do in the morning."

      "Work to do! Work to do! Yes; and I must keep my head cool and my hands steady."

      He held out these capable instruments of his will, and Stranleigh touched the bell.

      On the day that the luncheon to Prince Azov was given at the Guildhall, one of those imposing processions in which Londoners delight set out from the Russian Embassy in Belgrave Square, proceeded up Grosvenor Square to Hyde Park, then down Piccadilly to St. James's Street, and so through Pall Mall, the Strand, and Fleet Street, to the City. ​There were several carriages, preceded and followed by a clanking company of horsemen, whose breast-plates glittered in the sun, and whose gay uniforms added a touch of colour to the drab streets through which they passed.

      The foremost carriage contained the Russian Ambassador, accompanied by several high nobles of that empire. In the next carriage sat only two persons: Prince Azov, the honoured guest of the day, and by his side his most familiar English friend, the Earl of Stranleigh.

      The streets on either side were lined with troops, and behind them was massed a very good-natured crowd, who vociferously cheered the spectacle. Along Piccadilly, down St. James's Street, and to the further end of Pall Mall the clubs were resplendent with bunting and decorations, and in the Strand, Venetian masts had been set up. All London seemingly was enjoying a holiday, turning out to honour the White Czar's representative. Everywhere the procession was welcomed by hurrahs and gladsome greeting, the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, and indeed, the young Prince, who smilingly acknowledged the enthusiasm, was a magnificent specimen of manhood, clad in Oriental splendour, and well worth coming out to see.

      ​As they passed into the Strand, his Highness said: "You are a fortunate people, Stranleigh. I should feel rather nervous if taking part in a similar display through the streets of Petersburg."

      "Oh, you are quite safe here!" replied his lordship. "Rightly or wrongly, we are so tender with the denizens of the under-world, that they will not risk their own safety——"

      Stranleigh sprang suddenly to his feet, and stood covering the Prince with his body.

      "Seize that man!" he shouted, in a voice that rang out above the cheers, so startling was its note.

      To Stranleigh the whole mob had but one face; the pallid, ecstatic countenance of the mad musician. His right hand was raised above his head, grasping a black iron ball, and there for one brief section of a moment it paused as the amazed Nihilist caught sight of his benefactor, but before a policeman could move, a spasm of determination swept all reluctance from that wonderful face, and he launched his bomb straight at the carriage.

      Stranleigh in his time had been a notable cricketer, saving many a hard-fought field for his public school and college, and more than one person in that day's crowd, not yet realising what had happened, noted with admiration how the young man quite ​unconsciously assumed the attitude of a fielder, and deftly caught the missile, allowing it to swing gently to rest past his body.

      Now the policeman grasped the Nihilist, who struggled fiercely for a moment, and then grew suddenly calm. The procession had stopped. The crowd was silent. An officer of the force came out from a restaurant, carrying a pail of water, and as he held this up to Stranleigh, the latter very gingerly placed within it the deadly sphere. The anarchist, as he was led away, shouted loudly:

      "Khoroshó proshtcháité, Gospodin. Skólko platít?"

      "What does he say?" whispered Stranleigh, as he sat down again beside the imperturbable Prince who, during this time, had not changed countenance or moved a muscle.

      "His Russian is rather incoherent. I fear the man is excited. He appears to address you, saying it's all very well, bids you good-bye, and asserts he will pay the price, or perhaps rather asks what it will cost, an enquiry that is a trifle belated. Poor chap! We are both rather helpless; he in his place, I in mine."

      "He is a man of genius," said Stranleigh, "towering genius, who threw away with that bomb a career of the greatest."

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