room.

Here, this morning, the gray light of a winter dawn mingled with the
dull flare of the hanging-lamp increasing the ghastliness of his
appearance, sat Michael Gregoriev, in the stale bitterness of a
night-old rage and mortification. On the floor, in an unceremonious
heap, lay his heavily embroidered coat, with its medals still upon it.
In its stead the Prince had wrapped himself in a worn robe of old
brocade, fur-lined. Heavy felt slippers shod his feet. His hair was
tumbled over his head in a leonine mass. His features were gray; but his
eyes still glowed above the dark, purplish circles that shadowed his
cheeks. His documents were finished. He had sat for two hours and more
in this present brown study; and, tested as his endurance had been, his
concentration was still absolute. On the table, near at hand, stood a
flask of vodka, nearly empty, and a jar of water scarcely touched.

Nevertheless, the Prince of the lonely house was not drunk: was not even
misty-headed. At a quarter after eight there came a knock at the door,
and his hoarse, "Enter!" was as immediate as was the return to his
reverie. Nor did he lift his eyes as Piotr entered softly, arranged the
steaming samovar at his master's elbow, placed bread, fresh butter, and
a dish of lentils beside it, and then departed as noiselessly as he had
come.

For five minutes the man beside the table did not stir. Then he rose,
still preoccupied, crossed the room to his cipher map, and ran his
finger down a certain line of hieroglyphics till he found what he
sought, and paused to read one passage carefully, twice. Then, when his
face had straightened till his lips actually stretched themselves into
the semblance of a sardonic smile, he dropped the subject of his
thoughts, returned to the table, and made himself some tea. Glass after
glass of this he drank, steaming hot. But no solid food passed his lips;
and in twenty minutes he reseated himself and set about the writing of
two letters, on the envelope of each of which he placed, in the lower
corner, a peculiar mark--a sign of the Third Section, known to a few
men, and signifying privacy and importance.

These letters were the result of his recent cogitation; and both
concerned the affair of the previous night. He had realized his
situation to the full; and he knew that it must be faced. His sensations
were unfamiliar, however; for it was many years since he had had to
acknowledge a defeat so absolute and so gr