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"You know little Xenie, who married the Councillor of State, Kalatcheff, last year? She is one of your 'sisters, is she not?" The "saint" nodded. "Well, according to a secret report made to me, she has conceived a violent hatred of Miliukoff, who was once a friend of her husband, and who still admires her.
While she was seated he stood before her with folded arms, looking straight at her. Suddenly, fixing her with those remarkable eyes of his, he asked in a deep, hard voice: "Xenie, will you permit this man to besmirch the name of him whom God hath sent to you?" "I don't understand!" she cried, surprised at his attitude. "How can I prevent it?" "It lies in your hands," declared the mock saint.
"It is, my dear sister, the Perfume of Death." "The Perfume of Death?" she echoed. "I don't understand!" "Then I will tell you, Xenie," he replied, his great hypnotic eyes again fixed upon her. "I do not use perfume myself, but others sometimes, on rare occasions, use this. It is unsuspicious, and can be left upon a lady's dressing-table.
Xenie Kalatcheff failed, therefore I am not in favour of her being employed again." "True, Olga is a girl of great daring, and her lover has long been in the German service," Rasputin remarked. "I will see her to-morrow." Then, turning to me, he said: "Féodor, write to her and ask her to call on me to-morrow evening at eight. Send the letter by special messenger."
It is best in my safe keeping." "No! I can't!" cried the wretched woman over whom Rasputin had now once again cast his inexplicable spell. "But you shall, Xenie! I, your holy Father, command you to render this assistance to your land. None shall ever know. Féodor, who knows all my innermost secrets, will remain dumb.
"Can he suspect, do you think, Féodor?" he asked, turning to me. "How can he?" I asked. "Perhaps, knowing madame to be a 'disciple, he doubts the genuineness of her promised disclosures." "Perhaps so," Xenie said. "But what can I do if he suspects me? Nothing that I can see."
Then I sat down, and taking a sheet of plain and very common writing-paper, I typed upon it a warning to the man who, at the Empress's suggestion, was to be so ruthlessly "removed." The words I typed were: "You will be invited to tea to-morrow by Xenie Kalatcheff. Do not accept. There is a plot to cause your death. This warning is from A Friend."
Miliukoff visits her home sometimes, and one day quite recently while in her salon he denounced you. She has been going about declaring him to be your bitterest enemy. If so, could she not invite him to take tea with her and then?" "An excellent idea!" cried Rasputin. "Xenie Kalatcheff warned me against Miliukoff some time ago, I recollect. I will see her and sound her upon the subject."
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