"The reports from the various central committees which these Councilors represent, appropriations of money to carry on the propaganda and the plans for Russia. But first it is necessary to see into the condition of the affairs of Monsieur Ivanitch. The vault must be opened."

"The vault?" echoed Rowland.

Khodkine nodded and glanced at Tanya.

"The Priest of Nemi is sole custodian of the documents and funds of the order. Only Ivanitch knew the secret of the doors to the vault-" Here he turned suddenly to the girl-"Unless perhaps you, Tatyana-"

"What should I know, Grisha Khodkine?" she said coolly. "I have merely obeyed orders. Kirylo Ivanitch entrusted me with no such weighty responsibility as this."

"And yet it is strange, that no record should be left-"

"Kirylo Ivanitch died without speaking."

"But you Tatyana were closest in his confidence. He must have given some sign, left some paper-"

"Search for it then, his room, his desk, his clothing-"

"I have done so. There is nothing."

Rowland found another cigarette which he lighted with the greatest cheerfulness.

"An impasse," he smiled, "what are you going to do about it?"

Khodkine shrugged.

"That is a grave question, Monsieur Rowland."

"Dynamite," suggested the American. Khodkine paced the floor slowly for a moment, and then to the girl.

"Go, Tatyana, if you please, and make a thorough search. Perhaps you may succeed where I have failed."

Tanya turned toward the door and then paused. "And the others, what shall you say to them?" she asked.

"Tell them the truth," said Khodkine.

The Russian waited until Tanya had gone and then coming close to the new President of Nemi, spoke rapidly and in whispers.

"You and I are allied for a common purpose. The vault is outside in the garden, deep under the Tree, we must find a way into it, you comprehend, without the knowledge of these others."

"Yes, but how?"

"That we shall devise. I will find a way." At the sound of voices he glanced toward the door. "Meanwhile," he whispered, "say nothing."

Rowland nodded and they drew apart as Madame Rochal and Shestov entered the room.

"Ah, Machiavelli," she said, coming forward with a smile-"already wrapping your tendrils around the Tree of Nemi."

Khodkine laughed uneasily.

"My tendrils perhaps do not grow so far or cling so tightly as yours may do, Madame."

Zoya Rochal glanced at Rowland who caught her look.

"For the wild rose, Madame," said the new Priest quietly, "the oak always bears a life-long friendship."

"Ah, Monsieur, who has taught you to make pretty speeches? But be sure that I am no poison vine," she said with a shrug.

"It is only the dead oak tree that the poison-vine loves. I, Madame, am very much alive."

She flashed a quick smile at him, at once a challenge and a reproach, while Khodkine looked on gravely.

"Only an escaping slave shall break the golden Bough," muttered the literal Shestov soberly.

Zoya Rochal laughed. "You, Grisha Khodkine?" she said significantly.

Khodkine started.

"Or you, Madame," he replied quickly.

"A slave?" she said. "I have escaped from one servitude into another. But to have political opinions in Russia is fortunately no longer a crime."

Rowland looked from one to the other and laughed.

"Monsieur Shestov has rendered me a service," he said with a grin. "I didn't know of this menace. If you, Madame Rochal, desire my life you shall take it at once." He picked up the dagger of Kirylo Ivanitch which had been brought into the house and put upon the table, and thrust the handle toward her. But she shuddered prettily and turned away. "As for you, Monsieur Khodkine," he said coolly, "from this moment I must be upon my guard."

But the Russian saw no humor in this pleasantry.

"Enough of this nonsense, Monsieur. Let us go in to dinner."

And yet this controversy which had been heard by the others who had followed Zoya Rochal into the room, in spite of its apparent triviality, had done something to clear the atmosphere. Rowland's perfect good humor and air of guilelessness which seemed to see nothing but good humor and guilelessness in all those about him, had the effect of providing a common meeting ground of good-fellowship for those of different camps. And whatever the diversity of their opinions, the darkness of their thoughts and purposes, the dinner table gave no sign of the deeper undercurrents of their various allegiances.

And when they all rose from the table at the conclusion of the meal Rowland and Madame Rochal went to smoke their cigarettes.

"I can't make you out, Monsieur Rowland," she said when they were seated on a bench at the end of the garden. "At times you seem very much like an overgrown boy," she began, "and then-something makes me think that you are not so ingenuous as you look."

"I have traveled the world over, Madame," said Rowland with a laugh, "but I've never managed to learn anything, except that women are very beautiful and that men are born to be slaves."

She laid her fingers along his coat sleeve.

"Don't you know, foolish boy," she muttered with sudden earnestness, "that you have happened upon the very edge of an Inferno?"

"No, you surprise me. It has seemed very much like a sort of pleasant game to me." He laughed. "I kill, quite by accident, the chap that runs your shebang and you all come along and pat me on the back. It's great, I tell you. You haven't been in a German prison pen, Madame. The conversation is hardly worth mentioning, the food is unmentionable and now for the first time in a year I find myself set down in a milieu of beautiful women and clever men with real food to eat and real conversation to listen to, and you, Madame, wish to spoil my evening by speaking of Infernos. It's really not considerate of you."

