About a week after Rasputin’s first audience of the Empress Alexandra, the Bishop Theophanus, confessor of the Imperial family, paid him a visit at the Poltavskaya.

The Bishop, a big, over-fed man, had a long chat with the Starets in my presence.

“Her Majesty was very much impressed by you, my dear Grichka,” said the well-known cleric to the man who, having pretended to abandon his profligate ways, had parted his hair in the middle and become a pilgrim.  “She has daily spoken of you, and you are to be commanded to audience with the Tsar.  Hence I am here to give you some advice.”

The “holy” man grinned with satisfaction, knowing how complete had been the success of Stuermer’s plans.  At the moment Theophanus was in ignorance of the deeply laid plot to draw the Empress beneath the spell of the Starets whom the inferior classes all over Russia ­as well as the well-to-do ­believed was leading such a saint-like, ascetic life in imitation of Christ.

Truly, Grichka dressed the part well, and gave himself the outward appearance of saintliness and godliness.  Even the Bishop was bamboozled by him, just as Petrograd society was being mystified and electrified by the rising of “the Divine Protector” of Russia.

Of his doctrine I need not here write.  Dark hints of its astonishing immorality have already leaked out to the world through chattering women who were members of the cult.  My object here is to expose the most subtle and ingenious plot which the world has known ­the Teutonic conspiracy against our Russian Empire.

Rasputin’s “religion” was not a novel one, as is generally supposed.  It was simply a variation conceived by his mystically-inclined mind upon the one devised by Marcion in the early days of the Christian era.  He had conceived the theory that the only means by which the spirit could be elevated was to mortify and destroy the flesh.

The Bishop Teofan, or Theophanus, was a mock ascetic, just as was Rasputin.  Bishop Alexis of Kazan, after Rasputin’s visit there, had introduced him to the Rector of the Religious Academy, and already the mock saint had established a circle of ascetic students, of whom Teofan and another Starets named Mitia the Blessed (a name derived from Dmitry), who came from Montenegro, were members.  But Rasputin, although the leader, had entirely imposed upon Teofan.

In all seriousness the Bishop told the Starets of the interest in him which the Empress had aroused in the mind of the Tsar.

“He is a keen spiritualist, just as is the Empress,” said the confessor.  “At Court everyone has heard of your marvellous powers.  I can promise you great success if you carry out the views I will place before you.  You must form a Court circle of disciples.  The woman most likely to assist you is Madame Vyrubova, who, with Mademoiselle Kamensky, is Her Majesty’s greatest confidante.”

“Very well, I will meet her.  You arrange it.”

“To-morrow is Monday, and there will be the usual clerical reception at the Countess Ignatieff’s.  I will see that she is there to meet you.”

“Excellent, my dear Teofan!” said the “saint.”  “In this affair we will help each other.  I will form a circle of believers at Court, and Alexandra Feodorovna shall be at their head.”

The fact is that Teofan knew that Rasputin was possessed of a marvellous hypnotic power, and, being aware of the vogue of hypnotists at Court, saw in the Starets an able assistant by whom to gain power in the immediate entourage of Their Majesties.  Thus, quite unconsciously, he was furthering the plans of Kouropatkine and Stuermer, who were receiving money from Berlin.

Already one of Rasputin’s principal disciples was Madame Golovine, the elder sister of the Grand Duke Paul’s morganatic wife, Countess Hohenfelsen, a woman who had become his most ardent follower, and who never failed to attend, with her two daughters, the famous séances held weekly in that big upstairs room.

On the following evening I went with Rasputin to the great house of the Dowager Countess Ignatieff to attend the usual Monday gathering of prelates and ascetics, for her salon was a rendezvous for all kinds of religious cranks, theologians, and people interested in pious works.  Rasputin’s unexpected appearance there caused a sensation.

Outside his circle of “disciples” he was unapproachable.  The instructions given me by Boris Stuermer were absolute and precise.  The reason that I was always at the charlatan’s right hand was because he could only write with difficulty, and was therefore unable to make any memoranda.  His letters were the painful efforts of an unlettered mujik, as indeed he was.

