THE death of Jonathan Graham was no longer a matter of front-page interest; but it was still a subject of
discussion at the Cobalt Club. The importer had been a prominent member of that social organization.
The Cobalt Club was reputed to be the most exclusive in New York.
To-night, a small group of members were seated in the luxurious lounge, and their conversation dealt with
Jonathan Graham. While they were talking, a young man entered, attired in evening clothes. He nodded
to various persons in the group, but took no part in the discussion.
After a short while the group dwindled away, until only a single individual remained. He was a tall,
gray-haired man, whose face was firm and dignified. Not the slightest semblance of a smile appeared
upon his features.
The young man in evening clothes was still there. He was seated a short distance away, and now his eyes
fell upon the one man who remained.
'Unfortunate,' observed the young man. 'This death of Jonathan was most unfortunate. I knew him rather
well. Splendid chap, Graham.'
The gray-haired man nodded.
'I seldom come here to the club,' he said, 'although I have made rather frequent visits during the past few
weeks. I had only a speaking acquaintance with Graham. He must have been highly esteemed.'
'He was quite popular,' replied the young man.
'I believe I have met you once or twice before,' observed the gray-haired man. 'Your name is Cranston,
is it not?'
'Lamont Cranston,' replied the other. 'I have been away from town for several months; but I have seen
you before that. I must confess, however, that your name has slipped my memory.'
'I am Richard Albion.'
'Oh, yes. Now I recollect. We once discussed Russia. Rather briefly, however. You told me that you
had lived there, prior to the War.'
Richard Albion became thoughtful.
'I have deep remembrances of Russia,' he said. 'Many of my friends belonged to the old regime. I have
done much to aid them since the revolution. Some of them have come to America.
'It is a sad sight—persons of high station who have become virtually destitute through events over which
they had no control.'
'Some have not been so unfortunate,' observed Lamont Cranston quietly.
'I know of none,' replied Albion. 'Sometimes the past seems wholly obliterated from my mind. I wish
that I could forget the present—and let my thoughts revert to days gone by.'
'That is not difficult,' said Lamont Cranston. 'Through concentration we can forget the present. I have
done so, often.'
'I should like to know your method.'
LAMONT CRANSTON drew his left hand from behind the arm of the chair in which he was sitting. He
extended his arm toward his companion.
Albion noted the long, white, tapering fingers, and his eyes were immediately attracted to a large gem,
mounted on a heavy ring.
'An unusual stone,' he said.
'Yes,' answered Cranston. 'It is a girasol, or fire opal. Look at it in the light. Do you see its deep red
light, glowing like the embers of a fire?'
'I do,' replied Albion. He was staring at the fire opal, as though suddenly fascinated by it.
'Focus your gaze upon it,' suggested Cranston quietly. 'Concentrate. Center your mind upon its reddish
light. It produces a strange mental reaction. It brings back lost memories -'
Richard Albion's hands were twitching slightly. He seemed unconscious of their movement. He seemed
lost in deep thought, as though the sight of the strange gem had awakened a great interest in his brain.
Lamont Cranston spoke slowly as he watched his companion.
'Perhaps you will recall some one who lived in Russia,' he said. 'A man who had great wealth—who still
retains much of it. Perhaps his name will come to you. Does it?'
'No,' answered Albion, his eyes still upon the fire opal.
'The name is in my mind,' said Cranston. 'It will be in yours, if you watch the gem. Listen. I shall reveal
it.'
As he ended the sentence, Cranston pressed his fingers tightly together. The fire opal sprang back upon a
hinge.
Beneath it, in the base of the ring, was a gold surface, upon which was engraved a seven-pointed star.
'Prince Zuvor!' whispered Lamont Cranston.
RICHARD ALBION uttered a low exclamation. He gripped the arms of his chair, and, half rising, he
cast a startled look at the man before him.
Then his eyes reverted to the ring on Lamont Cranston's hand. The fire opal had dropped back into
place. The red gem now glowed where the seven-pointed star had been.
'Do you recognize the name?' questioned Lamont Cranston, with a slight smile.
Richard Albion stared fixedly.
'Prince Zuvor,' he murmured. 'I have heard of Prince Zuvor.'
'You are Prince Zuvor.'
The gray-haired man did not reply. His eyes met those of Lamont Cranston. For a few seconds the two
men studied each other intently. Then Albion nodded slowly.
'I am Prince Zuvor,' he admitted. His voice was almost inaudible. 'Yet few men know my identity. How
you discovered it is a mystery.
'Yet you possess the signet of the Seventh Star. That is a sign which I must acknowledge.'
Reaching in his pocket, Prince Zuvor brought forth a small gold coin. Pressing it between his hands, he
made a twisting motion. The coin came apart. Prince Zuvor revealed one portion in the hollow of his
hand.
Engraved within the hollowed coin was a seven-pointed star, identical with the device that lay hidden
beneath Cranston's fire opal.
'The Seventh Star,' said Zuvor, looking intently at Cranston, 'is an order of the old regime. It belongs to
the years before the revolution. But you are so young -'
'My age,' replied Cranston, with a slight smile, 'is deceiving. Like you, prince, I have memories of
Russia—as it was.'
He placed his right hand against the bosom of his shirt. His fingers were apart. He closed his hand and
extended two fingers.
His quick motion denoted the number seven. The action was observed by Zuvor. The man who called
himself Richard Albion responded with the same sign.
Lamont Cranston uttered three words in Russian. Zuvor replied. Then in English, Cranston said:
'The stars are bright to-night.'
'The brightest stars are the planets,' replied Zuvor, in a low voice.
'And they are seven,' whispered Cranston.
'The seven which shall rule,' answered Zuvor.
The two men had exchanged the pass words of the Seventh Star—the secret order of Royalist Russia,
