ing again from
Lieutenant Alexander Patoff, and he meditated upon the letter he had
promised to write to the missing man's mother. He was shocked at the
accident, and he felt a real sympathy for Paul, besides the
responsibility for the safety of Russian subjects in Turkey, which in
some measure rested with him.

As for Paul, he paced his room for an hour after he had left his chief,
and then at last he fell upon the divan, faint with bodily fatigue and
exhausted by mental anxiety. He slept a troubled sleep for some hours,
and did not leave his apartments again that day.

The view of the situation presented to him by Count Ananoff had stunned
him almost beyond the power of thought, and when he tried to think his
reflections only confirmed his fears. He saw himself branded as a
murderer, though the deed could not be proved, and he knew how such an
accusation, once put upon a man, will cling to him in spite of the lack
of evidence. He realized with awful force the meaning of the question,
"Where is your brother?" and he understood how easily such a question
would suggest itself to the minds of those who knew his position. That
question which was put to the first murderer, and which will be put to
the last, has been asked many times of innocent men, and the mere fact
that they could find no ready answer has sufficed to send them to their
death. Why should it not be the same with him? Until he could show them
his brother, they would have a right to ask, and they would ask,
rejoicing in the pain inflicted. Paul cursed the day when Alexander had
come to visit him, and he had received him with a show of satisfaction.
Had he been more honest in showing his dislike, the poor fellow would
perhaps have gone angrily away, but he would not have been lost in the
night in the labyrinths of Stamboul. And then again Paul repented
bitterly of the hard words he had spoken, and, working himself into a
fever of unreasonable remorse, walked the floor of his room as a wild
beast tramps in its cage.

The night was interminable, though there were only six hours of
darkness; but when the morning rose the light was more intolerable
still, and Paul felt as though he must go mad from inaction. He dressed
hastily, and went out into the cool dawn to wait for the first boat to
Pera. Even the early shadows on the water reminded him of yesterday,
when he had crossed Galata bridge on foot, still feeling some hope. He
closed his eyes as he leaned upon t