He lolled lower in his seat and smoked luxuriously, gazing at her through half-closed eyes.

The fingers on his arm tightened.

"I tell you, Monsieur, that you are in great danger, here at this moment. Don't you understand?"

"I understand what you say," he said smiling at her lazily.

"It's the truth-" she repeated. "Danger-of-death-sudden-at any time."

"I am so contented, Madame. I can imagine no moment more agreeable in which to die."

"You anger me. Have you no eyes to see what is going on about you?"

Rowland straightened and glanced carelessly over his shoulder.

"And what is going on about me?" he asked.

"You have become-in a moment-the most important single figure in Europe. You do not believe me. It is true. Around you, here at Nemi, seethes a struggle of nations gasping for breath and you sit and look into my eyes and dream."

"You must blame that upon your eyes," he whispered.

She shrugged, moved impatiently and then after looking cautiously around them into the shrubbery, turned toward him again.

"I pray you to listen to me, Monsieur," she said eagerly. "I like you, Philippe Rowlan'. From the first in there, when I saw you, I knew that I should like you. I don't know why." She shrugged expressively. "You are different. But you are also very foolish and I would not like to see you come to harm."

"And who would harm me?" he said coolly. "Perhaps I am foolish, but you must blame that upon my sense of humor. I blunder into the midst of a pretty little opera-bouffe worthy of the best traditions of Offenbach, with chaps in cowls and cassocks pottering about a saddish-looking tree and muttering about escaping slaves. And you ask me to be afraid. Perhaps when I get through being amused there will be time for that. For the present, Madame, will you bear with me and tell me something about yourself?"

She threw out an arm with a dramatic gesture which showed something of her training. "Ah, I have no patience with you, Philippe Rowlan'," she said, "you are impossible. Think of what I shall tell you, for it is very important. Under the mound below the tree is the treasure-vault of Nemi. It is built of steel, like a bank, and no one may enter it without the secret numbers which open the lock. Those numbers were known only by Kirylo Ivanitch and he is dead."

"That's unfortunate," said Rowland as she paused. "But you can't blame me."

"Do you know what is in that vault, Philippe Rowlan'?" she asked.

"I can't imagine. A pig with a ring in the end of his nose?" he smiled.

"You still disbelieve? Well, I will tell you. The funds of the Order at this time can amount to little less than twenty-five millions of francs. They are there for you or for anyone with imagination to divert into the proper channels."

Rowland's eyes in spite of himself had become a little larger.

"I'm no burglar, Madame. I've done almost everything-but safe cracking is a little out of my line."

"And yet it is upon you that the responsibility for this money devolves. If it is stolen you will be held accountable."

"Stolen! Who will steal it?"

She shrugged. "Who wouldn't-in a righteous cause?" She caught his arm again to emphasize the importance of her words. "To help the cause of Free Institutions in Europe? You! I! Anyone with a cause like that near his heart."

Rowland flicked his cigarette into the bushes. "I am very dense. There seem to be more causes than one at Nemi, more axes than one to grind. Let me be direct," he said coolly. "Yours-Madame Rochal. What is it?" he asked.

She glanced at him swiftly.

"You do not know?"

"Obviously, or I should not be asking."

She paused a moment, looking away from him. And then as though coming to a resolution she turned and spoke in a low tone. "These others believe that I am acting for the Social Democrats of Germany, like Max Liederman, but that is not the case."

"Ah-what then?"

"I am trusting you, Monsieur-"

"By the witchery in your eyes, I swear-"

She paused a moment as though to be sure of her effect. And then in a whisper-

"I am a secret agent of the Provisional Government of Russia."

Rowland sat silent a second and then laid his hand over hers while his lips broke into a boyish smile.

"I knew it, Madame. I was sure of it," he whispered softly. "Our cause is the same. You and I together-what can we not do for Russia and for Freedom."

He was so ingenuous, so boyish, so handsome. His very youth refreshed her. She sighed and then laughed softly as she raised the back of her hand toward his lips.

"There," she murmured, "you may kiss my hand."

But Rowland only glanced at the hand and before Madame Rochal knew what he was about had caught her in his arms and kissed her full upon the lips.

"Monsieur!" she stammered and drew away from him hurriedly. Rowland followed her glance and turned to find Tanya Korasov standing before them. Rowland sprang to his feet and stood, his head bowed, looking indeed rather crestfallen.

"Mademoiselle-" he began.

But she cut him short with a gesture, speaking rapidly and he saw that she was very pale and suffering under some suppressed agitation.

"Monsieur, you are to come to the house at once. In the name of Freedom-Grisha Khodkine demands it!"

"I will go at once."

Tanya had already turned and fled down the path. Rowland had taken only a few paces when Zoya Rochal rushed alongside of him and seized his arm.

"Be watchful, Philippe Rowlan'!" she whispered tensely, "for it is he whom you have most to fear."

He laughed softly as he caught her fingers to his lips.

"Thanks, Madame," he said gaily. "No one shall kill me at Nemi but you. That I promise." And left her standing in the darkness.