And yet already he had become the most renowned man in the Russian capital!

Our Empire’s quarrel with Japan had not been finally settled.  The country was in a state of serious unrest.  While the revolutionary spirit, started by the death of the girl Vietroff, was seething everywhere, the dynasty was threatened on every hand.  Yet the ever-open eye of the Okhrana was upon everyone, and arrests of innocent persons were still continuing.

That night the salon of the Countess Ignatieff was responsible for much concerning the downfall of the Romanoffs.  In the great luxurious drawing-room there were assembled beneath the huge crystal electroliers a curious, mixed company of the pious and the vicious of the capital.  There was the Metropolitan in his robes and with his great crucifix, Ministers of State in uniforms with decorations, Actual Privy Councillors and their wives, and dozens of underlings in their gaudy tinsel, prelates with crosses at their necks, and women of all classes, from the highest aristocracy to the painted sister of the higher demi-monde.

The gathering was characteristic of Petrograd in those times of Russia’s decadence, when Germany was preparing for war.  The fight with Japan had already been engineered through Kouropatkine as a preliminary to the betrayal and smashing of our Empire.

Of the conflict with the Mikado I have no concern.  My pen is taken up in order to reveal what I know regarding the astounding plots conceived in Potsdam and executed in Petrograd, in order fearlessly to expose those who were traitors to their country, and to whom the debacle of 1917 was due.

In that great well-lit saloon, crowded by religious personages of all kinds, the old Dowager Countess Ignatieff, in stiff black silk, came forward to receive the popular Starets as the newest star in Russia’s religious firmament.  With Stuermer behind him to advise and to plot, aided by an obscure civil servant named Protopopoff ­who afterwards became Minister of the Interior and a spy of Germany ­the “saint” never held himself cheap.  That was one of the secrets of his astounding career.  Though he possessed no education and could scarcely trace his own name, he possessed the most acute brain of any lawyer or banker in Petrograd.  In every sense he was abnormal, just as abnormal as Joan of Arc, Saint Anthony, Saint Francis, or a dozen others who have been beatified.

The rheumatic old countess, after shaking hands with us both, introduced us to a dozen other persons around her.  Suddenly she said: 

“Ah!  Here is my dear friend the Lady-of-the-Court Anna Vyrubova.  Allow me to introduce you, Father.”

The Starets instantly crossed his hands piously over his breast and bowed before a good-looking, sleek-faced woman of forty, who was elegantly dressed, and who greeted him with a humorous smile.  Having heard much of the woman’s scandalous past, I naturally regarded her with considerable curiosity.  She was a woman of destiny.  Petrograd had not long before been agog with the scandal following her marriage with a young naval officer, who had gone to the Baltic, and unexpectedly returning to his wife’s room in the palace at Tsarskoe-Selo, had been shut out by the Empress herself.  The husband had afterwards died in mysterious circumstances, which had been hushed up by the police, and madame had remained as the personal attendant upon Her Majesty with her inseparable friend Zeneide Kamensky.

As I watched the monk’s meeting with this woman of adventure, I saw that he had at once fascinated her, just as completely as he had hypnotised her Imperial mistress.  She stood before him, using her small black fan slowly, for the room was overpoweringly hot, and began to chat, assuring him that she had for a long time been desirous of meeting him.

As I stood beside Rasputin I heard him say, in that humble manner which always attracted society women: 

“And, O Lady, I have heard of thee often.  It is with sincere pleasure that I gaze upon thy face and speak with thee.  It is God’s will ­let Him be thanked for this our meeting.”

The blasphemy of it all appalled me.  I knew of certain deep plots in progress, and I watched the handsome lady-in-waiting, with whom the monk crossed the room, nodding self-consciously to the bishops, prelates, and mock-pious scoundrels of all sorts, with their female victims.  I held my breath in wonder.

As I followed I saw Stuermer, the goat-bearded traitor, standing chatting to a pretty young girl in turquoise blue.  Then I overheard Madame Vyrubova say to the Starets: 

“I came here to-night, Father, especially to meet you.  Her Majesty gave me a message.  She is in despair.  She requires your help, prayers, and advice.”

