more was in Alban's head while he tossed restlessly
upon his strange bed and waited impatiently for the day. The oddest
fancies came to him, the most fantastic ideas. Now he would be living in
London again, a drudge at the works, the nightly companion of little
Lois, the adventurer of the streets and the slums. Then, as readily, he
would recall the most trifling incidents of his life in Richard
Gessner's house, the days of the miracles, the wonderful hours when he
had worshipped Anna Gessner and believed almost in her divinity. This
had been a false faith, surely. He knew now that he would never marry
Anna, and that must mean return to the wilderness, the bitter days of
poverty and all the old-time strife with circumstance. It would have
been easier, he thought, if those weeks of wonderland had never been.
Richard Gessner had done him no service--rich men rarely help those whom
they patronize for their own ends.

Alban thought of all this, and still being unable to sleep, he fell to
numbering the hours which stood between him and his meeting with Lois.
He was sure that she would be ready for him however early his visit
might be--and he said that he would ring for his coffee at seven o'clock
and try to go down to the river at eight. If there were no message from
Mr. Gessner before he left, he thought it would be wise to counsel
patience for this day at least. In plain truth he was less concerned
about the diplomatic side of the affair than the personal. An
overmastering desire for Lois' companionship, the wish to hear her
voice, to speak to her, to talk as they had talked in the dark days of
long ago, prevailed above the calm reckoning of yesterday. His
resolution to defeat Count Sergius at his own game seemed less heroic
than it had done twelve hours ago. Alban had conceit enough not to fear
the Count. That incurable faith in British citizenship still upheld him.

Seven had been the hour named by his intention--it was a little after
six o'clock when he heard a knock upon his bedroom door and started up
wondering who called him at such an hour.

"Who is there, what do you want?" he cried, with the bedclothes still
about his shoulders. No one answered this, but the knock was repeated, a
decisive knock as of one who meant to win admittance.

"All right, I will come in a minute," was now his answer; to which he
added the question--"Is that you, Count? Do you know it's only just six
o'clock?"

He opened the door and fou