e went up to
Semyonov and took his hand and said, 'I'm so glad you're coming, Uncle
Alexei,' and looked at Vera. Oh! they're all as queer as they can be, I
tell you!"

"What happened next?" I asked eagerly.

"Everything's happened and nothing's happened," he replied. "Nina's run
away. Of course you know that. What she did it for I can't imagine.
Fancy going to a fellow like Grogoff! Lawrence has been coming every day
and just sitting there, not saying anything. Semyonov's amiable to
everybody--especially amiable to Markovitch. But he's laughing at him
all the time I think. Anyway he makes him mad sometimes, so that I think
Markovitch is going to strike him. But of course he never does.... Now
here's a funny thing. This is really what I want to ask you most about."

He drew his chair closer to my bed and dropped his voice as though he
were going to whisper a secret to me.

"The other night I was awake--about two in the morning it was--and
wanted a book--so I went into the dining-room. I'd only got bedroom
slippers on and I was stopped at the door by a sound. It was Semyonov
sitting over by the further window, in his shirt and trousers, his beard
in his hands, and sobbing as though his heart would break. I'd never
heard a man cry like that. I hate hearing a man cry anyway. I've heard
fellers at the Front when they're off their heads or something... but
Semyonov was worse than that. It was a strong man crying, with all his
wits about him.... Then I heard some words. He kept repeating again and
again. 'Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear!... Wait for me!... Wait for me!
Wait for me!...' over and over again--awful! I crept back to my room
frightened out of my life. I've never known anything so awful. And
Semyonov of all people!

"It was like that man in _Wuthering Heights_. What's his name?
Heathcliffe! I always thought that was a bit of an exaggeration when he
dashed his head against a tree and all that. But, by Jove, you never
know!... Now, Durward, you've got to tell me. You've known Semyonov for
years. You can explain. What's it all about, and what's he trying to do
to Markovitch?"

"I can scarcely think what to tell you," I said at last. "I don't really
know much about Semyonov, and my guesses will probably strike you as
insane."

"No, they won't," said Bohun. "I've learnt a bit lately."

"Semyonov," I said, "is a deep-dyed sensualist. All his life he's
thought about nothing but gratifying his appetites. That's simp