“Ah! my dear lady, I regret; I am fully alive to the high honours which our Tsaritza has done me to command me to Court.  But my sphere is with the poor.  My life is with them ­for their benefit and guidance.”

“I bear you a message,” said the well-preserved woman of whom a thousand tongues had gossiped evilly in Petrograd.  “To-morrow the Empress expects you informally.  She will take no refusal.”

“Refusal ­how can I refuse my Empress?” he replied.  “I can beg of her to excuse me.  I have to attend a meeting in the lowest quarter of the city to-morrow among those who await me.  And in the evening I go upon a pilgrimage.  Her Majesty will not begrudge the poor my ministrations.  Please tell her this.  My sphere, as designed by God, is with the masses and not in the Imperial Palace.”

That was all I overheard.  Stuermer called me aside to whisper, and as he did so I saw that the Starets had at once become surrounded by women, of whom he always became the centre of attraction, with hands crossed so humbly over his breast.

His refusal to go to Court was in accordance with his extraordinary intuition and acumen, though his meeting with the woman Vyrubova marked another milestone in the history of Russia’s betrayal.

The days passed.  The world was, of course, in ignorance, but we in the Poltavskaya, the monk and myself, knew of the despatch of Admiral Rozhdestvensky’s blundering fleet on its voyage half-way round the world, how he was ordered to fire upon anything he saw in the North Sea, and how, as soon came out, he fired upon some of your British trawlers on the Dogger Bank, for which our Government paid quite willingly sixty-five thousand pounds in compensation.

But let the first war-chapter of Russia’s history pass.  With it Rasputin had but little to do.  The person who, unwilling or not, carried out the will of Potsdam’s Kaiser was the Empress Alexandra.  And having done so she, with her curious nature, suddenly turned from gay to grave.  She became strange in her conduct and discarded her wonderful Paris gowns ­in which, by the way, she was eclipsed by “Liane,” the dark-haired diva of the Paris cafes chantants, in whom Nicholas II. took such a very paternal interest.

Time after time I had been present when Stuermer and Rasputin, chuckling over the undoubted success of their conspiracy, discussed the situation.

Since Her Majesty had met the rascal monk at Tsarskoe-Selo she had never appeared in public.  On certain occasions, when a Court pageant or function had to be held according to custom and the calendar, it was the Emperor’s mother who, with her well-known charm and honesty, received the guests.  Excuses were made for Alexandra Feodorovna’s non-appearance.  The truth was that the Empress, full of spiritualistic beliefs, had suddenly developed a religious mania, centred around the amazing personality of the mock monk.

Thrice had Her Majesty sent him commands through her pro-German puppet Fredericks, and thrice he, at Stuermer’s suggestion, refused to comply.  This illiterate Siberian monk, ex-horse-thief and betrayer of women, actually disregarded the Imperial order!  He had declared himself to be the saviour of Russia, and greater than the Romanoffs.

“The Empress is furious!” declared the Bishop Teofan one day as, with his heavy bejewelled cross upon his breast and wearing clothes of the richest texture, he sat with the rascal in his den.  “Sometimes she is in anger, at others in despair.  Anna Vyrubova is frantic.  Why do you not come to audience?”

“She promised that I should see Nicholas,” was the reply.  “After I have spoken with him I will see her.  It does a woman good to wait.”

“I agree, but your refusal may be stretched too far,” said the Bishop.

“None will tell the truth concerning her,” Rasputin said.  “I hear on one hand that she thinks herself too fat and is taking the ‘Entfettungscur’ against the advice of the Court physician.  Others say that she has eczema and dare not show her face, while others say she is mad.  What is the truth?”

“Come and ascertain for yourself.”

“Her devotion is that of a fanatic ­I take it?”

“Exactly.  She lives only for the entertainment of monks and pilgrims.  You are lucky, my dear Grichka.  Madame Vyrubova was evidently entranced by you at Countess Ignatieff’s.  She will do your bidding.  Only, I beg of you to come to Court.”

The charlatan, however, steadily refused the Bishop’s advice.  Instead, he left Petrograd that night alone, and went away to his wife and sister-disciples at Pokrovsky, in Siberia.

