up
at the Manager through his bloodshot eyes. They were heavy and weary,
he could scarcely keep them open; his fingers strummed against the arm
of the chair and he began to whistle to himself softly, a quaint little
Polish air like a folk-song. Galitsin shook his head frowning:

"You are a perfect child, Velasco, when this mood gets hold of you.
There is no doing anything with you. Very well then, I wash my hands
of the whole business. Answer your own letters and satisfy the agents,
if you can. Tell them you are ill, dying, dead--anything you please."

"Bah!" said Velasco, "Don't answer them at all." He shut his eyes.

The Manager gave a hasty glance about the Studio and then he bent his
head to the chair, whispering:

"You have acted badly enough before, heaven knows, but never like this.
It is not the composing. Where is the score?--Not a note!" He
breathed a few words in Velasco's ear and the Musician started up.

"How did you know; who told you? The devil take you, Galitsin!"

The Manager smiled, running his hands through his short, crisp curls.
"Everyone knows; all St. Petersburg is talking about it. When a man of
your fame, Velasco, insists on befriending a Countess, and one who is
the daughter of Mezkarpin, and an anarchist to boot--"

He spread out his hands: "Ah, she is beautiful, I know. I saw her at
the Mariinski. She stared at you as if she were bewitched. You had
every excuse; but get down on your knees, Velasco, and give thanks. It
is no fault of yours that you are not tramping through the snow to
Siberia now, just as she is. A lesser man, one whose career was less
marked! By heaven, Velasco, what is it?--You are choking me!"

"Say it again!" cried the Musician, "You know where she is? Tell me!
By God, will you tell me, or not?--I'll force it out of you!"

"Let go of my throat!" gasped the Manager. "Sit down, Velasco! Don't
be so excitable, so violent! No wonder you play with such passion; but
I am not a violin, if you please. Take your hands off my throat and
sit down."

"Where is she?"

Galitsin straightened his collar and necktie before the mirror of the
mantel-piece. "What is the matter with you, Velasco? Any one would
suppose you were in love with her! Better not; she is doomed--she is
practically dead."

"Dead!"

"Don't fly up like that!--Sit down! I saw the Chief of Police
yesterday, and he gave me some advice to hand on to you."

"Is she dead, Galitsin?"