which had numbered among its members only the most trusted nobles of the czarist regime.
Yet, despite Lamont Cranston's prompt responses, Prince Zuvor still eyed him with a remnant of doubt.
'Your age may be deceiving,' he said. 'Yet you are not a Russian.'
'I was in Russia during the first months of the War,' replied Cranston. 'As the agent of another
government, I became a member of the Seventh Star.'
'Ah! Now I understand. You were one of the chosen few.'
Lamont Cranston nodded.
PRINCE ZUVOR glanced anxiously about the room. He and Cranston were alone, isolated in the
spacious lounge of the Cobalt Club. Here they could not be overheard.
'We are not in Russia,' he said softly. 'Yet there are dangers even here. You, I hope, have not
experienced them. But I am watched. There are Red agents in New York.'
Lamont Cranston nodded.
'Yet they are slow to strike,' continued Zuvor. 'They hold no menace—to those who are careful. Still,
we must not underestimate their power. They can kill.'
'The case of Jonathan Graham stands as evidence of that,' replied Lamont Cranston.
An expression of amazement came over Prince Zuvor's face. Then his eyes narrowed for an instant. He
looked at Cranston sharply.
'You believe that?' he questioned.
'I do?'
'Why?'
'Graham was a millionaire. A capitalist.'
Prince Zuvor indulged in a depreciating smile.
'There are many such in New York,' he said.
'Graham was an importer,' said Cranston. 'He may have had dealings with Soviet agents.'
'Perhaps;' Zuvor was still doubtful.
'Then again,' suggested Cranston, 'he may have had some private dealings, of which we do not know.'
'Have you any evidence of such dealings?' questioned Zuvor.
'No,' replied Cranston. 'It is merely conjecture. I have long suspected that Red agents are at work in
New York. They are subtle in their methods.'
'Extremely subtle,' agreed Zuvor, 'but their activities are confined to narrow quarters. I, for instance, am
under constant observation. It is not safe for any friend to visit me.'
'Indeed.' Cranston's tone denoted interest. 'That intrigues me. I should like to visit you.'
Prince Zuvor smiled in unfeigned admiration.
'You would be quite welcome,' he said. He handed Cranston a card, bearing the name and address of
Richard Albion. 'But I warn you. If you come openly to my home, and leave openly, you will be a
marked man from then on.'
'They watch you that closely?'
'They do. But I can thwart them.'
'How?'
'My house is one of mystery,' explained Prince Zuvor. 'One may be seen going in—yet not seen,
leaving.
'Not long ago'—he became reminiscent—'I had a visitor. He was the faithful servant of—of a Russian
prince who is now dead. This man was under observation. He could not leave New York, because of
the Red agents who were watching him. I enabled him to escape.'
'How?'
'By one of my secret methods. I have several. I could leave New York to-night if I chose. But -'
Prince Zuvor frowned and made a motion with his hands. He had evidently decided that he had said
enough. He glanced at his watch, and rose from his chair.
'I have many enemies,' he said quietly. 'But few friends, here in America. Most of them are dependent
upon me. I am glad to know that you are one of us.
'Can I depend upon you, in time of stress?'
'You can,' replied Cranston.
'Very well,' remarked Zuvor. 'I shall communicate with you here, when I need your assistance. We are
of the old regime. I know that you are my friend.'
'I shall visit you, some time.'
'It will involve a risk.'
'I enjoy risks.'
Prince Zuvor bowed. Lamont Cranston rose and shook hands with him in parting. The Russian left the
Cobalt Club.
Cranston was watching through the window, as the man who called himself Richard Albion drove away
in a cab. The vehicle had not gone a hundred yards before a sedan pulled away from the opposite curb
and followed.
Lamont Cranston took a chair in the corner of the lounge. He drew a pen from his pocket, laid a sheet of
paper upon a magazine, and wrote:
Richard Albion is Prince Zuvor. He is being watched. Those who enter his home are watched. X can be
traced through those who watch. This is another way of reaching X.
As Lamont Cranston reread the words which he had inscribed, the writing slowly faded away. The young
man in evening dress smiled as he crumpled the paper and tossed it in a wastebasket.
CHAPTER XIII. THE RED MEETING
PROKOP was seated at the desk in his apartment. He was busily engaged in writing. A clock on the
desk showed half past ten. Prokop went to the bookcase and removed the encyclopedia which he used
to conceal his important papers.
He removed a few documents. Then he looked puzzled. An envelope lay among them—an envelope
which was addressed to him in bright-red ink. The color of the writing carried significance.
Prokop opened the envelope. He had not placed it there himself. He could not imagine how it had come
among his papers.
The letter was also in red ink; its characters had been carefully printed, and its words were short in their
explanation:
You will not find this letter until just before the meeting. I have just been to see Berger. He will commit
suicide. He was about to betray us. Watch Harry Vincent, who lives at the Hotel Metrolite. He is an
enemy.
A strange, cryptic sign appeared at the bottom of the note. Prokop knew that it had come from the Red
Envoy. That mysterious individual had come unknown to the apartment, last night and had left this
message.
Prokop added it to the papers which he had just written. He thrust the entire lot into his pocket, and
donned an overcoat. Then he left the apartment.
After walking several blocks, Prokop hailed a taxicab. It took him to a corner near an elevated station.
He took the 'L,' and rode a few stops onward.
Reaching the street, he again utilized a cab for a distance of half a mile. He left it at the corner of a side
street. After the vehicle had driven on, Prokop looked about him.
Then, sure that he was not being observed, he went down the street, and turned suddenly along a walk
that led between two warehouses. He reached the back of an old house, and entered a basement door.
Moving through the darkness, the man arrived in a small room. There he lighted an oil lamp. The cellar
room was windowless.