For more than two months he was absent from Petrograd.  One day a frantic message came to me over the telephone from Madame Vyrubova, who inquired the whereabouts of the Starets.

“The Father has gone to his convent at Pokrovsky, Madame,” I replied.

“What!” she gasped.  “Gone to Siberia!  Why, Her Majesty is daily expecting him here at the Palace.  When will he return?”

“I regret, Madame, that I cannot say,” was my reply.  “He has told me nothing.”

“Will you please take a confidential message to Boris Stuermer for me?” she asked.  And when I replied in the affirmative, she went on: 

“Please go at once to him and ask him to come to the Palace this evening without fail.  I am very anxious to see him concerning a highly important matter.  A carriage will meet the train which arrives at seven-thirty.”

I promised to carry out the wishes of the Tsaritza’s favourite lady-in-waiting, and half an hour later called upon Stuermer at his fine house in the Kirotshnaya, where I delivered the message.

During the next few weeks I merely called at the Poltavskaya each morning for the monk’s letters, which I opened and dealt with at my leisure.

His correspondence was truly amazing.  The letters were mostly from wealthy female devotees, missives usually couched in pious language.  Some contained confessions of the most private nature, and asking the Father’s advice and blessing.  All these latter he had given me strict instructions carefully to preserve.  Any letter which contained self-condemnation by its writer, or any confession of sin, was therefore carefully put away, after being duly replied to.  At the time, it did not occur to me that the impostor ever intended to allow them to see the light of day, and, indeed, it was not until several years later that I discovered that he was using them for the purpose of extracting large sums from women who preferred to pay the blackmail he levied rather than have their secrets exposed to their sweet-hearts or husbands.

While Rasputin, having thrown off his cloak of piety, was leading a dissolute life in far-off Pokrovsky, and refusing to obey the Empress’s repeated invitations, the guns of Peter and Paul one day boomed forth salvo after salvo, announcing to the world that the prayer uttered by the Starets before our Lady of Kazan had been granted.

An heir had been born to the Romanoffs!

There was but little public rejoicing, however, for Russia was, at the moment, plunged into grief over the disastrous result of her attack upon Japan.  Nevertheless, the event more than ever impressed upon the neurotic Empress that Grichka was possessed of some mysterious and divine influence.  Her Majesty believed entirely in his saintliness, and her faith in the power of his prayers was complete.  God had granted his prayer and sent an heir to the Romanoffs because of his purity and perfect piety.  Already she was wondering whether, in some mysterious way, the child’s life was not linked with that of the holy Father whom the Almighty had sent to protect her son’s existence.

Because of this the Empress sent to Rasputin, at Pokrovsky, a number of telegrams, which eventually the monk gave over to me to docket and put away with the incriminating letters of his foolish and fascinated admirers.  The women of Russia, from the Empress to the lowly superstitious peasant, were now at the charlatan’s feet.

One telegram from Alexandra Feodorovna read as follows: 

“Father and Protector of our House, why do you refuse to come and give us comfort?  God has given the Romanoffs an heir, and we desire your counsel and your prayers.  Do, I beg of you, return to sustain us with your presence.  When we met our conversation remained unfinished.  I confess that I doubted then, but I now believe.  Make haste and come at once to us.  From your sister ­ALEXANDRA.”

Of this appeal the Starets took no notice.  He preferred the society of his sister-disciples at Pokrovsky to that of the Tsaritza.  Besides, was it not part of his clever plan to place the Empress beneath his influence by bringing her to the brink of despair?  He had not yet met Nicholas II., and it was his intention to place his amazing and mysterious grip upon him also at the crucial moment.  So again the Empress sent him a communication ­a letter written in her own hand, and delivered by one of the Imperial couriers.

“Why do you still hesitate?” she asked.  “I sent you word by Anna [Madame Vyrubova] that I desired eagerly to see you again.  Your good works are to-day in everyone’s mouth.  All at Court are speaking of you and your beautiful soul-inspiring religion, of which I am anxious to know more details from your own lips.  It is too cruel of you to sever yourself from Petrograd when all are longing for your presence.  What can I do in order to induce you to come?  Ask of me anything, and your wish shall be granted.  Do reply. ­ALEXANDRA.”

