anywhere in Europe, just as you please. I feel
like an automaton! You will be winding up my Stradivarius next with a
key. Now go, or I won't stir a step!"

The Manager took up his gloves and cane; he seemed uneasy. "You swear
you will start to-night, Velasco?"

"Be off!"

"By the night train? I shall meet you at the station."

"Very well. Good-bye."

"The Night Express?"

The Musician closed his eyes and nodded. "You cackle like an old
woman, Galitsin; you would talk a cricket dumb. Send me up Bobo, if
you see him, will you?--Good-bye."

Galitsin took out his watch. "In three hours then," he said, "Au
revoir! You have plenty of time to pack. Eleven thirty, Velasco."

The door closed behind the short, thick-set figure with the crisp,
curling hair, and the Musician waited in his chair. Presently the door
opened again.

"Is that you, Bobo,--eh? Come in. I sent for you. Didn't you tell me
your wife was ill?"

"Yes, Barin."

"You would like to go to her to-night?--Well, go. I shan't need you.
Don't jabber, you make my head spin. Go at once and stay until
morning; leave the cigarettes on the tray and the wine on the
table--that is all. Just take yourself off and quietly."

After a moment or two the door closed, and the sound of footsteps,
scuffling in list slippers, died slowly away in the corridor. Velasco
leaned forward with his head in his hands, his bloodshot eyes staring
into the coals.

"He may be one of them," he murmured, "or he may not. You can't trust
people. He is better out of the way."

The haggard look had deepened on his face; then he rose suddenly from
his chair and went into the next room, dropping the curtain behind him.
There were sounds in the room as of the pulling out of drawers, the
creaking of keys in a rusty lock, steps hurrying from one spot to
another, the fall of a heavy boot. Then presently the curtain was
drawn aside and he reappeared.

No, it was not Velasco; it was some one else, a gypsey in a rakish
costume. The mane of black hair was clipped close to his head; he wore
a scarf about his waist, a shabby jacket of velveteen on his back; his
trousers were short to the knees, old and spotted; his boots were worn
at the heel and patched. It wasn't Velasco--it was a gypsey, a
tattered, beggarly ragamuffin, with dark, brooding eyes and a laugh on
his lips, a laugh that was like a twist of the muscles.

He crossed the room stealthily on his tiptoes, glanc