solution. He must
now carry it out.

He got up slowly from his chair, and with the movement the mist seemed
to gather itself together in the room and to disappear. It passed away,
evaporating among the pictures and ornaments, the prayer-rugs and
divans. A clearness and an insight came to Sergius. He stood still by
the piano, on which he rested one hand lightly, and listened. The
rain-drops pattered close by. Beyond them rose the dull music of the
evening traffic of New Bond Street, in which thoroughfare he lived. As
he stood thus at attention, his young and handsome face seemed carved in
stone. His lips were set in a hard and straight line. His dark-grey eyes
stared, like eyes in a photograph. The muscles of his long-fingered
hands were tense and knotted. He was in evening dress, and had been
engaged to dine in Curzon Street; but he had written a hasty note to say
he was ill and could not come. Another appointment claimed him. He had
made it for himself.

Presently, lifting his hand from the piano, he took up a small leather
case from a table that stood near, opened it, and drew out a revolver.
He examined it carefully. Two chambers were loaded. They would be
enough. He put on his long overcoat, and slipped the revolver into his
left breast pocket. His heart could beat against it there.

Each time his heart pulsed, Sergius seemed to hear the silence of
another heart.

And now, though his mind was quite clear, and the mists and shadows had
slunk away, his familiar room looked very peculiar to him. The very
chair in which he generally sat wore the aspect of a stranger. Was the
wall paper really blue? Sergius went close up to it and examined it
narrowly, and then he drew back and laughed softly, like a child. In the
sound of his laugh irresponsibility chimed. "What is the cab fare to
Phillimore Place, Kensington?" he thought, searching in his waistcoat
pocket. "Half a crown?" He put the coin carefully in the ticket pocket
of his overcoat, buttoned the coat up slowly, took his hat and stick,
and drew on a pair of lavender gloves. Just then a new thought seemed to
strike him and he glanced down at his hands.

"Lavender gloves for such a deed!" he murmured. For a moment he paused
irresolute, even partially unbuttoned them. But then he smiled and shook
his head. In some way the gloves would not be wholly inappropriate.
Sergius cast one final glance round the room.

"When I stand here again," he said aloud, "I shall be a