Again he treated her invitation with contempt, for following this, ten days later, she sent him another telegram: 

“If you still refuse to come I will send Anna to you to try and induce you to reconsider the situation.  Nicholas is extremely anxious to consult you.  Father, I again implore you to come to us. ­A.”

Rasputin, who had created such a favourable impression upon the lady-in-waiting Vyrubova, certainly had no intention of allowing her to go to Pokrovsky and see the sordid home which Russia believed to be a wonderful “monastery,” and to which Petrograd society had subscribed so freely.  He therefore sent Her Majesty a message ­the first response she extracted ­to the effect that he was leaving for Petrograd as soon as it was possible to fulfil his Divine “call.”

In the meantime I had been introduced by Boris Stuermer, whom I met almost daily, to Stolypin, a friend of Rasputin’s principal disciple in Petrograd, Madame Golovine, and to Monsieur Raeff, who afterwards, by Rasputin’s influence, received the appointment of Procurator of the Holy Synod.  At Stuermer’s fine house there were, in the absence of the Starets, constant meetings of Raeff, General Kurloff, the Chief of the Political Police, and a beetle-browed official named Kschessinski, who was director of that secret department of State known as “the Black Cabinet,” a suite of rooms in the central postal bureau in Petrograd, where one’s correspondence was daily under examination for the benefit of the corrupt Ministers and their place-seeking underlings.  In addition, at these dinners, followed by the secret conferences, there attended a certain smart, well-set-up officer named Miassoyedeff, a colonel stationed at Wirballen on the East Prussia frontier, and who had received gracious invitations from the Kaiser to go shooting and to hob-nob with him.  This man afterwards became a spy of Germany, as I will later on reveal.

Kurloff, as head of the Political Police, had, before my appointment as secretary to the Starets, been my superior, and therefore I well knew the wheels within the wheels of his department.  Naturally he was hand-in-glove with the director of the Black Cabinet, the doings of which would require a whole volume to themselves, and to me it was evident that some further great and deep laid plot was in progress, of which Rasputin was to be the head director.

One day in the Nevski I met Mitia the Blessed, the Starets who ran Rasputin so closely in the public favour.  I saw he was hopelessly intoxicated, and was being followed by a crowd of jeering urchins.  I did not, however, know that Stuermer and his friends had arranged this disgraceful exhibition of unholiness in order to discredit and destroy Grichka’s rival.  Five minutes later I met the Bishop Theophanus walking with the Procurator of the Holy Synod, who, like myself, witnessed the degrading sight, and from that moment Mitia the Blessed no longer exercised power, and was not further invited to the salons of those mystical members of the aristocracy.  He had been swept into oblivion in a single day.

Rasputin at last returned, forced to do so by the determined attitude of the Empress, who without doubt was suffering from serious religious mania, as well as an acute form of neurotic heart disease.  The monk arrived quite unexpectedly at the Poltavskaya, and rang me up on the telephone late one evening.

The Bishop Theophanus was, I found, with him.  He knew of his arrival, and had come from Peterhof to meet him and urge him to go next day and see the Empress.

“If it is thy wish, I will,” replied the “saint” with some reluctance, for he knew too well that already he wielded an unbounded influence over the Tsaritza.  The fellow whose record was the worst imaginable, and whose very nickname, “Rasputin,” meant in Russian “the dissolute,” was regarded by the Empress as possessed of divine power, and as saviour of Russia and protector of the Imperial family and its heir.

“I hear that Alexis, Bishop of Kazan, has turned your enemy, and has written to the Holy Synod regarding your questionable monastery at Pokrovsky,” remarked Theophanus.  “It is very regrettable.”

“Bah! my dear friend.  I have no fear,” declared the man whose vanity was so overweening.  “Soon you will see that Nicholas himself will do my bidding.  I shall play the tune, and he will dance.  All appointments will, ere long, be in my hands, and I will place one of our friends as Procurator of the Holy Synod.”

