eeling that I wanted to kick him. He apologized profusely, and
then made me wince again by referring to the miniature, with more
apologies for looking at it, when he thought it necessary to take
possession of it.

"But we know the so-amiable Fraulein and Herr Pendennis so well; they
have often stayed here," he explained. "And it is such a marvellous
likeness; painted quite recently too, since the illness from which the
Fraulein has so happily recovered!"

I muttered something vague, and managed to get rid of him on the plea
that I felt too bad to talk any more, which drew fresh apologies; but
when he had gone I examined the miniature more closely than I'd had an
opportunity of doing since Loris gave it me.

It was not recently painted, I was quite sure of that, and yet it
certainly did show her as I had known her during these last few weeks,
before death printed that terrible change on her face,--and not as she
was in London. But that must be my imagination; the artist had caught
her expression at a moment when she was grave and sad; no, not exactly
sad, for the lips and eyes were smiling,--a faint, wistful, inscrutable
smile like the smile of the Sphinx, as it gazes across the
desert--across the world, into space, and eternity.

As I gazed on the brave sweet face, the sordid misery that had enveloped
my soul ever since that awful moment when I saw her dead body borne
past, in the square, was lifted; and I knew that the last poignant agony
was the end of a long path of thorns that she had trodden unflinchingly,
with royal courage and endurance for weary months and years; that she
was at peace, purified by her love, by her suffering, from all taint of
earth.

"Dumb lies the world; the wild-yelling world with all its madness is
behind thee!"

* * * * *

I started for England next evening, and travelled right through. I sent
one wire to Jim from Berlin and another from Flushing,--where I found a
reply from him waiting me. "All well, meeting you."

That "all well" reassured me, for now that I had leisure to think, my
conscience told me how badly I'd treated him and Mary. It's true that
before I started from London with Mishka I wrote saying that I was off
on secret service and they must not expect to hear from me for a time,
but I should be all right. That was to smooth Mary down, for I knew what
she was,--dear little soul,--and I didn't want her to be fretting about
me. If she once