o find strength for
the ascent.

From the shadowed back part of the hall the man Nogam moved hastily into
view, his features twisted in a grimace of concern as he recognized the
bleak misery of Sofia's face. His voice sounded strangely thin and remote.

"Is there anything the matter, miss?--anything I can do?"

She contrived to shake her head slightly and utter an inarticulate sound
of negation, then began slowly to mount the stairs.

Below, Nogam stood watching, in a pose of indecision, as if tempted to
follow and offer the support of an arm lest she fall, restrained only by
fear of a rebuff. But Sofia's leaden limbs carried her safely to the upper
landing, then on to the blessed shelter of her room, where she collapsed
upon a chaise-longue and there lay in a stirless huddle, dry of eye but
deaf to the plaintive entreaties of Chou Nu and numb to all sensation but
the anguish of her humiliated heart.

XII

SUSPECT

Toward mid-evening the man Victor Vassilyevski and his creature Sturm sat
where the lamp of hand-wrought brass made the top of the teakwood table an
oasis of light amid a waste of shadows, their heads together over a vast
glut of books and papers--maps printed and sketched, curious diagrams,
works of reference, documents all dark with columns of figures and
cabalistic writings intelligible only to initiated eyes.

They had the study all to themselves. Nevertheless, when they spoke it was
in the discreet pitch of those who deal in fatal secrets. At a distance of
two paces only a lip-reader could have caught the substance of their
communications, and even such a one must have failed unless equally at home
in German and in English.

Aside from these occasional and circumspect voices, and the busy rustle of
a steel pen in the hand of Sturm, the quiet of the room had a tolerably
constant background of sound in a subdued whisper punctuated by muffled
clicks, emanating from the bronze casket that housed the telautographic
apparatus.

From time to time, as this noise temporarily suspended, Victor would get
up, read what the mechanical stylus had inscribed, tear off the paper, and
return to his chair.

Some of the messages thus received he made known to Sturm, who invariably
acknowledged this courtesy with effusive gratitude, sometimes adding a few
words of contented comment. Other messages Victor chose to keep to himself,
silently setting fire to them and adding their brittle ashes to those of
the