At the moment I was inclined to laugh at such bombastic assertion.  Little, indeed, did I dream that within twelve months his prophecy would be fulfilled, and that the ex-horse-stealer, whose secretary I had become, would actually rule Russia through the lethargic weakling who sat upon the throne as Tsar Nicholas II.

A week later I accompanied the Starets to have his first audience with His Majesty the Emperor at the Palace of Peterhof, that wonderful Imperial residence where the great Samson Fountain in gilded bronze throws up from the lion’s jaws a thick jet seventy feet high, in imitation of Versailles, and where nearly six hundred servants were employed in various capacities.  We passed the Marly Pond, where the carp were called by the ringing of a bell, and the Marly Cascade, where water runs over twenty gilded marble steps.  Truly, the beauties of Peterhof were a revelation to the Starets and myself.  On the previous day he had had audience of the Empress at Tsarskoe-Selo, but I had not been present, therefore I remained in ignorance of what had transpired.  All I know is that he returned home and drank a whole bottle of champagne to himself, in full satisfaction ­not that he cared for the wine, for his peasant taste favoured the fiery vodka.

On entering Peterhof we were met by the valet Tchernoff, who greeted Rasputin very warmly with some meaning words, and said: 

“His Majesty is in his private cabinet expecting you.  Come.”

Another valet took our hats and overcoats, and then Tchernoff led us up a great flight of marble stairs, and on through nearly a dozen panelled rooms with historic portraits, much like those I had once passed through at Fontainebleau, until he entered the blue drawing-room, a great, old-fashioned, eighteenth-century apartment adorned by a number of magnificent pictures by Saltzmann.

Your British public have never truly realised the gorgeousness of the Palace at Peterhof, or the fact that in the Imperial service at the various residences there were no fewer than four thousand domestics, most of them useless and all uniformed.  The “Arabys,” imported especially from Abyssinia, and who wore fantastically embroidered blue and gold uniforms with a great crimson sash, and a kind of turban upon their heads, were simply well-paid puppets, who added pomp to the gorgeous salons, the doors of which they guarded.

As we passed through the great rooms on our way to the Tsar’s private cabinet, a hundred servants and officials bowed to us, but Rasputin remained quite unimpressed.  He was possessed of a most astounding intuition, and he knew that by his mystical practices, his mock piety, and by apparently ignoring the Imperial pair that success was assured.

At last we stood before the door of the autocrat’s room, which Tchernoff threw open unceremoniously, when we were confronted by His Majesty, who wore a rough tweed shooting-suit, presenting anything but an Imperial figure.  I had expected to see him in uniform, like the thousand and one pictures which purport to represent him, instead of which I found a very ordinary-looking, bearded man, with deep-set eyes, a wan countenance, and rather lank hair.  He was square-built, a trifle below the medium height, and a man whom, had you passed him in the Nevski, you might have taken for a Jew tailor or a small tradesman.  But the room itself was a beautiful one, like all the apartments in Peterhof, semicircular in shape, with a great bay window looking out upon the wonderful fountains, all of which were throwing up their jets, with a great vista of greenery beyond.

The Tsar bowed as the Starets, crossing himself, bestowed his blessing upon him.  The owner of twenty palaces and seven hundred million acres of land turned his eyes to the carpet humbly as the mock saint uttered those words of incomprehensible jargon which half Russia believed to be inspired by the Divine will.

When Rasputin spoke His Majesty seemed cowed and thoughtful.  Over his whole frame was written fear and exhaustion.  His voice was hollow when he replied, and his glance was full of anticipation.  At every gesture of the Starets he seemed startled.

Was it any wonder when one recollected, so many were the plots against the dynasty, that at the moment he had removed from Tsarskoe-Selo, where a gang of a thousand men were engaged in digging deep trenches around the palace because the Okhrana had got wind of a desperate plot to tunnel beneath the Imperial residence and blow it up together with its Imperial occupiers.

His Majesty addressed the Starets as “thee” and “thou.”

“I know, Father, that thou art our guide and saviour,” said the autocrat, when together we were seated in the window, Rasputin explaining that he always took me with him in order that I might take mental notes of conversations and decisions.

“Feodor is mute,” he added.  “And he is part of myself.”

Then His Majesty referred to Rasputin’s “miracles” which he had performed in Warsaw, Kiev, and other places, mere conjuring tricks which had held the peasants speechless in amazement.

“Theophanus has told us of them.  Thou hast healed the sick and cured the lame,” said His Majesty.  “Truly, thou art greater in Russia than myself.”

“Pardon, your Majesty,” replied the impostor humbly, “I am but God’s messenger, but thou art Tsar.  It is not for me to exert authority, only to pray unceasingly for the Empire and for the well-being of its Imperial House.  Theophanus hath, I hope, told thee that I seek no emoluments, no advancement, no favour, no honour; I am but the humble Starets ­a pilgrim who hopes one day to see Mount Athos, there to retire in devotion.”

“Theophanus has told me much,” said the Emperor.  “He has told me how at spiritualistic séances thou canst work thy will with our departed, and how at the house of our dear Stuermer not long ago thou didst obtain communication with the spirit of my dear father Alexander.  Truly, thy powers are great, and we have need of thee.  Why didst thou refuse to come to us even though the Empress sent thee so many commands?”

“Because, as I have replied to Her Majesty, I am no courtier.  My work lies in the homes of the poor, not in the palaces.”

“Ah, no,” laughed the autocrat with good humour.  “Thou art truly sent to us to save Russia.  Thy place is here, in our own home.”

I drew a long breath when I heard the Tsar pronounce those words, for they showed quite plainly the strong, invincible grip the impostor had, by posing with unconcern, already obtained upon the Imperial family and the Court.

The Starets crossed himself, and again bowed.  I was amazed to witness the crass ignorance and astounding superstition displayed by the Emperor of Russia, whom all Europe believed to be a progressive, wideawake monarch.  That he possessed a spiritualistic kink, as did also his German wife, was quite apparent.  Any bogus medium or charlatan could easily impose upon him.  A dozen men and women who, by their vagaries and pretended powers, had brought psychic studies into ridicule, had given séances before the Emperor, and had told him things which his crafty entourage had already paid them to “reveal.”

On the night of the declaration of war with Japan, Kouropatkine brought to Peterhof the French medium Jules Verrier, who received a handsome fee for pretending to get into touch with the spirit of Peter the Great, who declared that Russia, in declaring war, had carried out his wishes.  And Nicholas was at once in high glee, and mightily enthusiastic to know that his historic ancestor approved of his action.

The Imperial Court was full of frauds, traitors, and sycophants.  In all of them Nicholas had the fullest confidence, while his wife was possessed of certain knowledge which sometimes caused her to discriminate.

The commonplace-looking man in tweeds, who was the entire reverse of one’s idea of an Emperor, grew confidential, and it was plain that he was quite as much impressed by Grichka as the Empress had been, for throughout the audience the monk had used to the full his inexplicable hypnotic power.

“Our good Theophanus and Helidor favour us with their counsel, but, Father, thou hast our most complete confidence.  I beg of thee to grant the Empress another interview to-morrow, for she is daily longing for counsel from thee.  I will fix the audience.  So, as our friend, please keep the appointment.  But before we part I wish to grant to thee any request that thou mayest desire ­any appointment or advancement of any friend.  Speak, and thy wish shall be at once granted.”

The monk reflected.  It was, indeed, the moment of his first triumph.

“I have a young and extremely able friend named Protopopoff in the Ministry of the Interior,” he replied.  “He is a loyal son of Russia, and a pious believer.  Cannot he be advanced?”

“He shall be.  I will make a note of the name,” and turning to his desk, he scribbled it upon the blotting-pad with a stubby pencil, repeating the words: 

“Protopopoff ­in the Ministry of the Interior.”

And such was the manner in which the man who was the most audacious spy that Germany employed in Russia was placed in the path of advancement, subsequently in 1915 becoming Minister in his own Department, and betraying his country for German gold.

Truly, the Potsdam plot was rapidly maturing, and its amazing ramifications I intend to disclose.